The Leyak

By M.J. Preston

The Past – Highway 3, Northwest Territories

She lay bleeding, her body, beaten, broken, violated in the worst possible way. The remains of her child cast out onto the frozen gravel, still warm, but without life. Inside her head—she heard the voice, liquid chanting—rained down upon her. Beckoning Come to me. Let me take your pain. Give it to me and I will avenge you, avenge your child.

She listened to the chant, focused on the desolation inside her belly. There, the thing it craved began to form. To grow and divide, becoming, ingesting the malice inside her. As it became, the fervor evaporated the pain of broken bones, of ruptured tissue, the loss of life. Her fury, it’s fury, no longer directed at being raped, beaten and left for dead. But at the thievery of her attackers. They had stolen her security, her dignity, her child.

“The bastards. I want their hearts, their genitalia.”

It grew larger, and hungry spirits crooned, “Unburden your hate child. Let me take the load.”

“What will you give me for it,” she asked.

“Reprisal,” it replied.

From above, flap of wing. Night birds gathered. Swirling downward, fanning her broken body then back up again, into the charcoal darkness. Then they began to land all around, spectators to the atrocity, waiting to eat the aftermath.

Will you give it to me?

She didn’t answer, not at first. The malice in her belly scraped the inner walls with its claws, pushed against the battered muscle and tissue of her sex organs. It wanted out, wanted to live and she had the power to give it what it wanted.

“Yes,” she said.

Her abdomen swelled, much larger than it had been before the attack.

It was coming.

†††

The Present

Highway 3, Boundary Creek Rest Stop

Northwest Territories

Snow raged in great torrents, revolving around the pull-off, cutting through the dual headlight cones of the empty car. The bodies, there were five of them, steaming, were scattered around the rest stop. Their killer screeched, a blood-curdling shriek of joy and victory. She licked the blood from the blade she now carried and tasted the death she had inflicted.

It was sweet.

Outside the yellow light, in the shadows, predators, much smaller than she, waited for her to finish her feed. She stood erect, bare-naked in the bluster, camouflaged only by blood and snow. She shrieked again, like a banshee. She raised the blade, the one she had taken from the Grogan man. The killing was done, it was time to feed, and this was her place. Not theirs.

“Not theirs,” she hissed in the ancient language through broken teeth.

Predators moved closer, waiting their turn, as she pounced on each body, using the blade to eviscerate, and gorged herself. The last had been pregnant, five months, this one had been particularly sweet.

†††

Four Hours Later – Boundary Creek Rest Stop

The witnesses hadn’t even waited, driving off into the night, terrified at the specter. Homicide Detective Howard Logan took in the carnage and could only imagine how that call must have sounded. He was the first on the scene when the call came, returning from a follow-up on two other murders that had occurred between Mosquito Creek and the Frank Channel. All of them were related, he didn’t need forensics to tell him that. The bodies were opened in the same manner. Cut from solar plexus to pubis and emptied of their internal organs.

“Most definitely related,” he said aloud.

Logan rubbed his right wrist, which ached in the cold. It had been broken a few years back. He opened the trunk, removed the police tape and traffic cones. He thought about striking a few flares, but that would only illuminate the horror show and cause a major distraction. No, it would be better just to tape off the crime scene until the backup got here.

He set cones at both ends, closing the pull-off, and then looped police tape up between the cones. This highway used to be one busy piece of work, but after the situation at the Acadia Mine, the ice road, and the prosperity it afforded had come to a grinding halt.

The world had changed, even more so for Howard Logan, who had been on the receiving end of that Acadia business. Since that fateful night, everything that was impossible became possible. Alien creatures had found their way into our world; changing everything. For Howard Logan, that was only the half of it. Not only had extraterrestrial life been confirmed, but he had himself realized that some mythical monsters also walked among us. He had a revelation of sorts after his sister told him what had really happened to his dead father. His father, Police Chief David Logan, had run a Skinwalker afoul and inevitably paid with his life. Howard Logan knew this to be true, not myth or folklore. He had accepted this. He had to. The alternative was embracing the idea that he might be a character in a Stephen King novel rather than a Police Detective with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and that was just crazy.

He aimed the beam of the flashlight at the closest victim, a child not more than nine.

It’s not a Skentophyte, he thought and then said aloud, “Or a Skinwalker.”

The cut was too precise.

He ignored the foolishness of those first two rulings because Logan knew that both creatures existed. He’d had his wrist broken by a Skentophyte alien in downtown Yellowknife and had seen a real live Skinwalker. In the flesh, if you pardoned the pun. The Skentophyte had been stopped. The Skinwalker was still there in Thomasville, returning twice a year during the spring and fall equinox and contained only by an ancient ritual performed by the Chocktee people. Howard Logan had indulged in that ritual just last fall. For him, it had been the first, for his sister Jaimie, the second. For both, an enlightening and terrifying experience.

The world had changed, and not for the better.

Logan continued to trace the flashlight over the child’s body.

So, who did this? Who, or what, cuts open the bellies of victims and steals their organs?

Before he could answer, he heard them. Police sirens called out, coming from the city to the north. An armada of red and blue lights butting against the grey night, sometimes there, sometimes gone, beams jutting skyward from behind the rock and stunted trees that shouldered the Mackenzie Highway.

“Here comes the cavalry,” he said and flicked the toggle that lit the police truck’s light bar.

†††

Boundary Creek – Crime Scene – Highway 3, Northwest Territories

Logan looked over at his partner, Detective Bobby Keefe. Keefe was in the passenger seat of his truck. He and Keefe had been investigating the Highway 3 murders. They were both smoking cigarettes, watching crime scene techs collect the evidence. “What do you think?” Logan asked.

Keefe responded with the same question. “What do you think, Howie?”

“I think I asked first and if you call me ‘Howie’ again, I’m going to bag tag you. Come on, Bobby. Tell me what you think. We’ve got six victims and not a clue. This has become a big deal.”

“Nothing is a big deal after Acadia,” Bobby said and he was right. After stopping what could have been a full-scale alien invasion, the feds were more worried about the new perceived boogeyman. Even the war on terror had become secondary. “But you’re wrong about no clues, Howie.” Keefe smiled, daring him to strike.

Logan didn’t bag tag him. Instead, he lowered his window and cast out his smoke. They weren’t allowed to smoke in police vehicles anymore. Government do-gooders. “Clue? What clue?”

Bobby Keefe lowered the passenger window and tossed his smoke. Then he said, “The Crime Scene guys found hairs at the last two scenes and the genetic make-up of those hairs match one recipient. A woman.”

“A woman did this? I find that sort of hard to believe.”

“I’m not finished.”

“Sorry, I’m listening.” Logan lit up a fresh smoke.

“I got a call from an informant of mine in Rae who says he knows someone that we need to talk to. “

“An informant in Rae. Anyone I know?”

” He’s a throwback to narcotics. Guy’s name is Nigel Tecumseh.”

“Nigel Tecumseh? I thought he’d be dead by now. That guy is a fucking tweaker.” Logan had busted Tecumseh for possession. The story was much longer, but he pushed it away. More Acadia business. “What is Tecumseh doing down in Rae? Rae is a dry community.”

“Nigel is dry as well. No drugs, no booze. Cleaned up his act after the Acadia Event. Found religion and went back home to Rae and started working in the community. He’s been clean for almost three years.” Keefe paused, but not long enough for Logan to interrupt. “He says there’s a guy who lives off the grid south of Edzo who knows exactly what we’re dealing with. Says the guy’s name is Tony Rourke. He’s a Metis, moved up here from Saskatchewan a few years ago, makes his living picking up road kill and running a trap line.”

“Picking up roadkill?” Logan chuckled. “There’s money in that?”

“Don’t laugh, the fur trade is not dead, Howie. A wolverine pelt procured off the highway can fetch fourteen hundred bucks. Anyway, Nigel said that he went down to see Rourke to buy some moccasins for his sister’s kid and when he got there he said that Rourke was drunk off his ass. Mumbling on about how he found a woman who had birthed a Leyak.”

Logan shook his head. ” You sure that Nigel wasn’t smoking a glass pipe when he told you this? I don’t think I’m ready to ask what the hell a Leyak is.”

“Good, because I’m not going to try and explain it. I’m going to let Rourke explain it if you’ll accompany me to his place after we square up here.”

Logan considered this, he’d been up for over eighteen hours. “Okay, I’ll find out how long until crime scene is finished and then we’ll skip down to Rae.”

†††

Highway 3, Frontier Trail – Northwest Territories

The ride lasted about an hour. In the first half hour, the snow began to let up and visibility improved. They drove south along Highway 3, toward the communities of Rae and Edzo. The road was a winding snake, mined by chip seal sinkholes and falling shoulders. The ride was rough but quiet, they only passed one vehicle by the time they reached the Frank Channel and crossed the narrow steel bridge.

Bobby Keefe was silent for most of the ride, smoking three cigarettes to Logan’s one, his focus on the road. He was watching for the drive that would lead them to Rourke’s place. According to Nigel, it was marked by a six-foot Inuksuk made up of large slab stones.

“Turn right there, and his place is about three kilometers in,” Nigel had said.

“He got any dogs?” Bobby had asked.

“One, an old mutt lab named Pat, he’s friendly,” Nigel assured.

Bobby spotted the cairn and snapped out of the memory.

“There, turn right on that road.”

Logan flicked the right signal and turned. Once they were on the trail, he engaged the truck’s four-wheel drive, and then they were swimming down the snow-covered road. “How far in? I don’t want to get stuck.”

“Three clicks.”

“Shit, really? I don’t have a chain set in this truck, Bob.”

“If the going gets rough, we’ll park it and walk the rest of the way in.”

Logan glanced down at the outside temperature gauge on his dash; it read: -27. The idea of walking in on foot made him shiver. “I’ll get us there.” From his peripheral, he could see Keefe grinning. “You’re an asshole, Keefe. You weren’t really considering walking, were you?”

“No, but I had to say something to crush the moaning.”

“Fuck you, Detective Keefe.”

“Right back at yuh, Detective Logan.”

Two kilometers in, the trail tightened, giving enough room for one-way traffic only. Logan hoped that Tony Rourke was at home and not out tending his traps. Above, the skies opened and let loose an aurora borealis that danced in hues of green and red. The time was 3:21 a.m. when they met the dog named Pat. He was old and slow, and his tail was wagging.

