Mind Over Monsters Read online

  Two black Suburbans and a van wait for us on the airstrip, but no people are visible. The whole thing—arriving by cover of night, not a soul presumably for miles, the night as still as a tomb—has a World War II feel. I half expect a man with a thick German accent to step out of the shadows asking for “zee documents.” Okay, I really have to cut down on Turner Classic Movies. Unless a Rita Hayworth movie is on, then not even Beelzebub himself can drag me away from the TV. Everyone else deplanes while I contemplate adding Katharine Hepburn to that list. Each person walks hastily to the Suburbans without a word. Like a good little sheep, I follow.

  Irie, Nancy, Carl, and Agent Rushmore get into the first one. I follow Agent Chandler into the second. Oliver climbs in right next to me, squishing me against the side of the car. There’s plenty of room, but he makes sure our thighs touch. I’m about to push him away when Andrew is led in by Agent Konrad, who gets into the driver’s seat. Will climbs into the passenger seat and before his door is even closed, the SUV takes off after the other. Here we go. No turning back now.

  As we pass the plane, Agent Wolfe watches a black coffin-sized pod on a conveyer belt lurch toward the van that stays behind. Even with only half a moon, it gleams. I’ll bet it’s lined with plush red satin. I just wonder how they’re going to sneak that behemoth into a hotel room undetected. I can just see the night manager’s face when it’s lugged through the lobby. Priceless.

  The car remains silent except for the GPS giving instructions until we pull onto the desolate interstate. Everything is so black it’s almost blank. Very faintly, the outlines of trees wiz by, but it’s so dark they could be skinny giants for all I know. I don’t think I’ve ever been down a road without a speck of light before, certainly not an interstate. There are no houses, no cars driving by, no streetlights—it’s creepy. Guess I’m just a city girl.

  “Alexander?” Will says, turning around to face us.

  I look away from the darkness. “Beatrice,” I correct.

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out what looks like a black wallet. But it’s not a wallet; it’s my official FBI badge. Cool. It has a seal with Fidelity (got that), Bravery (not so much), and Integrity (sure, except on the LA freeway, anything goes there) written on it. Uck, it also has a really horrible picture of me inside. My hair’s frizzy, my eyes squinted, and my cheeks look double their real size. Maybe now they realize why I put up such a big fuss when they wanted to take it. ID photos are not one of my strong suits.

  Oliver glances at it. “I suppose the camera cannot love everyone.”

  The badge goes in my pocket. “Shut up.”

  Will also reaches back and gives me something bulky. Holy crud, it’s a gun. And a black side holster! He hands it to me very carefully. “Keep this on you at all times, it’s an FBI regulation.” I pull the gorgeous piece of machinery out of its holster. Glock 9mm semi-automatic. Nice. “Inside are silver-plated bullets. They’ll stop anything and anyone. We’ll get you a spare clip later.”

  The gun returns to its holster and clips onto the left side of my pants. My confidence certainly got a boost there.

  “You remember the cover story?” Will asks.

  “We’re part of the Violent Criminal Apprehension Team of the FBI, here to investigate a possible serial killer,” I say. “What if they ask questions about our procedures or rules?”

  “William knows them all,” Oliver says.

  “Unlike some, I took the time to learn them.”

  “Teacher’s pet,” Oliver says.

  “And do we actually get to do some investigating, like collecting DNA and stuff?” I ask.

  “These creatures do not often make it to trial, Trixie,” Oliver says. “And even if that were the case, you are not on the investigative team. You are on the muscle side of our little operation. Your one and only job is to look pretty and watch daytime television until something is in need of killing.”

  I very nobly overlook Oliver’s choice of epithets and turn to Will. “So I don’t get to interview the perp or chase down leads?” I ask, not hiding my disappointment. That was the one part I was actually looking forward to doing: finding that crucial piece of evidence and sweating a confession out of someone. Nuts.

  “You watch too much television, my dear,” Oliver chides.

  “Oh, bite me,” I snap. I mentally slap my head the second it comes out. Must remember not to say that to vampires.

