Bestial (29 page)

Did I dream that, too?
he wondered, but only for a moment. He knew it had not been a dream. It had happened, all of it. And the terror he’d felt while he’d watched in horror in the ER returned to him there in his room. A chill passed over him.

Along with the sickening events at the hospital, he remembered seeing his sister leaving the Lighthouse Motel with Deputy Cross. For a moment, he tensed with anger at her hypocrisy, but he closed his eyes and made himself relax.

There was no way he could tell Mom and Grandma about what had happened at the hospital last night. They would tell him he was crazy, laugh with derision, tell him he’d been watching too much television, or something. But he could raise holy hell in the family by telling them about Rochelle’s little secret. He just didn’t feel like listening to all the shouting that would follow, not so early in the day.

He looked at his pants draped over the back of the chair at his computer desk. The left pant leg was still torn, vivid evidence of the creature that had tried to bite his leg last night. That would be the first thing Mom would ask him about when he left his room. She would remember seeing the torn pants last night, and she would want to know how it had happened. She forgot nothing.

Bob had to get out of the house. He had nowhere to go until lunch, but simply driving with a destination would be preferable to staying in the house. He wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t in the mood to cook, and he most
definitely
was not in the mood for Mom’s questions or Grandma’s criticism. He grabbed his wallet, steeled himself to face them, and left the room.

They were seated at the kitchen table drinking hot herbal tea.

“It’s about time you came out of your lair,” Grandma said. “I’m hungry.”

“I won’t be cooking breakfast,” Bob said distractedly as he looked around for the keys. He grabbed them off the counter and headed out of the kitchen.

“Where are
you
going?” Mom snapped.

His back to them, Bob set his jaw and resolved to keep walking as he said, “Out.” As he went out the front door and pulled it closed behind him, he heard Mom shouting at him, but could not make out her words. He quickened his pace, went to the car, got in, and started the engine. He increased his speed as he drove away from the house.

He drove around aimlessly for more than half an hour, then went to the drive-up window of a Jack in the Box and got an order of French toast sticks and a cup of coffee. He hadn’t had his first cup of coffee until the age of twenty-four, and he wasn’t crazy about the taste, but sometimes it was just the thing he needed in the morning. He couldn’t imagine God damning him to the lake of fire over coffee.

He drove to the beach, parked, and killed more time there as he watched the surf and listened to the radio as he ate his French toast sticks and drank his coffee. It occurred to him that he could go to the church and do some cleaning up. He almost never went on Sundays, but that was okay, he could make an exception. The church would be empty and quiet, a tremendous relief from his house.

He finished his sweet, meager breakfast and drank the last of his coffee, then started his car and headed for the church.

Karen was in the bathroom connected to their room when Warren Zevon began to sing again. Gavin finished buttoning his shirt in front of the mirror, then picked up the phone on the nightstand. It was Dudley.

“Sorry it took me so long to get back to you,” Dudley said, “but I’ve been up since you called digging for information. I’ve been on the computer, and this morning, I talked to a couple of people in Big Rock. Your man George Purdy
was
Deputy Coroner in Pine County. According to my information, he walked away from his job in late January.”

“Walked away?” Gavin said.

“Just up and walked away. Didn’t tell anybody he was leaving or where he was going. The house he lived in is currently up for sale. George Purdy is not living in it.”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I haven’t come to you empty-handed. He owns a cabin in the mountains above Big Rock. George withdrew a hefty chunk of his savings in February and made purchases that seem to suggest he was doing a little household renovation.”

“You think he’s living in the cabin?”

“Like I said, I don’t know for sure. But all the available arrows seem to be pointing in that direction.”

“Where’s the cabin? Exactly, I mean?”

“I’ve already e-mailed you directions and a map.”

“Thank you. That might be a big help. Anything else?”

“One thing. I also e-mailed you George’s cell phone number.”

Gavin sighed. “Why didn’t you say that in the
first
place?”

“And make it easy on you?”

After finishing with Dudley, Gavin grabbed his laptop and checked his e-mail. He punched George’s number into his cell phone. It rang several times, but there was no answer. He decided to try again later.

It was already quite warm when Bob arrived at the Seventh-day Adventist church on Crozier Street. He did not turn left into the parking lot. Instead, he parked at the curb in front of the small strip mall across the street. The church parking lot was empty. Pastor Edson always parked his blue Ford Focus behind the church, just outside the door of his study, but he never showed up at the church on a Sunday unless a particular function had been schedule, so Bob expected to be alone.

He used his key to let himself in through the front entrance. Inside, the church was cool and silent. Bob decided to occupy himself with work. He checked the front restrooms for toilet paper, then went to the utility closets for replacement rolls. When he was done there, he headed for the smaller restrooms in the rear of the church.

He stopped abruptly in the main corridor when he thought he heard a sound. Still shaken by the events of the night before and by the awful nightmare he could not get out of his mind, he was certain at first that he was imagining it. But as he listened, he heard what sounded like voices coming from the rear of the church.

Frowning, Bob proceeded more slowly. The sounds became more distinct, and he realized they were voices—two of them alternating back and forth. As he turned left down the corridor that ran behind the sanctuary, he recognized one of the voices as Pastor Edson’s. The other one sounded kind of familiar, but he could not yet place it.

Just before reaching the side entrance at the end of the corridor, he turned right down the corridor that ran along the side of the multi-purpose room. Yes, one of the voices definitely belonged to Pastor Edson. Up ahead, he saw that the door of Pastor Edson’s study was cracked open about six inches. The voices came from beyond that door. As Bob slowly, silently drew nearer to the study door, Pastor Edson said something in a sharp, angry voice. Bob stepped up to the door without a sound, not wanting to be heard. As he peered through the opening, the other voice said quietly, “Calm down, just calm down.”