†††

Tony Rourke’s Place – 13 Kilometers southwest of Behchokǫ̀ Communities

Rourke was sober, but none too hospitable. The dog’s barking and approaching RCMP truck had awakened him after a three-day bender. He knew they’d be coming sooner or later, but the arrival had come when he was at his worst.

Logan got out first, leaving the truck running. Pat the dog was sniffing at him, thudding his nose against his thighs. Logan wondered if the mutt could smell the death from Boundary Creek on him. He reached down with a gloved hand and stroked the dog’s head. “How are yuh, boy? Where’s your master?”

Beside him, Bobby called out into the dark, “Is that you, Tony Rourke,”

Logan caught a glimpse of an approaching silhouette.

“It is,” Rourke’s said with a hint of accent.  “What brings the police to my doorstep?”

Logan sized up the man as he came into the arc of the truck headlights. He was carrying a 12-gauge shotgun casually over his left arm. “What’s the gun for, Tony?”

“Things that go bump in the night,” Tony replied.

“What things might those be?” Logan resisted the urge to reach for his own weapon.

Pat had abandoned Logan and was meandering over to Bobby now.

“Wolves, badgers, skentophyte. This is the new north, everything goes bump up here.”

“What about Leyak?” Keefe said.

Rourke sighed. “I guess you’ve been talking to Nigel?”

“You’d be guessing right.” Keefe was in control of the conversation now. Logan just watched and listened. There’d been no reports of Skentophyte in the area, the military had destroyed the ones at both the Meanook and Acadia mines, the ones that were left anyway. A guy named Spencer Hughes had killed the rest on the night he’d saved Logan’s life in Yellowknife. That night he was face to face with one of the godless aliens. As far as he knew, the creatures were long dead, except those that haunted his dreams.

The world had changed. The monsters were real.

“If you want to spread a rumor, tell a recovering addict.” Tony shook his head.

“I’m thinking you wanted people to know.”

Tony Rourke smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess, maybe. Come on inside, and we’ll talk about it?” Then he turned and trudged back up the same track he had broken on approach. Logan followed first, Bobby behind with Pat in tow.

†††

Rourke’s place was a ramshackle cabin made up of particleboard, 2X4’s and Styrofoam insulation. It was, being kind, a one bedroom single level bungalow, lacking the necessities of running water, a toilet, or a television. What it did have in the main living area was a potbelly stove, a battered leather lazy-boy recliner, a loveseat, a plastic lawn chair, and a coffee table. Also, there was a kitchen table from the 1960’s that looked so new, one would think that it had to have been teleported there via time machine. The table was set against the wall next to a door that led to what must have been Rourke’s bedroom. The walls were adorned in animal skins and native artwork. The place smelled like coffee and mothballs. Maybe a hint of weed. Logan took a seat in the lawn chair, Keefe in the loveseat and Pat the dog climbed up to join him.

Logan spotted an empty bottle of Canadian Club on the kitchen table.

“I’ve only got instant,” Rourke said and poured them each a coffee from the pot that sat on the wood stove. He set the cups down on the coffee table. “I’ve got sugar and canned milk if you like.”

“Black is fine for me,” Logan said.

“I’ll take some sugar,” Keefe said.

Rourke went to the cupboard and brought back a box of sugar cubes. He plucked out four cubes and dropped them into his own coffee and settled back into the recliner. He first blew on, then sipped the coffee. It was too hot, so he set it aside and said. “So, you’re here on my doorstep. I guess the question I have is: How many dead this time?”

Logan, who hadn’t said much to this point, turned to Keefe, who nodded for him to take the lead. He set his gaze upon Rourke and told him there had been five victims this time, six if you included the unborn child. He also mentioned the killings at Frank Channel and at the pull-off in Rae. He only gave up the information he knew would make the news. He didn’t say anything about the evisceration, although he assumed Rourke probably already knew.

The victim at the Frank Channel had been a young man, identified as Jesse Phillips of Edzo. His naked body was found stretched out on a barren rock, twenty feet from the river, his belly cut open and hollowed out. He’d been found by his cousin only hours after being killed. The cousin had gone looking when he hadn’t returned home. It seemed that Jesse was going to meet someone to score a bottle of liquor, which was illegal in Edzo. Both Edzo and Rae were dry communities, but that didn’t stop bootleggers from bringing in alcohol. The cousin hadn’t known who the bootlegger was, but they knew Jesse made his connection because next to the body was an unopened bottle of SilkTasselWhiskey. News of the evisceration-murder of Jesse Phillips spread throughout the surrounding communities. The native folk thought they might have a windigo or a skinwalker in their midst. Logan never laughed when he heard this. He knew better. He also pushed away the assumption that the bootlegger had done the killing. He doubted a man who dealt in bootlegging would leave behind a bottle of whiskey after killing his victim. But to be sure, they dusted the bottle for prints and got a partial thumb. A week later that partial print would lead them to the bootlegger or more precisely, the bootlegger’s body. The bootlegger was not a man, but a woman. Her name was Diane Meeitner of Fort Providence, she had a few priors, one pending charge of trafficking with intent to sell methamphetamine, and four times she’d been arrested for fighting. Twice at TheTalon, a native bar in Yellowknife, once at the Snowshoe Inn Pub in Fort Providence, and the last on Highway 3 with her girlfriend. Meeitner was a lesbian. Diane Meeitner had been eviscerated just like Phillips, but she was found in a pull-off right next to her ‘95 Subaru Outback which was loaded with nine bottles of whiskey and seven cases of Labatt’s Ice. She also had a quarter ounce of weed, along with a pipe. Logan finished up and said, “Nigel said that you might know who were dealing with.”

Rourke sipped his coffee and added a splash of Bailey’s Irish Cream. He didn’t bother offering either of the cops a warm up. “Not who, Officer…”

“Detective,” Logan corrected.

“Yeah, okay…Detective. Not who, but what.”

Logan stifled a yawn. He’d been up for almost twenty hours, he thought he and Keefe might be catching a power nap on the way back to Yellowknife. He glanced from Rourke to his partner. “You want to jump in here, Bobby?”

Keefe sat up straight and said, “Nigel said you told him something about a Leyak.”

“Nigel, never to be trusted again.” Rourke grinned. “Yeah, I know who’s doing the killing or as I said, what. You’ve got a Leyak out there, and it’s hungry. Very hungry.”

“Two questions,” Logan interrupted. “What’s a Leyak and how do you know about it?”

“Sounds like an easy explanation when you put it that way, Detective Logan. But if you really want to know everything, it’s going to take a little longer.”

“There’s been seven murders over the course of a month. I’ll give you all the time you want if you’re not feeding me a line of shit,” Logan said.

“We’ve come a long way, haven’t we gentleman,” Rourke said. “Five years ago, people regarded our lore as mythos. Now? That business up at the mine has changed everyone’s thinking. People are jumping at shadows, looking around corners for skentophyte and when someone says that there’s a windigo or a ghost wandering the woods, they don’t laugh anymore. They listen.”

“Get on with it, Tony.” Logan was becoming irritable.

“What is a Leyak?” Keefe was leaning forward, trying to head off his partner’s tension. “Is it a native spirit?”

“No, it’s Indonesian. And just so we’re clear, it has killed eleven people.”

“Eleven?” Logan sat up straight. “What are you talking about?”

“If it’s going to make any sense at all, I’ll have to go back to the beginning.”

And so, he did.

†††

Tony Rourke’s Story – The Birth of the Leyak

Tony Rourke started, “Her name was Nicole Castillo, she’d come to Yellowknife from the Philippines with her husband in 2013, but that was before our paths crossed. When I met her, her husband, King Castillo, was gone for two months. He had come to YK with the hopes of getting on at the Acadia Mine as a cook, but those hopes were dashed because the mine wasn’t hiring. Nicole told me that King wanted them both to get jobs at the mine. Three weeks in, two weeks out, not a bad life until they got a bit of money socked away. Instead, King ended up working at Kentucky Fried Chicken and Nicole at Tim Hortons.

“Back in the Philippines, King was a chef, now he was a short order fry cook. Given the situation in the Philippines, they were still better off. They stuck it out. Living hand-to-mouth. Socking away money where they could, waiting for the hiring freeze to be lifted and then Acadia happened and that changed everything. With both Mines out of business, King and Nicole Castillo became the lucky ones. They were at least employed, even if it was in the fast food industry where the wages are shit. Then there was an accident. Having just parked for work, King Castillo got out of his car when a drunk came barreling down the road and ended him.” He drank the last of his coffee and stood up. “I need a refill. Anyone else?”

Logan and Bobby raised their cups.

Pat the dog, who was now snoring at Keefe’s side, dropped a rose.

“Ah, Jesus. You mind if I smoke, Tony?” Keefe said.

“Knock yourself out,” Rourke said and chuckled, “Pat’s got magic farts, Detective. They bring good luck.”

Keefe lit a smoke. “They don’t smell like magic.”

Rourke poured them all a fresh cup. When he sat down, he offered up the Bailey’s, and they accepted. He set his own coffee down and lifted a pipe from his breast pocket. He packed it with fresh tobacco and lit it. Between the cigarettes and the pipe, a cloud hung above the table, the intertwining aroma masking but not stifling the magical fart Pat had dropped.

“King was killed and Nicole was left to fend for herself. A week after his death, she discovered she was late. By the time the funeral was over she realized that she was six weeks pregnant. Now, I wasn’t there at that time. I was still two weeks from being introduced to Nicole Castillo. I only know this because she told me after the fact. When she found out she was pregnant, she took it as a good omen. That King would live on through his child. It didn’t matter that they didn’t get high paying jobs in the mine or that Tim Hortons barely covered the cost of her one-bedroom apartment. She was with child, giving her a new place to focus the love that had been lost in King’s death. Whether it was a boy or a girl, she would see her love, King, in that child and in that she found hope.” Rourke stopped to gather his thoughts. “That was until Grogan and Stoltz came along.”

Logan knew the names but had no idea why.

Keefe stayed silent.

Rourke puffed on his pipe and continued.

