Feral (15 page)

“Trouble?” Charles asked, a conspiratorial grin stretching his face.
 
He leaned a little closer to her.
 
“You've got me curious now.”
 
He dropped her a wink and said, “Come on girl, give it up.”

The girl considered him for a moment then returned the smile.
 
The lobby was empty save the three of them, but she glanced around before leaning closer to Charles.
 
“Okay,” she said, “this isn't one-hundred percent for sure, but I heard Denny Buffet got busted ripping off CDs from Simon's truck stop.”
 
She giggled a little and continued, “I used to date him.
 
I don't know why, he's so skuzzy.”

Charles and the girl laughed together, like a pair of little girls over a
Teen Beat
magazine.

“That's a side of you I've never seen before,” Gordon said on their way back to the car.

Charles gave him a sideways scowl but said nothing.

T
hey pulled into the truck stop's parking lot just as a sheriff's cruiser carrying a gangly teenage boy pulled away.
 
They spotted two men giving statements to a deputy.
 
One of them, Charles assumed, would be Simon Pitcher.

Charles parked and waited.

After a few minutes the younger of the two, a big, whiskered man in flannel, loose green pants, and work boots, went back into the store.
 
The Deputy walked back to his cruiser, and the other man walked back to his truck, a monstrous Ford pickup—midnight black and shining chrome.
 
The license plate read ‘Simon #1.'
 
He was well dressed, looking comfortable and cool in a black two-piece suit and shining cowboy boots.
 
He didn't wear a hat; his bald head gleamed under the tarmac lights.
 
He was deeply tanned, almost burned.
 
He seemed to scowl at the world as he walked to his truck.

“Stay here,” Charles said, stepping from his Caddy.
 
He walked quickly and met the man at his truck.

“Simon Pitcher?”

The man paused, regarded Charles with a lazy glance.
 
“You're standing a little close for a man I don't know,” he said, and climbed in.

Boss Hog without the white suit and fat
, Charles thought.

“Charles Davis, Private Investigator,” he said, offering a hand he knew Simon would not take.
 
“Now you know me.”
 
He held the truck's door open as Simon tried to close it.
 
Simon glared down at him, opened his mouth to say something, but Charles interrupted him.
 
“I heard you're having a bad day, Simon.
 
You talk to me like that again and it'll get worse in a hurry.”

Simon continued to glare at Charles, but something in the PI's face must have convinced him.
 
He stepped down and held out his own hand.
 
“Simon Pitcher,” he confirmed.
 
“A rough day to say the least.”

Charles took the offered hand and gave it a pump.
 
“Bad days I understand,” he said, and the fight was over before it started.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Davis,” he said, his voice cold, but no longer rude.

“I'm looking for Shannon,” Charles said. “Someone killed her brother last night, and they may be after her as well.
 
She's running, but she won't be able to hide for long.
 
I need to find her before she gets hurt.”

For the first time in their exchange Simon took notice.
 
The look on his face did not approach fear for his ex-daughter-in-law, only a mild concern.
 
“Who is it?” he said, and Charles heard the underlying question clear enough.
 
Does it have anything to do with me
?

“No one you need to worry about, Mr. Pitcher.”

“That's comforting,” Simon said.
 
“I do worry about Shannon though.
 
Do you have any proof that you're on her side?”

Charles sighed.
 
“Fair enough,” he said digging a business card out of his wallet and handing it to Simon.
 
“Call the Riverside PD if you want—they'll verify I am who I say I am.”

“Good enough for me,” Simon said, pocketing the card after a cursory look.

“Have you seen her?” Charles asked.

“Not since she left Normal Hills,” Simon said.
 
“Do you think she might have come back here?”

“I don't know.
  
Is there any place here she might stay?”

“No.
 
Her father lives in town, but she has nothing to do with him.
 
The man doesn't deserve a daughter as fine as Shannon.”
 
Charles recognized real admiration in his voice and his estimation of Shannon rose.
 
Simon Pitcher didn't appear to be a man easily impressed.

“Where did she live after the divorce?” Charles asked, aware he was treading on touchy ground.
 
But he needed to know.

Simon seemed unaffected by the question.
 
“I gave her and Alicia a suite in the hotel.”
 
Then he surprised Charles by pulling a key from the ring in his hand and offering it to him.
 
“She and Thomas lived at the top of Maple Road.
 
A big white house; 614 Maple.
 
It's still empty, maybe she went there,” he offered with a shrug of his big shoulders.

Charles had thought the same thing, but wasn't going to push his luck asking for a key.
 
The suddenly altruistic move caught him off guard.
 
“Thanks,” he said and pocketed the key.

“Don't thank me,” Simon said, climbing into the truck.
 
“Just find her, help her out for me.”

“If you see her—” Charles started.

“—I've got your card.”
 
Simon shut the door and started the motor.
 
The truck rumbled and he sped out of the parking lot.

"B
ig" was a proper description of Shannon's old white house—certainly the biggest on the block, maybe in all of Normal Hills.

No
, Charles thought,
Simon's would be the biggest
.

The house was intimidating, the hillside behind it all rock and scrub, lending a wild feel to the abandoned look.
 
