Shadow Dragon (10 page)
Authors: Lance Horton
Kyle opened the door to the interview room and stepped inside, followed by Marasco. The mountain man was asleep, his head on the small table. Phlegm-rattling snores reverberated off the hard surfaces within the room, which stank of rotten meat and sour body odor.
“Mr. Tucker,” Kyle said.
“Hey!” Marasco yelled as he kicked the table. Tucker woke with a start.
Marasco chuckled. Kyle glared at him as he moved to face Tucker. “Mr. Tucker—”
“I told you I didn’t kill no one,” Tucker snapped. “You ain’t gonna get me to confess to nothin’. Charlie couldn’t break me, and neither can you.”
“Mr. Tucker,” Kyle said sternly. The man’s eyes shifted from Marasco back to him. “We are not here to question you anymore. We’re here to tell you that we got the results back from the forensic anthropologist and you’re free to go.”
“The what?”
“The bone expert, you moron,” said Marasco.
“The bones in your fire pit were not human … just like you said,” Kyle said.
“I told you they was from a mountain goat.”
“Yes, we know. You were right. I apologize for any inconvenience we may have caused you. You’re free to go.” Kyle motioned toward the open door.
“Unless you’d like for us to transfer you to one of the nice little cells in back,” Marasco quipped.
Tucker wrinkled his nose in a sneer as he brushed past Marasco. “I told you I didn’t do it,” he repeated. “And I’m gonna go catch the thing what did too. Just you watch.”
“Yeah, right,” Marasco smirked as he leaned away from Tucker’s foul breath. “You and O.J. Now get the fuck outta here.”
By the end of March, things were pretty much back to normal for Bill and Audrey Jones. The concern and anxiety they had felt as a result of the men being murdered in one of their cabins still lurked in the back of their minds, but since there had been no other occurrences of a similar nature in the following weeks, the event had been put behind them for the most part, written off as an unexplained act of vengeance against one or all of the men by someone with reason enough to kill.
While the winter had been one of the harshest ones in recent memory, the weather seemed to be returning to normal and other, more pressing matters filled their days now. Along with the repairs to the cabin that Bill had been working on, both he and Audrey were beginning to make preparations for the upcoming tourist season. Audrey had already booked the first fly-fishing expedition of the season for the last week in May.
After dinner that evening, Bill sat at the kitchen table, which was littered with spools of fishing line, rolls of brightly colored thread, and a craft box with little plastic drawers full of hooks, silks, furs, feathers, tinsels, wools, and hairs. Whistling, he bent over his fly-tying vise, a pair of hackle pliers in his hand, as he peered through the magnifying light at the tiny damsel fly he was working on. A fly-fishing enthusiast in the truest sense of the word, he refused to purchase store-bought flies.
Bill’s blissful reverie was interrupted by a heavy
thump
from somewhere else in the house. He looked up over the top of his reading glasses, his forehead wrinkled in consternation. Fearful that Audrey might have fallen, he called out to her. “Audrey, you all right?”
“Yes, dear, why?”
“I thought I heard something. Did you drop something?”
“No, dear, I didn’t.”
Bill took off his glasses and laid them on the table as he stood up. He cocked his head to one side, listening for anything out of the norm. Overhead, there was the faint hiss of the heater blowing warm air through the vents and the hum of the refrigerator behind him. A wall clock over the oven ticked off the seconds.
Then he heard it again, a heavy scrabbling sound on the roof above him. He listened, trying to make sure it wasn’t a tree limb, but it seemed to have too much of a pattern to it, as if someone were walking across the roof and dragging something behind.
Thump, scrape, thump, scrape.
It seemed to be making its way toward the back of the house. Audrey had come into the kitchen and was looking at him with a puzzled expression, but Bill remained motionless, listening until it stopped. He supposed it could have been a raccoon or a squirrel, but something about the way the roof creaked with its passage made him think it was much heavier. He stood up quietly and slipped over toward the window above the sink, the one that looked out into the forest behind them. A light snow had begun to fall. The light spilling through the window illuminated a rectangular patch of ground behind the cabin. The snow within that area was undisturbed. There were no tracks or other telltale signs of disturbance. Beyond, the forbidding darkness of the forest offered no clues.