“Those were the first two, I’m not surprised you never heard of them. That was such a time of turmoil. I swear to God, when that thing happened at the mine you could have pulled off the crime of the century and no one would have noticed. What’s a little murder here or there? A little rape and brutality.” Rourke stopped, ran his hand through the swatch of gray beard that hung to his chest. He gathered himself and continued. “People in the Filipino community rallied around Nicole, gave her the things she needed. A used crib, baby clothes, and every payday she stockpiled things for her child. Diapers, bottles, blankets. She was getting ready, and she was only two months along.” He stopped, a smile formed on his face, but it was a sad smile. “Nicole Castillo was beautiful. She was petite, like a doll, with almond eyes, olive skin, and long flowing black hair. Even when I found her that night at Boundary Creek, battered, bloody, her left eye closed up…covered in bruises…I still saw the beauty; you know.”

“Found her?” Logan leaned forward. “I’m not getting you.”

“Okay, sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself,” Rourke said.

Logan waited and sipped the refill Rourke had poured them. The Irish cream was sweet and masked the stagnancy that had formed inside his mouth. He had picked up the smoking habit for a second time after four years, after the Acadia business. When Rourke didn’t respond he pushed, but just a little. “What happened to her, Tony?”

That brought Rourke back. “Stoltz and Grogan. That’s what happened.” He took a slow deep breath. “Fuckers… I didn’t find this out until later because I came into it after the fact. What were Stoltz and Grogan doing before they snatched her up? My guess is they were hitting the booze hard—probably drunk—when they saw Nicole walking back from Tim Hortons. Had to be drunk, it was after midnight and Friday to boot and here’s this tiny Filipino girl walking alone. They snatched her right there off the street, right across from that bar, The Monkey Tree, and no one seemed to notice or care. Nicole said it had been Stoltz who grabbed her and that Grogan seemed shocked at first.

“‘What the fuck are you doing,’ Grogan, who was driving, says.

“‘I got me a gook,’ Stoltz was laughing, but there was no play in that laugh.

“Nicole said that she sat quiet at first, thinking it was a prank and that they would let her out, but she was wrong. She heard Grogan tell Stoltz to let her go. Even felt the truck slowing to a stop, but Stoltz would have none of it. ‘Get this truck moving, Jimmy. Take us down to Boundary, and we’ll have a little fun; then we’ll let her go.’

“Jimmy Grogan didn’t argue and, why would he? It was all an act. Him and Stoltz had done this before. They’d raped and killed three women, one at Boundary, one at the 208 pull-out and another down around Big River. This was just their good cop, bad cop routine, to put her at ease, before the horror.”

Bobby Keefe interrupted him this time. “You telling me that you had knowledge of serial rape and murder and we’re just hearing about it now?”

“Even if I’d called you guys you wouldn’t have listened,” Rourke said.

“Bullshit,” Logan said. “We would have listened.”

“Really? Cops can be selectively blind. Nicole Castillo and the women before her would have gone unnoticed. Never mind that they were minorities, that business up at the mine had everybody’s attention. How many calls have you responded to where people have reported seeing Skentophyte skulking around their back yards, in their garden sheds?”

Logan said nothing, he couldn’t disagree.

Keefe could. “The Skentophyte are all dead. We would have investigated.”

Rourke sat back. Let out a sigh, raised his voice and level of sarcasm. “Dead? I doubt it. I saw all the government vehicles. I doubt there are any Skentophyte around here, but I’m willing to bet that there’s a few of the bone eaters sequestered in some government facility.”

“Oh, for fuck sake! Can the conspiracy shit!” Keefe stood up and Pat the dog was startled awake. He got off the chair and wandered over to his master, tail wagging.

“Stop.” Logan raised a hand. “We are going off the rails here, Tony. I’ve got five murdered people on their way to the morgue. Right now, I don’t give a shit about what happened at the Acadia mine or if there’s an Area 51 in the north. I want to know what happened to Nicole Castillo and what the hell is killing people along Highway 3.”

Rourke calmed a bit, looked down at Pat and said, “You need to go outside?” Pat wiggled his butt in unison with his tail and let out an affirmative whistling whine. Rourke said, “Okay, after I put the dog out.”

He opened the door and a gust of arctic air cut into his face making him recoil. Pat seemed not to notice or care and went headlong into the cold. The door thumped behind him, and Rourke stayed there. “He’ll be back in a few seconds, no point in sitting down.”

“So, what happened?” Logan asked.

“They raped and beat her out there at the Boundary Creek pull-off. They were ruthless, Grogan blackened her eye, broke three fingers on her left hand while Stoltz first raped and sodomized her.” Rourke’s face screwed up into an angry knot. “They took turns out there in the night before the weather had really turned, going at her again and again. Beating and torturing the poor girl. Fucking animals.”

From outside, Pat barked.

Rourke opened the door. The dog sauntered in and returned to the loveseat a little colder, and, Keefe guessed, a little lighter. The dog curled up like a croissant, pushing his cool body against the detective’s right leg, and began to doze.

“I don’t know how long it went on. I found her left for dead, and I was going to take her into Yellowknife, but she stopped me. Said that the guy who did it was a cop and that she couldn’t go to the police.” Rourke said.

“You saying that one of them was a cop?” Logan sounded defensive.

“No, I’m saying that was the lie she told me to keep from taking her to the hospital. I wouldn’t have even stopped at Boundary, would have missed her completely, but I had to piss, and I saw all the birds.”

“Birds?” Logan said.

“Raven’s, there had to be at least 200 of them, maybe even more. Congregating around her body—waiting for her to die—so they could pick her apart. The way they surrounded her was creepy. There was perfect order in how they stood, like an audience watching a street performer. And they weren’t the only ones.  Overhead, even more of them were circling and calling out to each other. They lined the branches of the surrounding trees and were perched on a dumpster. What was unusual is you don’t see ravens at night and not just because they are black, but they usually find somewhere to sleep at night and do most of their business by day.

“When I pulled my truck in and caught them in my lights, they didn’t scatter, and I thought to myself that there must have been a dead deer laying there, but then I saw her bare ass smeared with blood and my heart started doing back flips. When I got out of the truck, the birds surrounding her took to the sky, so I moved in and started shaking her. ‘Miss? Hey, Miss, you okay?’ Stupid question, I know, but ‘Hey Miss, you dead?’seemed inappropriate.

“She just let out a moan.

“I said, ‘Don’t you worry, you’ll be all right. I’m going to take you to the hospital. Who did this to you?’

“‘No, no hospital,’ she said. ‘No police.’

“‘Huh? Why?’

“‘Because… It was a cop who did this.’ She passed out then.

“There was no way I could put her in the cab. They’d beaten her up so badly, and I had no idea about the extent of her injuries. The only thing I was sure of was that she had been pregnant and that she’d lost the baby. She was all bloody between the legs, there was a stain and a small mound of tissue on the ground.

“‘I’ll be right back,’ I said and rummaged around the cab. My heart was racing, I was scared shitless, but for all the wrong reasons. I had to decide. Either I took her to the hospital and run the risk that she dies and then you cops try to pin the rape and murder on me, or I take her to my place and she dies, and I end up with a secret to hide. 

“I grabbed a sleeping bag and wrapped her up and placed her in the box of my truck. I then took a tarp and placed that over her. I did everything I could to make her as comfortable and warm as possible.

“She mumbled, ‘Take it then, but make them pay. Make them pay with everything they have.’

“I didn’t pay this much mind, not at the time anyway. I wanted to get the fuck out of there. It began to occur to me that the rapist cop might return to the scene of the crime to finish up.

“‘Hang on, Miss. All you got to do is hang on for about an hour,’ I said pretty sure she was going to die either way.

“She didn’t die, though. God help me, maybe she should have. And she recovered quickly, too. It only took a few days, and I thought maybe I was wrong about the extent of her injuries, maybe it looked worse than it was. Now, I know that something else had happened.

“When she was strong enough to talk, she told me her name. Told me about how her husband was killed by a drunk. She told me about the baby and her rebirth from mourning, and I must tell you that I was inspired by her spirit. And then she told me about kidnapping and rape. She was cold, when she related this, there was no emotion, like it had been taken. Listening, I felt my own anger bubble up as she gave a blow-by-blow account of what they’d done to her. Hell, I wanted to club those two assholes to death for what they did to this sweet young lady. So much so, I’d almost forgotten about the cop lie. I wasn’t sure why she’d lied to me, but I didn’t think it mattered.

“‘We have to go to the police, Nicole,’ I said.

“‘No.’ She was calm, but steadfast. Her eyes were distant, focused on some other place, the past or maybe the future. She then added. ‘The police won’t be able to do anything; not now, anyway.’

“‘They can arrest them, put them in jail.’

“‘No.’ She never raised her voice, but there was a force in her tone.

“I didn’t argue, I understood her apprehension about cops.”

†††

“Three months passed and winter loosened its hold, giving way to spring. Nicole cooked, tidied my place, and even helped me with my traps. I started thinking that maybe she could stay. Maybe she and I… Well, I began to have feelings for her, but I didn’t dare show any physical affection. She didn’t smile much, she was serious all the time, and I knew that she would eventually leave, perhaps go home to the Philippines. I told myself that I was just safe harbor, a place where she could heal and once the healing was done she would move on.

“Throughout this, she slept on the loveseat. Pat couldn’t fit on the small couch with her, not once she lay down, so he slept on the floor. I would have offered her my bed, although I probably would have ended up a cripple if I tried a night on the loveseat.

“It was the first week in April, and the thaw was coming, but a last snow came wandering out of the north to remind us who the dominant season was. It was on this night that I slept with Nicole Castillo and saw things that no man should see.

“I was in a deep sleep when I heard her voice.

“‘Tony.’ Her hand touched my cheek and I opened eyes. She was wearing one of my button flannel shirts and nothing else. It hung on her tiny frame like a tent. Outside the wind howled, ice and snow beating against the window, and she said, ‘It’s awake.’

“‘What?’ I tried to sit up, but she pushed me back down. ‘What’s awake?’

“She unbuttoned the shirt and it dropped to floor, revealing her to me. ‘I want to sleep with you.’ She climbed into the bed with me and wrapped my arm over to cup her breast. ‘Hold me, Tony. I need to be held.’ She was shivering, but her body was a furnace, like she had a fever.

“I caressed her thigh and meant to touch her, but she stopped me.

