James Swain - The Night Monster

Our dinners came. Our plates overflowed with fried catfish, hush puppies, and fried okra. To wash it down, our glasses were poured with all the sweetened iced tea we could drink. Linderman tried each item on his plate hesitantly. Deciding the food wasn’t poisoned, he dug in.

“Giving him the fish was a smart idea,” Linderman said.

“It bought us a few hours,” I said.

“What do you think is going on?”

“I wish I knew.”

I ate my meal. Knowing that I’d caught the fish myself made it taste that much better. As I raised my fork to my mouth, I stopped. A white-haired couple had entered the restaurant, and stood by the hostess stand waiting to be seated. Both wore leather pants and leather jackets, and were carrying motorcycle helmets. They were normal-looking, except that the man’s left arm was missing, the sleeve of his shirt tied in a knot. The woman was missing her right foot, and walked with a carved wooden cane. They returned my gaze, and I lowered my eyes to my plate.

“Something wrong?” Linderman asked.

“See that couple at the hostess stand?”

“What about them, besides the fact they’re both missing limbs?”

“The manager at our motel is missing his hand, and the woman who waited on me at the pharmacy this morning was missing her foot.”

The couple walked by our table with a hostess. The armless man stopped to kick the leg of my chair. I lifted my eyes, and was greeted with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. The armless man was tall and broad-chested, with a flat face and shoulder-length yellowing hair that was more nicotine than ivory.

“You got no right to stare at us,” the armless man said.

“Sorry if I offended you,” I said.

“If I was you, I’d finish my dinner and move on.”

“I’ll do that,” I said.

“And don’t come back.”

“No, sir.”

The armless man joined his wife on the other side of the restaurant, and sat down at a table. I caught my waitress’s eye, and she hurried over.

“Everything okay?” our waitress asked pleasantly.

“I’d like to buy that fellow and his wife a drink,” I said, pointing to where the armless man and his wife were sitting.

“You mean Travis Bledsoe and his wife? Sure,” the waitress said.

She crossed the restaurant and spoke to the Bledsoes. I’d never liked people who burned down property and killed harmless animals, and I gave Travis Bledsoe a hard look. Bledsoe returned my gaze with a dark, burning stare.

The waitress came back to our table.

“He’s not interested,” the waitress said.

“Thanks for asking,” I said.

“You’re welcome. You want some dessert? We’ve got delicious homemade blueberry pie.”

“Sounds like a winner,” I said.

She took our plates and left. Linderman leaned in close, and lowered his voice. “Bledsoe is carrying a gun around his ankle. I spotted the bulge.”

“Anyone else in the restaurant armed?” I asked.

“Two guys up at the bar are carrying as well.”

I glanced at the pair of good ole boys holding up the bar. They’d been drinking boilermakers and talking college football since we’d come in.

“Ankle holsters?” I asked.

“Uh-huh.”

Our desserts came. The blueberry pie was as good as advertised. I ate mine slowly, watching the room while Linderman watched the action outside. I felt like I’d stumbled onto something, yet still didn’t understand what it was.

“How about some coffee?” our waitress asked.

She stood next to our table, holding a pot and two cups. I glanced across the room at the table with Bledsoe and his wife. He was watching us with murderous intensity. I wanted to buy some more time, and I said, “Do you have decaf?”

“I can brew you a pot,” she said cheerfully.

“That would be great.”

“Two cups?

“Please.”

She left. The restaurant was starting to fill up. A line had formed by the hostess stand, and I spotted a big man wearing coveralls who was also missing an arm. That made five limbless citizens of Chatham and counting.

Our waitress returned with a fresh pot of decaf. She poured two steaming cups with a big smile on her face.

“Those catfish in the window are sure drawing them in,” she said.

“I’m glad they’re not going to waste,” I said.

I blew the steam off my drink and looked at Linderman. The FBI agent had stopped eating his dessert, and was staring out the window at the street.

“See something?” I asked.

“This is really sick,” Linderman said.

I craned my neck to have a look. The sidewalk outside The Sweet Lowdown was filled with people out for an evening stroll. Over a third of them were missing an arm, a leg, or a hand, with some even missing two limbs. They all seemed to know each other, and had stopped to chat or to have a smoke. It was a parade of the maimed.

I quickly counted the number of dismembered standing outside. There were thirty-five. That made forty limbless citizens so far.

“At least half these people are carrying a concealed firearm,” Linderman said.

“Want to leave?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“At least the food was good.”

“You’re a funny guy, Jack.”

I waved our waitress over to the table. She acted sad to see us leave. I had to think she was the only person in the restaurant who felt that way. I asked for the check, and she informed us that the meal was on the house. I threw down a fat tip.

“Ya’all come back,” the waitress said.

We headed for the door. The hostess nodded as we passed, happy to see a table free up. Something about her looked vaguely familiar. Tall and dark-skinned, she was pretty in a reserved way, her eyes lowering when she realized I was gazing at her. My eyes fell on her plastic name tag. V. Seppi.

Linderman and I went outside. The crowd standing outside the restaurant was three deep. I tried not to stare at those who were missing limbs. It was hard. They were everywhere I looked.

Going to my Legend, I popped the trunk. I found the file on Lonnie and Mouse’s victims that I’d been carrying around, and beneath the trunk’s tiny interior light, I poured through the pages.

I came to the missing person reports that my old unit had given me two days ago. My eyes locked on the victims’ photos. Then I knew.

Victoria Seppi had been Lonnie and Mouse’s fourth victim.

I dropped the file into the trunk, and slammed it shut.

The dismembered townspeople of Chatham were staring at Linderman and me. They were in their late forties to late fifties, white, and decently dressed. Many of the women wore expensive jewelry, and several men sported fancy wristwatches. Not a single one of them looked poor.

“Have a nice night,” a man in the crowd said.

The words had an ugly ring to them. A number of men in the crowd were resting their hands on the guns concealed behind their shirts. It felt like a posse. I had been in hostile environments before, but nothing like this.

Linderman and I climbed into my Legend. Buster had tuned into the bad vibes and was standing up on the backseat, growling at the crowd. As I pulled away, he started barking. I didn’t slow down until the town was in my mirror.

“Pull off the road and kill your lights,” Linderman said.

I pulled down a darkened side street, and turned off my headlights. Moments later, a car filled with men cruised past.

“Think they’re looking for us?” I asked.

“Probably want to make sure we leave town,” Linderman said.

I drew my Colt from my pocket, and stuck it between my legs.

“Did you see the hostess?” I asked.

“Just in passing. Why?”

“Her name’s Victoria Seppi. She was Lonnie and Mouse’s fourth victim.”