Slocum 420 (16 page)

When Buck opened the door to leave, the marshal was still giving his speech in the main room.

Once he was alone in his office again, Womack snarled, “Damn it,” and slammed his door shut.

Doc Reece did most of his work in a little house wedged between a dentist's office and a bookkeeper. Slocum went in to have a word with Darryl and was escorted to a small bedroom by an elderly woman who had a smile that shone from her heart. She had something pleasant to say, but Slocum was too focused on the next room to pay much attention. He did, however, return her smile as the old woman left him alone with the wounded man.

“I heard about your brother,” Slocum said.

Darryl's face was always hard-edged, but this time it seemed about to crack like a mask made from old clay. “Yeah,” he said. His hand was bandaged and his leg was covered by a blanket. There was nothing under a good portion of that blanket, which meant a generous portion of that leg had been amputated.

“Looks like it got to you pretty bad also,” Slocum said.

“I'll make it.”

“I'm going back out after that killer.”

Almost immediately, Darryl looked up at him and said, “It ain't no killer. Not like that one we caught. It ain't no man.”

“Then what was it?”

“I . . . barely know. It moved so fast. When it hit Merle, it brought him down like he was nothin'. When it hit me . . . all I recall is being tossed about. There was pain at first,” Darryl said in a quiet, haunted voice. “Then I was cold and dizzy. Thought I was a goner for sure.”

Slocum's instinct was to comfort the other man, but knew any gesture along those lines wouldn't be received very well. “I'm sure you did what you could.”

Focusing on Slocum as though he'd just remembered he was there, Darryl said, “It smelled the same.”

“The same as that crazy hermit we found in the woods?”

Darryl nodded. “The same but worse.”

“What about the wheeze?”

Darryl's eyes wandered off again. “No,” he said in a distant voice. “No wheeze. It was strong, healthy, and fast. So goddamn fast.” His eyes clenched shut, and he turned his head away.

Slocum felt like he should say something. Perhaps some words to comfort Darryl the way he would comfort anyone in his spot. Having lost more friends and loved ones than he cared to think about, Slocum knew all too well that no words would make Darryl feel better. Not now and probably not for a long time to come.

Stepping out of the room, Slocum was greeted by the friendly old woman. “I'm sure he was glad to have a visitor,” she said.

“Can I see his brother?” Slocum asked. “Is he still here?”

She took him away from the room and lowered her voice so it wouldn't carry back to Darryl's ears. “He's upstairs until the undertaker can get him for a proper burial.”

“I don't need much. Just a moment to get a look at his wounds.”

“All right. Come this way.”

 • • • 

When Slocum emerged from the little house where Doc Reece saw his patients, Buck was waiting for him. Slocum stopped at the edge of the boardwalk, squared his shoulders to the bounty hunter, and allowed his hand to hang down within easy reach of his holster. “All right,” he said. “You've tracked me down this far. Let's have it out now and get it over with.”

Although Buck didn't reach for his gun, he didn't make any peacemaking gestures either. “I'm not here for that. At least . . . not right now. Mr. Womack hired me on to find this beast and that's what I intend on doing.”

“Thanks, but no.”

“I would think you'd take any help you could get.”

“I'd appreciate some help,” Slocum said. “Just not from someone who I think will put a bullet into me when it suits him.”

“Then you'll have to look over your shoulder because I'll be coming along whether it's with you or a few yards behind.”

Letting out a frustrated breath, Slocum stepped down from the boardwalk and stormed past Buck. Every one of his senses waited for a hint that the bounty hunter was making a move against him, but Buck stayed put. “Don't expect me to put everything behind us just because you've decided to be civilized now.”

“I was just about to say the same thing, Slocum.” Falling into step beside him, Buck asked, “You went in to have a word with those two hunters that were wounded?”

“That's right.”

“What did they have to say?”

“There's only one left.”

“That's right. Sorry to hear it.”