“‘I can’t,’ she said and turned to face me. ‘Tony, I love you. You are my savior, and I would give myself to you for what you did, but I can’t.’

“‘Okay,’ I said and withdrew my hand.

“She pulled my hand to her mouth and kissed the palm. ‘I’m still very tender. Tonight, I just need you to hold me.’ She shivered again and pressed her bare body against mine. I should have responded, but I didn’t and not because I’m a gentleman. She had some power over me. She was suppressing my desire for her. She spooned into me, and I held her tight.

“‘Are you sick,’ I asked.

“‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Leyak is coming. It will all be over soon.’

“‘Leyak? Wha…?’

“‘Shhh.’ She placed a hand over my mouth. ‘You will see.’

“God help me, I did…”

†††

Grogan and Stoltz

There is no way I can know what I know, but I do. So, you can either take me at my word or write me off as crazy. I am going to tell you about the Leyak, the rest stop succubus that is now hunting and killing on Highway 3 and if you think about it, detectives, this no crazier than what happened at that Acadia mine. No crazier than men who will take to hunting and killing their own kind. No crazier than the stories of Windigo or Skinwalker. Monsters take many forms.

When I wrapped myself around Nicole Castillo, I thought I would be up all night. I felt like a teenage boy laying down with his first love. I was giddy, I was heart stuck and I never wanted to let her go. I had fallen hard for this little Filipino doll and if she asked me I would find the men who had raped and beaten her and kill them myself.  But I didn’t know who they were until I found myself riding with them, on the hunt again.

“We need a toy,” Grogan said. He was driving.

I was in the pickup with them, but I wasn’t. It was like a dream, but it was surreal. I could smell the stale cigarettes in the ashtray, the Southern Comfort spilled on the front seat and there wasn’t that fog you sometimes get with a dream. All of it was in high-definition—the dashboard and stereo lights were vivid. Even the Dodge emblem on the steering wheel and on the dash blazed out at me.

Outside, snow was blowing, they…we were on the outskirts of YK.

“Yeah, a toy would be nice,” Stoltz agreed, “but it’s fucking cold out, Jimmy.”

Their words were crystalline, free of distortion adding further to the strangeness.

“I know a place,” Grogan said. “Up on the Ingraham. There’s a hunting cabin where we could play all night.”

“Cabin? What cabin?”

“Bob Quinn’s. He’s gone home, won’t be back until summer. His father croaked, and he’s gotta settle the estate. All the Quinn’s are gone back to Cape Breton, the place is just waiting there to be used.” Grogan lifted the bottle of Southern Comfort, unscrewed the cap and tipped it into a McDonalds cup that was sitting in the holder right next to his partner’s. “Fill up?”

Stoltz lifted his own cup—took a big swig, making room—set it back in the holder and said, “Fill-her-up and make it snappy. We gotta find us a toy to play with.”

Both men laughed.

“Yeah, okay, Garry.” Grogan poured his partner a drink.

There was sexual tension between these two. I could feel it. Not homosexual, but something else. Something dark and ugly, perhaps it was their shared love of brutality, of domination or of taking life. As I watched, they worked themselves up for the hunt. It was like they were talking dirty and jacking each other at the same time. I could feel their depravity; almost smell it. It was an oily feel, worse than what you’d find in a septic tank or cesspool and it made me nauseous.  These monsters had raped and beaten Nicole Castillo. I knew this. Or was being shown this? Yes, shown this. Something else, they had other victims. Undiscovered, missing and murdered women, unknown to the police.

“Let’s go out by the airport, maybe we’ll get lucky.” Stoltz took another swig. He knew they would. I knew they would. Why else would I be there?

We wheeled out on the highway, passing the airport, and that’s when they saw her walking the other way. I wondered where she could possibly be going in this weather.

“Fuck! Check it out. I think she’s another Gook,” Stoltz said.

“Yeah, that last one was too submissive. I like when they fight a little.”

“Well, then maybe we don’t hit her as hard. Make her think she might have a chance.”

My blood boiled. All I could think about was these two animals beating and raping Nicole at Boundary Creek. They needed to be stopped. Needed to pay for what they had done, what they were about to do. I wanted to grab the wheel of that truck and crash it, but I couldn’t. Because I wasn’t there, not in the physical sense. I was metaphysical castaway.

“Drive up to the turn off and we’ll double back. If there’s no traffic, pull over.”

We pulled a U-turn and doubled back. The snow was churning up into the headlight array and I hoped that when it cleared, whoever this hapless woman was, that she would be gone. She was not. She was petite, much like Nicole. Stoltz had called her a “gook” and this angered me, not just because it was a racial remark, but he was too stupid to even get his racist terms right.

“There she is!” Stoltz almost jumped out of his seat.

“We’ll have to clean up the cabin really good, Garry. Can’t leave any blood or evidence.”

“Yeah, we’ll be careful. We can dump her out at Prosperous with the others.”

“We shouldn’t have left that Gook at Boundary.” Grogan said.

“She’s gone, Jimmy. We had to go. You know that. If that car got too close… Well, it could have been a cop or that fucking D.O.T. prick that thinks he’s a cop.”

I realized then that the vehicle they were talking about must have been me. That if I hadn’t come their way, they would have finished Nicole off and dumped her with the others. They mentioned Prosperous Lake and I knew that was their dumping ground. And though their intentions were obvious, it was just dawning on me that they were going to rape and kill this woman. Cold panic tore through me. I wanted to be anywhere, but here. I did not want to bear witness to this young woman’s demise.

Let me wake up. Please, take me away from this, I prayed.

God did not answer, but I heard Nicole’s whisper, “The Leyak is coming.”

The truck began to slow and so did my heart.

They were almost beside her now. She strode along the shoulder, her back still to them, unaware or uncaring. I didn’t know which. Grogan eased the truck over and paced her as Stoltz lowered the passenger window. She was younger than Nicole, maybe seventeen, but she was Filipino and she bore a resemblance.

“Hey, little lady, awful cold this evening. Would you like a ride?” Stoltz said.

She stopped, turned to face him, considering him with those almond eyes and when she was done, she smiled.

Stoltz opened the truck door and said, “Hop in.”

She climbed in and sat beside him.

The truck pulled away and sealed our fate. We drove south for another couple minutes and Stoltz used a side road to hook another U-turn. Our passenger never said a word, she just stared forward, into the driving snow. We were going back up the road, toward the Ingraham Trail and on to Bob Quinn’s cabin. What I knew about Stoltz and Grogan was that most of their victims never came willingly. Even the submissive ones used cowering as a form of defense.  This woman was different, she was poised quietly beside Stoltz who examined her with sick craving. He had not pounced to hit her—to push her down as he had the others—that would come later.

We turned up the Ingraham trail and the wind now ran crosswise on the road, kicking up snow devils that danced across the beams of our headlights. Grogan leaned over and pushed a button on the truck’s CD player and a song I haven’t heard since I was kid came on. The singer was Ted Nugent and the song was ‘Stranglehold’.

“Yeah,” Grogan said and touched her thigh. “You like rock n roll, Missy?”

She turned her gaze to him and then Stoltz, nodding.

Stoltz touched her cheek with the back of his hand. It was a snake’s caress. “You like to party?”

She nodded again.

We turned off the Ingraham onto a side road, presumably the one that led to Quinn’s cabin, and the Ram pickup pushed along the unplowed road.

All the while, Nugent was singing, “Come on, come on, come on baby.”

We never made it all the way.

“You’re a party girl, aren’t you? I bet you like getting tag-teamed.” Stoltz was drawing back. “You little slut!” He throttled his fist into her face and drove her down into the floor. She never made a sound, but she didn’t get back up either.

“Jesus Christ, Garry! We’re almost there. Couldn’t you wait two more minutes?”

“Gook cunt!” Stoltz drew back and hit her again.

She was crunched onto the floor, much in the same way Nicole had been. She didn’t say a word and I never heard her cry out. I couldn’t even hear her breathing. Grogan pressed the accelerator down and the truck surfed from left to right through the foot and a half of snow. I watched in horror as Quinn’s cabin came into sight.

The truck stopped short of the cabin and Grogan put the shifter in park. He said to his partner, “I gotta get the key. Try not to kill her before I get back.” He got out and stomped into the snow.

“Oh, we’re going to have fun with you, Missy.” Stoltz said.

Jimmy Grogan worked his way up the steps onto the covered porch. He began reaching up into the rafters, feeling around, and stopped. Slowly, he brought his hand down and held up the key.

“Way to go, Jimmy,” Stoltz said, and then to the girl. “We’re gonna party, Missy.” He opened the passenger door. “Get out and don’t try to run or I’ll kick your ass all the way up there.”

She slithered out into the night, then stood obediently waiting for Stoltz to follow.

He climbed out, drawing his fist back, and tried to hit her again, but this time she caught his hand in mid-strike and held it there.

“Huh,” was all he managed when she began to change.

“Gook,” she said, black ichor spilling from her mouth. “Cunt.” Then she snapped his wrist like a piece of dry kindling and he would have surely screamed, but her other hand was coming up fast and hard. Its destination: His testicles.

The blow connected and Garry Stoltz’ eyes became comically wide and his knees buckled. “Ohhh…” Stoltz groaned, barely managing, “Ji…J…Jimmmm.” Spittle accenting each syllable preceded the threads of drool that hungry from his upper lip.

She was transforming, her eyes turning black as coal, complexion graying, fingernails becoming jagged shards on knotted twigs for fingers, but her smile was the worst. When she grinned, her teeth looked like broken brown beer bottle glass. She released his broken wrist and hooked one of those elongated fingers up into his left nostril. It disappeared to the stump, pushing up until Garry Stoltz’s eyes became even wider.

“Uh… Uuh…” was all he managed, there was snap of gristle, then his left eye popped from that socket, impaled upon the jagged shard that protruded from her finger. Stoltz vomited all over himself and though he probably wished he could faint, he did not. She released his testicles and brought up that other twisted claw-hand and plucked the eyeball from its bayonet pedestal. She held it there between thumb and forefinger, as the impaling finger disappeared back into his socket and was pulled from his nostril.

From behind, fast-moving steps crunched the snow. Grogan was coming, he had unsheathed a long, jagged hunting knife. He wasn’t saying anything, but I could feel his raw panic. I could even hear his thoughts. They had lost control of the abduction. There would be no play tonight, only murder. And he was probably going to end up dumping two bodies out at Prosperous, because Garry Stoltz looked like he was a goner.

