The Forest Bull (The Fearless) Page 17

  I sliced another wedge of the orange, perfect and simple. So different from all of the rest of what was becoming a very complicated life.

  “Are you going to the Butterfly today?” I asked her, handing her the next section of her orange.

  Reaching out, she nodded and said, “I want to eat lunch with my sister and feel normal for ten seconds, not like--merde!”- She cursed abruptly in accented French when the orange slipped from her fingers and hit the floor. “Sorry. Clumsy!” she said, abashed at her minor outcry.

  “You cuss like a sailor, but not in English?” I asked her, bending down to wipe the floor with a towel. I didn’t want her to see my face at that moment. I had heard that same curse, once before. At the beach. With Senya.

  “I do,” she admitted, sheepish. “My grandfather taught me the best cursing was in French. It has more vibrancy when you’re being dirty, don’t you think?” she laughed, as she described the potency of lurid cussing in her second tongue.

  “That it does,” I agreed with a forced smile. “I hope you enjoy lunch with Boon. It’s important to have family. People you can rely on.” I told her all this with a pasty grin, knowing that her simple little outburst had revealed who the Baron’s informant was and how little I knew about Cazimir, Elizabeth, and everything.

  When Suma left, I hurried to Risa’s room to find her quietly reading on her laptop. Before I could say anything, she waved me over and pointedly turned the screen for me to see. On it hovered an email from Hayseed, with the simple message Let’s talk, all four of us, video, noon. Most important. This was highly unusual for him or for any other members of our thin community, but, without any discussion, I told her, “I’ll go get Wally up and alert. I’ve got ninety minutes, which gives me one to spare.”

  With that, I went to wake the beast and Gyro, who was doubtless sharing her bed in all his furry glory.

  We assembled in the kitchen, just as we had done the first time we spoke to Cazimir. Wally understood the gravity of the call, so she was ready, reasonably dressed, and had made some overture at grooming. It was a start. I decided that now was as good as any to drop the bombshell that Suma was a turncoat who was feeding information to the Baron.

  “Before Hayseed comes on, since we’re here, I found out who is working for the Baron.” I started, grabbing the girls’ undivided attention.

  “Who?” they blurted in unison.

  “How do you know?” Risa continued, while Wally’s wheels began to turn, processing this information.

  “Well, it’s Suma.” I said, expecting the worst. I was right.

  “Bullshit. Seriously? How- wha--but she’s family!” Wally spat, incensed. Risa glowered, already looking for angles.

  “Explain,” Risa said simply.

  I gathered myself, looking quickly at the clock. We had three minutes. Not my best application of Army logistics, but what the hell.

  “Senya. Remember her?” I asked, and, when the girls motioned that they did, continued. “The night I met her. At the beach, we were in the alcove of that turquoise hotel next to Vince’s; that’s where I offed her. Before we were in the clinches, I heard a woman’s footsteps following us, then dropping her keys and swearing in French, but it wasn’t some tourist who spoke the language naturally, it was accented. At the time, I didn’t know how, but as of this morning, I do. It’s a Thai accent, and the voice was Suma.”

  Before there were questions, I pressed on. “I handed her an orange, and she dropped it. She cursed in French. Her grandfather was from Marseilles, and he taught her the language. It was her that night. I know it. Same tone, same accent, same everything.”

  Risa asked, “Does she know you know?”

  I shook my head. “No, I looked down, away, whatever I had to. I know I was shocked as shit, but I hid it. She suspects nothing. The questions are why? To what end? How the hell did the Baron find her?”

  “Does she know Elizabeth? That’s what I want to know. Because, if she leads that woman to her own family, then she is compromised beyond saving.” Risa assessed Suma’s level of depravity in sad tones.

  Before we could continue, the laptop pinged, and it was time for our chat with Hayseed. I had no idea what to expect, but I knew I was sick of lies.

  “I hope he isn’t full of shit. I don’t know if I can take any more lying and still be anything close to reasonable.” I groused, voicing what we all felt.

