The Narrows(51)

Ben’s laugh held no humor. “Right now, I’ve got two farmers in town looking to hang me up by my suspenders if I don’t figure out what’s going on out here.”

“It’s that bad?”

“It’s just…I’ve never seen anything like it. You know of any animal that goes after another animal’s brain?”

“Shit. You’re talking parasites.”

“No, Paul. I mean cracking the f*cking skulls apart and eating what’s inside.”

“Jesus in a sidecar.” Davenport whistled. “You’re putting me on, right? What does something like that?”

“You tell me.”

“Wish I could, Ben.”

“And it’s the way they’re killed. It’s like the flesh around the wound is…I don’t know…”

“Yeah?”

“Dissolved.”

Davenport made a breathy acknowledgment that wasn’t actually a word.

“I don’t know what to do about it, or even where to start, really,” Ben said. “I figured I’d just give you guys a call, see if you were experiencing the same thing.”

“Sorry I can’t help you, Ben.”

Ben sucked on his lower lip for a second. “You think that mountain lion would attack a kid?”

“Wow. I guess it’s possible. If it was provoked or really hungry, I guess. But it seemed more frightened of people than anything else. Why do you ask?”

“I’m probably overthinking things,” Ben said. “We got a missing boy out here. I’m just turning over every stone.”

“Oh boy. When’d he go missing?”

“Between Friday evening and Saturday morning.”

The silence on Davenport’s end of the line was telling.

“About what time did those guys shoot the thing on Friday night?”

“It was late,” Davenport said, knowing it wasn’t the information Ben wanted to hear. “The bar had let out. Two in the morning, or thereabout.”

“Do you still have the carcass?”

“Couple guys from Fish and Wildlife picked it up this morning. Were you thinking about opening up its stomach and seeing what’s inside?”

“If it had eaten anything…suspicious…I would think…”

“Christ, Ben. I’m thinking of that scene in Jaws where they slice that shark open on the pier and that license plate comes out.”

“You have the number to those Fish and Wildlife guys?”

“Sure do, but it’s back at the office. I’m on my cell now.”

“Could you call me back with it when you get the chance?”

“Of course. And I’m sure you’re right, that you’re just overreacting. This kid will probably pop up anytime now.”

“Thanks. You’re probably right.”

“And hey, Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“I was sorry to hear about your old man. I’d been meaning to call out there after I heard but, well, you know how it is…”

“Thanks, Paul. I appreciate it.”

“You take care, all right?”

“You too.”

He hung up the phone, feeling no better and no worse.

Later that afternoon, he went into town to pick up some Halloween candy to leave on the front porch for the trick-or-treaters at the end of the week. He would be working Halloween night and knew from experience that a dark house with no candy on the porch suffered the wrath of neighborhood children scorned. Down at Lomax’s, he picked up a few bags of the pocket-sized Snickers and Butterfinger bars, some M&M’s, and an assorted pack of hard, sugary candies. He’d leave them all out in a big Tupperware bowl on the porch with the porch lights on, bright as day. He had made the mistake of taping a sign to the bowl last year recommending each trick-or-treater take just one candy bar each, but for all the good that did he could have left a sign that said PLEASE TAKE ALL MY CANDY THEN THROW THE BOWL INTO A TREE. He’d learned his lesson on that one.

In his youth, when Stillwater was still a flourishing blue-collar town, the streets would teem with children of all ages on Halloween night. Ben himself had raced up and down those streets, a plastic dime-store mask cinched to his face, an old pillowcase bursting with goodies banging against his shins as he ran. Christ, how things had changed. Nowadays, he was surprised if he came across a dozen kids schlepping their meager satchels of goodies up and down the sun-faded streets. They were sad and derelict in their costumed campaign along the otherwise empty sidewalks. Families had picked up and moved, and the ones who stayed mostly didn’t have children of their own. Stillwater had become a barren womb.

In another ten years, Ben thought, counting out his change at the checkout counter of Lomax’s, this town will be nothing but dilapidated shotgun shacks, paranoid hermits, career alcoholics, and weekend hunters. This is what happens when a town folds in on itself.

If nothing else, the Stillwater Police Department was just a microcosm of the town it served and protected. Just a handful of years ago they had had nine officers, two sergeants, a lieutenant, and a chief. Now, they were left with four officers, a working sergeant (which was Ben), a lieutenant who had recently transferred out East and whose position had yet to be filled, and Chief Lom Harris, who was now—and always seemed to be—out of town on vacation with his wife. True, there was very little in the way of crime in Stillwater to warrant a well-staffed department. Much of the action came in the form of drunken brawls, traffic violations, and the occasional domestic dispute.