Night Terrors: Savage Species, Book 1 (9 page)

Sam palmed blood off his lip. Then, glancing at Charly, he said, “No, I don’t.”

“You gotta be kidding,” Eric said. “Press charges? This asshole does a shitty job on our house—”

“I also suspect,” Robertson said, his voice rising over Eric’s, “that Mr. Bledsoe here could whip your skinny behind if he so desired. That he hasn’t done so yet shows me how sensitive he is to your situation.” Robertson stood over Eric. “Now you can either control your mouth, or I can take you in for striking this man.”

Eric stared hatefully up at Robertson.

“Good,” the sheriff said. “Now, let’s forget this happened and focus on getting your boy back.”

He offered Eric a hand, but rather than accepting the help, Eric pushed to his feet and made for the house.

Robertson stared after Eric sourly before saying to Sam, “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sam said and bent to retrieve his toolbox.

Robertson looked at Charly, and she realized how the confrontation had taxed him. His short black hair was matted with sweat, and he was still breathing heavily.
If he doesn’t get in shape soon
, Charly thought,
he’ll have a heart attack by his sixtieth birthday
.

“I better check in,” Robertson said. He nodded at Charly. “If you think of anything I can do to help, please call me.”

She said she would. Robertson ambled to his cruiser, and she was left with Sam.

“I’m sorry Eric hit you,” she said.

“I didn’t come here to fix your back door.”

Charly returned his stare for a long moment. Then she said, “Eric was out with his assistant coach last night.”

“I assume this assistant isn’t a man.”

“She’s very pretty.”

“Can’t be as pretty as you.”

Charly felt a little sick to her stomach. She fought an insane urge to throw her arms around Sam and squeeze. Sex could come later, she thought—a lot of sex—but right now she needed comfort. Sheriff Robertson had gone a long way toward helping her feel as if she weren’t completely alone, but Sam filled that need in a much more fundamental way.

Charly exhaled pent-up air. “So why did you come?”

“Can you walk with me a little?”

She frowned, glanced back at the house. “It’s sweet of you, really. But I need to stay here. Maybe I’ll go pick up my girls and bring them back—”

“I’m not asking you on a date.”

She tried not to look hurt.

“I want to find your baby,” he said.

“It’s sweet of you, but I don’t think—”

“I spent some time today walking around the woods. The description of your kidnapper gave me the idea.”

“And?”

He hesitated.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “How did you know what the kidnapper looked like?”

Sam gave her an apologetic look. “I’ve known Larry Robertson for years. He shared a couple details…”

She steeled herself for more condescension. “So you think I’m crazy too.”

“Not a bit,” he said. “Your story’s the only one that makes sense.”

She watched him closely to see if he was putting her on.

“Think about it,” he said. “They didn’t find any sign of forced entry. The dogs couldn’t pick up the scent outside. They’re focusing all their attention on the tire tracks—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “A creature like that doesn’t exist.”

“You said it sprang out of your window.”

“So?”

“You didn’t say ‘jumped,’ you said ‘sprang’.”

“What’s—”

“When you ran to the window, you didn’t see the creature below, right?”

Try as she might, she couldn’t fight off the flood of images:

The monster’s horrid grin as it cradled her baby.

The long, walking-stick legs striding toward the window.

The monster climbing onto the sill.

But the worst had been the appalling cleverness in the creature’s eyes. The sadistic way it appeared to luxuriate in her terror…

“Charly?” Sam asked.

“I thought I saw it rise into the air.”

“Maybe it did.”

She grunted. “It was the middle of the night, I was half out of my mind…”

“I found a place in the woods where the undergrowth was pushed flat.”

She stopped and studied Sam’s earnest face.

He said, “There were branches snapped in half, saplings that looked as though something very powerful had come through.”

Charly shook her head. “But the thing I saw was skinny. Really, really tall, but skinny.”

“It leaped into the air,” Sam said. “That’s why the dogs couldn’t find its scent. Or maybe because it wasn’t human.”

Charly pushed palsied fingers through her hair. “Look, I really need to call Eric’s mom to check on the girls.”

“Check on them,” Sam said. “Then come down the hill with me.”

She swallowed. “You think that thing took my Jake down there?”

“I think it’s likely.”

“Sam…”

“Call your mother-in-law,” he said, “and meet me back here in ten minutes.”

Red Elk’s living room reminded Jesse of some police procedural show, the scenes in which the detectives scoured the home of a suspected murderer and found signs of mental imbalance and disrepair. There were fast-food sacks crumpled on a scarred coffee table and a ratty green couch that looked like something you’d find by the side of the road. The reclining chair bled yellow foam in several places, and the coarse fabric wasn’t recognizable as any color in particular. Empty beer cans littered the floor, and on the arm of the recliner, Jesse spotted an open
Penthouse
magazine. He forced himself not to look.

He knew he should get permission before shooting in here, but this was too good to pass up. Jesse snapped a picture of the couch and another of the recliner before he heard footsteps coming.

Red Elk, now wearing a tight pair of blue jeans but still without a shirt or socks, was carrying the remains of a six-pack by the plastic string.

“Hope you like Red Rocket,” he said, putting his own can of Old Milwaukee down on the coffee table. Red Elk tore off a can for Emma and lobbed it to her, repeated the process for Colleen and finally tossed Jesse one. The beer can was sweaty, as though it had been sitting out. When Jesse cracked it open and sipped, this suspicion was validated.
Nothing like cheap, lukewarm beer at eight in the morning
, he thought.

