BK was taller, broader, heavier, and darker. Brown hair and eyes, a short beard, and forty more pounds than he would have liked to carry. He was built on a huge frame, though, and carried the extra weight lightly. He did look like a bouncer.
The two of them worked at Strip-Search, the biggest of Philly’s go-go bars. BK was the cooler and Billy was his main backup. Like Crow they were old hands in the Middle Atlantic States martial arts scene. BK studied the same art as Crow, traditional Japanese jujutsu; Billy had years invested in a number of systems, including Muay Thai kickboxing and Wing Chun kung-fu.
“How many guys you figure for this spot?” Billy asked.
“This is the most remote spot, but I think we can get away with three guys for this scene and the next two. One here, one a quarter mile along the path, and one walking the line between the two.”
“That’ll work.”
There was a lot of activity around the saucer. Attractions consultant John West and his team were involved in a thorough wiring safety check, so BK didn’t bother them. He and Billy moved on, strolling past the Graveyard of the Ghouls, through the Corn Maze, and into the final trap, the Grotto of the Living Dead. “This is where one of the kids gets pulled out of the flatbed. He pretends to be a tourist and an actress plays his girlfriend. Some zombies sneak up and drag him off into the bushes and tear him up. The girl screams her lungs out and the zombies attack the flatbed, almost catching it as the tractor pulls away. Then it swings around the big bend in the road and back to the starting point where they offload the kids.
BK consulted the clipboard. “I figure it’ll take fifteen guys to secure this entire attraction.”
Billy whistled. “I hope somebody around here’s got some deep-ass pockets.”
“From what Crow says, they do.”
“It’d piss me off if the check bounces.”
“Amen, brother.”
(4)
They took turns telling her the story. Crow started and told her everything about the Massacre, everything about Griswold and the Bone Man. Val picked it up with what happened at her farm, first when Ruger invaded her house and took her family hostage—and mercilessly gunned down her father—to Boyd’s murderous attack. Newton filled in the backstory of the Cape May Killer, the police handling of the case, and what he had found out through Internet searches. It took well over an hour and they were so wired from caffeine that they’d switched to decaf. The owner, Gus, came by several times to see if they needed anything, but the seriousness of their faces and the fact that they immediately stopped talking as soon as he came into the back room finally convinced him that they were involved in something private and important. He stopped seating customers in that part of the diner.
Throughout the discourse Jonatha said very little except to clarify a point, a name, or a date. She made no notes, offered no opinions. When Newton finished his part of it, she leaned her elbows on the table and steepled her long fingers. “Wow,” she said. “And the only other person who knows about this is this Dr. Weinstock?”
“Yes,” Val said, “and we’d like to keep it that way.”
“Have you seen Dr. Weinstock’s evidence? The tapes, the lab reports?”
Crow nodded. “He said that each single element could probably be disproved, or at least discredited if someone wanted to work hard enough at it, but taken en masse it’s pretty damned compelling.”
To Val, Jonatha said, “So, as far I can tell, you three brought me here because of what happened to your brother and his wife, is that correct?”
“Not entirely,” Val said. “Mark is the most important reason to me, of course. I need to know that he’s going to be at rest. That he isn’t infected…but we also need to know if the town itself is safe. We think this is over, but how can we ever tell? I don’t want to have to live in fear every day and night for the rest of my life. Crow and I are expecting a baby…we need to know that this town is going to be a safe place for our baby to grow up.” Crow reached over and gave her hand a squeeze.
“Wow,” Jonatha said again.
“We’ve been pretty candid with you, Jonatha,” Val said. “Now it’s your turn. You seem remarkably calm after hearing the story we’ve just told. Frankly, I expected you to laugh in our faces and storm out. But here you are.”
“Here I am.”
“So what does that mean?” Crow asked.
“It means, Crow,” Jonatha said, “that it’s a good thing Newton here didn’t contact my thesis advisor first. Or the department chair.”
“Why’s that?” Newton asked.
“Because neither of those gentlemen believes in vampires.”
“And you do?”
Jonatha paused. “Yes,” she said. “I do.” She shook her head. “Before you ask, though…no, it doesn’t mean that I’ve ever met a vampire. I’m not Van Helsing’s illegitimate daughter. I have never in my life encountered the supernatural. Not once.”
“So…why?”
She shrugged. “Not everyone gets into folklore because of an academic drive. Some of us—quite a lot of us, actually—pursue folklore because we do believe in some kind of larger world. I’m from Louisiana…from the real backwoods Louisiana. Before starting college I had a Cajun accent so thick you couldn’t cut it with a knife, but thanks to some undergraduate theater classes I learned to get rid of that. Where I grew up everyone believes in something, even those who swear up and down that they don’t. My grandmother and mother were as much vodoun as Catholic. In Louisiana we have plenty of legends of the loup-garou. I believed those stories as a kid, and still believe some of them.”
“Some?”
“Sure, most of these stories are fake, or tall tales whose origins got lost over time and drifted into pop culture and folklore.”
Val said, “What’s a loup-garou?”
“It’s French for werewolf,” Crow explained.
“Right,” Jonatha agreed, “and it’s because of that part of your story that I’m here. You see, after Newton here contacted me and I started reading up on Pine Deep’s history, I saw the name of the last known victim of the Massacre. Or, at least the person most of your town believes was the last victim.” She paused. “Ubel Griswold is why I’m here.”
Crow winced at the name.
“I’m not following this,” Newton admitted.
“Ubel Griswold is a fake name. It’s one of several false identities used by the most famous werewolf in European history.”
“Peeter Stubbe,” Crow and Newton both said together.
“Bonus points to you for knowing that. Most of the pop-culture books on werewolves mention Peeter Stubbe, though often the accounts are missing many details that can, however, be found in the scholarly literature, among which is Stubbe’s probable birthplace.”
“I thought he was German,” Crow said.
She shook her head. “No, and that’s part of the problem. He started using the name Peeter Stubbe when he moved to Germany, but he had already committed a series of murders in several countries before that. The earliest accounts of Stubbe’s crimes date back to fourteenth century, and that and other historical details suggest that Serbia, or possibly what is now know as Belarus, is where he was born.”
“I’m sorry,” Val said, “but isn’t this all rather beside the point?”
“Oh, no, Val…it’s not. It’s the reason I believe so much of your story.”
“Then you’ll have to explain, because I haven’t read many of these books.”