Bentley Little - The Store

His initial reaction was to say no. He knew she'd been a little bored the past year, a little restless, and with the boys gone she didn't have as much to do, but he knew she'd get used to it. This was a transitional period, he told her. It would probably take a while to adjust.

She didn't want to adjust, she told him. She wanted to get a job.

He was against the idea, but he hadn't actually come out and forbidden her to work. Ten years ago, he would have. But women these days didn't act the way they used to. Times had changed. All he had to do was look at what had happened to his friend Ken. Ken's situation was almost identical to his own. A year or so ago, after his daughter had gone off to college, Ken's wife, suffering from the empty-nest syndrome, had wanted to get a job. He had forbidden her to do so, and there'd been nothing but headaches and heartaches for him after that. Finally, she'd threatened to leave him, and Ken had given in and let her go to work.

Aaron didn't want the same thing to happen with Virginia.

So he pretty much had to let her work.

And he still wasn't sure how he felt about that.

He finished his fritter, wiped his fingers on the napkin in his lap, and started up the cruiser.

Time for the tour.

When he'd first been assigned the graveyard shift, he'd hated it. On a purely physical level, his body had had a tough time coping with the change in sleep patterns, and he'd lain awake all day in his bed, while he was supposed to be sleeping, and dozed half the night in his patrol car, while he was supposed to be on duty. Not that it made much of a difference if he slept. Juniper rolled up its carpets at six and was for all intents and purposes dead to the world after dark. Len's Donuts was open all night, but he was usually the only customer, and it was a rare shift indeed when he saw even one other vehicle on the streets once the theater emptied at ten.

He supposed that was why he'd grown to like graveyard. He got paid more than he would if he worked day shift or swing, and there was a hell of a lot less to do. The way it worked out, he was able to spend more time with his family than he ever had before, and if that meant that he sometimes caught a few Z's during the early morning downtime, well, it didn't harm anyone.

Aaron took a slow, leisurely drive up and down the streets of Juniper. As usual, he saw no people, no cars, no movement. Everyone was asleep, snug in their beds, and he smiled to himself as he drove past his own house and thought of Virginia sacked out, snoring lightly in that cute little way she had. His eyes swept the street before him. Here and there, porch lights had been left on to ward off prowlers. Through an occasional curtain he could see the flickering blue light of a television that had not been turned off.

He felt protective of the town as he cruised its streets, as though he was a proud papa and all of the people were his children. It was a strangely comforting feeling, and at times like this he was glad he'd gone against his parents' wishes and become a police officer.

He drove down the dirt back roads at the east end of the town limits, then cut north through Creekside Acres in order to get to the highway. Turning left on the highway, he saw, through the driver's window of the cruiser, the square black bulk of The Store.

It was a shame, he thought, that they'd had to build The Store here. It seemed to him that it would've made more sense to build on that vacant lot next to the Tire Barn, maybe buy out and tear down some of those eyesore trailers set up there. But instead they'd built it in the meadow where he used to take his dates, back before he'd met Virginia. Even the hillside where he used to spread his picnic blanket had been blasted and flattened.

The next generation wouldn't know that the meadow had ever existed.

It was a damn shame.

And now Virginia wanted to work here.

He pulled into the Store parking lot, intending to take a quick spin around before continuing back toward Main.

Instantly, he slowed the car. The lights in the parking lot were off, but the moon was full and he could see small unmoving lumps on the asphalt: the forms of dead animals. He rode the brake as the cruiser slowly crept forward.

He'd heard about this before, but he hadn't really believed it. Forest Everson had told him that there'd been a lot of croaked critters found on the property when The Store was being built -- and Forest was the one who'd handled that dead transient case -- but Aaron still hadn't put much stock in those tales. He figured it was like those full-moon stories, that crap about more crimes occurring when the moon was full. He knew that wasn't true.

But there was a full moon tonight.

And there were dead animals in the parking lot.

He drove the cruiser slowly through the lot, glancing through the window at the bodies. There was a possum, a dog, what looked like a baby javelina, two crows, a bobcat. It was an amazingly diverse group of animals, and they all appeared unharmed and untouched. It was like they'd simply crawled onto the parking lot to die.

Forest had told him that as well, and he'd dismissed it at the time, but he felt an unfamiliar tingle in the hairs at the nape of his neck as he stared at the dead animals.

Fear.

It was fear. Not the full-blown emotion generated by a life-threatening situation, more the mild sense of unease experienced by children when they heard strange noises in the dark, but it was fear nevertheless, and Aaron was both surprised at himself and ashamed.

He continued forward, toward the enormous black mass of the Store building, looking out the window at the individual animals. Another dog. A squirrel. A tabby cat.

A tabby cat.

He stopped the car.

Annabelle?

He opened the door of the vehicle and stepped out to examine the animal.

It was Annabelle, all right. But how in the world had she gotten here? Their house was at least three miles away. Had she walked that far, or had somebody catnapped her and killed her and dumped her body? Neither explanation made sense, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he bent down and touched the cat's body.

Cold.

Virginia would be devastated. Hell, so would the boys. Annabelle had been a part of their family for the past seven years. She was almost like a little sister to them.

He didn't feel that hot himself, and there was a lump in his throat as he looked into the cat's face. She appeared calm, peaceful, eyes and mouth shut.

His fingers closed around her cold front paw.

And the lights in The Store flipped on.

Aaron jumped, nearly fell over backwards. He quickly scrambled to his feet, drawing his revolver. There were no windows in The Store, only sliding glass doors at the entrance, but in the gloom of night, the light was piercing.

It shone through the building's entrance and into the parking lot like a white searchlight, illuminating a swath of asphalt all the way out to the highway, causing long shadows to spring up from the bodies of the dead animals, the previously bright moonlight fading into insignificance before its fluorescent power. Aaron bolstered his weapon, already embarrassed by his panicked first reaction, and hurried back to the cruiser, hopping in and slamming shut the door. He put the vehicle into gear and drove through the lot toward the entrance of the building. His heart was pounding, his nerves alive with an adrenaline rush. There was probably nothing out of the ordinary here. A nighttime cleaning crew or some other workers were no doubt performing the legitimate duties for which they'd been hired. But at this hour, in the middle of the night, after the animals -- _Annabelle_ -- the sudden appearance of the lights was surprising.

No, not surprising.

Eerie.

Yes. As embarrassing as it was to admit, he was a little spooked by the lights, even here in his patrol car, with his two-way radio and his shotgun and his revolver. Not for any rational reason. Not even for any irrational reason he could point to or pin down. It was simply an instinctual reaction, one over which he had absolutely no control.