James Swain - The Night Monster

“Keep your eye on them,” Linderman said.

I kept my shotgun trained on the boys. Linderman took the. 22s and emptied them of their ammunition. Then he tossed the rifles into the middle of the pond. He watched them sink, and turned back to me.

“Let’s find out what they’re up to,” he said.

We separated the boys, with Linderman taking one to the other side of the pond, while the boy with the ruined pants stayed with me. Buster had not calmed down, and several times I told him to lie down, afraid he might again go on the attack.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Clayton,” the boy mumbled.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Clayton,” I snapped.

He lifted his gaze. He had muted brown eyes and peach fuzz on his cheeks. Sticking out of his baseball cap were several wisps of curly black hair.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Thirteen.”

“You live in Chatham?”

Clayton vigorously nodded his head. Fear has a powerful effect on people, and often cleanses their consciences. He looked ready to confess.

“Why’d you shoot at us?” I asked.

“We thought you were the Bledsoes.”

“Who are they?”

“They’re a family that lives in town. They come out and steal our fish.”

“Do you know Mister Kaplan? He owns the farm down the road. Someone burned down his barn and killed his horses. Was that you and your friend?”

Clayton stared at the ground and didn’t respond. My heart was racing from being shot at, and I wasn’t willing to put up with any of the kid’s crap. I nudged Buster with my foot, and my dog emitted a vicious bark. Clayton jumped back in alarm.

“Don’t let him bite me!”

“Did you set that fire?”

“No, sir. It wasn’t me.”

“But you know who did, don’t you?”

Clayton glanced at his buddy on the other side of the pond. Satisfied his buddy wasn’t watching him, he said, “Yes, sir. I know who did it. It was the Bledsoes.”

“Tell me why they did that.”

“Some men from Jacksonville came to town and started asking questions. Word got out that nobody should talk to them. Only Mr. Kaplan did, and his place got burned.”

“Who else talked to them?”

“The Webber family did. They ain’t around anymore.”

“The men who were asking questions… were they policemen?”

“No, sir. They were private investigators. They worked for some big insurance company. I don’t know what they wanted.”

I had heard enough. Clayton had answered my questions without hesitation, a sign that he was probably telling the truth. Linderman and Clayton’s friend came around the pond toward us. I pulled Linderman to one side, and we compared notes. Their stories were the same, and we decided the boys were telling the truth.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Outside of the fact that they shot at us, I think they’re harmless,” Linderman said. “I vote for letting them stay. Maybe we can pull some more information out of them.”

I agreed, and turned to the boys.

“Grab your poles,” I said.

We let Clayton and his friend fish the pond with us. They stood a good distance away, and kept to themselves. Had we let them run into town and tell everyone about the strange men with the shotguns, I knew our chances of saving Sara Long were doomed. Better to keep them around, and let them enjoy the afternoon.

Using the boys’ bait, Linderman and I caught six of the prettiest flathead catfish I’d ever seen, and stored them in their cooler. As the sun started to set, I called the boys over. They reluctantly joined us, and glanced nervously at the shotguns lying in the grass.

“Here’s the deal,” I said. “Each one of you gets to pick a fish. We’re going to take the rest. I’ll pay you for the cooler. Deal?”

The boys nodded woodenly. Clayton picked the largest of the catch, while his friend took the next biggest fish. I handed Clayton a twenty-dollar bill, which was more than enough for the cooler and the ice.

“You boys have a nice day,” I said.

Clayton had a funny look on his face. Like he’d come to an understanding about what had happened, and needed to get it off his chest. He took off his baseball cap.

“I’m sorry we shot at you,” Clayton said.

“Mistakes happen,” I replied.

“Thank you for not killing us,” Clayton said.

“Yeah, thanks for not killing us,” his friend echoed.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

I watched Clayton and his friend walk away with their fish. It was a strange thing for a couple of teenagers to say, but I thought I knew why they had. Chatham was filled with dark secrets. And when the townspeople broke those secrets, they paid for it, sometimes with their lives. I picked up the cooler and carried it to my Legend. Linderman grabbed the shotguns and joined me.

“I want to go back to town, and find out what’s going on,” I said.

“Do you think that’s wise?” Linderman asked.

If wisdom was my guide, I’d never have become a cop, or did the work that I did now. The fact was, I wasn’t leaving Chatham until I found Sara Long, and discovered what the hell was wrong with these people.

“Time will tell,” I said.

It was dusk when we pulled into Chatham. The streets had come alive, with cars and pedestrians and signs of life not seen that morning. An eatery on the main drag called The Sweet Lowdown looked promising. I parked beneath a sign that warned the space was for restaurant loading only. As I got out, an overweight man wearing a grease-stained apron came out the front door, and started to berate me.

“Sweet Christ, can’t you read the sign? You can’t park your car there,” the man said angrily. “Find another spot, or I’ll have you towed.”

“You the owner?” I asked.

“Damn straight I am,” he replied.

I went around to the back of my Legend and popped the trunk. Curious, the owner followed me. I proudly showed him the cooler filled with flathead catfish. Before my eyes, the owner’s hostility melted away.

“Would you look at those. You fixing to sell them?” he asked.

“Heck, no, I want you to cook them,” I replied.

“You boys don’t think you can eat all of these, do you? There must be thirty-five pounds of meat here.”

“Whatever we don’t eat, I was going to let you keep,” I said.

“That’s mighty generous of you,” the owner said.

“My friend and I are only in town for a couple of days,” I explained. “It would be a crying shame to see these beautiful fish go to waste.”

The owner wiped his hands on his apron, then stuck out a meaty paw. “I’m Gabe. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I shook his hand, and so did Linderman. If Buster had been standing there, I had a feeling Gabe would have shaken his hand as well. Free food did that to people. I grabbed the cooler and followed Gabe inside the restaurant.

Gabe treated us like kings. We were seated in a table by the front window, where we could eat our dinner and watch the world pass by. Our catfish were put on ice and displayed in the restaurant’s other front window. A waitress put a pitcher of beer on our table, and said it was on the house. She asked us how we wanted our fish cooked.

“Fried,” I said.

“The same,” Linderman said.

She filled two glasses with beer and left. The beer looked tempting, but I wasn’t in a partying mood. I looked around the restaurant. Mounted deer heads hung from the walls, along with old Florida license plates and sepia-toned photographs of the town from years ago. I glanced out the window at the street. Pedestrians meandered by, as did cars on the main drag, no one moving particularly fast. It was the quintessential picture of small-town life. Only I knew it wasn’t. Something was terribly wrong here.