A strange feeling trickled down his spine. His palms began to sweat, and he found himself backing away from the window toward the living room, his arm held out protectively in front of Audrey.
A sharp, crackling
pop
and a high-pitched, wailing scream rang out above them.
The cabin fell into darkness.
“Bill?” Audrey said anxiously.
Bill groped his way across the kitchen. He found the edge of the cabinet and used it to feel his way along to the drawer next to the refrigerator. He pulled it open and fumbled about until he placed his hand on the flashlight they kept there.
Flicking it on, he said, “Follow me.” The floor creaked beneath them as they crept around the table toward the living room. Another scraping
thump
came from overhead.
“Get upstairs,” he whispered as he backed into the living room, afraid of taking his eyes off the kitchen window for more than a few seconds. Once in the living room, Audrey safely behind him, he hurried across the room and jerked the curtains closed across the large picture window facing the lake.
“Bill, what is it? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” he said as he hurried to the front closet. “See if you can find the cordless phone. Then get upstairs—in the bathroom without the window—and call the sheriff.” He tucked the flashlight under his left arm and grabbed the shotgun, a Browning 12-gauge autoloader from the closet. He grabbed a handful of shells from the box on the shelf above the coat rod and stuffed them into the pocket of his jeans.
“The phone’s on the end table by the sofa,” Audrey said.
Bill kicked the closet door shut and turned around, pointing the light at the end table for Audrey to see. She quickly grabbed the phone and then headed for the stairs.
The front window exploded into the living room.
Glittering slivers of glass shot across the room, showering everything within. The curtains were ripped from the wall, engulfing something that tumbled to the floor behind the sofa.
Audrey cried out as she stumbled over the bottom step. As she tried to catch herself, she dropped the cordless phone, which bounced off the stairs and went spinning across the floor into darkness.
Bill raised his arm to shield his face. The flashlight dropped to the floor, its beam sweeping wildly about the room as it rolled.
Two loud
booms
and flashes of yellow flame leapt from the barrel of the shotgun as Bill fired at the object tangled within the curtains.
The room fell silent. The air was thick with a haze of smoke and the acrid smell of gunpowder. The thing beneath the curtains remained motionless.
Bill dug in his pocket. His hands shook as he pulled out three more shotgun shells. He dropped one but managed to shove the other two into the shotgun’s magazine as he crept up to the tangled mass of drapery.
Holding the shotgun ready, he prodded the thing with his right foot and then jerked it back in case whatever lay inside was still alive. He knew there was nothing more dangerous than a wounded animal, although by the actions he had witnessed, he found it highly doubtful that it was simply a wild animal that was tangled in the curtain.
“What is it?” Audrey picked up the flashlight and began to move closer, the beam of light trembling as she held it.
“Stay back,” he snapped. He was immediately sorry for the tone of his voice, but he didn’t want Audrey anywhere near the thing. He reached over and took the flashlight from her. “Get the phone. Then go upstairs and call the sheriff.”
Audrey gingerly stepped across the glass-covered floor, picked up the phone, and dialed 911 even as she started toward the stairs.
Bill prodded the thing again. It was surprisingly solid. And still, it remained motionless.
Sweat trickled down his forehead. He reached down with the flashlight to flip back the curtains. He still held the shotgun with his right hand, ready to fire if the thing should move.
On the other side of the room, Audrey stopped at the base of the stairs and watched.
He tossed the curtains back, sending more of the glass skittering across the floor. A dark lump lay motionless atop the cloth. He pointed the light at it. When he saw what it was, he felt as if he had fallen through the ice into one of the frigid lakes around the cabin. His breath caught in his throat. His limbs went numb.
It was one of the large fire logs they kept stacked against the back of the house.
Audrey screamed.
Bill whirled back around.
And saw the shadow coming through the missing window.
In the middle of the night, the phone began to ring. Lewis picked it up on the third ring. Bleary-eyed, Kyle rolled over and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It read 3:27. Immediately, he knew something was wrong.