The white paint was no longer precisely white, but an aged and dirty imitation.
 
It was three stories, almost Victorian in style, but not quite.
 
He thought the design must be original, not modeled on any pre-existing structure.
 
It seemed half castle and half cottage.
 
It was a shame it would continue to go empty.
 
The large yard had gone to riot around it, grass grown knee-high and dying.
 
A large circular driveway was littered with months of dust and wind-blown debris.
 
Rose threaded trestles leaned askew; once vibrant blossoms had dried to a rusty blood color.

“What are you waiting for?” Gordon asked behind him, irritation seeping through his words.

I'm waiting for another ghost
, Charles thought.

“Nothing.
 
Let's have a look.”

It was still furnished, the den almost inviting, the study walls still lined with full bookshelves.
Mostly for show
, Charles thought.
 
The desk was still a clutter of unfinished paperwork, the culmination of a shortened life.

The atmosphere of dread lingered about them; long unbroken darkness, old dust and stagnant air, and the rusty smell of long dried blood.

They searched every level of the house.
 
They saw the spot where Thomas Pitcher died, the place on the carpeted floor of the master bedroom still stained with his blood.
 
More blood than could ever be washed clean.
 
They found the room where Alicia had slept there last night.

The house was empty—only Charles, Gordon, and whatever quiet ghosts remained.

Charles' cell phone rang, startling them both.

“Hello,” Charles answered testily, then his face lightened as Dee spoke.
 
A second later his glumness returned, and Gordon knew it couldn't be good.

“We found your author,” Charles said after he hung up.
 
“She's dead, murdered ten years ago in New Orleans.
 
She had a three-year-old boy named Jacob and a five-year-old girl named Jessica, both missing and presumed dead.”

Gordon sighed, unsurprised.

“Let's get out of here.”

T
hough she had only slept in violent bursts the past few days, Charity was alert.
 
The storm outside brought a premature darkness, and she knew
He
would return soon.

They had promised to keep each other awake until sunset.
 
Then they would get in the car and drive east until daylight again, stopping only in the brightest lit places for food or gas.
 
Charity agreed to the plan because Shannon wanted her to, but she knew better.
 
Wherever they ran,
He
would follow, and one day he would get them.
 
She also knew Shannon would not make it until sunset.
 
Charity hoped exhaustion would take Shannon quickly so she could go back where she belonged.
 
It was the only way.

Charity felt the tug in her heart, in her head
. . . join us, Charity . . . come to us and you will never have to be afraid again . . .
and knew it was Feral Park.

The single hanging bulb burned the dark from every corner of the cellar.
 
The television added its glow, and a comforting white noise that excused them from conversation.
 
Shannon sat snuggled into the corner of the couch, holding her new flashlight to her chest like a talisman.
 
Charity did the same, the smaller one Shannon had given her the night before hanging from the cord on her wrist.

She listened to the storm outside, rain giving way to a dry wind.
 
She watched Shannon's eyes slip closed again, and begged them not to open.
 
When they didn't, she waited, and when the telltale rapid eye movements of deep sleep started she knew it was time.

She rose slowly from the couch, careful not to disturb Shannon, then reached around her neck and unclasped the locket.
 
She opened it again, looked at the picture, the picture of a real family, and then laid it gently on Shannon's lap.

“Goodbye,” she whispered, and crept quietly up the stairs and into the darkening day.

Once away from the house, she ran.
 
The trail into the woods seemed impossibly long, never ending, but she finally found the highway and allowed herself to rest.
 
She stopped for only a minute, letting her aching lungs and the stitch in her side to settle, then crossed to the river side of the highway and ran along the guardrail.
 
After a few minutes her aching legs forced her to slow, but she didn't stop.
 
She didn't have time to rest.
 
There were only a few hours left.

She had to make it to Feral Park before nightfall, and
He
came with it.
 
To take her away again, to a place she knew she would never escape.

She heard the car approaching behind her before it came into view.
 
Acting on instinct she jumped over the guardrail and hid in the bushes.
 
A big gray car passed, and she waited until it was out of sight before she started running again.

She followed the orange glow of the falling sun to the west like a beacon.

“I
want to go back to the park,” Gordon said.

“I thought you might,” Charles said, his distaste obvious.
 
“You think she's going there?”

“Yes.”
 
He held the book again, but the light was getting too faint to read.
 
He didn't know why she would be going there, but something in that park thought she was.
 
Whatever it was, ghost or demon, had known he would be there, and had taken the time to warn him away.
 
He didn't
want
to go back, but his desire to find Charity outweighed his fear of the unnatural presence there.

“That's where we're going then.”
 
There was no trace of skepticism in Charles' voice, no hint of disbelief.
 
He was thinking the same thing as Gordon.
 
Once they found Charity, and he thought now that they actually might, his job was done.
 
The ghosts at Feral Park and Gordon's Bogey Man would not be his problem.
 
He liked Gordon, thought of him almost as a brother, but he wanted out of the nightmare this case had suddenly become.
 
After three years of nothing, everything seemed to be dropping on him at once, and Charles did not like what he was seeing.