“Oh,” said Mike. He felt like his brain was mired in quicksand. There was some important information concealed in Bob’s about-face, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. With another flash of inspiration, Mike figured it out—“You found another victim didn’t you?” he asked. “Another person was killed while I was in here?”
“Get back to your theory,” said Bob. “If you’re right about this paranormal thing, how do I use it to stop the killer?”
Mike relaxed a little, feeling the accusations lift from his shoulders. “Well,” he began, “you can’t approach this like you would a human killer. There’s very little you can do to stop a paranormal being most of the time. You have to go after its motivation.”
“And what would the motive be to kill these people who had nothing in common?”
“But they did have a few things in common,” said Mike. “They were in a straight line, so they were on his way. You said they were sick. I only suggested that they might be weak. Maybe their sickness had something to do with it. He’s traveling towards something, but when he comes across a sick person he feels the need to stop and kill. Or maybe he just wanted those organs that he stole, and it was easiest to go after weak people.”
Bob let Mike ramble and sat on the edge of a chair, hoping to hear some information he could make use of.
“He doesn’t seem like he needs to go after the sick though. Moving quickly through the night like that, I think he’s strong; really strong. He’s got his clear mission, but he keeps being distracted.” Mike leaned his chair back and laced his fingers behind his head, feeling almost comfortable as he turned over the details of the mystery. “This seems really familiar somehow.”
When his third and final flash of intuition of the day hit him, Mike was so surprised that he tumbled back, crashing his chair to the floor.
“Sorry, sorry,” he scurried to get back upright. He hoped that the fall had masked his realization. When he looked up to Bob, he thought his secret might be safe.
Bob was punching buttons on his phone and had apparently tuned out during the end of Mike’s analysis.
“You were saying?” Bob asked as he looked up.
“Oh, nothing,” said Mike. “I just think your killer’s victims are incidental to his overall mission.”
“Great, thanks,” said Bob. “Mr. Markey…”
“Doctor,” Mike corrected.
“I don’t want you leaving the area, but you’re free to go,” he informed Mike. “You can pick up your things at the front desk, and your car is parked outside.”
“Thanks,” said Mike.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Crooked Tree
THAT NIGHT HE MADE good progress, running through the woods, tuned to the sights and smells of this time. He leapt small streams and creeks, with his target calling him east. Most of the time, the boy presented such a strong signal that Crooked Tree felt he could track him down with his eyes closed.
Just before dawn, the signal became clouded. Crooked Tree realized he would need to remove another local distraction before he could continue. He veered out of the woods with just enough time before dawn to snuff the offending person and find a place to sleep through the day.
Crooked Tree maneuvered down a steep hill and slowed as he emerged from the trees. He found himself on a narrow neighborhood road. Houses dotted the length of the street and behind them another line of houses sat on the next block. He felt momentarily overwhelmed with the sights, sounds, and smells from this high concentration of homes.
A startled dog barked in a frenzy to the west. Crooked Tree wound through the streets to the east, circling his distraction and finding his way to the man’s door. He knelt and smelled the porch of the small house. A couple lived in this house, he discerned, but only the sick one and a cat were at home that night. He opened the screen door and pressed the handle of the front door until it buckled and snapped inward.
Squeezing through the narrow frame, Crooked Tree dropped to a crouch and infiltrated the house. The owner’s hot, sleeping breath filled the small building. The cat regarded him through lidded eyes and then returned to licking its paw and Crooked Tree moved through the living room. Behind the staircase, Crooked Tree found the bedroom door cracked open several inches. The sleeping man didn’t even stir when the floor groaned, signaling Crooked Tree’s approach.
Once close to the man, his face inches from his snoring face, Crooked Tree wondered why this man had clouded his lock on the boy. His sickness didn’t smell contagious, and Crooked Tree couldn’t sense that it was hereditary or likely to be passed on in any way. Without considering why, Crooked Tree reached one thick finger forward and tapped the sleeping man on the forehead.
He woke with a snort and a fart, deep within the covers.
“Babe?” he asked, squinting into the dark. “Is that you? Who is that?”
Crooked Tree backed off a few inches, so the man could see his visitor.
One sick hand fumbled out from under the covers. Without looking away from the giant looming over his bed, the man switched on his light and grabbed his glasses from the nightstand. Once his vision had cleared, the man took a deep breath between pursed lips.
“I’ve dreamed about you,” he said to Crooked Tree. The admission was quickly followed with a racking cough which doubled over the supine man.
Crooked Tree tried to parse the words, repeating the sounds in his head. “Ooo,” he croaked.
“I’ve prayed for you to come…” He interrupted himself with his coughing, “while I still had the strength to beg one request before you send me to hell.”
Crooked Tree straddled the corner of the bed and rose up until the tops of his shoulders and back of his head rubbed the ceiling.
“So…” the man wheezed “big.” He squeezed his hands together in front of his chest and hunched forward with his final words. “Could you take my…”
The man’s request was cut off as Crooked Tree’s fist crashed down, splitting the man’s skull. The giant killer brought his enormous fingers together and split the sick body from top to bottom, exposing his organs to the lamplight. He picked through the remains eagerly, taking what could help him understand why the proximity of this man had been able to blur his perception of the boy. As Crooked Tree knelt on the bed, feeding, the cat ambled through the open door and hopped up on the mattress next to his dead master. Crooked Tree and the cat paid no attention to each other as they both chewed the man’s flesh. With each organ he ate, Crooked Tree took in the man’s memories. Integrated with the knowledge he’d picked up from his previous victim, the new memories help Crooked Tree piece together a deeper understanding of the world he now inhabited.
A COMMOTION OUTSIDE woke him up. After his latest kill, Crooked Tree had found an empty house which hadn’t been entered in months. Breaking in as quietly as possible, he had made his way to the building’s old root cellar, damp and dark, to sleep through the day. But now something was happening outside his lair.
He sniffed the air and reached out with his mind. The approaching dusk had brought scores of men and dogs. They had found his trail. He had been careless and not put enough distance between his victim and his current hideout. His impression of the warriors of this era was unfavorable. In fact, all the people he encountered, sequestered in their rigid homes, seemed oblivious and weak. He snapped a fist-sized rock from a corner of the stone foundation.
Crooked Tree crept towards the rickety stairs and left the dirt floor of the cellar, climbing to the dark kitchen above. A man, dressed in black, held something in front of his face at the back door. In the shadow of the basement stairs, Crooked Tree watched as the man nudged the door inward with his toe. Although he couldn’t see them, Crooked Tree sensed several other men on the other side of the door, ready to pounce with the door-nudging man.