Colleen opened her can, took a healthy swig. Emma held hers against the belly of her shirt. Jesse took another drink and allowed himself a long look at Emma. When she moved the beer can away from her body, using it to gesture at a painting on the wall—“Is that one of your forefathers?”—Jesse noticed the way her shirt clung to her stomach. He felt the skin at his temples go tight and something in his chest throb.

Red Elk took a moment before answering her. When Jesse looked up, he understood the reason for the delay.

Red Elk was watching him watch Emma. The big man wore a crooked grin.

Turning to Emma, Red Elk said, “I usually call kin my relatives, but yes, I guess you’d say they’re my forefathers.”

Jesse said, “You mind if I take a picture of the painting?”

“You’ve already taken some,” Red Elk said. “Why ask permission now?”

The man plopped down in the recliner, his shoulder-length black hair catching some of the blue light shining in from the next room. Jesse peered inside the kitchen and saw a rectangular device dangling in the middle of the room.

“God
damn
, I tied one on last night,” Red Elk said, leaning against the headrest and closing his eyes.

“Excuse me,” Jesse said, “but is that a…bug light?”

Red Elk nodded. “I took off the guard so the big ones could make it to the sizzlers.”

Jesse lowered his gaze and felt a moment’s queasiness at the dusty ring of dead bugs in the middle of the kitchen floor.

“The best are the moths,” Red Elk said. “You know, those big mothers with eyes on their wings? They flap toward it like kamikazes and take ten minutes to fry.”

“Is that sanitary?” Emma asked.

Red Elk opened his eyes, which were very bloodshot. “I don’t eat ‘em, miss.”

“Don’t clean ‘em up, either,” Colleen added.

Red Elk turned to Colleen, a little grin on his face. “You’re kind of a spitfire, aren’t you?”

“A plus-sized spitfire, apparently.”

“Now, don’t be sore, I was only teasing you.”

After Emma cleared some Burger King sacks off the couch, they sat down.

“Mr. Red Elk,” Emma began and clicked on the Dictaphone, “let’s start with your full name and date of birth.”

“Turn that damn thing off.”

Emma looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“I don’t like talkin’ to a little red light. Makes me feel like you’re about to shoot me or something.” He turned to Jesse. “You ever seen
The Terminator
?”

Jesse nodded. “The part where Schwarzenegger goes to the night club to kill Linda Hamilton—”

Red Elk sipped his beer, nodding and smiling. “And he puts the laser dot on her forehead…”

“Could we focus a little?” Emma interrupted.

Jesse and Red Elk glanced at her, then exchanged a look.

Red Elk said to her, “The tits are Shannon Whirry’s but your face reminds me more of Mia Zottoli back when she had longer hair.”

Emma sighed. “Is she another porn star?”

“Soft porn,” Jesse said.

“That’s right,” Red Elk agreed. “It’s a big difference, miss.”

“You must really like soft porn,” Colleen said.

“Hell, yes,” Red Elk agreed, leaning forward. “It’s got all the passion that’s missing in a hardcore flick, but you still get to see the goods.”

Emma cleared her throat. “So how did you find out about the plans to make this a state park, Mr. Red—”

“Not to mention,” he continued, “you don’t have all the gross stuff you got in real porn. Yeah, it’s nice when you do it yourself with a good woman, but who the hell wants to watch some big-dick guy with a shaved nutsack spurt his seed all over some skank’s face?”

“
Mister Red Elk
,” Emma said.

Jesse stared at the floor and tried to stifle his grin.

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“Could we talk about things my paper can actually print?”

Red Elk tilted his head appraisingly. “I take that back about Mia Zottoli. You’re a lot prettier than her.”

“For God’s sakes.”

“I heard they gave you a lot of money so you wouldn’t sue,” Colleen said.

Red Elk turned to her, not the slightest bit abashed. “Depends on what you call a lot of money.”

“Two hundred grand?”

“Somewhere in that range, sure.”

“What’ll you do with it?”

“I imagine I’ll keep doing what I’ve always done, ‘cept I’ll do Vegas two, three times a year.”

“Mr. Red Elk,” Emma said, “do you feel your people were mistreated?”

The big man chuckled. “Mistreated? Miss, that’s like sayin’ this guy here,” he said and nodded at Jesse, “thinks you’re mildly attractive.”

Jesse stared wide-eyed at him. Colleen snickered. He dared not look at Emma to see her reaction.

“You think she doesn’t know?” Red Elk said to him. “She ain’t stupid, buddy. Every time you think she’s not lookin’, don’t you think she feels those big doe eyes of yours crawlin’ up and down her body?”

Emma said, “Was anyone in your family slain, Mr. Red Elk?”

He stopped, the merry twinkle in his eyes vanishing. “Could be, miss. But not the way you think.”

“No murder raids, resettlements, anything like that?”

“Some,” he said.

“Disease?”

“Sure, but only if you count diabetes and colon cancer.”

Emma gave him a confused grin. “I’m not sure where—”

“Do you know how many arrowheads they found when they excavated for the park?”

Emma shook her head.

“A handful,” he said, “and those were ancient, probably from the Potawatomis or the migrating Iroquois.”

“So?” Colleen said.

“You go to any cornfield in Indiana, and a trained eye will find several arrowheads in no time at all. They’re all over the place despite the fact that the last arrows were fired in this area over a hundred—” He broke off and bent over.

Emma sat forward. “What is it, Mr. Red Elk?”

He made a miserable face, clutched his swollen belly. “Ah, man…you’d think I’d learn by now. Whiskey always gives me the shits.”

“We can come back later,” Emma said, but he was up and out of his chair.

“Gotta drop the kids off at the pool,” he said, jogging toward a door. He slammed it shut, and almost instantly they heard a ripping sound followed by a prolonged splash.