Forgotten moon, p.22
Forgotten Moon, page 22
Culley pulled a case-file from the drawer of his desk and proffered it to Fletcher; he pointed out a tiny piece of jewelry and told of its origin. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he retrieved the piece he’d found in the dark ravine. Bruce Fletcher’s eyes had widened . . . it was a perfect match.
Fletcher locked eyes with Culley and held his gaze; he found no mendacity in his eyes. There, beneath the pain, and the sorrow, and the fear . . . there was only verity. Culley was telling the truth: some kind of monster had killed Wayne Bennett.
“I believe you,” he said weakly. He stared at the tiny pieces of jewelry in his hand.
“No one can ever know the truth,” Culley pleaded. “They’ll think I’m crazy.”
Fletcher looked at Culley, a perplexed frown on his face. “Why’d you tell me about this?” he asked. “Why in the hell did you drag me over here? You don’t even like me!”
“I had no choice,” he confessed.
When Culley told him about seeing the creature at the edge of The Refuge, Fletcher’s face blanched, and he quickly took a seat. Though neither man spoke of it again, Fletcher knew that Culley might have saved his life.
“We can’t tell anyone about this,” Culley reiterated. “The entire county would panic, it’d be total mayhem; especially after what happened to James Clark.”
A little over a month ago, when Doctor Milstead declared that a large predator—most likely a mountain lion—had killed James Clark, Silver Canyon had become a ghost town each evening after sundown.
News of another brutal killing could have a catastrophic effect on the populace of Bane County—especially since the person who had been killed was a well-armed deputy.
Fletcher stared at him a moment, then offered the barest nod; he figured Culley was probably right. “But we have to do something! We at least need to put signs at the entrance of The Refuge, warning of a dangerous predator—telling people not to camp overnight, and to stay out of The Refuge after sunset.”
Culley nodded his agreement. “That’s a good idea; let’s make it happen as soon as possible.”
Before he gave Fletcher a ride home, they had talked about the retrieval of Bennett’s remains, a sad but necessary discussion. Culley had spent the rest of night on a cot in his office, though he never closed his eyes even once. When he’d called his wife to say he was pulling an all-nighter, the missus had not been happy; but at this point, he just couldn’t handle another round of questions.
LELAND BURNELL had been polishing the pews in the reposing room when he looked up and saw Culley in the foyer; the sheriff looked like warmed-over death. One arm in a makeshift sling, his face scraped and bruised, and a bandage encircling his head.
His shirt had been clean—he’d had a spare at his office—but he still wore the tattered trousers from the night before; large, bloodstained holes revealed the bandages on his knees.
“Dear God,” Leland exclaimed, gaping at the battered man. “What happened to you?”
Culley blinked, and gave only a faint shake of his head; he just couldn’t talk about it anymore. “Leland,” Culley said, struggling to keep his composure. “Wayne Bennett’s been killed.”
“Oh my God; how, what happened?” He sat down on a pew and motioned for Culley to join him.
Culley limped forward with a halting gait, and eased down onto the pew. He placed his hand on Leland’s shoulder and met his eyes. “Leland,” he said, with a weak smile. “I can’t tell you everything right now, but I really need your help.”
“Certainly, Neil, anything you need.”
“First of all,” he said. “You can’t tell anyone about Bennett’s death, not even your own wife; at least, not until I get things figured out.”
Leland nodded hesitantly, a look of concern on his face. “But what about—”
“No one!” Culley asserted.
Leland nodded his agreement.
“I also need you to recover Bennett’s body; he’s in The Refuge.”
“The Refuge?”
Culley nodded. “Bruce Fletcher knows where he’s located, I drew him a map. He’s the only other person who knows about this besides us. I’m in no condition to help, so I need you to send your son, Wade, along with Fletcher in the morning to retrieve Bennett’s remains. Be sure that you swear Wade to secrecy; he can’t tell anyone. Just have him call Fletcher at the game warden’s office. I’m going home to get some rest.”
