Small Town Monsters. Craig Nybo

invite me here and pay for my breakfast to discuss love and war.”

       “Harmon believes a werewolf got Marilyn,” Kurt said.

       “Danny Slade: I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a sense of satisfaction and closure when I watched them execute him, I was there, you know.”

      “I know.”

      Hugh nodded gravely. “As for werewolves: great stories

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      to tell boys around the camp-fire; but I wouldn’t dare waste a minute of what little time I have left believing in them.”

      “Everyone seems to believe in monsters around here.”

      “You have to understand what this town has been through. What do you know about Danny Slade?”

      “I glanced through his file. He was a mass-murderer—the Ed Gein type. But he wasn’t a werewolf. Last I remember, my mom told me there was no such things as monsters.”

      “Your mom wrong; there are monsters in this world; Danny Slade was one of them. He killed without motive. He cannibalized his victims. He kept trophies. He buried the remains close by in his own private graveyard.”

      “But that was over fifty years ago, why is everyone so anxious now?”

      “I want to show you something,” Hugh said. He rolled up his short, white sleeve, baring his upper arm. There on Hugh’s bicep was a four-inch diameter burn scar—a mass of puckering, bumpy flesh, sprinkled with red pigment imbalances and ugly dead skin. “This represents one of the most painful moments in my life. My mother used to bottle peaches, picked fresh from trees in our back yard. She boiled the jars in a pressure cooker. A short, rubber tube extended from the bottom of the pot with a stopper fixed to its end. As a five-year-old, I let curiosity get the best of me. I pulled the stopper to see what would happen. Hot water shot out of the tube and splashed on my upper arm. It was like napalm. It stuck and burned all at the same time. I remember screaming, but I couldn’t do anything about the pain. My mother came running. She lifted me to the sink and ran cold water over the burn. She finally stopped the agony, but the scar has stayed with me to this day.

      “DePalma Beach has its own kind of scars, Kurt; some of those scars will never heal; not after fifty years, not after a hundred years. People went missing for weeks and when they were found, their bodies were mangled and gnawed beyond recognition, buried in Artemus Slade’s backyard. No matter what you say, that Danny Slade was a monster in every sense of the word.”

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      “But a werewolf?” Kurt arched his eyebrows.

      “Some believe he was a werewolf. Many of the bite-marks on the remains came from wolves or dogs. To make it worse, Danny had, how should I say, werewolf characteristics, much like his father.”

      “You mean the hair?”

      “So you’ve seen pictures?”

      “I told you, I read the file.”

      “Then you know what a monster he was.”

      “Monster, yes, I’ll accept your definition; but a werewolf?”

       “Come now, you and I are rational human beings. Danny and his father owned a lot of dogs; they used them to help on the ranch. The explanation is simple; he fed his dogs human flesh; then, as a sick fantasy, he took all the blame on himself.”

      “That’s what the file said. Why can’t people like Harmon accept a rational explanation?”

      “Scars, Kurt, scars.” Hugh pointed to the ugly patch of skin on his bicep.

      “That’s all well and good, but I can’t have everyone jumping to weird conclusions about what happened on Buren’s ranch. I don’t need a drunken posse out in the woods with guns on a werewolf hunt.”

      “I agree. I’ve seen what’s happening around town. It’s disconcerting. You worry about mass hysteria, and you should. I once read about a little town in southwestern Colorado called Perkin’s Bend. In the last decade of the 19th century the whole community collapsed. It just fell in on itself. At first there were meaningless neighborly spats, but things got out of hand. Soon it seemed it was every man for himself. They picked up their guns and started shooting. Those that survived the affair pinned it on a drifter, a scapegoat named Eamer Caine. They say he was the devil’s hand. But if you look into the town’s history, even before Mr. Caine came along, you’ll find scars. If coffins start piling up, a whole town can feel the wounds. That’s what you’re seeing. This Buren ranch affair is poking at the scar tissue on the arm of DePalma Beach, causing the people here to relive the pain that Danny Slade caused.”

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      “That’s just it; coffins are not piling up. Like I have to keep telling everyone; no crime has been committed. Look, Hugh, I’m a cop. I’ve been a cop for a long time. But I’m new to all this. You’ve lived here your whole life. What can I do? Sit everyone down and explain that there is no such thing as monsters?”

       “If what happened up at Buren’s ranch is what you say it is, just a wolf attack, then this whole thing will blow over like a thunder cloud.”

      Kurt leaned forward and directed his words straight at Hugh. “The Danny Slade affair also began with animal mutilations. The investigator even thought it was a wolf attack back then. As for Buren’s sheep, everything points to a pack of wolves coming down from the mountains. But I have to entertain every avenue, even the possibility of a copycat killer. If I have a Danny Slade super-fan on my hands, damn him. I’ll track him down and I’ll cook him. What scares me is the angry mob that might come along with him. Should that mob rally, can I count on you, as one of DePalma Beach’s finest men, to back me up?” Though he had spent hours thinking about it, this was the first time Kurt had voiced the idea of a loose killer; hearing it come out of his mouth scared him.

      Hugh’s face went slack. “Pray you don’t have another Danny Slade, Kurt; pray you don’t.”

      Lucy interrupted the two men by placing two platters stacked with eggs and bacon on the table. “Your lumberjack specials,” She said with a smile.

      “Wonderful. It all looks so good,” Hugh said with a fresh grin. He picked up his fork and carved into the pancakes.

      Kurt only took a few cursory bites. He had lost his appetite.

      As Hugh ate, he shot sporadic glances toward Harmon and Durlin’s table. At one point the two of them made eye contact. Hugh smiled; Harmon clenched his teeth and turned away.

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      Chapter 16

      Clay was standing in the foyer of the police station with a pretty brunette when Kurt returned from his breakfast with Hugh at Abigail’s. Clay had worked his charms on the girl. He had tried his boyish smile. He had tried his contagious laugh. He had tried puffing out his chest—he could, after all, bench-press 350 pounds. He had even found an excuse to flex his triceps while pointing out a display of historical photographs of DePalma Beach that hung on the foyer wall.

      But the woman who had come to the police station that morning wasn’t like the girls of DePalma Beach; she didn’t nibble at any of Clay’s abundantly chummed bait. She wore little makeup, just enough to accentuate the parts of her face that were already lovely. In spite of Clay’s attempts to get her attention, she remained stern—all business.

      Kurt walked into the station, a togo cup of coffee steaming in one hand, a newspaper in the other.

      “You have a visitor,” Clay said with a wink.

      The striking woman picked up her leather laptop case and extended a slender hand. “Sofia Warnick.”

      Kurt shook her hand.