“All right, we’ll be ready.” Lewis hung up the phone.
“What is it?” Kyle asked.
“There’s been another murder.” Lewis turned on the lamp mounted to the wall above the nightstand and rubbed his face with his hand.
Kyle squinted in the bright light. “Where?”
“Hungry Horse. The Joneses’ cabin.”
*
Deputy Johnson picked them up. Agent Marasco was already riding shotgun. Without saying anything, Lewis got in the back with Kyle. They rode in an uncomfortable silence as they made their way out of town, the glow of civilization slowly fading behind them as they followed Highway 2 out of the valley and through the notch cut between the mountains by the Flathead River. What was there to say? They all felt the same. They had failed to catch the killer in time, and more innocent lives had been lost as a result.
In the backseat, Kyle stared into the darkness out the window. He wanted to become an agent to save lives. He wanted to make a difference, but now that he was involved in his first case, he was beginning to wonder if that were true. It seemed that instead of preventing the crimes, all they were doing was documenting the aftermath in an attempt to understand why, but they hadn’t really prevented anything.
Maybe Janet had been right. She had always wanted him to become a lawyer or a doctor. She had wanted him to become one simply for the prestige and the money, but as Kyle thought about it now, he wondered if it might have been a better choice. Maybe he and Angela would still be together. Maybe the Joneses would still be alive.
*
It was a strange scene at the site. All around, the forest was pitch-black, but the cabin and its surroundings were bathed in the harsh, blue-white light of several portable floodlights. The whole thing had an otherworldly feel to it, like something out of
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
.
There were four vehicles parked in front. There were two of the county’s Yukons and the coroner’s white Suburban with its silver, mirrored windows on the sides and in back. The fourth was a black cargo van that had been converted to four-wheel drive complete with big snow tires. Its rear doors were open. Inside, a gas-powered generator was running, a faint plume of blue exhaust drifting away into the night.
As they walked up, Kyle noticed that the cabin’s picture window was missing. In three of the corners, large pieces of broken glass still clung to the sill. Sheriff Greyhawk stood on the porch, awaiting their arrival. His eyes scanned the far side of the lake as if he was searching for something amid the darkness. It was uncanny how well his name fit him.
There were no pleasant greetings, merely solemn nods of acknowledgment as they stepped up on the porch. The sheriff filled them in as they donned the booties and gloves from boxes beside the door. “The 911 call came in around 9:30,” he said. “There was no communication with the caller, so the operator did not dispatch immediately. She tried to call back but got a busy signal. It was several hours before the deputies on duty finally followed up on it. They found Mr. Jones’s head in the living room and Mrs. Jones’s left arm at the bottom of the stairs. Both bodies are missing. We performed a preliminary search of the cabin and the surrounding area but haven’t come up with anything. We’re bringing out the search-and-rescue dogs again just in case. Everything inside is exactly as it was found. We were waiting for you to get a look at it before we sent in the forensics team.
“There’s a trail of blood from inside, across the windowsill and porch, and into the snow out there,” he said, pointing to a small area that had been roped off with yellow tape around three wooden stakes. “But no tracks or footprints. There were a couple of inches of snow last night, so that might have covered them up.”
“Was the front door open when they arrived?” Lewis asked.
“No, it was still locked from the inside,” said the sheriff.
“So you think they gained entry by smashing in the front window and then left by the same route,” Lewis said.
“Come with me.” The sheriff led them just inside the doorway.
Shattered glass littered the floor. Beyond lay a crumpled pile of material, which Kyle realized were the curtains that had hung in the front window. Amid the tattered cloth and broken hanging rod was a fire log of considerable size.
“They took one of the logs from the stack and threw it through the window,” Lewis said.
“Yes,” said the sheriff. “And the electricity is out.”
“You think someone killed the power and then threw the log through the window and proceeded to kill the Joneses,” Lewis said.
“Yes.”
While Lewis and the sheriff were talking, Kyle’s attention was drawn to the television across the room. Arranged on top of a white doily were numerous picture frames.