Oh, my god, oh my god, he thought, leaving me to ponder how evil people call to God when they so blatantly ignore His will. Grogan was almost on top of her when she popped Stoltz’ excised eyeball into her mouth and bit down. Stoltz threw up again and began to lose consciousness.

Grogan pounced and brought the knife down, but she swirled like smoke and was gone, leaving him to bury it, to the hilt, in Garry Stoltz’ shoulder.

“Fuck!” Grogan’s head darted left—right—left. Where was she?

Behind you, I thought and as if Jim Grogan heard me, he began to turn his head.

She reached out and caught her claw in his hair, dragging him down to the ground. Still holding the knife handle, he pulled Stoltz over with him. Then she was on top of Grogan, biting red scoops of flesh from his face.

She bit and spat, bit and spat, painting the snow, red lacquer with each ejected chomp.

Grogan screamed and begged for mercy. “Please… No more…”

If it had not been so horrific, it would have been comically ironic. How many victims had begged for their lives at the hands of these two monsters? I watched everything from beginning to end and I believe that this was price I had to pay for falling in love with Nicole Castillo. For saving her as she bargained with the Leyak for vengeance. But there was more to come, because everything we do comes with a price and the debt owed had not yet been collected in full.

Neither Stoltz or Grogan were dead when the Leyak committed its final selfish indulgence. They both lay dying, but conscious and aware . She removed the knife from Garry Stoltz’ shoulder and used it to disembowel them. As the life bled from these two killers, she did what a Leyak is destined to do. She consumed their viscera. It was a horrific sight, but ordinary for the predator. We don’t often watch wild creatures consume their kill, perhaps because it is a reminder of what we were before the sanitary world made us tame.

I thought I would never be able to leave this place, then the Leyak watched me through the walls that separate dream and the waking world. Its cheeks were encrusted with already congealing blood, bits of tissue hung in strands from jagged teeth. It grinned, baring even more of those jagged teeth made for ripping and tearing. There was an accusation as it locked into my gaze. “Do you like what you see?” those black eyes asked.

I was terrified, but unable to scream.

Then the ravens came. Gathering in the trees, calling out in the hundreds, communicating the message of death. Then, one by one, they landed to wait their turn. A swelling black congregation in wait for a feast. And they were not alone. In woods, there were other things lurking, hungry.

“Oh, Nicole. What have you done?” Knowing my own culpability. What have we done?

Finished its feed, the Leyak rose and began to walk toward me. Behind it, the ravens moved in for their place at the table. As she closed the distance, she began to alter, the twisted fingers retracting, the deformed jaw and broken teeth melting back into shape. Her body became that of a woman once again and I could feel her calling to me like a land siren. That call was melodic and luring like a black widow.

I’m better than her, the whisper said. I will take you deeper. I will please you beyond your wildest dreams. You should come and taste me. Come to me Tony, come to me and we will touch and feel and taste each other.

I knew she couldn’t touch me, but I was still enthralled by her promise and if I were there, I would have given into her lustful song. And she knew this. This Leyak thing standing before me. Smiling, daring me to seek her out in the real world. She looked down for a reaction, wanting me to follow her eyes and confirm my lust.

“No.” I heard Nicole say.

Then, mercifully, I was falling, away from the carnage, into darkness.

†††

I awoke with her at my side, my arm still wrapped across her breast and she was nestled into me. Nothing had changed. Her breathing slow and relaxed, that of a sleeping person.

A dream. I thought. No, a nightmare.

But when I stirred, she said, “They won’t hurt anybody again.”

“Jesus!” I sat up and she moved to accommodate me. “It was real? Not a dream?”

“Not a dream, Tony. What you saw was real.”

“The Leyak. That was real? Those two men?”

She nodded. “Yes, Stoltz and Grogan have been killing women for some time.” She grinned then. “But not anymore. The ravens will feast and soon they’ll be bones. The Leyak has done what it promised, held up its end of the bargain.”

“Bargain? And what is your end of the deal, Nicole?”

“I gave it life.” She stood and got dressed.

The next month was uneventful and Nicole stayed. The vision of what happened to Stoltz and Grogan was always with me, but I could compartmentalize it. Even justify it. They were rabid dogs, both, and deserved what they got.

Things warmed up between Nicole and me. Sometimes we held hands when we walked the trap line. At night, we sat side-by-side on the loveseat and listened to music on the radio. We slept on my bed, but there was no sex. Pat was content to have his loveseat back. I loved her and I believe she loved me, although there was something missing. Nicole had lost something that night, not just her child, but part of herself as well.  Given to, or taken by the Leyak spirit. The anger or malice we sometimes feel is an important part of who we are, it balances us. Nicole had surrendered that part of herself and it left a void. She was indifferent at times, like a broken person. She had no fire or fight.

She would never be quite the same. She tried though, she really tried.

Then the Leyak came back.

†††

“Nooo,” she screamed.

I opened my eyes to see her shivering in the corner of my room. She was naked, squatted down, holding herself and staring into the abysmal dark. Her eyes were wide, glassy, but I did not think she was awake. She looked hypnotized, speaking a blend of English and Filipino. “Tanging ang mga ito! Only them! Walang iba! No one else.” I didn’t have to speak the language to understand.

In the other room, Pat stirred and got down off the loveseat to come and investigate. His claws clacked on the floor with each step. He entered the doorway as I was sitting up. My dog was looking at whatever she was looking at, and for the first time in a long time I heard Pat start to growl.

She said something else in Filipino that I could not understand.

I couldn’t see anything, but it was clear as day to both Nicole and my dog.

“Nicole” I said, trying to sound calm.

She didn’t respond, just kept speaking Filipino, desperate words I cannot remember or repeat.

But I knew. Knew that the killing hadn’t stopped with Stoltz and Grogan. The Leyak had come back and it had killed again. That was what she was seeing. Nicole was the conduit, it was her embrace that transported me to Grogan and Stoltz’s truck and if I reached out and touched her then, I would be seeing what she was seeing. But I wanted no part of this vision.

“Nicole. Come back. I’m here. Come back to me.”

Pat snarled at the invisible specter, baring his teeth.

She continued to speak in her mother tongue, to converse with an invisible apparition. I don’t how long this went on, just that it was too long. When it finally did end, my dog began to whine and Nicole started to snap out of it. When I was sure that she was no longer in a trance, I went to her.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m tired, Tony. I need sleep,” she said. “Can you help me get up?”

I hesitated, feeling like a complete coward, but then reached out and said, “Okay, let me help you back into bed.” I helped her and turned to see that Pat had withdrawn to the main living area. I put a blanket over her and she faded into a stupor. Maybe it was a just a bad dream, I thought. Maybe it was post-traumatic? From the rape?

I tended my trap line alone that morning, leaving Nicole to sleep. I also left Pat at the house with her. I was out for three hours. I hadn’t caught much. Two rabbits and a fox. The rabbits would serve as dinner and the fox revenue.

I bagged my quarry and started back to the cabin. It was on that trek that I felt myself being watched. Twice I stopped, looked in every direction, but couldn’t see anyone. I was unnerved by this. So much so that I brought my rifle down off my shoulder. Something was watching me, maybe even stalking me. I didn’t know what it was, wolf, human or spirit, I just felt better with that rifle at the ready

The last half mile to the cabin I saw her standing in the trail. I slowed my pace, heart thumping in my chest. She was still a silhouette and it was too far to tell if it was Nicole or the Leyak. I tried to focus, but I really couldn’t tell until Pat appeared at her side.

I let out a sigh of relief.

I waved and she waved back, then Pat came trotting down the trail to meet me. I stopped long enough to give him a rub and said, “Hey, old boy, I’m sure glad to see you.”

When we reached Nicole, she said, “We have to talk.”

She was leaving or so I thought.

We went back into the cabin and I got out of my gear. “What is it?”

“The Leyak has come back. It killed a young man last night, down below the Frank Channel Bridge.” She held me with those almond eyes, her face grave.

“You’re sure? How do you know it wasn’t a bad nightmare?”

“It wasn’t. I should have died out there at Boundary…”

“No, you should not have. What happened to you was not your fault, Nicole. You were the victim!”

“Yes, I was, but I let the Leyak inside, gave it life. I gave it all my hate, Tony. I created a monster and now it has killed an innocent boy. I thought after those two men it would disappear, but it hasn’t and I know now that it will continue to kill.” Her voice was even, her demeanor pragmatic.

“You don’t know that!” I felt my cheeks flush. I loved this woman, had saved her from a horrible fate and she was saying that was wrong. “It could have been a dream.”

“I should have died along with my baby.”

“Stop saying that. Don’t you understand, I love you. I don’t ever want you to leave.”

She smiled thinly. “I love you, too, Tony Rourke. You are a sweet, gentle man. You were my savior that night. You scared them off and took me away, but I did not deserve to be saved.”

“Nic…” I started, but she cut me off.

“Because I gave that thing life. Because I wanted to avenge the death of my child. I gave it all my hate, everything, and now it has killed an innocent boy and…”

“How many more would Grogan and Stoltz have killed? How many innocent women would have died if the Leyak hadn’t…”

“It was in the woods with you today, stalking you.”

I stopped. “Stalking me.”

“Yes, Tony. It was there with you. I saw it. I see what it sees, because it is a part of me.”

“Why? To kill me as it did with Grogan and Stoltz? I am no rapist or murderer.”

“Neither was the boy by the river.”

“Why then?”

“Because it’s evil, and evil needs to feed. Grogan and Stoltz fed on fear and pain. The Leyak is no different. It must eat to continue its existence.”

“So, you’re saying that it was stalking me for food?”

“No, I think that was a warning to me.”

“A warning?”

“Yes. It knows I love you and if I interfere, it will take you away.”

“You mean kill me?”

“Yes. Kill you.”

“If you are right, what are we supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” she said, holding me in a watery gaze. A single silent tear rolled down her cheek. “I thought it would just fade away. I’m so sorry, I was selfish.”

