Small Town Monsters. Craig Nybo

half of a photograph?”

      Kurt’s eyes darkened. “Yes, I know what that feels like.”

      “Then you must understand that something has to be done. It has to be stopped. It always starts with the animals. But it will crave more; and it takes what it craves. I am here to beg for your help; don’t let them, the young ones, experience

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      the atrocities that we elders have seen.”

      “What are we talking about here?” Kurt asked, getting a little irritated.

      Harmon sighed. “Monsters, we’re talking about monsters.”

      “The only monsters in this world walk on two legs,” Kurt said. “If a crime is committed, I will get to the bottom of it; but until that happens, I don’t want any more talk of monsters. You are a respected man in this community. It is essential that you, of all people, keep a cool head.”

      “I will keep a cool head. But if people start dying again in DePalma Beach—people you could have saved—the guilt and pain of this community and the judgment of God will fall on your shoulders.”

      “That will be all, Harmon.”

      Harmon forced a tight smile with his bloodless lips and plopped his fedora onto his gray head. “We have ways in this community of getting things done when certain parties opt out of performing their paid functions.”

      Kurt froze. “I caution you, Harmon; don’t meddle in police business. My job is to keep the peace. That includes stopping those who would disrupt that peace no matter who they are.”

      “It is passed down through the genes, you know.” Harmon nodded toward the old book on Kurt’s desk. “Like father, like son, as they say.”

      Kurt picked up the book and held it up so Harmon could get a good look at it. “This,” said Kurt, “is fiction, like Buren Peoples’s infatuation with aliens and el chupacabra, like Larry Uriarte’s obsession with Bigfoot. These men’s beliefs in paranormal fantasy does not make them bad men. Acting out those fantasies with violence makes them bad men, you know the drill, pitchforks, torches and such.” Kurt slammed the book down on his desk so hard that Harmon flinched. “You say, like father, like son. I say, if you even think about stirring up the already paranoid people of this little community and going after Danny’s father, Artemus, I will come down on you thicker and heavier than anything I’ve read in this book of delusions.” Kurt shoved the book so hard that it shot off the front of Kurt’s

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      desk and landed in Harmon’s lap.

      Harmon picked up the book. He stood, dusting the leather cover with the edge of one shaky hand. “Blood is a funny thing,” Harmon said. “In a place like DePalma Beach, it seems that everybody is related to everyone else somehow, cousins, nieces, nephews. I’m sure you understand that, when it comes to business as sordid as this,” Harmon put the book down on Kurt’s desk, “We’d rather keep it in the family.”

      “Harmon, you’re a good man. I’ve enjoyed having you as a friend. But if you step out of line, I will have no choice but to bring the law to bear.”

      “Good day, Mr. McCammus.” Harmon smiled and tipped his fedora. He turned and walked out of Kurt’s office.

      Kurt swore to himself. He removed the manila envelope from his desk and looked across the collection of macabre photographs. “Danny Slade, what have you done, you son of a bitch.” One photograph caught Kurt’s attention, one that he hadn’t seen before. He picked it up and pushed his reading glasses up onto his nose. Six men and three uniformed officers sat in a small, concrete room, their faces grim. Kurt recognized a very young Harmon Bently among them. Kurt flipped the photo over and read a caption typed to a sticker on the back.

      DANNY SLADE, EXECUTED BY ELECTRIC CHAIR, SEPTEMBER 6TH, 1951. THOSE PRESENT AT THE EXECUTION PROCEEDINGS: ARTEMUS SLADE…

      Kurt recognized three of the nine names typed in the captian: Artemus Slade, Harmon Bently, and Hugh Fostett. He flipped the photograph back over and looked at the faces printed there. He spotted Artemus in the front row with his crepe of facial hair. He recognized Harmon on the opposite side of the row, who couldn’t have been any older than 18, pale and disheveled from what had been the most real moment in his short life: watching the execution. Sitting in the back corner, mostly in shadow, Kurt spotted Hugh Fostett, the man with whom Kurt had shared many beers and stories on the front stoop. Hugh looked young and handsome, probably not long back from the Korean War. Kurt slid the photos and the rest

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      of the evidence back into the manila envelope and locked it in his desk drawer. He picked up the book and left the station to head home.

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      Chapter 14

      Tory sat in his car in the parking lot of Abigail’s Diner. His Toyota idled, billowing its exhaust into the air like a smoker. He enjoyed sitting in a rumbling car; he could clearly think. How could he present what he had in mind to Lucy? He’d watched her boy friends come and go since Jr. High School. He knew most of them personally. Some of them were good guys; some of them were creeps. She’d burned through a lot of boys. But one name never made Lucy Cadano’s boyfriend list: Tory Bently.

      The truth was, Tory had never foraged enough courage to ask her out. He thought she might have considered dating him. She’d certainly had her romps with guys much worse than him. Tory would have treated her like a queen; that’s certain. The two of them had grown up together. They’d played together for long summers as kids. But now he could barely look at her without clamming up. And here he sat in a parking lot waiting for her to get off work, clamming right up again. How could he ever propose what he had in mind?

      The passenger’s side door opened, startling Tory out of his stupor. He gasped and panic-glanced up, the dome light flicking on, blinding him. He recognized Lucy’s elegant curves as she got into the passenger’s seat and shut the door behind

      Concerning:

      Tory Bently

      Lucy Cadano

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      her. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but he couldn’t even manage a “hi.”

      Lucy looked disheveled; her shift must have been brutal. She wore too much makeup, more than Tory had ever seen on her, lots of base. Her pretty face required no makeup at all. Lucy made beauty seem effortless; she simply exuded it without even thinking about it.

      “So what’s the big secret?” Lucy asked after a long moment of awkward silence.

      Tory straightened up and turned to face her as squarely as he could. His eyes adjusted to the dome light and he got his first really good look at her for the night. Something, a thick fog, had descended on her. Her eyes seemed withdrawn. “You okay?” Tory asked. He noticed a dark stain around her eye and down into her cheek, mostly hidden by makeup base. Tory decided not to ask about it.

      Lucy offered an iron smile, the best she could manage. “Of course I’m okay; why wouldn’t I be okay?”

      “You just seem … kind of—”

      “Kind of what? Tired? Like maybe I worked a double shift and served coffee to every creepy-eyed jerk in this whole town?”

      Tory let her words trail off. He just sat there, looking at her, his eyes warm behind his glasses.

      Lucy shifted in her seat a couple of times. “Sorry, you don’t disserve that. It’s just been a hard couple of days, that’s all. I don’t expect you to understand. And I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

      “Hey, it’s okay. I’m a