As he spoke, Slocum seemed to be saying things out loud just to think them through rather than have a conversation with the man walking beside him. “It sounded like the thing that attacked them wasn't anything like what we found out at Fall Pass. There were some similarities, but this thing seemed a hell of a lot worse. Didn't get a good look at all of the wounds, but what I could see didn't look like the ones made on the others that were attacked.”

“How were they different?” Buck asked.

“The wounds on those two in there were rougher. Shallower and messier around the edges. No way in hell they were put there by a blade. At least, not the blades that attacked the first two men.”

“Everyone's been talking about an animal,” Buck said. “That's what this sounds like to me.”

“That's not exactly how I'd describe the first beast.”

“How would you describe him?”

“Come on,” Slocum said as he walked down the street. “I'll introduce you to him.”

 • • • 

Slocum didn't have much to say to Sheriff Krueger when he stepped into his office. He was there to see the man that had been dragged in from the woods, and considering what had happened more recently, the sheriff was inclined to grant him an audience.

While taking them to the next room, Krueger said, “Believe it or not, someone recognized this fella.”

“The beast?” Slocum asked. “How could anyone see much of anything beneath all that filth?”

“Someone claiming to be his cousin. Brought a photograph and everything. Not that it's gonna change much of anything, but his name is Mick Doubrey. The beast, not the cousin, that is.”

The next room was less than half as big as the one where the sheriff and his deputies kept their desks and gun cabinets. Most of the space in there was sectioned off into three cages, one of which was barely large enough for a man to sit with his legs gathered up close to his chest. The wild man Slocum and the Beasleys had captured was in the small cage, grabbing on to the bars and trembling as if he was about to jump out of his own skin.

“So,” Slocum said as he stepped forward. “You've got a name.”

“And you've got a gun,” the wild man said. “He's got a gun! Both of 'em do! They wanna shoot me!”

“Shut the hell up,” Buck said. “We got our guns because these lawmen are gonna hang you anyway and probably don't give a damn whether we shoot you or not.”

“You got that right,” Krueger bellowed from the next room.

Grinning, Slocum said, “You're Mick Doubrey?”

The prisoner didn't respond, but there was a faint glimmer of recognition in his eyes.

“You wanna tell me why you killed those men?” Slocum asked.

“I had to eat,” Doubrey replied.

“Good Lord,” Buck growled as his hand came to rest upon his holstered pistol.

Slocum's eyes narrowed. “Did you make that weapon you were carrying?”

“Had to honor the beast or it would get me,” Doubrey said in a shaky voice. “Had to feed it. Keep it happy.”

After just a few words came from Doubrey's mouth, Slocum knew it would be folly to try and make sense of them. He wasn't quite ready to write off his visit to the sheriff's office as a complete loss, however. “Were you trying to be the beast?” Seeing that the crazy man had drifted into his own world, Slocum pounded his hand against the bars to rattle him back to the present. “Is that it? You wanted to be another Beast of Fall Pass?”

“No,” Doubrey said with a hint of a smile beneath his unruly beard. “No, no no no no.”

“Then why dress like it? Why kill like it?”

“So I could kill like me. So I could be the man my momma raised.”

“He's a bloodthirsty animal,” Buck said. “And he wanted to be able to spill as much blood as he wanted without having to answer for it. Ain't that right, you piece of trash?”

Despite what Buck was saying or the contempt with which he said it, Doubrey looked at him as if he'd found a kindred spirit. “That's right. You understand.”

“Sorry that I do understand.” Looking to Slocum, Buck added, “If he kills and makes it look like an animal did it, nobody will come after him. Men like me won't hunt him down.”

“And if a group of hunters comes along,” Doubrey said while glaring at Slocum, “he won't be ready for no man. I almost got you, bastard son of a bitch. Almost gutted you.”

“I've had enough of this,” Buck said. “We can't believe anything that comes out of his mouth anyhow.” After saying that, Buck turned his back on the others and left the room.

Slocum didn't have to watch to know that the bounty hunter hadn't gone far.

“What about the skins?” Slocum asked.

“Oh, I skinned some of them folks all right,” Doubrey wheezed through a wicked smile. “Skinned 'em, chopped 'em, fucked 'em, licked 'em!”

