First moon, p.12
First Moon, page 12
part #3 of Bane County Series
Culley looked on in disgust as Lowell unwittingly examined his multipurpose snot/hand-wiping rag, and then stuffed it back into his pocket. “The county will be happy to cover the postage,” Culley stated matter-of-factly. His tone relayed that he would brook no debate of the issue.
Lowell pursed his lips sourly and then nodded. He turned, heading for the door, grumbling beneath his breath. “Yeah, I bet—happy to cover the postage with my tax dollars.” He reached for the doorknob with his grimy hand and then disappeared outside.
“Remind me to disinfect that doorknob,” Culley said with all seriousness.
“He seems like a colorful guy,” Bryce said wryly.
“Yeah, I heard Typhoid Mary was a real hoot, as well,” Jackson added, deadpan.
Culley looked at the car’s description on the invoice. Something had caught his eye and a puzzled look washed over his face. “Oklahoma,” he mumbled. He took a seat at his computer and started pecking away at the keyboard.
“What’s up?” asked Jackson.
“I just wanna run the plates on this car—find out who it belongs to.” Culley entered the license plate number, read the owner’s name, and then exclaimed, “Son of a bitch.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Bryce.
“It’s Deanna Newman’s car.”
“Who’s that?” asked Jackson.
“That’s Chuck Walker’s daughter,” Culley said uneasily. “She used to be Deanna Walker before she got married—and then, divorced. I called her last Sunday to inform her of her father’s death. As far as I knew, she was on her way here from Oklahoma City to settle her father’s estate—she’s the last of the Walkers. The funeral service is scheduled for tomorrow.”
“I remember her,” said Bryce. He looked at Jackson. “She was a year ahead of us in school”—he paused thoughtfully—“Wendy’s older sister. She left for college right before we started our senior year.”
Jackson nodded. “Yeah, that’s right; I remember.” He turned to Culley. “So why the hell was her car abandoned at the Carantina bridge?”
“That’s a damn good question,” Culley said, concerned. He turned, opening a file drawer, and removed a folder containing Deke’s daily reports. He riffled through the pages until he found a copy of the warning ticket. “Looks like Deke ticketed the car two days ago, on Tuesday, December 21—he wrote the ticket right around sundown.”
“Why would she have stopped at the bridge?” Jackson questioned.
“Nostalgia,” said Bryce. “When you haven’t been home for a long time, you like to stop and take it all in. I’ve stopped there myself in the past—when driving in from California.”
“I sure hope her sense of nostalgia didn’t get her killed,” Culley said darkly. They were all thinking the same thing: Deanna Newman had parked her car at the Carantina bridge, near sundown, and taken a long, relaxing walk along the river’s edge—only to be greeted by a hellish gray beast and ripped to pieces . . . just like her younger sister, Wendy, had been nineteen-years prior.
Most people around Silver Canyon had thought a crazed psychopath or some kind of Satan-worshiping lunatic had abducted young Wendy off the side of the highway all those years ago. Bryce and Jackson, as well as Sheriff Culley, knew the truth of Wendy’s horrifying demise. And the thought that—after all these years—Wendy’s older sister had fallen victim to the same hideous creatures . . . it was just too terrible to fathom.
Culley sighed heavily, running a hand through his thinning gray hair. “I’ll ask around town, but I don’t think she’s been here yet. Deanna told me she’d come to see me as soon as she arrived. I’ve known her since she was a little girl,” he noted sadly. Then: “Guess I better go over to the impound yard and have a look at her car, too.”
Jackson met Culley’s eyes. “We need to stop these hairy sons of bitches,” he said boldly, “before they kill somebody else. I’ve got a shitload of 12-gauge silver slugs at my cabin, hundreds of rounds. We need to take my truck and start patrolling the canyon at night, find these creatures, and blow their goddamn heads off.” He turned, looking at Bryce. “You’ve killed one of these fuckers before, nineteen years ago. You know we can do this.”
Bryce nodded. “Yeah, we can,” he agreed, “but it’s not gonna be a cakewalk. You know these creatures are built like tanks: thick leathery hide, large bony breastplates—basically, they’re covered in a natural body-armor. The one I killed was at point-blank range, and it took three slugs, one on top of the other, to penetrate its chest. This shit could get hairy—no pun intended.”