  The man who appeared on the screen looked like anything but a liar. He was in his late fifties and had the bearing of a steady Midwesterner. He had cheerful green eyes over a long nose with salt and pepper hair cut short, but not quite military regulation short. He smiled easily at us and dipped his head in acknowledgement of our image.

  “I’ll never feel like I’ve kept up with technology. Just when I think I’m current, something becomes commonplace from the science fiction I read as a kid. I’m Lyle Caldwell. Hayseed, by another name,” he introduced himself to us with a nod and waited politely for a reply.

  I made our introductions. “I’m Ring Hardigan. This is Risa Wexler.” She smiled and said hello. “And Waleska Schmidt, or Wally, which will fit her once you see how she eats.” Wally punched my arm and smiled brilliantly at the screen.

  Lyle was captivated, even across the miles, which was not lost on Risa, who sighed under her breath.

  “I handle most of our actual up-close-and-personal interaction with the immortals. Risa and Wally take care of anything that requires human persuasion, information, logistics, and things like that. And we live together, too, so feel free to say whatever you want. We have no secrets, although we will keep whatever information you discuss today completely private.”

  That seemed to please Lyle, who folded and unfolded his big, capable looking hands on the table in front of him once before he spoke.

  “I have my target cornered. Twelve years of work. I’ll finish it tonight.” Lyle said in a neutral tone. I recognized it as someone who faces the end of their life’s work and cannot see beyond that second. It’s a form of mourning, and it was all over his broad, honest face.

  Wally asked for details about the creature, giving voice to our collective morbid curiosity.

  “There were two humans working in congress with the female” he began, “but, as of this morning, only one.” He grimaced in memory of the kill. It must have been an entirely different kind of shock to kill a human, or someone who was nearly so. “She’s holed up in the subcellar of an abandoned dairy barn, and her remaining partner is injured. I’m letting him bleed out. He’s got some skill as a fighter, and the location is just close enough to a populated area that a gun is out of the question for dealing with him. For her, a knife--just like you’ve learned, Ring--a knife is what is needed to do the job right.” He stopped, drank from a bottle of water, and continued. “Tonight, I’ll take her. She’ll be very hungry, a bit weak. I’ve harried her for a week straight, no meals, and no rest. She’s ripe. That doesn’t mean it’s a sure thing, so we need to talk first, to make certain that what I’m doing is right,” he concluded with a questioning look at all of us in turn.

  “Right about killing her? What is she, anyway? A ghoul? Right?” I asked.

  “Oh, you’re right about what she is, Ring. She isn’t human, not even close. Her story is, well, I don’t know if it’s unusual among their kind. She’s living a long, slow burn towards complete depravity. In point of fact, she’s there now, but her human partners--Helpers, as you named them so aptly--well, they point her like a weapon and follow her, east to west, west to east. With each mile and season, she descends a little further towards complete animalism, to a point where, eventually, even the Helpers cannot reach or communicate with her.”

  “Is she from that area?” Wally asked, trying to establish a relationship between origin and habit.

  “Yes and no,” Lyle said thoughtfully. “Yes, she is from here. But not from our time. Or rather, not from the time of European settlers.”

  I whistled inward. Risa and Wally bo
th looked shocked. Another old one. They were popping up in our lives more regularly know. I can’t say it was a trend I was comfortable with.

  “How old, exactly?” I asked. The answer was worrisome.

