Chapter 8

The next morning, Steele and Mrs. Wallerman walked in on Tilda stacking the beddings on the living room floor. Wearing the same ridiculous outfit Jake had dressed her in, the stiff tutu-like skirt pointed at the ceiling and floor as she bent over. Her scarred, naked butt looked like the bullseye of a target.

“Ahem,” Steele said.

Tilda sprang up and spun around. “Oh! Morning.”

“How was the couch?” Steele asked. “Sleep well?”

“I did...” Tilda paused with a crooked smile, “once all that screaming and grunting and bed squeaking stopped.”

Mrs. Wallerman’s hands flew over her bright red face. “Omigod!”

Tilda laughed. “Don’t worry, Missus, they were good noises. I was happy for you. Better than the noises I heard when Mastuh Ja--”

Tilda looked over her shoulder toward the back of the house.

“Yeah, I better go check on him,” Steele said.

Steele went out the back door, immediately returning to the living room. He shut the door and stood with his back to it.

“What’s the matter?” Mrs. Wallerman asked. She started walking toward him.

Steele held up his hand. “Stop!”

Mrs. Wallerman not only stopped, she took a step backward. “What’s the matter?”

“Jake is, um. Something got to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Looks like something ate him.”

“He’s gone?”

Steele looked from Mrs. Wallerman to Tilda and back. “Not all of him. But a lot of him is missing.”

“Serves him right,” Mrs. Wallerman said. “We have wild hogs around here. Jake used to leave dead animals out back and watch the hogs come eat them. Sometimes the animals weren’t even dead. He’d catch them, tie them up, and watch the hogs eat them alive. He really was a sadistic asshole.”

Steele brought his fist to his chin and stared at the floor. The two women waited.

Steele dropped his hand and looked up. “I have something to do. Stay in the house. And don’t look out back. Okay?’’

When both women nodded, Steele left through the back door. He stopped near the remains. Jake’s head, upper chest and shoulders, and one arm shredded at the elbow with a jagged bone sticking out was what was left. Looking closer, he noticed one ear missing. The ground was soaked in dried blood. Both feet, with the shoes still on, were nearby, along with bones and shredded clothing. The feral hogs’ razor-sharp tusks had torn through Jake’s flesh, and their jaws, strong enough to crack nuts, had no problem with his bones.

Steele studied the many hoof prints in the soil. It had been a feeding frenzy. He located where the hogs had left and, with gun in hand, tracked them into the forest. Hogs were skittish beasts that ran away from man, but these weren’t normal hogs. Even for feral hogs. They had ripped Jake apart. Based on the tracks, it looked like two adults and five or six piglets. Tracking was another skill Steele had acquired. Usually it was tracking men, but it worked for animals, too.

The tracks led Steele deep into the forest. Each careful step was no louder than a whisper, avoiding twigs and exposed roots. Being downwind, Steele came upon the stench first. He crept even slower until he saw the mud-covered wild hogs lying on the ground near a stream.

Steele retraced his steps and was soon back at the Wallerman house. He entered through the back door. Mrs. Wallerman and Tilda were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee, their dirty breakfast plates on the table. They looked up at him.

“Tilda,” Steele said, “clean up those dishes and put them away. Sue Ellen, call the police chief. Tell Ratchett you woke up to an empty bed and found Jake in the backyard. That he’s dead. That an animal must have killed him. Tell him to come over quick. That you need help.”

The two stood up. Tilda carried a plate to the sink while Mrs. Wallerman walked toward Steele.

“What happens when he gets here?” Mrs. Wallerman asked.

“Tell him where Jake is. He’ll go investigate.”

“What do I do when he comes back in the house?”

“He won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ll be waiting for him. I’ll take him away.”

“Where?”

“Is that important?”

Mrs. Wallerman studied Steele. “I guess not,” she said in a low voice.

“You don’t sound very sure. Look, Ratchett murdered my friend.”

Mrs. Wallerman’s eyes opened wide.

“That’s why I’m here,” Steele said. “And I think Ratchett had something to do with the disappearance of my friend’s daughter. He’s the brains behind this group. He has to pay. Once he’s out of the way, I’ll deal with his brother.”

“I hope you kill him,” Tilda said, putting the plate in the sink.

Both Steele and Mrs. Wallerman turned to her. Tilda lowered her eyes and kicked the floor with her toe, squeezing the stiff part of her dress that spread around her. When she looked up, her bottom lip quivered and tears flowed down both cheeks.

Mrs. Wallerman ran to her and hugged her. “What’s the matter?”

“He was the worst.” She sniffled. “I wish I could kill him.”

“Trust me,” Steele said, “you don’t want to. Once you kill someone you’re never the same. Now clean up the dishes. It needs to look like you two just woke up. You didn’t have breakfast. Understand?”

Both women nodded. Tilda rushed to the kitchen table and carried the rest of the dishes to the sink.

Steele turned to Mrs. Wallerman. “Make the call.”

Steele went to help Tilda with the dishes. Her hands shook so much a plate almost slipped from her fingers. Steele placed a hand on her forearm.

“It’ll all be over soon,” he said.

Steele dried while Tilda washed. They were finished when Mrs. Wallerman told Steele the police chief was on his way.

Steele went out back and removed the pistol from his ankle holster. The cool metal felt comfortable in his hand. There were many large indigenous shrubs growing on the fringe of the forest. Large enough to hide behind. Thick enough not to be seen. One that was over six feet tall and four feet wide fronted a thick-trunked tree. Steele sat behind the tree, leaning against the trunk, and waited.

The back door opened and slammed shut. Steele peeked around the tree trunk and through the dense shrub. The police chief stood on the porch, looking around. Leaning over the railing, he spotted Jake’s remains and scanned the area again before walking down the few porch steps. Slowly. Looking in all directions with each step. He walked up to Jake’s head and shoulders, all the while eyeing the surrounding area. Dropping to a knee, he leaned over and then put his face near the ground to check out the rake lodged in the back of Jake’s skull. The police chief straightened up and looked around once more as he stood.

After studying the hoof prints, his eyes followed the tracks leading to the forest. Steele ducked behind the tree and held his breath. The tree was near those tracks.

The police chief started to follow the tracks. Steele cocked his gun. But Ratchett stopped after three steps and looked from Jake’s remains to the opening in the forest. Shaking his head, he shrugged, did an about-face, and headed back to the porch steps.

Steele jumped out from behind the shrub and slinked toward the police chief with the stealth of a panther. Overtaking the police chief, Steele’s hand moved with lightning speed, snatching Ratchett’s pistol from its holster. The police chief slapped the empty leather and spun around. His eyes locked on Steele’s pistol pointing at his chest.

“Don’t move,” Steele said.