I got up then and took her in my arms. She was so small and fragile, she sobbed against my shoulder and I held her a little tighter. When the convulsions eased, I felt her touch me and before I knew it we were kissing and moving toward the bed. I tried to be gentle, considerate to the tenderness of not only the physical wounding she endured, but the mental. She took me without complaint or discomfort, she was a willing lover. It was not just sex for me, I loved Nicole Castillo and this was the final consummation of that love. When it was done, we lay holding hands, listening to Pat snore in the other room. Before long, I began to fade and in my final waking moments I said, “Don’t ever leave me, Nicole.”

†††

Hours later, I was awakened by Pat’s barking. That and the sound of my pickup rolling down the drive and away from the house. I was getting my shirt on, slipping into my boots, all the while thinking, Who would want to steal my truck?

By the time I got outside, the taillights were just red dots, too far out to give chase on foot. The snow was gone, so my snowmobile was out of the question. I went back inside to get properly dressed and I saw the note sitting on my kitchen table.

My Sweet Tony,

I am sorry for the trouble I have caused. I know now that the Leyak will not stop unless I make it. It killed another tonight, a woman this time. I am going out to meet it at the place it was born. That is where it always goes after it kills. I do love you, but I must do this. Every time it kills, I see it. It holds part of me hostage, the sinful part.

I know you want to follow and I love you even more for that, but don’t. I must do this. For now, stay away from Boundary, at least for one day.

I will leave the keys for your truck under the floor mat.

Nicole

I put Pat in the house and hoofed it out to the road. The only thing I could do was try and thumb a ride to Boundary. My odds of getting picked up wouldn’t be too bad, if there was traffic around Edzo. It took me a half hour to get to highway 3. It was another hour by vehicle to Boundary. I hoped to make it there before Nicole did something stupid, but I wasn’t very confident. Another hour passed before I saw my first car and it was loaded with out-of-towners who never would have picked up a scruffy looking guy like me.

My ride came about twenty minutes after that, in a pickup truck even older than mine. It was a 1999 Ford F150 and the man behind the wheel was an Indian fellow with an eye patch. The box of the pickup was loaded down with furniture. I guessed he was moving.

“Where you going,” the big fellow asked.

“Boundary Creek,” I said.

“Ain’t much out at Boundary.”

“My pickup is out there, I have to grab it.”

“You got mechanical issues? I got jumpers and a toolbox. Even some oil and coolant if you need it.” The one-eyed man smiled pleasantly.

“No, nothing like that.” I lied. “The truck is working fine. I had a little too much to drink last night and caught a ride home. I really shouldn’t have been driving, so a friend took me home.” I tried to look embarrassed.

He chuckled, thinking about one of his own drunken misadventures I suppose, then said, “Been there, done that. Good thing you had a friend to pick you up. There was a murder the night before last, at the Frank Channel. A boy as I understand it.”

“That’s terrible,” I said.

“Yeah, I didn’t know the kid, but we lose too many young people to unnecessary things.”

We were quiet for a while, bumping along Highway 3. The silence was awkward, so I said, “My name’s Tony, Tony Rourke.”

He put out his right hand. “Dan Jack. Most folks call me ‘Axe’.”

I knew who he was. He and his brother Billy, along with a handful of others, blew up the Acadia Mine. At any other time, I probably would have engaged him in a discussion about it, but all I could think about was Nicole and the Leyak. So, I shook his hand limply and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Dan.”

We drove on in silence, until I saw the sign that read: PULL OFF—1 KM.

That was the Boundary Creek pull-off.

“There’s your stop,” Dan said. We rounded the corner and I saw the empty truck sitting there next to the old dumpster. He pulled to the side of the road. “You want me to wait; just to make sure she starts?”

“No, but thanks,” I said, and lied again. “I have a friend coming from YK in about half an hour, we’re going back to Edzo. If push comes to shove, I’ll catch another ride.”

“Your call.” He smiled and shook my hand again. “Nice to meet you, Tony.”

“You, too, Dan,” I said and got out.

“You’re sure?”

I managed a smile and said, “Thanks for the ride.”

“Take care, Tony,” he said.

I closed the door and started across the highway. He idled there for a few seconds, then drove away, on toward Yellowknife. I reached the truck, hoping to find her laid out across the bench seat, sleeping. Nothing. I glanced around, to the place where I had found her. Again, nothing. My heart tightened in my chest. I was too late.

I found her about thirty feet into the marshy land. She was on her side, her face half submerged in the spring thaw. Tiny broken reeds poked up from the ground. Her throat had been sliced through, her eyes were still open. They were grey and still. I imagined that the Leyak had killed her with the knife it had taken from Stoltz, but knew better. In the muddy water, a foot from her outstretched hand, lay one of my filleting knives. She had done this to herself, in the hopes that ending her life would end that of her other. I stood awhile, up to my ankles in the cool muck. Heartbroken, angry, cheated.

I went back to my truck, opened the box, and after I readied it, I went back to retrieve her body. She was so light, maybe 105 pounds. The whole process of lifting her from the marshy land and carrying her felt robotic, detached, until I lay her there in the box for a final ride back to my property. That’s when it hit me. I knelt behind the box, tailgate lowered, and balled my eyes out.

†††

The sun was up now—they stood outside—before the cairn of rocks Tony Rourke had used to mark Nicole’s Castillo’s grave. Winter had hit the NWT one last time.

“It was for nothing,” Rourke said. “The killing never stopped. The Leyak is still out there.” And then he began to sob. Pat moved up beside his leg, pushed against him, offering what comfort he could. He knelt and hugged his dog. “She took her own life for nothing.”

Logan and Keefe watched in silence.

Later, Rourke and his dog accompanied the two detectives back to the truck. He told them where he thought they would find the bodies of Grogan and Stoltz. He also told them where he thought the two killers’ dumping ground might be out at Prosperous. He finished by saying, “Nothing will stop it now.” Then he turned and went back to his cabin.

They drove out.

Logan was quiet, contemplating. The drive back toward YK was silent for about fifteen minutes and then Bobby Keefe said, “What the fuck do we do now, Howie?”

“We do what cops do,” Logan said. “We investigate. We get our butts up the Ingraham and find Quinn’s cabin. Then we look for a dumping ground at Prosperous.”

“What about the Leyak? Do you believe him?”

Logan didn’t answer that question. Not directly. “We gotta get the D.O.T to close every pull-off between Rae, Edzo and YK. And put out a press release that no one is to stop for strangers on Highway 3. We tell them what everyone already thinks. That there’s a killer on the road.”

“Okay,” Keefe said. “But how do we stop this thing?”

“Maybe, if we recover the bodies. All of them. Maybe it will stop.”

“So, you do believe him?”

Logan didn’t look over. He just nodded.

The world had changed.

The End

Ths week I am giving away a story that was originally published in an anthology called: CANOPIC JARS Tales of Mummies and Mummification. The story is called Run-off 31. It was published by Great Old Ones Publishing, and edited by Gregory L. Norris.

It apperared alongside authors such as, H.P. Lovecraft, Gord Rollo, B.E. Scully, and many more fantastic authors. This is my all time favorite anthology.

I’m going to do this every once in awhile. If you dig my stuff please purchase one of my works and leave a review.

Anyhow, that’s enough of that, here’s Run-Off 31.

Enjoy

MJ

RUN-OFF 31

A Short Story by MJ Preston

1

Chicago, Illinois

Summer, 2013

The bodies started turning up in late July. Before long, police began to think that this was not the work of one serial killer, but two, possibly even three.  The only flaw in this thinking lay in the fact that every victim had been left with an identical incision from solar plexus to belly button. Some of the detectives called them the ‘X Killings’, because carved into each victims belly was an X that was not a symbol, but the end result of evisceration.  The reason they speculated the killings couldn’t possibly be committed by one perpetrator, the sheer number of victims. To date there were 44, and the dead weren’t more than a day or two old when they began turning up. Now, into the end of August, meant only one thing, the killer or killers, were claiming a victim a day on average, with the odd double.

Sean Woodman was not assigned to the case, he wasn’t even a cop anymore, but he followed closely through the papers. It reminded him of a case he’d worked back in his days as a Chicago Police Detective. A case that was never closed. He’d been young and cocky back then, but along with his damn-the-torpedoes attitude, he also had a talent for seeing things others missed. And with the exception of that one unsolved case, he’d cleared a lot of murders. Those cleared cases garnished a respect which would eventually pave the way to a door plate which read: Deputy Chief of Police. That was the end of the line for Woodman.  He wasn’t a cop anymore, just a PR man who practiced politics with the best of them. Truth was, he hated it. He missed the smell of an unsolved case and made it his business to poke his head in on a task force or two to get a whiff of that scent.

At first they thought he was some crazy micro-manager from upstairs. But Woodman proved a great help to his fellow officers; and even better, he took zero credit. Word got around, and after a while the task force cops started coming to him for insight.

Chief Jorgenson didn’t like it though when Woodman got down in the trenches with the troops. Woodman thought that dislike was born out of resent. Jorgenson had been a career pencil pusher and had no cred with the cops he commanded. Although Jorgenson disapproved, there was no real reason to put a halt to Woodman’s actions. Woodman had balanced his position while Deputy Chief with an occasional task force consultation quite well.  When a case cleared, the Chief did what any politician would do. He held a press conference – congratulated his officers, and basked unabashedly in their success.

Then the unthinkable happened to Woodman. The unthinkable being, a car accident that resulted in the death of his wife Jesse. Then there was the trace amounts of alcohol in his bloodstream that hardly registered .04 on the breathalyzer. He hadn’t blown enough to be charged, he wasn’t legally drunk, but Jesse was gone and when word got out, the media hooked onto him like a pariah. They dogged him about the accident, and about how much he’d drank after someone leaked the blood alcohol tests.

His career ended in much the same way Jesse’s life ended. Abrupt and without mercy. He found himself standing before the Mayor and Chief Jorgenson. On either side of them, like book ends, a Public Relations Bitch and the City Lawyer. Set neatly on a table before them, a stack of paper roughly an inch and a half thick.

That’s the “The Big Fuck You”, he thought. Somewhere through that he heard the Mayor offering words of regret, and there was even a round of condolence. But it was hollow, the papers on that table spoke more about what was at play than these four assholes put together.  In the end he did the only thing he could do. He signed his resignation, took a handsome buyout and left them to pat each other on the back. That was the end of Sean Woodman’s career in the Chicago Police Department. And though he was gone, he never forgot that one big case that got away. The one with the Indian named Blackbird and the bodies of woman they found in the Chicago sewers. They had also been eviscerated,  but the belly’s of those girls had been torn open. They called the case Little Big Horn, because on the evening of the last murder there had been an exchange of fire which included the use of a cross bow. Considering that Daniel Blackbird had been of Native descent and was the one firing the arrows, the name stuck. 