“We’ve got no choice,” Jackson insisted. He shifted his gaze between Culley and Bryce. “They’re coming for us; they’re coming for everyone in the canyon. We’ve gotta stop ’em . . . this is on us.”
They all stood silently for a moment. Finally, Culley said, “All right. We’ll meet here at sundown; and bring plenty of that special ammo. I’ve got my own 12-gauge: a Mossberg 500 with a Sidewinder attachment.”
Jackson smiled broadly. “That’ll work,” he said assuredly. “We’ll be here . . . loaded for bear.”
Culley offered him a snide look.
Jackson grinned. “Okay—for werewolves,” he corrected.
BOB GREER’S GOAT FARM was not well liked around Silver Canyon—at least, not by some of the locals. The tourists loved the place. Even though Bob primarily raised his goats for meat, he had also created what amounted to a free petting zoo on his farm, and tourists would stop by in droves to admire his Spanish, long-horned goats. They were thought by some to be the longhorn cattle of goat breeds.
Bob was a relative newcomer to Bane County. He was from Cerrillos, New Mexico, originally; and had purchased the farm seven years prior, after his wife, Emily, passed away. He’d used her life insurance money to purchase the property. Buying a farm was something they had both dreamed of in life but could never afford. It just seemed like the right thing to do, somehow.
Greer’s Goat Farm wasn’t a large property, only about twenty acres, and it had included a preexisting, four-bedroom ranch home that had been perfect for Bob. It was located near the edge of Silver Canyon, adjacent to the highway, about a half-mile south of the Shambles Wash bridge.
In a county that was filled with third- and fourth-generation cattle ranchers, whose properties averaged in size from hundreds to thousands of acres, Bob’s little farm was a mere speck on the map. If asked, most cattle ranchers would just grin and roll their eyes at the notion of raising goats instead of cows, but for the most part, they just ignored the tiny farm. To each his own—live and let live.
Bob and Emily had vacationed in Bane County many times over their forty-one-year marriage and, they had always loved the place. Bob thought it would make Emily happy to know he’d bought a farm there. As a tribute to his lost love, Bob had placed a large, hand-painted sign beside the highway, near the entrance to his farm. The sign depicted the black silhouette of a goat’s head with long, twisting horns. Underneath, it read:
EMILY’S PETTING ZOO
All Are Welcome
No Charge
Reverend Stubbs had hated that sign from the first moment he saw it.
Bob’s farm was surrounded by open ranch land and he only had two neighbors: Chuck Walker—who had recently passed away—owned the house across the highway. Chuck had always been friendly toward Bob and they enjoyed each other’s company. Bob would invite Chuck over for his authentic, spicy-barbecued cabrito tacos, and Chuck would bring a twelve-pack of Dos Equis. Bob Greer’s other neighbor, however, was a different story.
Reverend Alvin P. Stubbs, pastor of the Silver Linings Gospel Church, was a bible-thumping, pulpit-pounding, hellfire-and-brimstone preaching, force to be reckoned with, and he had quite the following around Silver Canyon. He owned the house next door to Chuck Walker’s.
Seven years ago, when Bob Greer first came to Bane County, Reverend Stubbs had greeted him kindly. He showed up at his door, toting a large welcome-basket overflowing with goodies. The two men had sat at Bob’s kitchen table for almost an hour, sipping tea, chatting, and getting to know each other.
Bob Greer wasn’t exactly what Reverend Stubbs had pictured in a new neighbor. Greer was a recent widower, fifty-nine years of age, and while he seemed courteous and intelligent, Stubbs had been taken aback by the man’s appearance: he looked like someone in an old Woodstock photo from 1969.
Bob’s hair was long and gray—he wore it in a dangling ponytail—and his long, salt-and-pepper beard hung down to his chest. He wore a pair of round-rimmed eyeglasses that could’ve belonged to John Lennon, and their lenses appeared to have a slight rosy tint. He strolled around his house in a multicolored T-shirt, and a pair of rope sandals. There was no doubt in Reverend Stubbs’s mind: Bob Greer was an old hippie!
