Venator Read online

  "I got one of these, Phoebe! He said he likes them better than what girls got! And you know what? I do too! So don’t you look at me that way any more! Like you want to be with me like Daddy was. Like you want to love me like you did Daddy, cause it won’t work!"

  Provo was dumbfounded. She wrenched her wrists against the handcuffs. The skin was becoming red and raw and the killer was coming toward her.

  "It was all your fault! You made him kill our Mommy! You maaaade him do it! That’s why I did it. That why I buried you out back and that’s why I put on Daddy’s big dirty boots and walked down the hall with the wood axe. That’s why I showed Daddy how much I loved him like a little bird! They were all so good, tasted sooo good. Except for you, Phoebe. Everyone is a pretty bird except for you."

  Furman Frye cuffed Provo across the face. She struggled to remain conscious, then questioned herself as to why. What would be the point in waiting around to see what happened next? She welcomed the darkness as the rain turned from a quiet hum into a powerful thunder. The red face of the killer blurred out into a watery ink.

  65

  A caravan of black suburbans raced down Route 158 into North Carolina. The IP address of the computer used to make the website was registered to a library just outside of Elizabeth City. Eric and Emily were at the back of the wagon train in Eric’s unmarked cruiser. Emily was checking the partial license plate against the North Carolina DMV.

  "The hearse is registered to Bailey’s Funeral home," Emily said from behind her lap top.

  "You check the address on the GPS?"

  "Yeah, we're pretty close if you want to stop."

  Eric dialed Wheatley’s cell and got his marching orders. Run down the hearse at the funeral home, cross check dates of the abductions against who was driving the hearse that day. Proceed no further. Call Wheatley back with what they found out.

  Eric let the suburbans race away as he got off of 158 and headed towards Bailey’s.

  "You worried about her?" Eric asked.

  "Yeah," Emily said. "You?"

  Eric nodded. "Listen, there was nothing going on between us..."

  "I know, she told me."

  "Oh?"

  "Remember how I said that I couldn’t make friends with women?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, she proved me wrong. And now I’m scared that I’m going to lose her."

  "I didn’t realize that you two were so close."

  "As close as you can be within the span of a few days."

  "Don’t worry, we’ll find her," Eric said grabbing her hand.

  Emily smiled and squeezed it, "Thank you, Eric."

  66

  Eric and Emily pulled into Bailey’s fifteen minutes later. They went inside and were greeted by a tall lanky man who turned out to be the funeral director.

  "Good afternoon," he said in a deep but mellow voice.

  Eric flashed his badge and asked the man about the hearse.

  "I’m sorry, Detective. None of our hearses leave the state. You must be mistaken."

  "Sir," Emily said. "We have a photograph of one of your hearses outside a gun show in Richmond, Va. yesterday. I ran what we got from the license plate through NCDMV and they say that hearse belongs to you."

  Eric raised his eyebrows at Emily’s outburst. "A federal agent was abducted and we could really use your help," Eric said, trying to smooth things over.

  "Well, I’m sorry. I was here all day yesterday and none of our vehicles left the lot."

  Eric and Emily looked at each other.

  "Do you think we could take a look at the vehicles?" Eric asked.

  The funeral director huffed and puffed but took them around back anyway. There were three hearses lined up side by side, one was white, the other navy blue and the third was gray.

  "Damn," Emily hissed.

  "Is there a problem?" the director chided.

  "We’re looking for a black hearse," Eric groaned.

  "Well, as you can see..." the director lost himself in thought for a moment.

  "What is it?" Emily blurted out.

  The funeral director seemed uncomfortable. "We used to have a man that worked for us. He was never on time and well, honestly, no one here really liked him."

  "Why is that?" Eric asked.

  "He had an eerie presence about him, he... frightened a lot of the staff who worked here."

  "Did he do anything specifically?"

  "A lot of different things. He would mumble to himself. He had a habit of running to his car, as if someone or something was chasing him. Finally, well, he made a pass at one of our male staff members and we were forced to let him go. But he kept coming back, wandering around the grounds and watching the staff."

