When the beast took over, I had no idea what was happening. I had no control over it, and I did not live the experience as it happened. I remembered what the beast did after a few days, or a week, or even longer, but I was just happy with (or at least resigned to) the fact that someone was going to get it bad. Someone certainly deserved it. Someone, perhaps, who had done something as bad as I had done.
When I woke up the next day, I was still in my car. Usually, I woke up in an unfamiliar place, so this was an oddity. I knew the beast had gone to work because the inside of the car was filthy, and I was covered in dried blood. I dressed in the clothes I had in the backseat, and then drove to the motel I was staying at.
The phone rang a couple of days later. I picked it up, and it was the police. They said they had to have some words with me. I figured they found out I was driving around in a stolen car. I didn’t care. I drove over anyway.
They sat me down and explained to me that a man, a boy, really, had been “attacked” by what must have been rabid dogs in the park. When they said that, my hairs stood up.
The detective said, “These dogs, whatever they were, they tore this boy to shreds. There isn’t a whole lot left, but his head and his hands were found intact. Some of the officers at the scene recognized the victim as a known burglar. For the hell of it, we checked his prints, and they matched the prints lifted from your mother’s residence.”
I said, “Well, knock me down.”
I couldn’t understand why the beast—which without fail had always struck as ruthlessly and randomly as a tornado—singled out the one motherfucker I wanted dead more than anybody else in the world. The more I thought about it, though, I realized what did it, and that was the desire. The want. The absolute and utter need that I felt in my heart and soul to make this filthy little devil pay. That was the spark.
Whereas every other time the full moon had rolled around I prayed for the beast not to hurt anybody, this was the one time I had called upon it with my prayers. This was the one time that I gave it a mission. A purpose. A target. With that, the beast had a goal, and with that, the quality of my life, as doomed as it was, got a whole hell of a lot better.
How it was able to fulfill its end of this operation became apparent rather quickly. Whatever it was—some ferocious demon or wrathful demigod—it had the physical properties and abilities of an animal. It worked on scent, on taste, on sound. The piece of shit that killed my mother left a scent. On that night when the beast struck back, it found his scent. From there, it was a simple matter of catching the boy on the wind.
My life is a black streak on a calendar, a sentence that has no end in sight. I go to bed every night knowing that when the reaper finally does point his rusty sickle at me, I’m going to spend the rest of time melting in my sins, but ever since that bloody night in my hometown, I have at least been able to live with myself. I wouldn’t call it apathy, and I wouldn’t call it peace, but at least I can sleep at night.
As for the dearly departed Bill Parker, he did something he shouldn’t have done. On one of his late-night drives, he side-swiped an old lady who came out in the road in pursuit of her cat Sprinkles. Bill was speeding, as he was prone to do, and didn’t notice her in time. If she had been in her prime, she probably would have survived, but the trauma was too much for her little body. She left behind two daughters and three grandchildren. It was a goddamn shame what happened.
The police had no suspects. The article in the paper urged the driver to come forward. Bill Parker never did, so the wolf and I went to work. I may be a monster, but as long as I’m the only one in town, I can live with that.
FOUR
As Pearce went to work on his second cup of coffee, Van Buren stepped out of the unmarked police car and climbed the stairs. Through the glass, he looked like a vampire in his dark suit and pale skin. He rapped on the glass door with his ringed finger, beckoned Pearce out with a wave, then turned silently.
“Guess I better head out,” Pearce said.
“How’s Mr. Happy?”
“I don’t know why you two don’t get along.”
“Don’t worry about it. Tell him I said hi.”
“I won’t,” Pearce said, and he walked out without paying. He was good at that. By my calculations he owed the restaurant somewhere in the neighborhood of half a million dollars.
“He doesn’t seem like a cop,” said Anthony after the man left.
“I know,” I said. “That’s how I put up with him.”
Anthony laughed and threw down a ten-dollar bill.
He said, “I’m off. You have a very nice restaurant here. And a lovely town.”
“Whatever,” I said. “Take a picture.”
“I plan to. See you around.”
He walked out. The bell jangled. When he got to the car, he took off his jacket and tossed it onto the passenger seat. He pulled out, heading west on Main. A minute later, Abe came out of the bathroom, seemingly as refreshed as he’d ever been.
“Perfect timing, you scoundrel. I had to deal with that prick the whole time he was here. I’m keeping this tip all to myself,” I said, waving the ten.
“Fine,” said Abraham. “I was waiting for that damn kid to get out of here.”
“You were up the whole time?”
“No. Not the whole time. Just … some of it.” He smiled. “Cold motherfucker,” I said.
After the church crowd filtered in for lunch and ice cream, I sat down in the kitchen and went to work on this story about the missing girl.
Her name was Judith Myers. She was seventeen years old, blond, blue-eyed, and pretty as all sin. I knew that by the picture above the caption that read, “If you have seen this person …”
She was last seen the previous night. She left her home around seven to go to her girlfriend’s house. The girlfriend stated that Judith left to go back home sometime in the neighborhood of nine-fifteen. The walk between their houses was five blocks of beautiful, upscale suburban houses. No suspicious characters were seen by anyone living in between the two residences, and no other suspicious activity was recorded that night, save the fruitless intrusion at the church. The two incidents seemed entirely unrelated.
Yes, I thought, this could definitely be something.
When Mandy and Carlos showed up in the afternoon to take the place over, Abraham and I skipped out. Mandy was twice divorced, like Abraham, but with a girl from each marriage, and it was by that deep and blazing fire that rages in every woman that she was able to raise a family on her own with such a meager income.
Carlos was a Mexican in his early twenties. His arms were emblazoned with tattoos, none of which, he said, meant a damn thing. Most he’d done himself with a hot needle and the ink from a ballpoint pen. If you looked closely, you could see the rows of carefully placed blue-black dots that formed these rich tapestries of fire, dragons, and wizards. He and I were talking once and he told me that he had killed a guy. I asked him why, and he said the guy had messed with his little sister. He didn’t say how, but he didn’t have to. He didn’t want to go to jail, so he ran, and Evelyn was where he ended up.
Ever since that day, I liked him. He was also a very good cook.
Abraham climbed into his Buick and turned on the radio. Marvin Gaye was playing, as he was apt to do in Abraham’s car.
“Are you going to go home and take it easy tonight?” I asked.
“I can’t,” Abe said. “I’m supposed to meet some of my people for dinner tonight.”