Their visit had ended when the conversation turned to religion, and the reverend proffered an invitation for Bob to join his congregation at the Silver Linings Gospel Church. Bob had politely declined, but upon further prompting and goading by the good reverend, Bob finally explained: I’m sorry, but I never discuss religion, politics, or sexual orientation on any day of the week that ends in a “Y”.
Reverend Stubbs cocked his head curiously, taking a moment to grasp Bob’s puzzling proclamation. Then he smiled weakly, said it was nice to make his acquaintance, shook Bob’s hand, and showed himself to the door. That visit had marked the beginning of Reverend Stubbs’s dislike of his new neighbor.
Many months later, after Bob Greer had purchased his large herd of Spanish goats, an early morning rainstorm drenched Bane County. As the clouds cleared, and the hot summer sun shone down, baking the saturated soil, the malodorous aroma of fresh goat manure wafted from the ground, carried aloft by soft summer breezes.
Across the highway, Reverend Stubbs sat at a small table on his back porch, enjoying his morning coffee and English muffins. He was working on ideas for next Sunday’s sermon while he sipped his coffee, scribbling notes in a spiral notebook. When the smell finally came to him, he gagged, almost dropping his muffin.
The soaking rain, scorching summer sun, and soft summer breeze had created a perfect storm. The stifling smell of goat manure was strong enough to make a sewer worker cringe. Reverend Stubbs gathered up his breakfast and his sermon notes, and stormed into his house, livid, fleeing the rancid smell of goats. This marked the second reason he disliked his new neighbor.
A few weeks later, when Bob Greer put up that giant sign with an evil, satanic-looking goat’s head on it—right across the highway from Reverend Stubbs’s home—that had been the last straw. Reverend Stubbs decided he needed to do something about this goat farmer. He knew he couldn’t speak out against Bob Greer directly, that wouldn’t be appropriate. He needed to send a subtler message.
The following Sunday, Reverend Stubbs’s sermon was from the Gospel of Matthew, with special attention given to Chapter 25, verses 31-46. The Final Judgement—the Sheep and the Goats.
He slammed his meaty fist down on the pulpit—bam!
“When the Son of Man shall come in His glory, and all the holy angels with Him, then shall He sit upon the throne: And before Him shall be gathered all nations: and He shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats.”
With another pound of his fist—bam!—he gave great emphasis to the word “goats.” Then he continued . . .
“And He shall set the sheep on His right hand, but the goats—bam!—on the left. Then shall He say unto them on the left: Depart from me ye cursed goats—bam!—into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels.”
Then he added, “Goats are the lapdogs of Satan, and they should be shunned by us all.”
Somehow, Reverend Stubbs seemed to work goats into all his sermons for the next few months, and slowly but surely, as if driven by subliminal messages, some of the people of Silver Canyon began to dislike Bob Greer and his goat farm. There had even been a petition to close his petting zoo; however, because admission to his property was free, and it was open to the public, the petition had been quashed.
Bob really didn’t care what people thought; he had always been a bit of a loner anyway. He enjoyed working with his goats and visiting with tourists. Every now and then, Chuck Walker would come by for cabrito tacos and Dos Equis . . .
I’m gonna miss ol’ Chuck, Bob thought sadly. He was walking toward the corral carrying a large galvanized pail overflowing with feed. He was thinking about turning his petting goats out to pasture with the rest of his herd; he’d certainly save on feed costs. There hadn’t been any tourists coming by anyway, since they closed The Refuge.
The bleating animals ran to the fence, jockeying for position, begging to be fed. Bob poured the feed into the long trough and scratched the tops of their heads as they ate. “Eat up boys and girls,” he said. “I’m turning you loose tomorrow. You can go join your buddies in the field and start fending for yourselves.”
As he turned and headed back to the barn, Bob looked across the highway toward Chuck Walker’s house. About fifty yards away, a large German Shepard sat on the front lawn, watching, waiting. Bob sighed, shaking his head sadly.
Poor dog . . .
Even though the dog had killed one of Bob’s young goats yesterday, he still felt bad for the animal. Bob knew what it felt like to lose someone you loved. After Chuck Walker died, the dog had been running wild; nobody could catch him. The dog had always been a bit standoffish around other people. Chuck was the animal’s one-and-only human—his master—the dog wouldn’t listen to anybody else.