Having sat at more than his share of poker tables, Slocum knew when someone was posturing. Coming from anyone else, Doubrey's vulgar words would have seemed almost laughable. But from the mouth of a lunatic, the claims weren't just disturbing. It was entirely possible they were true.

Refusing to react the way the other man wanted, Slocum said, “You were out there for how long?”

“Sixty lifetimes, asshole!”

“Answer my question or I'll shoot you in a dozen different places that'll hurt you so badly you'll pray for death. I wager I can keep you alive for at least a day or two in that condition. Even if I'm half right, that should make for one hell of a show.”

Unlike the string of obscenities spewed by Doubrey, Slocum's words were spoken as if they were gospel. They struck the prisoner with a sobering effect, wiping the filthy grin off his face entirely.

“My . . . my skins?” Doubrey asked.

Slocum removed the lethal edge from his voice as quickly as if he'd thrown a switch. “The skins you were wearing when we found you. Where did you get them?”

“I . . . killed one of them . . . one of them things.”

“What thing? Was it the beast we were looking for?”

Doubrey nodded. “There used to be two of 'em. One was old. He was injured. Got hisself stuck in a trap. I found him and . . . and shot him in the face. Even wounded and me havin' a gun . . . that animal still damn near took my head off.”

“What is it?”

“I . . .” Shaking his head, Doubrey ran his hand along the bars of his cage. “I think it's a devil. Or a demon. Maybe his angel wings were bitten off and his . . . his . . .”

Recognizing that Doubrey was slipping into his own world and not sure he could pull him back, Slocum leaned forward to stare at him as though he truly cared whether or not the savage lived or died. “How long were you out in those woods, Mick?”

Doubrey blinked and looked at Slocum earnestly. Perhaps hearing his more familiar name spoken in a civil tone was a welcome change. It was just as likely that whatever whispers he was hearing in his head had just chosen that moment to let up. Either way, he seemed to be focused on Slocum and relatively docile when he replied, “Years. I . . . don't know how many. There were some winters and . . . and some summers so . . . so it had to be years.”

“And there were how many of those beasts out there with you?”

“Two. Then . . . then just the one.”

“And you managed to stay alive. Was the other one frightened of you?”

Doubrey laughed once, which sounded more like a breathy hiccup. The laughter that followed shook his chest and shoulders without amounting to much apart from a grating string of wheezing grunts. “I'd never believe a monster like that would be afraid of any damn thing, and I'm the one that was rollin' around in the woods.”

“So how did you keep away from the other one? It was the skins, wasn't it?”

When he let go of the bars, Doubrey staggered backward as if he was somehow falling toward the back wall of his cell. “It was . . . the stench. That's how I found the one that was hurt. That's how I found the old man in the traps.”

“Old man? You mean the beast. The male?”

Doubrey's nod was barely there, but it could be seen. Much like the man who'd given it. “I'd walked all the way from a trading post in Canada. Thought I was gonna die. Knew it. Spoke to it. Then I smelled it.”

Trying to keep up with the wild man's babbling was a strain on Slocum's ears as well as his head. With some effort, he was able to recognize when Doubrey shifted from one track to another. He tried to nudge him back in the direction he wanted him to go by asking, “You could smell the beast?”

“Anyone with a nose on their damn face could smell it. I thought I was smellin' the angel o' death. Maybe . . . maybe I was.” With a blink, he suddenly looked like a regular person who'd simply fallen on bad days. “Them woods are close to warm houses and a town where I could slip in to get what I needed on occasion. There was warm spots to sleep and plenty o' water in that stream.”

“You liked it there.”

“I did. So did them beasts. I skinned the one I shot. Damn near keeled over from the stench. You think they're putrid on the outside? Heh. Try cuttin' one open and peeling them like a potato.”

“I can imagine,” Slocum said through a forced smile. He didn't like playing along with the madman, but it seemed to be gaining him some ground.

“I thought, maybe if I smelled like one of 'em, the other wouldn't come after me like it came after them others.”