Эд Горман - Blood Moon

Look funny, a guy coming in once a month or so and buying himself a puppy. Month in, month out that way.

But today there wasn’t time.

Had to buy it right here in town.

Ran into the pet store out of the rain; ran out ten minutes later with a plump, cuddly three-month-old Scottie puppy. Black it was, and cute as a button.

Thing yipped all the way out of town, all the way out to its ultimate destination.

He didn’t do this because he hated puppies or because he was sadistic.

No, he just thought that he owed it to those little friends of his.

They pretty much had the same menu all the time. They’d certainly appreciate a change of pace every once in a while.

That’s why he bought the puppies.

He’d tried cats once but they weren’t plump enough if they were still in the pet store.

If there was time, he’d probably go out in the woods and do a little hunting.

Boy, he could bag some things that would really make those little friends of his excited and happy.

Very happy.

The ride wasn’t all that long.

Took the puppy from the backseat, still yipping of course, and carried him in the cardboard container straight down the hill and inside to where the trapdoor was beneath the empty rusty milk cans that still smelled sour from their long-ago milk.

Took the puppy out of the cardboard box.

Aw.

He really was a cute little thing.

Such a sweet face. And those big brown eyes. And that wet black nose.

Knelt down, then, the puppy struggling in his grasp, and yanked the trapdoor open.

The odor nearly knocked him backwards. Always did, right at first.

But then he began inhaling deeply, purposely suffusing himself with it.

God, he loved that smell. Once he got used to it.

Puppy really started squirming, so he really had to belt him hard across the head and pull hard on his floppy black ear.

“You be quiet. You be quiet now. You hear me?”

Then he leaned over the square hole in the floor and peered down into the cold darkness below.

They were down there, oh, yes they were down there, his friends with the red eyes and the fat gray bodies and the knife-sharp teeth that could rip a human body clean to the bone in just a few minutes.

Well, maybe not an adult human body.

He’d never actually pushed one of those down there.

But the little girls, when he was done with them; the little girls he always pushed down there.

And one night, he brought a flashlight along so he could see it, see the dozens of them swarming over the naked little body, rending and ripping and chewing and chittering until their mouths shone with blood and the smell of the kill was enough to make him come without even touching himself.

Oh, yes; oh, yes.

And when there wasn’t a little girl to give to his red-eyed friends, well, that was when he bought them a nice new puppy.

As now.

“Bye-bye, little friend,” he said.

The puppy wrestled, protested, as if it well knew what was about to happen.

“Nothing personal,” he said.

And dropped the sweet little thing through the deep dark opening in the dirt.

There was a distant thwump when the puppy hit the far dark ground. And then there was a curious silence, as if the red-eyed things didn’t know what to make of his gift.

But then reason prevailed.

And they knew very, very well what to make of his gift.

And what to do with his gift.

The puppy yipped and cried as they swarmed over him, and began the frenzied tearing, the frenzied ripping, the frenzied frantic separation of flesh from bone.

And there he knelt, peering down into the darkness; watching, watching.

She came up from nowhere, just as I gave the door to my motel room a small push.

I smelled her perfume before I heard her, the cold rain having started again, the six o’clock sky dark as night now.

“I want to show you something,” she said.

I stepped back, letting her walk into the room ahead of me.

She found a lamp, snapped it on, sending faint illumination throughout the shabby room.

“God, this is really a depressing place.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” I said.

“Too bad there isn’t another motel in town.”

She looked as good as always, Joanna Lodge, starched white blouse, blue cardigan and trim jeans flattering her slender body, her tumbling golden hair drawn up into a loose chignon.

I went over, grabbed a warm Diet Pepsi, filled two plastic glasses half full and then handed her one of them.

She smiled. “I’m not sure I should thank you for this.”

“I’m a jet-setter,” I said. “I live large.”

She looked around. “I really do feel sorry for anybody who would have to stay here for any length of time. Rooms really affect my moods.”

“Which chair do you want? The blue uncomfortable one or the red uncomfortable one?”

“How about the blue uncomfortable one?”

“It’s yours.”

We spent a few minutes talking about her grief, or lack thereof. “I keep wanting to cry.”

“You will.”

“Maybe not. Maybe — well, I had been sort of psyching myself up for a divorce, anyway. I just couldn’t deal with all the women he had. Maybe I just closed myself off to him. Permanently, I mean.”

“Possible, I suppose.”

“When I talked to his parents last night I really hurt their feelings.”

“Because of how you sounded?”

She sat there in her blue uncomfortable chair sipping her warm Diet Pepsi. “I wanted to sound dutiful. You know, properly bereaved. I gave it a good try but I don’t think I was very convincing. And I know I hurt them. They’re very decent people. I always wondered if Sam hadn’t been adopted. Emotionally, he was their total opposite.”

“You really think he was adopted?”

She shook her head. “No, he looked very much like both of them. But in every other way, he was unlike them.”

“You said you had something you wanted to show me.”

She opened her purse, took one white number-ten envelope from it and then a manila envelope.

“I didn’t tell you this the other day because I wasn’t sure about you. Sam had been acting very strange lately. Upset. Frightened, may be a better word. Jumpy when the phone rang; always looking out the window when he heard a car go by.”

“Do you know why?”

“No. But last week, I followed him a couple of times.”

“Followed him where?”

“To the old Brindle farm. I went there the morning after his death, too. Jane Avery stopped over earlier this afternoon and all but accused me of knowing something about his murder. She also said that she’d seen me drive out to the Brindle farm this morning.”

“Did you?” I said, knowing the answer because, like Jane, I’d seen her blue Toyota sedan go into the main barn on the Brindle farm.

“Yes. I was trying to figure out why Sam kept going out there.”

“And did you?”

“No. I mean, I walked around but I couldn’t find anything. Nothing at all.”

“But you must have found something.” I nodded to the two envelopes in her lap.

“Oh, right. These.”

She got out of the blue uncomfortable chair and walked the envelopes over to me.

I opened the manila envelope first and knocked out a piece of heavy, official paper from inside.