“Don’t you think we should send more than two people?” Leland asked. “Bennett was a large man, and it’ll be difficult to carry him across that rough terrain.”
Culley grimaced as he rose to his feet; he looked at Leland with sorrowful eyes. “It’ll be okay,” he assured. “They won’t have any trouble carrying what’s left of him.”
Leland’s mouth fell open as he watched Culley hobble out the door.
What’s left of him?
As Culley eased his aching body onto the seat of his cruiser, he felt a certain sense of guilt and shame. While it was a fact that he wasn’t in any condition to help recover Bennett’s remains; the truth was—he was afraid. At this point, Culley didn’t know if he’d ever go into The Refuge again.
He started the car and placed a shaking hand on the wheel. He had no idea what he was going to tell his wife; but he figured, now was as good a time as any to go find out.
BRYCE McNEEL yawned noisily and rolled out of bed; he made his way to the calendar on his bedroom wall. As he had done for the past five weeks, he took a marker and placed a large X over today’s date—Monday, December 2.
“Twenty more days,” he muttered.
The winter solstice—and the last full moon of the season—would both take place on December 22. Bryce hoped with all his heart that his theory about the werewolf hibernating after the winter solstice turned out to be true. If not, he had no idea what they would do.
For the past five weeks, everyone had been extremely careful. Nobody went out after dark, and even during the day, no one went into the woods alone. Bryce and Jackson kept their rifles at their besides, loaded and handy, and Grandpa’s 12-gauge-pump sat next to the back door, filled with double-ought buckshot. Nobody was taking any chances.
Bryce’s grandma now knew everything; it had been impossible to protect her sensibilities after she heard that howl echo through the darkness. To her credit, she had accepted the circumstances with her usual strength and grace, and seemed to be a lot less scared and more in control than either Bryce, or Grandpa.
Everyone had decided it was best not to talk about the werewolf with Jackson’s parents; his mom might have believed it, but they knew his dad would think they were all nuts. It was enough that his parents thought a killer mountain lion was on the loose. They were staying out of the woods and not going outside at night, and that was good enough.
Bryce heard his grandpa whistle for Snip and then say, “Go get it.” Snip was on his way to the road to retrieve the morning paper, anticipating a crispy treat; Grandpa never disappointed.
Bryce took a quick shower, dressed for school, and made his way into the kitchen; Jackson would be there soon and he wanted to grab a quick bite before school. As he tore open a buttermilk biscuit and filled it with bacon, he saw his grandma through the kitchen window; she was out back, throwing feed to her chickens.
Grandpa—who always read the morning paper at the kitchen table—was missing, however. As he wolfed down his breakfast sandwich, Bryce stepped out onto the back porch and found his grandpa sitting in his favorite rocker; the morning paper folded on his lap. The look on Grandpa’s face was one of both shock and fear, and he hadn’t answered when Bryce asked what was wrong; he simply proffered the morning paper.
Bryce looked at the front page and the blood drained from his face. There was a picture of Wayne Bennett with the headline: DEPUTY DIES IN LINE OF DUTY.
Bryce’s knees went weak and he quickly found a chair; he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Deputy Bennett’s statement at the library five weeks earlier returned to him: “Don’t worry son, I’m gonna find this thing, and I’m gonna kill it.” Bryce met Grandpa’s eyes; there was no need to say anything, they both knew what had happened.
Sheriff Neil Culley had managed to keep Bennett’s death quiet for ten days, though no one would realize that by reading the article; there was no mention of when he had died. In fact, there was no actual news to be found anywhere in the report; it was a piece of puffery, crony journalism. Cause of death, location, or any relevant facts whatsoever were nonexistent; it was nothing more than Bennett’s bio, and praise for a beloved deputy.
Jackson laid on his horn and Bryce turned toward the road, the black Camaro sat waiting, idling loudly.
“Take that with you and show it to Jackson,” Grandpa said, motioning to paper. “I’ll tell your grandma what happened.”
Bryce tightened his lips and nodded.
Jackson revved the loud engine and Bryce headed for the road; nothing more was said between him and Grandpa.
