Bestial (16 page)

Bob felt as if he were about to explode and spatter all over his walls. He had to get out of the house. He stormed out of the room, down the hall, through the kitchen. He grabbed the keys off the counter and headed for the door.

Mom suddenly stepped in front of him and he stumbled to a halt. Frowning at him, she said in her loud, shrill voice, “Where are
you
going?”

“Out.”

“
Out
? You don’t have anywhere to go.”

“Well, I’m
going
there just the same.”

“I don’t like your tone,” she said as he stepped around her and left the kitchen. “Did you hear me?” she shouted, turning to follow him.

Bob stopped, spun around and faced her, jaw set, face hot with anger this time, not shame. “I heard you. And by the way. Dad did not
die
. He
killed himself
!”

She flinched as if he’d slapped her.

He stalked outside, pulled the door shut hard. The keys jangled at his side as he went to the car, got in, started it, and backed out of the driveway. The car stopped and idled in front of the house for awhile. Mom was right, he had nowhere to go. Royce, his only friend, would be busy with work. For a moment, that made him feel even worse. But he slammed his foot down on the pedal and the car shot forward as he decided that simply driving without a destination would be better than staying in that miserable house.

Karen and Gavin had cleared out their room at the Beachcomber and quickly learned that their options for lodging in Big Rock were rather limited. They ended up at a bed and breakfast close enough to the beach to hear the surf from their window. It was an old postcard-perfect Victorian with a beautifully-tended yard. The owner was a woman in her fifties named Tilly Blaine. She lived there with her shuffling, mumbling husband Gus, a bald man with an enormous belly and a sour expression, who favored dark, high-waisted pants with suspenders and slightly discolored white “wife-beater” undershirts. Tilly was like a figure from a Norman Rockwell painting—plump and rosy-cheeked, always smiling, with a pleasant, musical voice. That changed whenever Gus came into view. Then Tilly became impatient, loud, and sometimes even foul-mouthed. The first time Karen and Gavin witnessed the behavior was while Tilly was showing them through the house. Gus shuffled out of an upstairs bedroom and stared at them, slowly smacking his lips.

“This is my husband, Gus,” Tilly said, her smile remaining in spite of her sudden apparent discomfort.

“Whozis?” Gus said, tucking his thumbs under his suspenders.

“Go back in the bedroom, Gus,” Tilly said, her voice suddenly stern through her sweet smile. “We have guests.”

“Guests?” Gus said, squinting at them. “Who’s coming?”

Tilly’s smile crumbled as she rolled her eyes. “
These
are our guests.”

“Oh. They gonna stay?”

“
Yes
, they’re staying, Gus, they’re
guests
, and this is a bed and
breakfast
, what do you
think
they’re doing, looking to
buy
the place?”

Gus frowned and looked puzzled. “They... they wanna
buy
the place?”

“Goddammit, Gus, why do you never
listen
to me, I
told
you—” She stopped abruptly, pushed her husband back into the bedroom and went in with him. She smiled at Karen and Gavin and said, “Just a moment,” then closed the door. Inside, she shouted at Gus while Karen and Gavin looked at each other smirkingly.

“Maybe we should find another place,” Karen whispered.

“We already looked around. There doesn’t seem to be a big selection,” Gavin said.
 

“Okay. We’ll stay here tonight, then try to find someplace else in the morning.”

That evening, Tilly had served them dinner of sliced franks in gummy macaroni and cheese, undercooked brussel sprouts, and biscuits that were as hard as plaster. They sat down to the meal and picked at it a little, but the inedible state of the food was made worse by having to watch Gus eat, something he did noisily and messily, with his mouth open half the time. They apologized for not eating more, said they just weren’t hungry, and went to their room.

Karen went online with her laptop and checked the local papers for stories about animal attacks. There were only a couple, and they were very small, reducing the attacks to very minor, negligible occurrences.