Pastor Edson stood behind his desk leaning forward, hands flat against the desktop. He looked upset. A tall figure stood across the desk from the pastor, its back to Bob.

Bob’s eyes widened when he saw who it was: Sheriff Taggart in his uniform and hat.

“Just listen to what I’m saying,” the sheriff said. “I don’t mean that you have to give up control of your church. All I’m saying is that—”

”Who do you think you
are
?” Pastor Edson spat through clenched teeth. Bob had never seen him angry before—not
this
angry, anyway. His fleshy face was mottled with red and his round cheeks trembled slightly.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Sheriff Taggart said. “Yesterday, your sermon was about angels, right? About how frightening they are in the bible, how they’re messengers of God and they mean business.”

“What has
that
got to do with anything?”

“In Hebrews, we read, ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’”

Pastor Edson stood up straight. His chest swelled as he sucked in a breath, then let it out sharply in frustration. “You’re quoting the bible to
me
? How is that verse relevant?”

The sheriff took off his hat and put it on the desk, then waited a moment before saying, “Well, you never know when you’re going to find yourself talking to a scary messenger of God.”

“Are you implying that—”

Something happened to Sheriff Taggart then. It happened so suddenly that Bob slapped a hand over his mouth to keep his shocked gasp from being heard.

The sheriff’s shoulders broadened, his torso and thighs thickened, ripping his shirt and pants, all accompanied by the sound of crackling bones. His skin became dark—it took Bob a moment to realize that the darkness was rapidly-growing hair. The sheriff released an animal-like growl as he moved around the end of the desk toward Pastor Edson. When he did this, Bob got a clear view of his face. It had a hairy snout with a black nose at the end and black lips peeled back over vicious fangs. The only reason Bob’s whimpered reaction was not heard was that it was drowned out by Sheriff Taggart’s growl.

Images from the Emergency Room the night before flashed in Bob’s mind. He saw that hideous infant-creature with the small fangs in its little snout—a snout very much like the sheriff’s.

Pastor Edson stumbled backward and fell heavily into his chair with a high, shrill cry of fear. He stared up at the creature Sheriff Taggart had become, mouth hanging open, arms draped limply over the armrests of the chair. The angry redness in his face disappeared and he became very pale. Pushing with his feet, he rolled the wheeled chair backward until it bumped the bookshelf behind him.

The sheriff closed in on Pastor Edson, arms held out slightly at his sides. His hands—now with long slender fingers that ended in sharp claws—curled slightly and he lifted one, palm out, to the pastor. He growled again, louder this time, more menacingly.

Pastor Edson scrambled out of his chair and dropped to his knees. Words tumbled out of him in a long, gibbering plea.

“
Please don’t hurt me Jesus oh God forgive me I am sore afraid dear Lord protect me cast your light upon me oh Lord oh Jesus oh—”

The creature that towered over Pastor Edson made another sound—not a growl, but a
roar
—that filled the room.

The pastor screamed like a woman and fell forward behind the desk, still on his knees, arms outstretched, screaming and crying and babbling hysterically.

The creature became silent. Slowly, it reached out its right hand and seemed to place it gently on Pastor Edson’s head behind the desk.

Bob’s entire body was quaking and his knees felt as if they were about to collapse. He moved backward away from the door of the study, then turned and jogged unsteadily down the corridor, his feet silent on the carpet. He was so frightened that he could not breathe until he passed through the front door and got out of the church. Then he gasped loudly for breath.

He did not hear his own quiet sounds of terror as he ran to the car.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Royce

Royce Garver woke slowly late on Sunday morning. He lay in bed for awhile, dozing, then got up, put on a robe and slippers, and shuffled out of his bedroom. He’d set the coffeemaker before going to bed, and now followed the dark aroma to the kitchen, where he poured a cup and dropped a slice of bread in the toaster.

He was a couple of inches under six feet, a little soft from a sedentary lifestyle. His sandy hair had grown shaggy, and he’d gone without shaving long enough to develop a beard on his round face. He’d stolen his white terrycloth robe from a hotel in San Francisco years ago, and it needed washing.

He had been working hard and had neglected housework. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, the garbage can was about to overflow and was starting to smell, and the floor needed mopping. A half-empty bottle of whisky stood on the cluttered counter. He had worked late the night before, painting in his small studio in the early hours of the morning, and Jack Daniels had provided some inspiration in those last few hours. Six weeks ago, his girlfriend Lauren had moved out after living with him for almost ten months. She didn’t like his habits—any of them—and particularly disliked the fact that his paintings were scattered all over the house. It was his work, his living—did she expect him to hide them? He missed her sometimes—usually when he was horny—but he did not miss her frequent complaining about nearly everything he did.

When the toast popped up, he spread a little peanut butter on it. Feeling groggy and thick-tongued, he took his toast and coffee to the bar between the kitchen and the small dining room, perched on a stool, and turned on the little television he kept there. CNN came on as the blond, luscious-lipped newsreader talked about the latest politician to be embroiled in a sex scandal.

Royce sipped his coffee and muttered, “And now the sex news, with our news slut.”

Beyond the short, tiled bar, several of his paintings were scattered around the dining room. The canvases leaned against walls, against chairs, lay on the table, all sporting colorful monsters and bloodshed—a vampire baring its fangs, a snarling werewolf, the decaying face of a zombie, some kind of reptilian creature, a wide-eyed psychopath with a knife in one hand and a severed head in another, and others.