Scott Emmett showed up on Woodman’s doorstep with a case file thicker than a city phone book. He liked Emmett, but he was adamant that his days as a cop were over. Emmett was the son-in- law of his partner and best friend, Brad Rosedale. Coincidentally, Rosedale had been a part of that forgotten case as well. Unlike Woodman, Brad moved on. In fact he moved all the way on down to Tennessee; somewhere between Nashville and Memphis with his third wife.

“I can’t do this Scott. In fact if Jorgenson found out you were on my doorstep you could find yourself in deep shit. You could lose your job.”

“Well, normally I’d say fuck Jorgenson, but to be honest, he sanctioned this visit,” Emmett replied.

“Don Jorgenson told you to come see me?”

“Yeah.”

Woodman laughed, not because it was funny, but because he couldn’t believe the bastard would have the nerve. “Nothing personal Scott, but you can tell Jorgenson to go fuck himself.”

“We need your help Sean.”

“Why should I care? I’m not a cop anymore.”

“The last one was a 10 year-old girl.”

“Jesus Christ.” Woodman sighed and pushed open the screen door. Emmett stepped through the doorway and followed Woodman down the hall of his two room bungalow. “You know that the whole ‘last one was a ten-year-old girl’ is pretty fucking lame, little girls get murdered all the time.”

“There’s something else.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“We have a suspect.”

“You’ve made an arrest? I didn’t read anything in the papers.”

“No, not exactly, but we, know … I need your help.”

“So, you want what? Me to sit down with this guy. Jorgenson can’t be agreeing to that. This is all over the papers. I could see the headline. High profile case pulls disgraced Deputy Chief out of retirement. As much as I would love to make that Fuck-Stick squirm, I still have my daughter to think about.”

“How is Stacey?”

“I don’t know, she hates my guts. I killed her mother after all.”

“There’s one other thing Sean.”

“What’s that?”

“The suspect says he knows you.”

“What? Who is he?”

“He doesn’t have a name, but he says he knows you and won’t talk to anyone else.”

2

They rode in Emmett’s car. Woodman leafed through the case file, Emmett briefing him as they rode. “He’s approximately 40 years-old, no tattoos and he’s huge.”

“You mean fat!” Sean was staring at one of the crime scene photos. It was the body of a woman, she was nude, her stomach unzipped.

“No, tall. Stands like 7 foot 3. Scary looking fucker.”

“Where did you pick him up?”

“That’s where we’re going now.”

“How would he know me?”

“I don’t know, but we found something.”

“What? What did you find?”

Emmett turned toward him, his face serious. “It will be better if you see it. This guy identified you by name. He said you would know him if you met him and he said one other thing.” Emmett turned his attention back to the road.

“What?”

“He said: I am Number 4.”

“What? Where? What the fuck? Where the fuck are you taking me?”

“We’re going to the run-off.” Emmett glanced over, then back to the road. “ Run-off 31.”

Woodman fell silent, but his mind raced. Run-off 31. Did they? Was it possible? After all these years?  Had they finally caught him. His teeth clenched, turning his cheeks out into hardened contours of meat.

3

Being back down here, plodding through the sewers, sent tremors through Woodman. It wasn’t just the claustrophobia, it was the smell, the dripping sounds, and below the pungent order of methane and human waste lay something darker. Woodman thought about the Nazi death camps and the smell associated with them. Real or imagined, those who visited those dark satanic mills associated that smell with death. This place was very much the same and though it had been almost 14 years, he still recalled the bloated headless corpses in Run-off 31. They got more than they bargained for when they, Chicago PD, went down below. A log jam of  bodies, all headless and eviscerated, crammed into that run-off, like…

“Spoils.” Rosedale called from the past. “Like a bunch of fucking discarded chicken carcasses.”

Up front, Emmett waded through the sludge, stirring the septic slew with his hip waders, creating a tide of lurching waves that lapped against the scum coated walls of the underground tunnel. Woodman felt the pressure of the liquid pushing his own waders against his legs. Emmett had come prepared.

“You boys are going to bring the suspect through this shit, seriously?”

Emmett stopped, swung about, the beam of his flashlight gliding across the glistening walls. Facing Woodman, he said. “He’s already there.”

“I thought you said that you guys had him in custody.”

“Not exactly. He’s contained.”

“What the fuck is up here, Emmett?”

Emmett chewed his lower lip, eyes losing focus momentarily. Then his gaze hardened and he turned to continue on. “It will be better if I show you.” Woodman considered protesting, but his curiosity had the better of him and at this point complaining would accomplish little, if anything. So, he did the only thing he could do, he followed the young officer and they continued on toward the run-off.

They reached the mouth ten minutes later. The arch of concrete was a little over eight feet high. This section of the sewer was as old as the city itself. The walls pitted and worn, falling victim to the elements and toxicity of gas vapors. Emmett halted, tracing the beam of  light up the wall until it fell upon a rectangular plate stamped out of brass that had long since faded and turned green.

It read: RUN-OFF 31.

Woodman didn’t need the sign. This place was etched into his memory. Through that archway, thirty feet ahead bobbed the horrific memory of his cold case.

“Are you ready?” Emmett’s gaze was neutral, even distant.

“Yeah, lets do this,”

They waded forward; sloshing liquid bounced off the conduit walls announcing their presence to the subterranean wildlife. A rat scurried along the edge and dove into the slew dog-paddling away from them. Thirty feet in Woodman stopped, listening for the ghosts of his past, wondering if they were watching him now. Emmett said nothing, waiting patiently for the moment of silence to pass. It did and Woodman whispered, “Let’s go.”

Sixty feet in, they came to a Y-Junction, to the left, the run-off continued its course to wherever it was the water flowed. To the right, the path began to climb out of the murky liquid. At its base slimy cobble awaited, but further up it looked dry. The archway was still high enough to walk upright and for this Woodman was thankful. His back was thankful as well.

“What do you make of this?”

Scrawled into the cobble by their feet was a single word: CHARON. The inscription was not old, weeks, perhaps as long as a month, and it was done free-hand, chiseled into the cobblestone and blotted with what looked to be blood.

Woodman studied it, something in that name struck a chord, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “I  don’t know. Could it be the name of your Perp?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Okay, that’s it! What in the name of fuck is going on here? First you tell me you want me to speak to a suspect, then you drag me down into the sewers. Now I’m taken back to the scene of an old case and you’ve been … well, cryptic seems to be the operative word.”

Emmett’s gaze was trained upon him, but he said nothing.

“Okay that’s it!”  Woodman swung around, ready to wade back into the septic stream.

“Wait.”

He stopped.

“Almost everything I told you is true, Sean.  We need your help.”

His back still turned, Woodman responded. “You want my help. Start talking.”

“Okay.”

He pivoted back around to face Emmett. “I’m waiting.”

Emmett took a long, deliberate breath then exhaled. “We tracked our suspect here this afternoon after the body of a ten year old girl turned up in St. Paul Woods. This was a fresh kill, crime scene puts it down to hours. The mother wasn’t even aware yet that the daughter was missing, let alone dead. She’s a turn key kid, with a single mom working two jobs. Some old homeless guy picking bottles and cans came across her, and he saw the murder.”

“He didn’t intervene?” 

“As I said before, the Perp is huge, I don’t think our witness could have done much.”

“Never mind, carry on.”

“The old man, he’s a mess. He said that the girl was screaming when the ghoul cut her open. Screaming and begging for her life.” Emmett stopped, took another deep breath and carried on. “So, when it’s over, the old guy says the Perp removed her organs and put them into some kind of carry bag then starts out across the park. The homeless guy decides to follow at a fair distance I might add, but God love him for showing some balls. He follows the Perp out of St. Paul over to Oakton Street all the way into Skokie. Two fucking miles, Sean. Guess where it leads him?”

Woodman said, “Little Big Horn.”

“You got it. Same place your guy was dumping bodies down the sewer. Same alley. Same fucking manhole. Except this guy pulls back the manhole cover and goes down the hole like a fucking … what did they call those underground moles in H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine?”

“Morlocks?”

“Yeah like a fucking Morlock. Not far from there, there’s a community Precinct. After the Perp goes down the hole, the old guy makes for the Precinct. Takes him about 20 minutes to convince the community cop he’s not a loon, twenty more minutes to locate the body and another ten to call us. We were mobile within an hour and a half.  I figured he was long gone.  Then, on a hunch I decided to check the Run-off. That’s where we found him. Where he is now.”

“Why isn’t he in the tombs under lock and key?”

“Because we don’t have him in custody. We just have him cornered.” 

Anger bubbled up. “Cornered! You brought me to an apprehension?  I don’t even have a gun! What the fuck is the matter with you!”

Emmett reached into his jacket and produced a Desert Eagle 9 mm. “You can have this if it makes you feel better, but you won’t need it. He’s behind some kind of plexus-glass barrier.”

“Barrier?”

“Sean, please. Come with me, it’s only another 600 yards. He says he knows you. Says that he is Number 4, he won’t talk to anyone but you. The others are waiting. We’ve got ten armed cops down there, you have my spare gun. I need you to talk to this guy, he’s up to something, but I’m not sure what. I can stand here and debrief you for another hour, but it will be easier if you just follow me the rest of the way.”

“Is it the man from Little Big Horn? Do you think this is my guy.”

“I really don’t know. That’s for you to decide.”

Both men carried on into the darkness.

4

“This is Detective Emmett! I am entering the scene with former Deputy Chief Sean Woodman!” Emmett shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. “Answer, God damn it!”

“Okay Detective, it’s clear for you to enter.”

The light at the end opened up into a pumping station that had been cut in half by a barrier that indeed looked like plexus-glass. On one side, strategically positioned, police officers stood, weapons drawn and at the ready. On the other, a lone silhouette sat staring out at his captors over a sea of clay pottery. The lighting was dim, but Woodman caught the grin that suddenly formed on the strangers face and knew that this sudden show of pleasure was due mostly to his arrival.