As Bryce neared the car, Jackson mouthed the word “shit” through the driver’s side window; he had seen the morning paper tucked under his arm. The last time Bryce had brought a newspaper along for the morning drive was eight weeks ago, when two backpackers were reported missing.
What the fuck happened now? Jackson wondered, shaking his head.
When he got into the car, Jackson had reached for the gearshift, but Bryce touched his hand and stopped him. The car would need to be in PARK for this news.
“Wait,” Bryce said, and then he handed him the paper.
“Ho-ly shit,” Jackson intoned, his eyes gone wide at the headline. He jerked his head around to meet Bryce’s eyes. “You don’t think that—” he paused, looked at the paper again. “How did he die?”
“It doesn’t say,” Bryce answered.
“Doesn’t say?” Jackson frowned.
“It doesn’t say jack-shit; not how he died, where, or even when.”
“But why would—” he met Bryce’s eyes again, and then nodded knowingly. “Those sorry sons of bitches—they’re trying to cover this up!”
“I’ll bet you anything that Sheriff Culley’s behind this,” Bryce said sharply. “Bennett told me that Culley was ignoring all the facts. Now, he’s trying to hide what happened.”
Jackson grimaced, “That lousy bastard.”
“I think we should go have a talk with him after school,” Bryce suggested.
“What—with the sheriff?” Jackson scoffed. “Are you outta your fucking mind? He’d probably throw our asses in jail.”
“For what?” Bryce said. “For trying to find out the truth—for wanting an honest answer?”
“He’s the sheriff; he can do whatever he wants.”
“We can’t let him get away with this,” Bryce demanded. “People’s lives are at stake. We need to know what the hell happened.”
“I gotta go to work after school,” Jackson hedged.
“Fine—just drop me off, and I’ll talk to him myself,” Bryce said stubbornly. “When I’m done, I’ll walk over to Western Auto and wait for you.”
Jackson shook his head, shifted the car into DRIVE and headed for school. “You’re outta your cotton-picking mind.”
SHERIFF NEIL CULLEY sat hunched over his desk, head bowed; Wayne Bennett’s face stared back at him from the front page of the newspaper. It had been ten days, and the aches and pains of his battered body had almost faded. The pain from the loss of his friend, however, was another story; it was still acute, debilitating.
Leland Burnell and his son were true to their word; they hadn’t told a soul about Bennett’s death. The morning after Culley spoke to Leland at the funeral home, Bruce Fletcher and Wade Burnell had entered The Refuge to collect Bennett’s remains.
The night before, Culley had explained to Fletcher how the creature wouldn’t exit the mine in the light of day, and how it had shied away from the bright lights of the parking lot and the headlights of his car. Culley told him that he thought they would be safe, as long as they were out of The Refuge well before sunset. He had drawn him a map, so he’d know exactly where to go, and estimated that their roundtrip would be five or six hours. The two men left shortly after sunrise that morning, and both of them were well armed.
Culley had waited for their return at the game warden’s office, scared to death that something would happen and they wouldn’t come back. What frightened him even more was that he’d have to go into The Refuge and find them.
Six hours later, the two haggard men stumbled from The Refuge; faces drawn and pale. The horror of the near-empty body bag they carried surrounded them like a dark shroud.
While Bruce Fletcher knew the truth about Bennett’s death, Wade Burnell did not. Culley figured the man would have questions about the state of the remains . . . he didn’t. The only question Wade had asked after arriving back at the funeral home was, “Can I go home now?” He looked as though he would faint.
Wade’s father hadn’t been so accommodating; shocked by the sight of Bennett’s remains, Leland wanted to know exactly what happened. Culley had stonewalled, asking for patience, and the continued silence of Leland and his son. He needed time to investigate was the excuse—and Leland hesitantly agreed.
Culley had spent the next five days trying to track down Bennett’s next of kin in Texas. He couldn’t very well ask the man’s ex-wife, so locating his family had been quite a chore. As it turned out, his only living relative was an older brother who lived in Corpus Christi, and he hadn’t spoken to Bennett in years. His brother wanted nothing to do with the funeral arrangements, apparently there had been some bad blood between them; it had been a very short phone call.
