The Complete Beast House Chronicles

  Jud wasn’t much concerned about the front. In the Thorn and Kutch killings, the assailant had apparently entered by breaking rear windows. He must’ve come across the yard from the woods behind the house.

  If anyone entered tonight, Jud would get a look at him.

  But not a shot at him.

  That would have to wait. You don’t take down a bastard just because he goes into a house at night, or because he’s wearing a monkey suit. You’ve gotta be sure.

  He scanned the area with his binoculars. Then he ate another sandwich, washing it down with canteen water.

  When the sun was too low to keep him warm, he put on his shirt. It was dry, now, and slightly stiff. He tucked it into his jeans.

  Lighting another cigar, he leaned back against the steep rock face. The protective uprise of rocks at the front of his ledge blocked some of his view. The entire backside of the house was still visible, though. He would settle for that. A fair exchange, so he wouldn’t have to squat or crouch his way through the night.

  After watching the house for an hour, he folded his parka and sat on it. Its thickness not only padded the hard ground but also gave him extra height, improving his view.

  As he watched, he thought of many things. He concentrated on what he’d learned of the beast, searching for the most plausible explanation of its identity Always, he came back to the time element: the first killings in 1903, the most recent in 1977. That certainly seemed to rule out the possibility that one man had performed all the killings.

  Yet he couldn’t buy the idea that the killer was some ageless, clawed monster. In spite of what Larry had said. In spite of Maggie Kutch’s stories.

  In spite of the scars on Larry’s back?

  A human could have made those scars. If not with fingernails, then with the claws of artificial paws. A human dressed up in a monkey suit – or a beast suit.

  What about the time element, then? Almost seventy-five years.

  Okay, several humans in beast suits.

  Okay, who and why?

  Suddenly he had a theory. The more he puzzled over his theory, the better it looked. As he began to reflect on ways to gather proof, however, he noticed that darkness had come.

  He crawled forward quickly to the stone lip. The house was black. Its lawn was a dark expanse, empty of detail like the surface of a lake on a cloudy night. Reaching into his pack, Jud pulled out a leather case. He opened its snap and removed a Starlight Noctron IV. Putting it to his eye, he made a quick scan of the house and lawn. In the eerie red light generated by his infrared scope, nothing seemed out of place.

  When his legs ached from squatting, he backed away from the front. He lowered the Starlight long enough to put on his coat. Then he stood, leaning back against the rock face, and continued his surveillance.

  If this theory was correct, he had nothing to gain by spending a cold night up here. He wouldn’t see any beast.

  Well, it couldn’t hurt to stick around.

  We should’ve put somebody inside the house. Bait.

  Who’d go in?

  Me, that’s who.

  Too early in the game for that. This is time for surveillance, a good look from a safe distance. Learn the nature of the enemy.

  If nothing else, I learn that the enemy didn’t enter the house tonight from the rear.

  The scope was growing heavy. He put it down and removed the final sandwich from his pack. As he ate it, he watched without the aid of his expensive scope, and could see little except darkness. He finished the sandwich quickly and returned to using the scope.

  After a while, he knelt and rested his elbows on the ledge of the rock. He scanned the yard, the edges of the forest, the gazebo, even the windows of the house, though their glass would block most heat that the scope might pick up.

  Leaving the scope in place on the rock, he stepped around his backpack and urinated into the darkness.

  He returned to the scope. He swept the grounds. Nothing. He glanced at his wristwatch. Just after ten-thirty. He settled down, then, and watched for nearly an hour without changing position.

  During that time, he thought about the beast. Thought about his theory. Thought about other nights he’d spent alone with a Starlight and a rifle. Thought a lot about Donna.

  He thought about the way she looked that morning in her corduroys and blouse, hands tucked into the hip pockets of her pants. They became his hands, stroking the warm smooth curves of her rump. Then he saw his hands unfastening the buttons of her blouse, slowly parting it, touching breasts he had never seen but could vividly imagine.

  Hard, his penis strained against the front of his pants.

  Think about the beast.