Bob had been putting food out for the dog, trying to lure him in, maybe get a chain on him. He was worried that if a rancher caught the dog chasing cows, he might be shot. Not everyone was an animal lover like Bob—especially if a rancher’s livelihood was at stake.
Bob picked up the dogfood bowl he had placed outside, showing it to the dog; he tapped on the container and whistled loudly. “Here, Sergeant,” he called across the highway. That was the dog’s name: Sergeant. “Come on, boy, food. Come and get it. Come on, Sergeant.” He whistled again. The dog didn’t flinch a muscle; he just watched.
Damn it . . .
He put the bowl back down and left it for the dog. Maybe he’d find it later. Bob put the feed pale into the barn and then headed toward the house. The sun was setting and there were dark clouds on the horizon; a storm was coming. He had heard there might even be snow in the forecast. Bob headed up the back steps into the kitchen; it was time to get supper started.
His two orange tomcats, Cabbie and Merlot, met him at the door, yowling to be fed. Bob had brought the cats with him from Cerrillos; he had found them as kittens at a local liquor store where he had been buying a couple of bottles of wine. He’d adopted them instantly, naming them after his wine purchases. Cabbie was short for cabernet.
“Chill out you little monsters; I’m gettin’ it,” he told them.
After doling out the cat food, he began his own supper. He pulled a large wok from beneath the counter, placing it atop the stove, and poured in a little peanut oil to heat. Thursdays were stir-fry night at casa de Greer.
After supper, Bob relaxed on the sofa, put his feet up, and turned on the TV. His two tomcats piled on top, arguing over who got the lap and who got the pillow. As usual, Cabbie, the bigger of the two brothers ended up in Bob’s lap.
Bob scrolled through the channels and settled on an old Clint Eastwood movie, a thriller from the early 1970s on TCM: “Play Misty for Me.” It was sort of a precursor to “Fatal Attraction” except nobody’s bunny got boiled. Bob loved old scary movies; he settled in with his purring cats to enjoy the show.
Near the film’s finale, just as Jessica Walter—the movie’s femme fatale—was chasing Clint Eastwood around the house with a butcher’s knife, a strange sound came to Bob’s ears . . . a faint—tapping sound.
At first, he thought someone was knocking at the door. He muted the volume on the TV, cocking his head, listening . . .
Tap—tap—tap . . .
He knitted his brow: it wasn’t coming from the door. The sound seemed to be emanating from . . . inside the house—from the back hallway that led to the bedrooms.
Tap—tap—tap . . .
“What the hell is that?” he muttered curiously. He tried to move Cabbie off his lap; the cat dug in his claws. “Ouch, let go you little shit.” He placed the perturbed feline next to his brother, Merlot, and then rose from the sofa.
Tap—tap—tap . . .
He padded quietly across the living room and through the kitchen to the entrance of the long dark hallway. He turned on the light; a single dim bulb lit his way. Bob stood quietly for a moment, a frown on his face, listening . . .
Tap—tap—tap . . .
“What the—” The sound was definitely coming from down the hallway, from one of the bedrooms. All of the bedroom doors were open. Whenever he closed the doors, his stupid cats would have a meltdown. They never actually went into any of the rooms—they just wanted the option available at all times.
Tap—tap—tap . . .
Bob’s eyes grew larger, and the hair started to prickle on his arms. The floors in his house were made of hardwood and sound tended to echo, bouncing from room-to-room, making its origin hard to discern. He suddenly envisioned a knife-wielding crazy-woman hiding in one of the bedrooms, tapping a long, sharp knife against a closet door. He fought the ridiculous urge to call out, to ask if someone was there. Of course, he knew no one was there; even to ponder such a thought was completely ludicrous, asinine.
Damn movie’s got me all jumpy, he thought. He started down the hallway.
Tap-tap-tap!
“Jesus,” he blurted, halting midstride. “What is that?” His heart was pounding now and his silly urge to call out suddenly prevailed. “Is someone there?” he asked nervously. His voice sounded hollow and weak, childlike. He immediately felt foolish for saying anything.
Silence . . .
Just as Bob began to edge forward, a fiery-hot pain shot through his leg. “Aaah!” he screamed, jumping straight up off the ground, adrenaline coursing through his body.