Coming up with a cover story for Bennett's death hadn’t been any easier. He couldn’t tell Leland Burnell to type the word WEREWOLF in the cause-of-death section of the death certificate; he needed to stall and come up with something believable, something foolproof.
The fact that Bennett had no family to speak of had made things easier; the sheriff’s office would pay for the cost of a funeral. As long as Burnell and Son would keep quiet and go along with the ruse, no one would need to know about the state of Bennett’s remains—or ask any questions about what might have killed him.
The last thing Culley did before reporting Bennett’s death to the Silver Canyon Gazette was to convince Leland Burnell that it would be in the best interest of the community for him to cooperate; he needed to remain silent about the state of Bennett’s remains.
“Imagine the level of panic it would cause,” Culley had implored, “especially after what happened to poor James Clark. The rumors alone would create total chaos.”
It had taken strong persuasion, but Burnell had finally agreed. They would postpone the completion and filing of Wayne Bennett’s death certificate until after his burial—which would take place immediately. A memorial service for Bennett could come later. Culley would provide Leland with the cause of death at a later date—and no one would be the wiser.
“If Doctor Milstead comes nosing around,” Culley had added. “Tell him his services are not needed. If he gives you any grief, just send him to me.”
Leland seemed startled at the thought of Doctor Milstead, he hadn’t considered that scenario; he nodded his agreement nervously. “Okay.”
When he spoke with the Silver Canyon Gazette, Culley had kept his answers brief and generic; he used the oldest trick in the book. He claimed that he couldn’t comment on an ongoing investigation. They published the type of article he had wanted—superficial.
Culley’s reflection ended with the sound of a loud engine revving out in the street; a moment later a young man walked through the door. He recognized the boy but couldn’t put a name to the face; he rose and headed over to greet him.
“Can I help you, son?” Culley asked. His voice sounded weak, so he cleared his throat.
When Bryce entered the sheriff’s office, he’d been full of piss and vinegar, with every intension of being a hard-ass. He wasn’t going to take any crap and he wasn’t leaving until he found out exactly what had happened to Bennett.
However, when he saw Culley’s face mottled by yellowish-brown bruises and old scabs, and the fact that he moved with a slight limp, Bryce reined in his temper.
“I’m Bryce McNeel,” he said, proffering his hand.
“That’s right,” Culley said, gripping the boy’s hand. “You’re Nathan and Blanche’s grandson. I thought I recognized you.”
Culley had been the sheriff back in 1978 when Bryce’s parents had died in a house fire. He still remembered the towheaded little boy who’d lost his parents. He had only been the sheriff for about four years at that point; it had been the first real tragedy he’d dealt with.
Bryce smiled. “If you don’t mind me asking, Sheriff”—he motioned to Culley’s face—“what happened?”
Culley had been asked the same question over a hundred times in the past ten days; he offered the same answer as always: “Oh, I was hiking in The Refuge and lost my footing—fell down a dang hill.”
Benjamin Franklin once wrote in Poor Richard’s Almanack that; “Half the truth is often a great lie.” Culley had taken ol’ Ben’s advice to heart.
“Ouch,” Bryce said, frowning. “I’ll bet that hurt.” Secretly, he was wondering if Culley was telling the truth.
“Yeah, it smarted a bit at first,” Culley said, touching his face. “But it’s a lot better now”—he paused a moment—“What brings you in today, Bryce?”
“Do you mind if we sit down, Sheriff?” Bryce asked.
“Sure,” Culley said, motioning toward his desk.
After they took a seat, Bryce said, “I’m a friend of”—he stopped, rephrased—“I was a friend of Deputy Bennett; I wanted to find out what happened to him.”
A mournful darkness descended over Culley; Bennett’s face looked up at him from the newspaper on his desk. Without meeting Bryce’s eyes, he said, “I didn’t know that you knew Bennett.” He spoke quietly, never taking his eyes off the photo.