While Gavin stood by the window as the sun set, Karen sat on the bed and called Burgess on her cell phone. Once she had him on the line, she turned on the speaker.

Burgess told them he had left Esalen early and was at his home in Los Angeles. “I’ll be here from now on, with my cell phone either in my hand or by my side, waiting to hear from you. So, what’s going on?”

“We’ve been followed all day by a dentist,” Gavin said.

“A
dentist
. Sounds kinky.”

Gavintold him the whole story.

“So you’ve blown your cover,” Burgess said.

“Let’s face it,” Karen said, “it wasn’t
that
much of a cover. But yes, it’s blown. We’re out in the open now.”

“Our room was searched while we were out playing footsie with the dentist,” Gavin said. “The suitcases holding the Uzis and the ammunition were taken. Whoever they are, they know we’re armed—or
were
armed—and having seen the silver bullets, they probably have a good idea of what we’re looking for.”

Burgess was silent for awhile, then, “Talk to anyone?”

“A few locals,” Karen said. She told him about their reluctance to discuss the animal attacks, about the scant press coverage of the attacks, which seemed to be more numerous than reflected in the local papers.

“So people know it’s going on,” Burgess said. “Would you characterize the reaction of those you spoke with as fearful?”

Karen looked at Gavin, who thought a moment. “Maybe,” he said. “Certainly cautious.”

“Hmm. Any thoughts?”

“I think they
do
seem to be a bit afraid,” Karen said. “But I don’t know if they’re afraid of whatever it is that’s attacking people, or of reprisals if they talk.”

“Good observation,” Burgess said. “That’s why I pay you the big bucks. What’s your next move?”

“We’re going to visit the local hospital,” Karen said. “The victims of those animal attacks have to go
somewhere
for treatment. Someone there may have some interesting details, maybe a theory.”

“I told you I’d send in the troops if necessary,” Burgess said. “I’m making arrangements now to do just that. I think the fact that you have only your handguns is reason enough to give you backup. This is a little... stickier than I’d anticipated.”

“Where do we meet them?” Gavin said.

“Your backup? Oh, don’t worry about that. You’ll know when they arrive.”

Outside their room, Tilly’s voice rose as she shouted, “Goddammit, Gus, zip up your
pants
! How many times do you have to be
told
?”

“That sounds pleasant,” Burgess said. “You wouldn’t happen to be visiting my parents, would you?”

“That was our hostess having a word with her husband,” Karen said. “We’re at a bed and breakfast.”

“Sounds lovely,” Burgess said. “I’ve gotta run. As always, call anytime for any reason.”

Karen put the phone aside and she and Gavin talked about what to do next.

“I don’t know about you,” Karen said, “but I’m not too eager to hang around here and listen to the honeymooners out there.”

“Let’s drive over to the hospital. Maybe there’s someone in the ER who will talk to us about the local wildlife.”

At his Laurel Canyon home in Los Angeles, Martin Burgess made a phone call after talking to Karen and Gavin. He held his cell phone to his ear and waited through the purring sounds that signified the phone at the other end was ringing. He had little doubt the man he was calling would be home. Either he would be playing some extremely violent video game online, or he would be scrolling slowly through websites or message boards that focused on UFOs, alien abductions, government cover-ups, and the secret cabal of mega rich, bloodline-sharing elitists who
really
ran everything from behind the scenes.

The purring stopped and a rather high, pinched voice said, “Yeah?”

“Lloyd? It’s Martin Burgess.”

“Mr. Burgess, hey, fuck, great to hear from you, man. How you fuckin’ doin’?”

The voice sounded almost like that of a preadolescent boy, but Burgess knew better.

“I’m good, Lloyd, good. How about you?”

“Oh, the usual. Tryin’ to stay outta fuckin’ trouble and keep to myself. I was on the computer just now. Hey, you checked the Illuminati News website lately?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You should. Coupla good stories on there the last day or so.”