  “Pre-Columbus. Maybe Neolithic. I don’t know. I took a sample, if you can call a finger a sample, of her DNA to the local college and had them test it, as a discreet favor to me. She’s something other than what we would call modern American, maybe Clovis. That isn’t the only evidence I’ve had examined as I’ve tried to pin down her identity. I got close, very close, about three years ago, caught a good look at her feeding, and saw a tattoo on her shoulder. It was grey, a hint of blue, very old. I think it was supposed to be antlers over a moon. It looked primitive and very personal, like something from a cave wall. It was simple but beautiful, quite different from the rest of her. She’s a complete horror. Ropy, thin muscles and slate skin, streaked with someone’s blood and viscera. Not big on hygiene” he joked. “She has teeth, if you can call them that. A mouthful. Sharp. Long nails, not pointed, but more like a mole. Or a badger. They’re formidable. She’s strong, can leap like a flea. Long, long black hair, a sodden, greasy mess--it hangs between her shoulder blades like a filthy rope. She’s nude, always, although her Helpers have covered her in rough cured furs at times. I think it reminds her of her human life. Maybe they used it to pacify her when they were on the move.”

  “Why did she move at all? Prey?” Risa asked.

  “Prey, sure. But there are undercurrents to her behavior. They bait the traps, she kills, and then they would . . . well, I wondered how they were both staying so young. I found out, and I wish I hadn’t” he finished, his cheeks coloring with memory and shame.

  “They were fucking her, right?” Wally blurted. Such language out of that mouth.

  To his credit, Lyle didn’t flinch. “Exactly. At the side of deserted roads. That’s how they did it.” Before I could interrupt, he explained. “For the last decade, at least, their bait has been a small roadside cross, a memorial. Like where people die in car crashes? You’ve seen them?”

  I had. They were often garishly sad, fading plastic flowers and a crude memorial marking the end of what was usually a young life. I said as much, and he went on.

  “They put out a cross with a name that can be anyone. It doesn’t matter who, , it’s just a detail. Small, wooden, hand-painted. Just another melancholy reminder of some forgotten sorrow. The cross is always at the edge of a larger field, preferably away from lights, not too close to town. Then the Helpers go to work. They used to infiltrate circles of young people, teenagers. They’d take a job at the drive-in, or McDonald’s, wherever. And then, when they had access to these kids, they would tell a ghost story.”

  “About the cross? Or the ghoul?” I asked Lyle, sickened by the elegance of the plan. I could infer where he was going with this narrative.

  “Both. I’ve heard variations going back as far as the earliest days of the frontier, but it’s essentially unchanged. The gravesite is haunted, say the Helpers, but only on the night of the new moon. It’s an atmospheric detail, but it serves a purpose. The curious come to a darkened, secluded place, unarmed, maybe drunk, giggling, the machismo of the boys in overdrive as they try to impress the girls who shriek at shadows, maybe the boys cop a quick squeeze of titty . . . sorry, I’m just tired of hearing the same story.” He gathered his wits and went on, angering with the recollection of this movie that was playing out with every new moon.

  “But, for every group of unbelievers who come and go, disappointed. there are the loners. The late arrivals. The genuinely curious. That’s whom she hunts, kills. Rending, eating. That’s whose blood hits the thirsty soil and draws crows the next day, a cacophony to commemorate someone who will be largely forgotten by the next hard rain. Well, goddamnit, I won’t, not for secon, now I have this filthy bitch dead to rights in a hole and I’m going to gut her like a carp.” He was incensed by his own speech, breathing in quick, shallow gulps. I would have been leery of sitting in the same room with him. his rage was that palpable.

  We were taken aback momentarily, during which time Lyle regained his composure and said “I actually have a favor to ask of you. It’s about money. Or, rather, spending some money.”

  “Okay. Umm, well, what about it?” I offered, cautiously.

  “I’m not going to lie; I don’t leave these immortals their worldly goods when I send them to the skies. I know that their wealth is ill-gotten, but I believe that it can be well spent. Do you understand?” Lyle inquired of all three of us.

  We did, and we agreed. It was our policy, and we stated it, clearly. I went one step further and revealed the nature of our relationships with Boon and Pan and how they were extended family to us.

  “In fact, I think we agree that, if anything happened to us, Liz Brenneman would be appointed executor of our collective estate. We trust her implicitly and know that our money would go to the right places-- Boon, Pan, their kids, and anyone else who needed it.” I elaborated. Lyle seemed impressed, and his body language changed, relaxing visibly when I gave him the framework of how we spent the money we collected from immortals. He nodded to himself as if reaching a decision.