  "Did he do anything?"

  "No, just watched. Finally I confronted him. I told him we would seek a restraining order against him and then, just as nice as he could be, he asked to purchase one of our vehicles."

  "A hearse?" Emily asked.

  "Yes, he said if he could purchase one that he wouldn’t come back and so I agreed."

  "We’ll need everything you have on this guy," Eric quickly said.

  "He only worked with us a short while and... I payed him under the table. His name is Furman. Furman Frye, I believe."

  "Please tell me you have a home address."

  "No, but I do have a post office box number. Let me go and get it for you."

  Eric dialed Wheatley again and this time they talked a bit longer. The funeral director came back in the middle of their conversation and handed Emily a slip of paper. She shoved it in Eric’s face.

  "The post office is in Crusoe, North Carolina!"

  "It’s in the Great Dismal Swamp," Emily said once they were back on the road.

  "Can you get us there?" Eric asked as he topped out at 85 mph.

  Emily tapped the screen on the dash-mounted GPS, "I think so. It looks like a little island."

  "Good," Eric said as he flipped on his windshield wipers. "Then it won’t be too hard to find Mr. Frye."

  "How did the library pan out? Did Wheatley say anything?"

  "Only that they scared the hell out of the librarian and a bunch of blue hairs..."

  "Okay, slow down," Emily said, cutting him off. "Were looking for Snake Mountain Road."

  "How about Route 13?"

  "Wait... Yep, that’s the same thing, take it!"

  Moments later Eric and Emily drove across the Alligator bridge and pulled into the town of Crusoe. The thick fog engulfed them and their brake lights disappeared like two red eyes, closing for the last time.

  67

  Furman Frye drug Phoebe down the steps and her body thumped awkwardly behind him. He thought about the day his mother died because of Phoebe. He remembered how the hate began to fester and grow. He remembered how he then became alienated from his sister and father. He could still see Phoebe’s face floating in his mind, feel her pelvis grinding against his in the outhouse. He could still hear the audible crunch of her neck under his meaty hands.

  He remembered the long walk to the green mound that same afternoon. He remembered that it had been Halloween and he had wondered if it would be his last. He had killed his own sister but that didn’t stop him from falling asleep. And he hadn’t awoken until the crisp night air had chilled him to the bone. He was in a dream state, was not entirely himself as he walked back to the house, shivering so badly that he kept losing his balance. Furman finally was able to warm himself by digging up the back yard and breaking his way into his mother’s coffin. That was where his first skull mask came from, oh not nearly as beautiful and as white as those to follow but it had served its purpose. Putting his father’s muddy boots on his frozen feet had come as an afterthought, the wood axe had not been.

  The next morning there were three freshly covered graves and Furman Frye had found himself, or so he thought. But now it seemed as if he was evolving again. No longer was he worried that the Indians in the woods would exact his father’s revenge on him. No long
er did he hear the floor board squeak in the middle of the night or feel those cold hands around his throat.

  He was ready to bring this nightmare to an end. To finally bury the evil seed that had started this nasty business to begin with. He would bury Phoebe deep in his belly. The rest would be gravy.

  68

  The road through Crusoe was deserted. The parking lot at the small post office was empty. Eric and Emily climbed out and headed for the door.

  "It's like a ghost town," Eric said, stifling a shiver in the cold rain.

  "Should we wait for Wheatley?" Emily asked as Eric opened the front door for her.

  "No, let’s..." Eric stopped short, his voice hitching in his throat. They were surrounded by a group of stone-faced men. Eric stepped in front of Emily and held his badge out for them to see. Expecting them to all step back, the badge had the opposite effect, they surged forward. Eric could smell sweat, alcohol and fish wafting off of the men.

  "We’re looking for Furman Frye!" Eric tried, although his voice went an octave higher than he would have liked.

  The men stopped. A look of contentment spread across their faces.

  "Down the road there a piece," called one voice in a thick Cajun accent. The man’s name was Jean Foucheaux, the owner of the little grocery store. "Go all the way down till the road ends. It’s a plantation house by the Beaverskin."

