The Nature of the Beast (25 page)

He immediately recognized the drawing as his own face . A chill ran down his spine.
He felt as if he was gazing at a long-lost brother.

“
How?
”
was the word that escaped his throat.
“
Her,
”
followed quickly on its heels.
She was the only one who
’
d ever seen him.
Had to be her.
“
That filthy bitch…that…
”
He tore the poster from the kiosk, crumpled it into a ball and dropped it onto the sidewalk.

An unexpected voice nearly levitated him from the sidewalk.

“
There a problem here?
”

He turned toward the sound of the voice. Some kind of uniformed cop or security guard.
Instinctively, he set the grocery bags on the sidewalk.

“
I asked you if there was a problem with the poster,
”
the uniform said stepping closer, staring at his face.

His right hand slid into his coat pocket.
The German steel felt warm and comforting to his hand.
“
I...I
’
m fine,
”
he stammered.

“
That
’
s more than we can say for that darn poster,
”
uniform said, pointing at the crumpled ball on the sidewalk .
In the crook of his left arm he carried a stack of the same poster.
The likenesses of Michael and himself side by side.
‘
Have you seen?
’
blaring across the top,
”
$10,000 Reward
”
in bold print across the bottom.

And then, before he
’
d decided whether to act or not… just like that, once, twice, three times and
suddenly it was over. As if an involuntary spasm had rolled through his central nervous system and taken action without his knowledge or approval.

Uniform
’
s eyes tried to leap from the bridge of his nose.
The bright green vest took a staggering step backwards.
He looked down at his punctured chest in horror, hacked up a mouthful of thick blood and then dropped to his knees with the sickening crack. The stack of posters slid to the sidewalk as the cop gurgled once and keeled over onto his left side.
His final shuddering breath was swallowed by a gust of the wind.

He reached down and checked
for a pulse.
Finding none, he quickly checked the street in both directions before retrieving the grocery bags.
A single rivulet of blood flowed from beneath the body, snaking over the cracked concrete on its way to the gutter.

He gathered the posters and stuffed them into his pockets.

“
I
’
m fine. I
’
m fine,
”
he chanted over and over as he hurried along.

__

Raven Street was a greasy cobblestone lane running behind what had, a century earlier, been a stove and furnace company. Like many of the buildings in the neighborhood, the garage’s windows and doors had long since been bricked over, in a futile attempt to discourage the destitute from joining the rodents in residence. A hundred years of industrial refuse littered the ground like shrapnel. Odious shards of rusted metal poked up here and there. Ancient bottles and cans lay shattered and scattered among the weeds. The air was heavy with the odor of new urine and old grease.

“Maybe we should call for back-up,” Audrey suggested.

Craig pointed at the thick steel padlock on the garage door. “It’s locked from the outside,” he said. “Besides, I think we’re already getting about as much CPD help as we’re going to get. Probably best we don’t wear out our welcome.”

Audrey liberated the big rubber flashlight from its dashboard mount and exited the cruiser. Craig gave a mock bow and gestured chivalrously with his hand, offering Audrey the option of leading the way.

Audrey shook her head. “Go right ahead.”

Craig managed an ironic smile. “Watch your step,” he said as he started forward. “This place is blood-poisoning waiting to happen.”

They picked their way through the minefield of rubble. As they neared the garage door, Craig fished Stefani’s key from his pants pocket and slipped it into the lock.

“Somebody’s been here lately,” he announced. Craig rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Somebody lubricated the lock, “ he said.

A gentle twist of the wrist and the lock snicked open. Craig removed it from the hasp and put it in his coat pocket. He lifted the lid to reveal a pair of buttons, one red one green. He pushed the green button; the heavy steel door began to rise.

The space was considerably larger than Audrey had imagined, extending well past the reach of the dull light pouring inside. Jackson Craig felt around and found a light switch to the right of the door. He flipped the switch. Nothing happened.

Audrey snapped on the flashlight. The beam of light revealed a collection of crates and barrels and boxes neatly stacked around the perimeter of the room. Audrey swung the flashlight. The light blinked several times and then went out.

Audrey shook the flashlight like a maraca. The beam blinked on and off, creating an almost strobe-like effect. She reached out and put a hand on Jackson Craig’s arm. Together they moved forward. With her free hand, Audrey kept at it, thumbing the flashlight button on and off, shaking it up and down in vain.

The intermittent yellow beam flickered just often enough to prod them onward. Audrey kept looking back over her shoulder, as if to remind herself of the light at the front of the garage. Thus marginally assured, she was able to put one foot in front of the other, moving ever deeper into the gloom.

In the wavering glow of the flashlight, military insignia and stenciling became visible on the dusty wooden crates.

“Military ordinance,” Craig said. “Harry’s munitions stash.”

“He’s got
mines
for God’s sake,” Audrey said, pointing at the box at her feet.

Craig reached out toward the nearest crate. Stenciled on the side: Fifty Cal. Barrett Model 82A1/M107. Craig pushed the lid aside and peered inside. Empty...as he knew it would be. Craig scrutinized the interiors of several crates, finding some of them empty and others crammed with guns and munitions.

On the far side of the room, Audrey was bent at the waist, pawing through a pile of cardboard boxes. “Looky here?” she said.

Craig squinted myopically in her direction.