  Into his mind came the fat, black face of General Field Marshal and Emperor for Life Euphrates D. Kenyata. One of the big, round eyes vanished as a bullet ripped through it and took out the back of the Emperor’s skull.

  The Beast of Kampala was dead.

  And so was Jud’s erection.

  The guards – if they’d caught him. But they hadn’t. They hadn’t even come close. No closer than he’d allowed for, at least. Still, if they’d caught him . . .

  There!

  Just this side of the fence.

  He held the scope steady. Though something – probably a bush – blocked portions of the heat mage, he could see that the crouching figure had the basic shape of a human.

  It lay down flat. It shoved something forward, apparently through a gap beneath the fence. Then it squirmed under the fence, itself. On the other side, it picked up the object and stood upright on two legs. It looked both ways, turning.

  In profile, it had breasts.

  It ran to the back of the house, climbed stairs, and disappeared into a porch.

  A few seconds passed. Then Jud heard a quick, faint crash of breaking glass.

  3.

  When Jud reached the fence, gasping and hurting from his rush down the dark hillside, he didn’t take time to find the burrow. He tossed his flashlight through the bars of the fence, leapt up, and grasped the high crossbar with both hands. He flung himself upward. Stiff-armed, he braced himself above the bar. A muffled scream came from the house. His weight shifted forward too much, and he felt the point of a spike prod his belly. He leaned back, and kicked up his left leg. His foot found the bar. He shoved hard upward, letting go. His right leg cleared the spikes. He fell for a long time. When he hit the ground, he tumbled, rolled to his feet, and retrieved the flashlight. Then he sprinted to the back of the house.

  As he rushed up the porch steps, he unholstered his Colt .45 automatic. He wondered briefly if he should change clips – exchange the standard seven-shot magazine for the twenty-shot oversize he kept in his parka. Hell, if he couldn’t get it with seven . . . it?

  Inside the porch, the house door stood open. One of its glass panes was broken.

  He entered. He flicked on his flashlight, swung its beam. The kitchen. He ran through a doorway into a narrow hall. Ahead, he saw the stuffed-monkey umbrella holder, and the front door. He shined his light over his left shoulder. It lit the staircase bannister. He rushed to the foot of the stairs, checked to the left and right, then swung his beam up the stairway.

  Halfway up, it lit the red of a gasoline can lying on its side. He climbed to the can. Its caps were still in place. A three-foot length of rope had been passed through its handle and knotted, forming a sling. Liquid sloshed inside the can as he set it upright. He holstered his pistol and unscrewed one of the caps. He dropped it into his shirt pocket and sniffed the opening. Gasoline, all right. As he reached into his pocket for the cap, he heard breathing above him. Then a sound of parched laughter.

  His beam climbed the stairs, lit a bare leg running blood, a hip, a mauled breast, a face. Hair hung down the face. Blood trickled from its chin. A flap of forehead skin hung down, hiding one eye.

  More laughter came, as if trickling from her open mouth along with blood.

  ‘Mary?’ Jud called quietly up the stairs. ‘Mrs Zie
gler?’

  She came forward in a strange, gliding way, her arms swinging loosely, her legs barely seeming to move.

  Jud lowered his flashlight enough to see that her feet were two inches off the floor.

  ‘Oh God,’ he muttered, and started to reach for his pistol.

  The body flew down at him.

  He dropped to a crouch, bracing himself. The body struck him, rolled over his back with soft liquid sounds, and fell away. It thudded, hitting the stairs below him.

  Then something else hit his back.

  He shot his elbow into soft flesh and heard an explosion of breath. Gagging at the sour stench, he drove his elbow backward once more and twisted his body. Something sharp raked his shoulder, tearing his parka and skin as the heavy weight left his back. In pain, he dropped his automatic.

  He clawed at the stairs, trying to find it. He found the gas can instead. He grabbed it. From below came grunting, snarling sounds.

  Swinging the can, he splattered gasoline into the darkness. A pale shape appeared, hunched and climbing. He heard gas spatter it. Its arms flailed, and it shrieked. It knocked the can from Jud’s hands. He backed up the stairs, reaching into his shirt pocket. Behind the cigar box was a book of matches.

