Edward Lee - Ghouls

“Belleau Wood has got to be searched. Not just some of it. All of it. Merkel’s field, too.”

Bombast lightened Bard’s eyes, his turn to laugh. “Do you know how big Belleau Wood is? Do you know how long it would take to cover it all? Hell, some of the woods back there are so thick you probably couldn’t get through them with a machete. If the county doesn’t think a second search is practical, then there ain’t gonna be a second search.”

“Fine,” Kurt said. “So I guess we can just sit back and forget it ever happened. Somebody out there means business, Chief. Digging up coffins, abducting crippled girls, and wasting veteran cops isn’t my idea of Friday night out with the boys.”

“You bitch like my fucking mother.”

Kurt was pricked by a sudden chill, the one facet of all this that bothered him most. “And you’re not even considering the scariest part. If this was some greenhorn fresh out of the academy I’d almost understand. But we’re not talking about green. We’re talking about Swaggert. ”

“Big deal. Any cop can fuck up.”

“Swaggert was the best pistol shot I ever saw. You tell me how he managed to pop twelve caps at something and miss twelve times.”

“It was night,">“It Bard said.

“So what? Swaggert ate night-fire ranges for breakfast, and any other kind of pistol range you can name—the guy’s won enough shooting trophies to fill the back of a dump truck. Every year for as long as I’ve known him he’s outshot the best shooters in the state. No one could touch him, day or night.”

“But he was also wearing knuckle saps,” Bard countered. “That’s bound to off his aim.”

“Not Swaggert’s, not twelve times. His saps had nylon trigger fingers; they’re made so you can shoot with them on, and he practiced with them half the time, anyway. So I don’t care if he was wearing boxing gloves that night—Swaggert was an expert. I’ve seen him blow the 10x circles out of competition targets at fifty feet, groups the size of a quarter, Chief, firing double-action. You know it as well as I do. Swaggert was just too goddamned good to get blown away by punks.”

Bard’s lips puckered as if he’d just bitten into a lime. He began to bend back the shiny corners of his desk blotter, unconsciously ruining it. “I ain’t gonna argue with you, ‘cause you’re probably right. So fuck it. I’m gonna go home and eat and worry about it tomorrow.”

Kurt stood up, keys jingling. “I’ll stick close to Belleau Wood till Glen comes on.”

“Good idea… One thing, though. For God’s sake keep on your toes. I’ve already lost one officer, I sure as hell don’t need to lose two.”

“Calm yourself, boss,” Kurt assured. “There’s no way anyone’s going to kill me this close to payday.” He exited the office, just as Bard began to tear pieces off the blotter.

««—»»

On patrol, Kurt faltered at the look of the sky; it reminded him of El Greco’s view of Toledo. Purpled, pregnant clouds piled up on the horizon as a limitless mass. A breeze blew dead and tepid, and dusk continued to slide overhead. He could feel another storm coming, a storm worse than yesterday’s.

The headlights glared out before him, bringing out peripheral trees and bushes and high weeds in crisp-white relief. Shadows clung to the woodline, a hulking ebon wall to the left and right. Several white-faced possums congregated at the shoulder, watching incuriously as he passed. A baby marsh rabbit froze in the headlight glare, then dashed across the road like a bullet.

Kurt took the frequent bends of 154 easily, almost enjoying the ride. He lit a cigarette and let the breeze sift his hair and billow his shirt. The radio hissed mutely, not even the dispatcher’s voice to break the calm. Listlessly he wondered what he would do with the rest of his shift.

He glimpsed a far-off glare, and a quick blink of luminous red dots. Without having to think, he looked high down the road, then he tromped the gas and snapped on the revolving blue fireball on the cruiser’s roof. Less than a quarter mile ahead, a vehicle turned out of Belleau Wood entrance number 2.

Thirty-five. Forty. Then fifty miles per hour. Now the wood-line was soaring past on both sides, the blue globe sweeping feverish arcs of light as he sped on. The vehicle vanished around another bend, but reappeared a moment later when he screeched through the turn, breaking sixty. Kurt was closing in, like a pilot on a slow target. He squinted to make the vehicle type (car, truck, van?) and maybe a partial tag. Now that the flashing blue light was obvious, he wondered if the driver would pull over or go for it. With a touch of shame, Kurt hoped for the latter.

The vehicle pulled over. Kurt braked, then came to a full stop. He parked directly behind the vehicle, and three feet into the road, leaving what was known as a proper “sideswipe margin.” Then he “held” the tag number with the dispatcher, grabbed his flashlight, and got out.

The vehicle was a new Chrysler New Yorker, liquid-black, with an atrocious red pinstripe along the side. Kurt’s hopes melted at once. This would be just another routine traffic stop, a drunk or some joker out for a drive, who didn’t realize Belleau Wood was private property.

Kurt took himself through the expected motions, walking up to the car in a slow, gauged stride, and letting his face fall into the typical expression of affect. He popped the thumbsnap on his holster and stood immediately behind the open driver’s window. The occupant was just a face to him in the beam of his flash; Kurt noted refinement, and something perhaps scholarly. Curly dark gray hair, gold wire rims, and a short, meticulously trimmed beard with the same salt-pepperishness of the hair. The face looked up at Kurt, almost amused in wonder, and there was a grin so subtle it may have been mocking.

“Driver’s license and registration, please,” Kurt said, cold monotone.

“Yes, of course.” The bearded face turned into darkness, then reappeared. A similarly intangible hand offered a Maryland operator’s license and a pink MVA registration certificate. “You must be one of the town policemen,” the driver commented. “Those county fellows all seem to be quite stout about the waist. Terribly fat, some of them… Have I done something wrong?”

Kurt managed not to smile at the crack about the county. He took the cards and said, “That road you just pulled off of, are you aware that it’s private property?”

“Why, yes,” the driver said.

“Then how come you were on it?”

“Because I own it. I own the road, the gate posts, the trees, and the accommodating acres, which number in the hundreds.”

Kurt read the tiny laminated license, then matched it to the registration. CHRY 4DR CHARLES RICHARD WILLARD. Kurt handed the cards back instantly. “Sorry, Dr. Willard. I didn’t mean to hassle you. I’m not familiar with your vehicle, and since I’ve never actually met you, I had to check.”

Now Willard’s smile seemed approving. “I understand, Officer, especially with all the nastiness that’s popped up on or around my property as of late. Actually I’m pleased to see that the local police are keeping an eye on Belleau Wood’s outer reaches when my guard isn’t on duty. You may know him— Glen Rodz.”

“Yeah, Glen and I have been friends for a long time. I’m Kurt Morris, by the way. I was with Glen yesterday when he found Officer Swaggert’s…hand.”

“Strange business, I’ll tell you,” Willard said, the smile dissolving. “I wish you luck in tracking them down. Why they chose to do their dirty work on my land I’ll never know. I can understand the poaching and beer drinking. That’s gone on for years, I expect it. But this…” Willard shook his head. “Anyway, in case you’re wondering what I’m doing driving around on dirt roads at this hour—my dog seems to have gotten out, a treacherous white French poodle. I’ve been looking for him for several days now, but so far not a trace. I suspect he’s answered the call of the wild. Ah, well. In any case, if you happen to see the little bugger, grab him for me, will you? There’s a reward. He answers to the name Vladimir.”