  “I have already eaten this evening, but I suppose a midnight snack would not hurt.”

  “Knock it off, Oliver,” Will says.

  “It’s all right, Will,” I say more harshly than I intended. Will turns back around, brow furrowed.

  “Have the locals been notified that we’re coming?” Agent Chandler asks.

  “Yes,” Will says.

  “Are they going to be a problem?” Agent Konrad asks behind the wheel.

  “Are they not always?” Oliver responds wryly.

  “So what do we do? Tell them to buzz off and they do?” I ask.

  “If we’re lucky,” Will answers. “Though sometimes they take a little persuading.”

  “And how exactly do you do that?”

  “A magician never reveals his secrets,” Oliver replies.

  “He captures their minds,” Will says, “and they do whatever he wants them to, including forgetting what happened.”

  “I am very handy,” Oliver smiles.

  “Oh, I’ll bet.”

  After half an hour of driving and bickering, we reach our destination: the crime scene. I am at a crime scene. Someone died here tonight, and I am willingly coming here. This is surreal. Three brown police cars with flashing white and blue lights and two compact cars sit in a small cul-de-sac at the end of a lone road. Trees surround us closely on either side of the road, keeping watch tonight like all nights. At the end of the cul-de-sac is a small, circular clearing where all the action is taking place. Tall floodlights sit at random spots on the grass. Four men in khaki brown uniforms stand around a blue tarp on the ground. I’ve seen enough police shows to know what’s underneath there. How they can just stand there looking like they’re having a casual conversation is beyond me. Their attention diverts when we pull up.

  By the time we pile out of the cars, the cops are there to meet us. Will walks over to the oldest man, hand extended. “Sheriff Graham? I’m Special Agent William Price with the FBI.”

  The sheriff, a man in his mid-fifties with a few laugh lines and sandy brown hair and moustache shakes Will’s hand. He’s in pretty good shape with only a small beer belly over his belt. “Brought a lot of you, didn’t you?” he asks, eyeing the teenaged Nancy.

  “We’re a specialized unit,” Will says, “dispatched only on certain cases.”

  “Well, the government usually knows what it’s doing,” Graham says, not totally assuaged. “Though I was a little surprised the FBI was interested in a couple of animal attacks.”

  Will gives Graham a great good ol’ boy smile, eyes crinkling when he does. I love crinkly eyes. “If that’s what they are.” He turns to Andrew. “Agent DuChamp, why don’t you walk the perimeter, see if you can’t pick up anything? Miss Lake, please go with him.”

  Nancy nods her head and takes Andrew’s arm. They begin walking toward the tarp. Sheriff Graham watches as they pass, still puzzled. “And what exactly are their specialties?”

  “He can see ghosts and she can teleport,” Oliver answers.

  Will’s jaw visibly tightens. Graham looks at Oliver, then at Will, and begins to chuckle. Everyone else joins in. “Oh, that’s a good one,” the sheriff chuckles. “Didn’t know you guys had a sense of humor.”

  “There is a lot about us you would not believe,” Oliver says with his sly smile.

  Will clears his throat. “If you wouldn’t mind, Sheriff, we’d like to get a look at the body.”

  Sheriff Graham’s smile fades and it’s back to business. “Yes, of course.” Graham nods at his three officers—none of whom are old enough to shave�
��who start toward the tarp, followed by their leader. Will walks in stride with them and we follow a few feet behind, Oliver practically at my hip.

  “Have you begun with evidence collection?” Will asks.

  “Yes. I’ve sent some to the station already.”

  “We’ll come by and pick up what you have in the morning.”

  “Who found him?” Irie asks.

  “Jesse Barnes and Clementine Charlemagne. This place is a real hot spot for teens. They came out here and spotted him right away, called nine-one-one. Poor Clem had to be sedated.”

  Not a good sign. My stomach does a flip. “Is she okay?”

  Graham looks back at me. “She’ll be fine, miss.”

  “That’s Agent Alexander,” Oliver says pointedly.

  “Sorry,” Graham says.