  Claws tore his thigh.

  He ripped a match free, still climbing backward. He scratched it across the abrasive strip and saw a blue splutter.

  The match didn’t light.

  But the thing was in midair, vaulting the bannister.

  It grunted, hitting the floor far below. Then it scampered away towards the kitchen.

  Jud searched the stairs until he found his flashlight and gun. Then he sat down, somewhere above the ravaged body of Mary Ziegler, and listened to the house.

  Chapter Ten

  Roy ached. Especially his shoulders and back. He felt as if he’d been driving forever. Only seven hours, though. He shouldn’t feel this bad, not after only seven hours.

  He reached into the bag beside him and felt the heat of the Big Macs. He started to pick one up. Then he set it down again. He could wait. He’d be stopping for the night, soon. That would be the time to eat.

  As he drove across the Golden Gate, he glanced to the right at Alcatraz. Too dark. He couldn’t see much except the signal light. Just as well. What did he want to see a fucking prison for, anyway?

  It’s not a prison, he reminded himself.

  Sure it is. Once a prison, always a prison. It could never be anything else.

  If he stayed on 101 another ten minutes, he’d be able to see San Quentin. Shit, as if he hadn’t seen enough of that scumhole.

  He didn’t want to think about it.

  He went ahead and took out a Big Mac. He unwrapped it. He ate slowly, watching the freeway signs. As he swallowed the last bite, he flicked on the turn signal and steered the Pontiac Grand Prix up the Mill Valley exit.

  Smooth. He liked the way it handled. Bob Mars Bar had good taste in cars.

  Mill Valley hadn’t changed much. It still had the feel of a small, country town. The Tamalpias Theater marquee was dark. The old bus depot looked the same as always. He wondered if it still had all those paperbacks. Over to the left, the old buildings had been replaced by a huge, wooden structure. The place was changing, but slowly.

  A big dog, part Lab, wandered into the intersection. Roy stepped on the gas and swerved to hit it, but the damn thing leapt out of range.

  At the end of town, he turned on to a road to Mount Tamalpais, Muir Woods, and Stinson Beach. It meandered into the wooded hills. For a while, he passed scattered, dark houses. Then they were gone. He drove deeper into the woods, sometimes slowing almost to a stop as he took the tight curves.

  When he came to a dirt turn-out, he pulled on to it and stopped. He shut off the headlights. Darkness wrapped the car. The dome light came on when he opened the door. He opened the back door and pulled a red Kelty backpack off the seat. After taking a flashlight from one of its side pockets, he shouldered the pack. He shut the car doors and stepped to the edge of the woods.

  The ground sloped gradually upward. Bushes caught at his jeans as he climbed. Soon after leaving the road, he tripped over a low strand of barbed wire. A barb punctured his pants, scratching his shin. He jerked his pants leg free and continued upward.

  At the top of the slope, he searched through the evergreens. They seemed closely packed. He was about to give up his search when the beam of his flashlight swept through a space that seemed fairly open. He stepped towards it and grinned.

  The clearing, about twenty feet around, had a good flat area for his sleeping bag. A circle of rocks remained where someone else had made a campfire. Inside the circle were half a dozen charred cans. Kneeling, Roy touched one of them. Cold.

  He scanned the area with his flashlight. All around the clearing, the forest seemed dark and silent.

  This would do fine.

  He lowered the backpack and opened it. On top was a plastic ground cloth. He spread it out. Then he took out a blue stuff bag, slipped the drawstring loose, and pulled out Bob’s mummy bag. He put it on top of the ground cloth.

  Should’ve brought one of those rubber pads, he thought. If only he’d thought of it.

  He wandered into the trees, gathering firewood. He picked up handfuls of kindling, and brought them to the circle of rocks. Then he gathered armloads of dead limbs until he had formed a high pile. He tossed the burned cans into the trees.