Burgess imagined Lloyd Canwright at the other end of the line: Thirty-four years old, five feet, eight inches tall, his dark hair so severely buzzed that his scalp was clearly visible, his face flat and square with a scar that puckered his left cheek from the outer corner of his eye down into his trimmed beard.

“I’d like to talk about those stories,” Burgess said, “but at the moment, I’m calling about something else.”

“Sure, Mr. Burgess. What can I do for ya?”

He’d first heard of Lloyd from Harvey Altman, the most trusted member of what Burgess thought of as his “club.” Harvey had met Lloyd, and shortly thereafter Lloyd’s friends, online some years ago. At that time, Lloyd and all his friends—conspiracy theorists and enthusiasts of the bizarre—were in prison. Harvey found that they were surprisingly intelligent men who knew their stuff. The men had met each other online through their common interests, and when they found that they all had one very significant thing in common—incarceration—they stayed in touch. Although Harvey was extremely well-read and more well-informed in his strange pursuits than anyone Burgess had ever met, Harvey claimed that he’d learned a lot from Lloyd and his friends. In the years since meeting Harvey, Lloyd and several of his friends had been released from prison. Burgess sometimes sponsored get-togethers for his sources—he paid to have all of them flown to a central location, where he put them up in a hotel, met with them for a weekend, and showed them a good time. Like Harvey, most of them were rather introverted and socially awkward, and Burgess found entertaining them to be personally rewarding. A little over a year earlier, he had held such a gathering, and he’d told Harvey to include Lloyd and his friends—at least, those currently not serving time.

“Well, Lloyd, I told you recently that I might need you and the guys sometime soon,” Burgess said. “It’s looking like that time could be now. This weekend. I’m going to have a jet pick all of you up in the next, say, ten hours or so. That jet will take you to a little town in northern California.”

“No shit? Really? Fuck, man, that sounds great.”

“Yes. Can you call the others and let them know? I mean tonight? Right now?”

“Sure can, Mr. Burgess. I’ll do that right away. And I know they’ll drop what they’re doing.” A smile opened up in Lloyd’s voice. “We’re all big fuckin’ fans of yours, y’know.”

“I’m going to make a couple of quick phone calls, make the final arrangements, and then I’ll call you back with the details. Will you be around?”

“Hell, I got nowheres to be. ‘Specially if I know you’re gonna call.”

“One thing, Lloyd. This job I’m sending you on... well, I want to make sure you and the guys don’t have any misconceptions.”

“Misconceptions? About what?”

“About what you’ll be doing.”

“You gonna tell me what that’ll be?”

“Of course. When I call you back, I’ll tell you the whole story. But I want to be sure you and the others understand up front that there are a couple of catches.”

“Catches, huh?”

“Yes. It’s not exactly legal, for one thing. And it’s dangerous. Actually, in doing this, you may be risking life and limb.”

“Oh? Well... are we gonna get a chance to kick some ass and knock some shit around?”

“More than you might think.”

“We gonna be armed?”

“To the teeth.”

Lloyd laughed again. “Then Mr. Burgess, dangerous ain’t the catch. That’s the fuckin’
attraction
.”

When they finished talking, Burgess put the cell phone on the desk, imagining Lloyd and his friends rushing to Karen’s and Gavin’s aid in Big Rock... a bunch of badass ex-cons who’d spent a good deal of time behind bars in some hardcore prisons, lifting weights and building up their badly-tattooed muscles... ex-cons who wanted very much to stay on the outside, but who would give their left nuts for an excuse to pack some serious heat and kick some serious ass.

Smirking, Burgess muttered to himself, “Goddamned werewolves better put on their game faces.”

Bad Rochelle was gasping. With her black-stockinged legs hiked over his shoulders, she closed her fists on Deputy Harry Cross’s thick hair as he pressed his mouth hard to the opening in her black crotchless panties and made loud slurping sounds. She released a high, breathy laugh as she tipped her head back and closed her eyes.