Careful of the glass, Kyle moved across the room and leaned down to get a closer look. The photographs had been taken at various places and times over the years. One of the photographs was an old one of Bill and Audrey that appeared to have been taken at their wedding. Bill wore a tuxedo—which he looked uncomfortable in—with a yellow rose pinned to the lapel. His hair was reddish brown, and his blue eyes appeared to sparkle in spite of the age of the photo. Beside him, Audrey looked regal in her sequined gown. Both appeared blissfully happy as they held each other.
Another photo was of a family: a young man and his wife with their young daughter. The resemblance of the wife to Bill and Audrey was unmistakable.
The rest of the photographs were of Bill and Audrey and the young girl, whom Kyle assumed was their granddaughter. The pictures ranged from when the girl was around six or seven showing off her presents amid a pile of Christmas wrapping paper to a time when she was grown. In one, she wore a light blue graduation cap and gown. She appeared thin and gangly. There was a strange look about her, as if she was unhappy about graduating. Another was obviously her college graduation. Aside from the fact that Bill and Audrey looked older, the difference between the two was significant. In the latter, the girl had blossomed into a woman. The resemblance between her and her grandmother was unmistakable. She had long brown hair that trailed across her shoulders in big, loose curls and brown eyes that seemed to sparkle with an inner fire like those of her grandfather.
There were several other photos of the girl as well, some by herself and others with Bill and Audrey. Kyle found it odd that there would be so many of the girl with Bill and Audrey over the years but no others of the parents.
“Jesus,” Marasco gasped. He had moved farther into the room, past the end of the sofa. “It looks like a fucking scene from
Kill Bill
in here.”
Kyle looked over at him disapprovingly.
“You know, that scene in the Japanese club where Uma hacks like a hundred ninjas into little pieces,” he said, motioning toward the stairs.
Kyle looked where he was pointing. The steps and wall were slathered in blood. A broken baluster laid next to the bottom step—and Audrey’s severed arm.
Kyle looked away. Past the arm, in the middle of the room, he saw the broken cordless phone on the floor, its battery pack and connecting wires spilling out like the innards of a gutted animal.
And beyond, in a dark pool of blood, laid Bill Jones’s severed head.
Kyle was suddenly struck by a rush of emotions he hadn’t felt since he was a young boy. He had talked with these people, and in a strange way, after he had looked at all the photographs, he felt as if he knew them. He was no longer a casual observer documenting the scene from a distance but an acquaintance of the family. Imagining the horror of their last moments struck him like a punch in the gut.
He was going to be sick.
The room seemed to swim around him. Dark spots floated across his vision, and his breathing became laborious, as if he were trying to breathe through a pillow. He staggered toward the front door and lurched outside. When he caught himself on the porch railing, he leaned over and took in several deep, gasping breaths. The frigid air burned in his lungs, but it seemed to help.
Inside, he thought he heard Marasco laughing.
“You all right?” Lewis asked as he stepped up beside him.
Kyle nodded and took several slow, deep breaths. Gradually, the dizziness faded, and his vision cleared. He straightened up and looked at Lewis sheepishly. “Guess I stood up too fast,” he said, feeling foolish as he looked over at the throng of men watching him.
“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Lewis said, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “It happens.” He lit one and took a long drag.
“Does it ever get any easier?” Kyle asked.
Lewis exhaled slowly and looked at the cigarette. “You know, I never smoked before I took this job. The first murder scene I went to, the guy had been decomposing in his bedroom for several days. I got sick from the smell, puked all over my partner’s shoes. So the next time, I tried smoking a Salem Menthol to numb my sense of smell before I went in. It worked, but now I’m addicted to the damn things.” He offered the cigarette to Kyle.
“No, thanks,” Kyle said.
Lewis shrugged his shoulders. “Some are worse than others,” he said. “But it never gets easier. And if it does, you should go find yourself another line of work.”
Lewis finished his cigarette in silence and then flicked the butt away into the snow.
Kyle looked out across the dark reservoir, beyond the congregation of vehicles and spotlights. The sky was beginning to lighten above the mountains, the darkness slowly turning to a rosy glow. It was a beautiful, ugly morning.