  With toilet paper from the pack, he started the fire. He fed it twigs. It grew, crackling and spitting. Its flames warmed his hands and cast fluttering light through the clearing. He added larger twigs. As the wood caught, he added more.

  ‘Now, there’s a healthy fire,’ he muttered.

  Three good fires in one day. He was getting a lot of practice.

  He stood over the fire, watching its flames leap and curl, feeling its heat on the front of his body. Then he stepped back, out of its heat. He picked up the flashlight.

  Once in a while, as he worked his way back through the thick woods, he looked over his shoulder. He could see the fire for a long time, its brightness shimmering on leaves over the clearing. By the time he reached the slope overlooking his car, no trace of the fire was visible.

  He climbed down slowly, carefully, to the car. From the front seat, he took the sack from McDonald’s. Then he stepped back to the trunk. He unlocked it. The lid swung up.

  Joni squinted when the light beam hit her eyes. She was lying on her side, covered by a plaid comforter.

  ‘Hungry?’ Roy asked.

  ‘No,’ she said in a pouty voice.

  The other times he’d opened the trunk, once every hour after leaving Santa Monica, she’d neither spoken nor moved. In fact, she hadn’t said a word since last night in the bathroom.

  ‘So, you’re not crackers after all.’ He pulled the comforter. Joni tried to hold on to it, but couldn’t. It jerked out of her hands.

  She curled herself more tightly.

  ‘Climb out of there,’ Roy said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do it, or I’ll hurt you.’

  ‘No.’

  He reached under her pleated skirt and pinched her thigh. She started to cry. ‘What’d I tell you? Now, get out of there.’

  On hands and knees, she climbed over the edge of the trunk, and lowered herself to the ground.

  Rou shut the trunk. He took the girl’s hand. ‘We’re gonna have a nice camp-out,’ he said.

  He climbed the slope, pulling Joni behind him. From her struggles and cries, he knew the undergrowth was punishing her bare legs. ‘Do you want me to carry you?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll carry you piggyback, and the bushes won’t hurt.’

  ‘I don’t want you to. You’re bad.’

  ‘I’m not bad.’

  ‘Yes you are. I know what you did.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘You . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You . . .’ And sudd
enly she was making a loud, grating, ‘Whaaaaa!’ like a baby.

  Roy muttered, ‘Shit.’

  Noisy sobs sometimes interrupted the droning wail, but it would only start again. There was no sign of a let-up. Not until Roy backhanded her cheek. That stopped the bawling. Only stifled sobs remained.

  ‘Sit down,’ Roy ordered when they reached the campsite.

  Joni dropped to the mummy bag and hugged her knees to her chest. She rocked back and forth on her rump, sniffing.

  Roy broke sticks across his knees and built up the fire. When it was high and snapping, he sat down beside Joni. ‘This is pretty nice, huh?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever been camping before?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Know what I’ve got in here?’ He lifted the white McDonald’s sack towards her face. She turned away quickly, but not before Roy saw the craving in her eyes. He sniffed the sack. The aroma of french fries was overwhelming. He reached in, touched the fries, and pulled one out.

  ‘Look what I’ve got here,’ he said.

  He held it high, wiggling it like a pale worm. ‘It’s all yours. Open up.’

  She pressed her lips tight and shook her head.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Roy tipped back his head, opened his mouth wide, and dropped it in. It tasted very salty.

  He took a can of beer from the pack. The can was dry and warm. He remembered how cold the cans had felt when he took them out of Karen’s refrigerator, how they’d left his hands wet. Well, warm beer was better than no beer. When he opened the can, beer sprayed Joni. She flinched, but didn’t bother to dry her face. Roy drank, washing the saltiness out of his mouth.

  ‘Have a french fry,’ he said, and offered her another one. ‘No? Okay.’ He ate it. He took the entire bag of fries out of the larger sack. ‘There’s a Big Mac in here. It’s for you.’ He chewed the fries, and washed them down. ‘I’m not gonna eat it. It’s yours.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘Sure you do.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I bought it for you. You’re going to eat it.’

  ‘You’re not my father.’