“What the fuck is he doing here,” Woodman cussed when he saw Jorgenson walking toward him.

“I’m sorry Sean, I didn’t think you’d come if I told you.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t have.”

“Thank you for coming Sean,” Chief Jorgenson stuck out his hand.

Woodman turned his attention from Emmett to Jorgenson. “Put it away, Jorg, I’m not shaking your fucking hand,” he said, then raising his voice just slightly, added. “Would I be correct to assume that that pottery contains what was taken from the victims?”

“Yeah, that would be correct.” Jorgenson lowered his hand and placed it into his pocket. He took a cursory glance around to see if his subordinates had noticed; they had.

“How did he get in there?”

“We don’t know.”

Then, from behind. “Wood Man.”

Startled, Woodman pivoted to face the Perp.

He rose, strode forward, coming into the light. He was a giant of a man. His hands hung like machinery at his sides. His clothes still stained with copper, giving testament to the last killing. His face was hard and angular, bone and muscle pulled his skin back making him look gaunt.

“I have been waiting for you?”

“You have. Why?”

“Because you have seen him.”

“Who?”

“Keh Run of course.”

“I don’t know any Keh Run. Who are you?”

“I am Number 4.”

“How did you get in there? Who is Keh Run?”

The stranger frowned. “I do not like games, Wood Man.”

Woodman thought back to the inscription in the cobblestone.  Charon. “Was that his name at the base of the tunnel?  I thought it was pronounced Charon, not Keh-Run.”

“Yes, Charon.”  He smiled again, revealing uniform planks of yellow teeth, looking more like old fence boards stacked on top of each other.  He folded his hands neatly in front him, tilting his head downward.

“You said you knew me.” Woodman decided to ask the question that was eating him. “Have you done this before? Back in 2001? Was that you?”  He brought his eyes up to meet the stranger, steeling his expression and waiting.

The stranger’s smile melted back into his milky complexion. He turned and moved back between the pots, settling down on his pedestal; arms crossed. From there, shadows fell upon his face, making it look skull-like.

“What now?” Emmett whispered.

Woodman cocked his head right, catching Jorgenson and Emmett’s attention and glanced toward the opening of the pump room. They took the hint and followed. Once out of earshot, he began talking. “This isn’t my guy.”

“How can you be sure?”

“The girls back in 2001 were torn open, their heads literally twisted off. This wacko is emulating that, but he wouldn’t know the state of the victims were in. Does anyone have a cell phone that works down here?”

Emmett pulled out his iPhone. “Yeah, I have a signal.”

“Okay, Google Charon.”

From above, a muddy drop of water fell downward and splashed  across the screen.

“Fuck.” He wiped it with his sleeve or he tried to, then stopped. “It’s going to take a second, the touch screen doesn’t react well to liquid poo.”

Woodman and Jorgenson both laughed, but stifled their amusement when they saw the other sharing in the joke. “So what’s your contingency plan?” Woodman asked.

“I’ve got a SWAT team coming down with a fixed charge. If you can’t talk him out, we’ll go tactical and take the fucker out.” Jorgenson nudged Emmett. “How are you making out?”

“Give me a second, the signal is pretty weak.”

“There has to be another way in? Are you looking at that?”

“I’ve got a city works guy coming with blue prints, but these are some old fucking tunnels. When I called over the Chief of Operations he asked me if I was kidding.  Said that finding a blue-print of this section might take a lot of hours.”

“But he found them?”

“Yeah, he’s conferring with the SWAT Lieutenant.”

“Got it! Holy shit, if this is right, this dude has some serious expectations of you, Sean.”

Woodman reached over, took the phone and began to read. He didn’t have his glasses, but the font was large enough that he didn’t struggle too much. After he finished, he passed the phone over to Jorgenson and said, “Well, at least we know who Charon is.”

“He’s certifiable,” Jorgenson said.

“Really? You needed Google to figure that out, eh, Jorg? The whole evisceration thing didn’t tip you off?” Woodman regretted letting that out only a second after it spilled from his mouth. Bitterness would accomplish nothing here.

Jorgenson glanced up, his face red and angry. “You don’t want to be here. I’ll have an officer escort you out. I didn’t end your career, you did.”

“Could we save this for another time?” Emmett interrupted.

Woodman didn’t give Jorgenson a chance to respond. He walked out of the pump room back to the plexus. “The boatman. You’re waiting for the boatman to arrive?”

The stranger rose. “Charon, yes. I have a tidy sum to give him.”

“Who are you?”

“I told you, I am Number 4.” He reached down and lifted the lid from one of the pots. “One left to fill, then Charon will come for me.”

“What is this? Why did you ask for me?”

The stranger smiled. “You will see.”

From behind, Jorgenson whispered, “ I just got word, they have found another tunnel that’ll lead them in. Tactical will be here in five, keep him talking.”

“Why do you call yourself Number 4?”

“Because I am not the first.” He stood, walked to the back of the enclosure. “I am the fourth servant, cast down to earth. But to find my way back to the Master, I must first do his bidding and payment must be made.”

“Payment to Charon?”

From behind, Jorgenson again. “Four minutes.”

“Yes, but he is also a servant. He will take my payment, but the cargo will not be his to keep.” The stranger reached up onto the wall and flicked a switch. The room lit up, shadows retreating into the walls and in their absence Woodman saw it all.

There behind him, amongst the many clay pots, smeared with copper that could only be coagulant held a new source of concern. Was it? Could it be? Beneath a tarpaulin standing upright was a figure that could only be…

“Behold, Wood Man!” The stranger said and pulled away the tarp.

Horror cut through him like rusty barb wire. Woodman’s eyes widened, his thoughts spinning and as shock melted over him he could hear himself screaming. “No! No! No! No!”

From behind, Jorgenson again. Panicked. “Keep him talking. Tactical is close.”

“Stacey!”

She was barely conscious, not a strip of clothing on her body, her arms tied behind her back, her belly exposed. Like a witch on a stake.

“Jesus Christ, no! Let her go, please. ”

“Forty five is the number, Wood Man.”

There below her, a pot was waiting. It’s lid removed.

The Officers at the scene raised their weapons. Safeties clicked off.

The stranger reached down and produced a knife, its blade long and curving into a hook.  He stepped forward and blew into her face. “Wake, child.”

“You fucking psycho, let her go!” Woodman was blubbering. “Please, take me instead!”

 Suddenly conscious, Stacey whimpered, “Daddy?”

 “It’s time, Wood Man.” He grinned and raised the blade.

“Shoot! Shoot the fucker!” Jorgenson ordered.

The underground room exploded in a barrage of gunfire. Bullets ricocheted off the plexus, one zipping past Woodman’s head. Another struck Jorgenson in the throat opening his jugular. Blood spurted out of the wound, splashing upward against the plexus; first defying gravity then it began to flow downward.  Another officer was struck in the ankle, bone fragments splintered from the skin in porcupine fashion.

The stranger seemed not to notice.

Woodman begged – pleaded – cried and then fell to his knees when the knife cut up into her belly on its first diagonal pass. Stacey stiffened, her eyes locking with her father’s. Then, after the second cut, she screamed, but only for a second; it was drowned out by her father’s howls of anguish.

Emmett ordered, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” Then a bullet cut into his guts, turning his knees to rubber. As if in prayer, he dropped and let loose a groan that exemplified agony.

Woodman could only hope a stray bullet would take him, but the barrage fell silent, replaced by  ringing disbelief.  Stacey’s chin rested against her chest, her mouth opening and closing, her pupils dilating.

Woodman prayed, Take her, please take her now.

Then, with one hooked hand, the stranger who called himself “Number 4” reached inside and to  eviscerate her. She was gone before the audible plop, her insides warming the cool clay jar.

 The stranger came to the glass, and with one bloodied finger wrote the word: Charon.

“Your soul for hers,” he invited.

“You bastard, you fucking psycho piece of shit!”

From the headset that now lay beside a dead Jorgenson, he heard, “One minute to breach!”

The stranger returned to the center of the pots and stood on his pedestal. Then he began to pray aloud in some foreign tongue. It was rhythmic, rising and falling. Woodman had never heard the language, but it was indeed a language.

“You’re going to get the needle for this, you sick fuck!”

“Shay-gra-che-Keh-Run-la-a-Jee,” he prayed, a chant of psychobabble. “Keh Run-la-a-Jee! Charon! La-a-jee! Charon! La-a-jee!”

Something began to happen.

From each pot a light began to bloom, first growing then pulsing like a heartbeat. All of them, all 45 glowed in a myriad of color. The temperature plummeted, frost forming on the walls, turning breath into vapor.

“What’s happening?” someone asked.

The stranger began to change as well. His face hardening, the milky skin turning first to serape and then ashen. The radiance from the pots increased, the stranger raised a hand, his skin crumbling away like cigarette ash leaving only an accusing boney talon. “Behold,” he said.

Behind him, the wall began to ripple and then fade. Light dissolved the matrix of reality and the wall was no more. Reality buckled – came apart –  a corridor materialized; a long wide passageway set in stone bookmarking each side, halfway filled with water. Down that passage was a place that those who feared for their eternal soul would not dare look.

Woodman, mouth agape, remembered what he’d read.  Dark and dismal, the River of Acheson and across the Styx cometh the boatman: Charon to collect the payment for safe passage to Hades.

The light inside each of the pots rose and materialized corporeally.

First he saw a man, then woman, then a child, then Stacey. Behind them, the stranger continued to decompose, muscle degenerating, skin tightening, until only mummified bone remained.

 “Oh my God,” the officer whose ankle had been shot called out.

Down the corridor, pushing against the current, the boatman was coming.

The ghostly forms gathered about the one who called himself Number 4 as he stepped from the pedestal, following him to the shoreline as the boatman approached.

“Hades,” Woodman mumbled.

“What?” Emmett grunted.

“Your soul for hers,” he had offered.

There’s still time. I can save her. I can stop him from taking her!

Woodman reached into his jacket pocket, felt the gun, wrapped his fingers around the pistol grip. “I can’t let this happen! I can’t let him take her!”

Almost at the shore now, soon the boatman would be ready to take them aboard. 

“Sean! What are you doing?” Emmett cried.

Sean Woodman placed the gun barrel under his chin, closed his eyes and squeezed.

***

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Thanks

MJ