  “I think it’s time for me to get ready for my visit. Thank you for taking the time to chat; it’s a rarity to have real interactions anymore, after all these years alone.” Lyle placed his hands flat on the table from which he spoke. They looked like weather-beaten wood.

  Risa asked him in a rush, “Are you alone because of the ghoul, whatever she is called?” She was curious but respectful. Lyle had the aura of a gentleman, he deserved it.

  He looked away and then at us, in turn, memory alive on his face and uncomfortably real.

  “My daughter. Allison. She was the loner riding up last on a squeaky bicycle. The Helpers had placed a cross by the road three miles from my house. I was so busy, so involved in my own pursuit of money, I didn’t retain that my own daughter told me she was riding her bike on a dark, moonless road to see a monster who was supposed to lurk in a shadowed ditch. And, because I was a selfish, thoughtless bastard, my own flesh and blood, the baby I held . . . she worshipped me from the minute her mother left, and I never paid her the respect and attention she deserved. What a brave and funny little child, so resilient, so loving. And I ignored her to the point that she rode a second-hand bike to the place where she was butchered and eaten like a prize hog, all alone. Even when she was with me, she was alone, and she died alone. And then those Helpers fucked that ghoul insensate, drawing life from her, just as she did from my daughter. That’s how they’re staying so young, you know? They rut like beasts after her kills, splattered with the blood of an innocent and howling their pleasure at the sky. And tonight, she dies. She dies baying at my hand, and then I can die, my life’s work complete.” And with that, he cut the connection, and we sat in horrified silence, edging closer to each other and thanking God that we did not know his pain.

  Dinner was a muted affair where we tried to avoid talking about Lyle and whether he could survive his encounter with his daughter’s killer. We ate listlessly and said as few words as possible, the pall of a child’s passing lingering with us into the night.

  The three of us fell asleep huddled together on the couch, all sharing the fear that, tonight, Lyle’s life would end, but not his work.

  From Risa’s Files

  Lyle Gaines Caldwell, 62, passed on to be with the Lord. A well-known and respected businessman, he built the area’s most successful heavy farm implement dealership over three decades of work. He was preceded in death by his parents, his ex-wife, Marilyn, and his daughter, Allison. He leaves behind no family, and his will asks that, in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the Great Plains Missing Children’s Fund. He will be interred at Sulfur Bluff Cemetery. There will be no services per his request.

  Florida

  If I’ve ever been a sleepwalker, I certainly don’t remember it, but the next three days seemed to approximate my suspicio
ns about what it might be like. The news of Suma was schismatic, a fundamental betrayal that left us in a position so unwelcome we weren’t sure how to proceed. Risa and Wally would start a conversation on the topic, only to trail off in frustration. There was no solution that did not involve harming Boon and Pan. There was no direction that did not raise the specter that we were already in mortal danger due to Suma’s lies. In short, we were fucked. And I hated every second of the powerlessness that accompanied knowing we had to find a resolution, regardless of the destruction it caused.

  Over the next days, it was Risa who began asking questions first. We were watching Gyro bark at the ducks patrolling the seawall when she began to pepper Wally and me with a litany of queries.

  “We know that the immortals don’t necessarily like each other, right? It could be a bizarre form of sibling rivalry, or maybe elitism between the different age groups . . . I’m not sure. I think it’s reasonable to start with some basics, like who benefits from knowing about our activities. Or is there even a benefit?” Risa asked us, beginning a dialogue encompassing all of the murder and weirdness that seemed to be accelerating around us.

  “Follow the money” Wally replied. “Immortals can make or take wealth at will from the living, yes? What is their most important currency? Their equivalent to money?” It was a brilliant point. Until that second, I had been trapped in my thinking. Why would the everlasting care about money like we did? There was one thing that they all craved, every single one we met and killed.