  We reach the body, forming a semi-circle around it. Immediately, an acrid odor assaults my nose like a carjacker. It was faint before, but now it clings to my nostrils like tar. My already unsteady stomach lurches almost clear out of my body and they haven’t even lifted the tarp yet.

  “Sheriff, would you and your men mind stepping back while we examine the body?” Will asks. “Our techniques are very sensitive; having others around hinders the process.”

  “Um … ” The sheriff looks at his men, who seem very put off by this idea. They glance at each other, then at the sheriff. “With all due respect, this is our case, if there even is one. You can’t just order us—”

  Oliver steps in front of the four men, scanning their faces and stopping at their eyes. His eyes don’t move from theirs, and not one of them blinks or moves. Weird. After ten long seconds, the men turn and walk back to their patrol cars in a daze then drive off. Okay, I have to admit that was pretty cool. Not that I’d ever tell him that. I glance at Oliver, who is blinking again and looking very smug. “I commanded them to come back in half an hour. They will not even remember leaving.”

  “Good,” Will says. “Then let’s not waste any time.”

  Nancy and Andrew walk back over to the group. “These woods are, like, totally creepy,” Nancy says. “They stink too.”

  “I know,” Will says, “I’ve smelled rotting flesh since we got out of the car. It’s highly concentrated here.”

  “Could the body be the cause?” Irie asks.

  “It is too strong,” Oliver answers, “to be from only one source.”

  “Could there be another victim out there?” I ask.

  “If a human can smell it, then there would have to be at least ten bodies,” Will says. “This body has just started to go into rigor; you wouldn’t be able to smell the decomp yet. Oliver? Go into the woods; see if there are any more bodies.”

  “Why cull me from the herd?”

  “Please,” he says through gritted teeth, “just go.”

  “Since you used the magic word … ” And poof, he’s gone. Disappeared into thin air. I, of course, gasp like a frightened child.

  “Jumpy much?” Nancy asks with a smug smile. “Can we just get this over with? I’m missing Teen Mom.”

  “In a minute,” Will says. “Andrew, did you see anything?”

  Normally I’d laugh at someone who says this to a blind man, but all humor has left me. I can’t take my eyes off the tarp.

  “His spirit must have passed on already,” Andrew says. “I do sense a presence here, but it’s faint, like after a woman leaves and you can still smell her perfume.”

  “So there was a ghost but it’s gone now?” I ask.

  “Not a ghost. Something stronger,” Andrew says.

  “Can we see the dead guy already?” Nancy asks impatiently, pulling my sweater around her small body. “I’m, like, freezing my butt off.”

  My body tenses up in preparation as Will bends down and begins lifting up the tarp. I will not puke. I will not puke. Oh crud, the bile rises into my mouth. If I’ve ever needed a reminder that humans are nothing but walking, talking pieces of meat, I get it now.

  He’s in pieces, really bloody gross pieces. The man’s head is still attached to his neck, and one arm (sans hand) remains. The other arm, broken off at the elbow, is nowhere to be seen, left with just red and yellow chunks. The legs lie on the ground a few inches from the torso. Scraggy pieces of white skin hang onto the legs by tiny filaments, but the rest is just red meat. The few intact patches of skin have circular wound patterns that look familiar. White jagged bones stick out of his partially open chest. They look like they’ve been torn apart with bare hands. His head is nothing but a few patches of intact skin and an eyeball plucked out and resting on his meaty cheek. White liquid lies in a pool in the other eye socket. His jaw is gone, as is all but a few tufts of blood-soaked hair. At second glance, the legs are still attached but only by thin threads of tendons. The smell comes from his exposed intestines, cut and gnawed on.

  Oh good God.

  I look at it longer than I thought I could—three whole seconds—but then I turn and walk away, forcing vomit down. When I get far enough away that the smell is bearable, I take several deep, cleansing yoga breaths. Nancy giggles behind me, finding what so funny I don’t know. I should have puked on her—it’d serve her right.

  I take another breath and look down at the ground. There is something whitish under my shoe. When I bend down I can tell it’s flesh, a piece about the size of a silver dollar. Bile rises again. There are more pieces a few feet away, bigger like swatches of white leather. “There’s more of him over here,” I call to them.