“School books,” she said pulling one and then another from the battered box. “Harry must have home-schooled him.” From yet another box she pulled a pair of jeans. Boys size, maybe twelve years old. Then a green sweater. “Boxes and boxes of old clothes,” she said as she pawed through the collection of garments.

“Just one big happy family,” Craig muttered.

A bump on the rear wall caught Audrey’s eye. She moved as close as space would allow then turned sideways and sidled closer, finally stepping over an open crate whose stenciling identified the contents as Claymore mines of the M18A1 variety. She peered inside. Nearly two dozen of the rectangular little anti-personnel mines peered back, each encased in a white cardboard box, stamped with yet another set of Army Ordinance numbers. Two of the slots were empty.

Audrey pushed her nose no more than a foot from the wall. A light switch. Halleluiah. She reached out and flicked the switch, hoping to shed a little light on the subject. Instead of providing illumination, however, the building seemed to gather itself beneath them, as if waking from hibernation. Somewhere out of sight, a motor coughed once, twice and then switched itself on. A squeak from the ceiling lifted their eyes. Above them, what appeared to be fire sprinklers began to descend.

Craig shook his head in disgust. “I hope you brought a change of clothes.” He held out a paternal hand. “Come on. Hurry,” he said.

Audrey flipped the switch the other way, hoping to stop whatever it was she’d inadvertently started. Nothing happened.

Audrey hunched her shoulders against the impending deluge and took Craig’s hand in her own. As she raised a foot from the floor, the steel garage door rumbled once and then rapidly began to descend.

Audrey stood open mouthed, one foot poised in mid-air, watching the rectangle of light narrow. Craig, however, looked up. The sudden loud hissing confirmed his worst fears. He grabbed Audrey by the upper arms and roughly lifted her to his side.

“Hold your breath,” he said, dragging her toward the front of the building. “Whatever you do, don’t breathe.”

47

Even though he knew the people were only make-believe, the voices coming from the television made Michael feel better.
He thought maybe it was the news. It was hard to tell because the TV was lying on its side and had no picture…just the voices.
Sometimes his mom and dad watched the news together, but he never did.
He liked Animal Planet…Animal Planet and cartoons.
The old ones with Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck and sometimes SpongeBob SquarePants.

He was standing on top of the tallest pile of crates, looking out at the upended TV in the other room when he heard the clickety-clack of shoes.
For a moment, he half-expected his mother to come down the corridor and rescue him…but nothing happened.
The sound of heels slowly faded and then stopped altogether. He closed his eyes and listened with all his might.
Only the static buzz of the TV and the sound of dripping water reached his ears.

And then a cough echoed from stone to stone and Michael knew the man was back.
He was saying something over and over like he did when he was really upset.

“
I
’
m fine.
I
’
m fine,
”
echoed through the space.

Michael watched in silence as the man stood at the rust-stained sink and washed his hands.
“
I
’
m fine. I
’
m fine,
”
the man chanted as he tumbled one hand over and around the other for what seemed like forever before pulling something from his pocket and washing it with the same repetitive vigor as he had his hands.

On his way across the room, the man lifted the TV set back onto its wobbly metal stand. Parts of sentences erupted from the speaker.

The man stepped over and unlocked the door.

“
Come here,
”
he said to the boy.

Michael didn
’
t move.

The man repeated the command.
When the boy still refused to comply, he stepped inside, grabbed the kid by the hair and lobbed him out the door.
Michael let out a pitiful wail as he skidded across the rough stone floor.

The TV suddenly began to blare.
“
Justice Department Officials are refusing comment…”
The picture rolled several times and then wiggled to a stop.
“…the kidnapping of five year old Colin Satterwaite…”
Black and white picture of the boy at the time of his kidnapping, and then the picture changed to that of a man in military fatigues.
“Former Navy SEAL weapons instructor Harry M. Joyce is suspected to have…”
Blah, blah, blah
…
goes on forever until
,
another picture replaced Harry Joyce.
A woman whose wiry gray hair was held back by a thick tortoise-shell band.
The caption read:
Samantha Suggerman, Media Relations Director, National Center for Missing and Abused Children
. The woman was talking now. Blah blah. “In cases of long term sexual abuse such as this….” Blah blah…”…eventually the victim begins to feel responsible…”

An overwhelming sense of shame and self-loathing shimmied through his body. In an instant, a lifetime of indignity flashed before his mind
’
s eye, one fearful frame at a time.
He stood transfixed, hugging himself and swaying back and forth.

The picture on the TV screen changed again.
A pair of hags.
Bad hair and pouchy faces staring into the camera like retarded sheep. Caption.
Maryelizabeth Murray (Mother) and Arlene Satterwaite (Sister). The news bitch mewing, holding the microphone close. The old one wiping her red nose and blubbering.
“I need to know what happened to my son…I have a right…”

“Noooooooooo,”
he screamed, stomping around the room, sweeping his head from side to side like an enraged bull hooking with its horns.

By the time the rage had begun to wane, they
’
d gone to commercial. Scented Kitchen Bags. He was drained, standing in the center of the room, breathing through his mouth. He threw his head back and wept out loud, allowing the sobs and spasms to take on a life of their own, like he
’
d done when he was a kid.

“
You
’
d have learned,
”
he insisted and then went back to wailing
.
“
You
’
d have learned.
”
The whooping echoed through the brick caverns like the call of distant wolves.