  “What is it?” Will asks when he joins me. I point down. Will bends down right next to the skin, and suddenly his body goes rigid. His nose begins to twitch like a dog’s from side to side. He takes a few steps, nose still moving. I turn to the others, all of whom are watching too. They seem to find this behavior nothing out of the ordinary. To me, seeing the future father of my fantasy children acting like a bloodhound makes me uncomfortable. Hope it doesn’t show on my face. He stops dead about twenty feet from us. “The blood trail starts right here,” he shouts. “This is where the attack began.”

  There’s a blood trail? I look down at the ground but see only grass. Will walks back to the body and stares down at it, deep in thought. Deciding my stomach is strong enough, I rejoin the team. Nobody even registers my presence.

  “So what are we thinking? Werewolf?” Irie asks.

  “I don’t smell one.”

  “Um … ” Not sure of the butting in protocol, I do the polite thing and raise my hand. Everyone looks at me as if I’m a loon. “Um, look at his left leg.” I point down to the red circular scar on it. “That’s a human bite mark.”

  Everyone’s eyes narrow a little. “How do you know?” Irie asks.

  “I was an elementary school teacher; I’ve seen my fair share of bites.”

  “Then it’s a ghoul,” Irie says.

  Note to anyone who never had to take Monsters 101: ghouls are undead creatures whose soul is still in their decomposing body, feeling themselves rot as sort of a divine punishment. Only a truly evil person rises as a ghoul, like serial killers and people who work for the IRS. Most can’t get out of their coffins, but those that do are understandably angry, scared, and often get violent. So I’d avoid the cemetery where Jeffrey Dahmer’s buried.

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions without more evidence,” Will says. “We should start exploring the woods.” My heart begins to race again. Go into the dark woods, looking for the thing that ripped this guy apart. Good idea. “The smell is strongest in the north, so we’ll start there. Irie, take Agent Konrad and flank right. Nancy, you go with Agent Wolfe, flank left. Agent Rushmore, you’re with me. One team should eventually meet up with Oliver. Andrew, Carl, Alexander, stay here. Start marking and photographing the locations of the skin and blood.” This makes my back become very straight. “Everyone use extreme caution; this thing could still be around. Stay in constant communication. Radios on channel three.”

  Everyone turns on their bulky black walkie-talkie and turns the
dial until the green light becomes a “3.” The groups start on their merry ways, but I grab Will’s arm before he can take a step. “May I speak to you?”

  “You go ahead, I’ll catch up,” Will says to Agent Rushmore.

  “Yes, sir,” Agent Rushmore says with a thick Long Island accent.

  He nods and starts into the woods, flashlight and gun drawn. I pull Will away from Andrew and Carl so we have a little privacy.“Why am I staying behind?” I ask harshly. “I thought I was on defense or whatever you call it.”

  “You are, and I need you here in case this thing comes back,” he says.

  “It’s not coming back, we both know that. If it was, it would have attacked the police. I came here to help, not be a glorified corpse-sitter. Why do you keep—”

  “You have your assignment, Alexander,” he snaps. “I suggest you do it without questioning, or go back to the airport.” With that, he steps toward the woods. I manage to keep my tongue from sticking out at his back until after he disappears from sight. Childish, I know, but it does make me feel a little bit better.

  “He’s like a really tall Napoleon,” Carl, who I forgot was there, says. “He means well, though.”

  “I just don’t understand,” I say, walking toward them. “I was brought here to do a job, and it seems like nobody wants me to do it. You know, I’m sorry I was freaked out by Oliver and had to step away from the smelly dead man, but … ” I groan in frustration. “How can I prove myself to you people if I’m sitting on the sidelines?”

  “Well, maybe you’ll get lucky and this thing will come back and eat us, then you can show us your stuff,” Carl says, exasperated.

  “No need to be a snide,” I say under my breath.

  “Perhaps we should begin with our tasks,” Andrew suggests.

  “Good idea,” Carl says. “Excuse me, Warrior Princess.”