  The men then parted like the red sea as Emily and Eric warily made their way back to the cruiser. Eric started the engine as Emily got in beside him. A boney fist knocked on Eric’s window. He rolled it down a crack and Jean Foucheaux put his gape-toothed mouth in the crack. "When you're finished with Frye, you be sure to get on out of here. There aint nothing else for you to see, understand?"

  Eric nodded and drove off. Foucheaux smiled, remembering the old curse his grandmother had taught him, the same curse he uttered in Cajun at Furman Frye’s speeding hearse not that long ago. Yes, it seemed Mr. Frye’s life was certainly becoming more interesting by the moment.

  They crept down the rest of Snake Mountain Road, passing small shanties and overturned boats until finally they came to a long drive. Emily spotted the house first. Eric inched the unmarked cruiser down the driveway.

  "What the hell?" Eric stammered.

  Emily followed his gaze out from behind the house and saw a hulking shadow dragging what appeared to be a dead body through the mist and into the thick Cypress trees.

  "Get Wheatley on the horn, give him the directions and wait in this car until I get back," Eric ordered, stopping the car.

  Emily nodded, dumbly.

  "Em?"

  Her attention was completely focused on the disappearing shadow. Eric reached into his holster and shoved his 9mm into her hand.

  "Emily!" he said getting her attention. "If that fucker comes back you put one in his chest, you understand me?"

  "Yeah..." she mumbled.

  Eric popped open the trunk and ran to the back of the car. He came around the passenger side with a shotgun in hand and motioned for her to lock the doors. She did so and then watched horrified, as Eric raced off into the fog.

  69

  Eric stumbled through the mist and tried to keep sight of the bloody trail in front of him. He felt energized, it was a strange sensation to be having at time like this but he couldn’t help it. Dammed if he wasn’t enjoying himself. Eric felt like a big game hunter out on safari ready to bring down the big one.

  Then he thought about Provo. What would that sicko being doing to her? What would happen if he didn’t get to her in time? Would he be alone again? Like after his father was killed by that crack head? Or like when his mother locked him downstairs in the basement? No, he thought. He’d always have Emily. She was meant for him.

  Emily fidgeted in the locked car. Wheatley should have been there by now. What the hell was keeping him? Then she heard a shot gun blast.

  "Fuck!" she screamed, distraught. Emily hesitated. After a moment, she threw open the door and ran into the woods, gripping Eric’s 9mm in her small hand. Something came out of the fog and clipped her in the forehead. Emily fell to the wet ground and put a hand to her head, blood. She looked up toward the trees and saw bones hanging from their limbs. They seemed to mark the path she was taking.

  Emily hauled herself off of the ground and followed the bones deeper into the thick Cypress and muddy mist.

  Eric thought about firing the shotgun into the air again but he didn’t think it would have much effect. Furman Frye was standing atop a green mound of earth with Provo at his feet. Her head was propped up on a tree stump and Frye’s right foot was holding her down. Eric couldn’t tell if she was still alive or not until Frye began to hoist an axe over his head. Provo’s bloodshot eyes popped open and her tongue lolled out of her mouth.

  Provo fought against the big boot on the back of her neck and the steel cuffs on her wrists. She thought that she was going to die in front of Eric’s eyes.

  Eric heard the woods rustle behind him and this spurred him into action. He ran up the green mound and yelled, "Put it down now!"

  Furman Frye only smiled deliriously as the big red faced Indian came charging at him. Finally, they’ve come for me, he thought. Furman waved the axe at the man and stomped down violently in an effort to break Phoebe’s neck once and for all. Her petite body convulsed violently and went still as he kicked her down the side of the green moss mound.

  With that done, the end was at hand. Furman lunged at the red man’s gun with his axe and knocked the barrel toward the sky. It went off with an earsplitting echo that ricocheted off the surrounding trees. The two men tumbled off of the mound and crashed into the dry leaves. They struggled for control of the shotgun as it went off again.

  70

  The woods were aglow with an eerie red hue.

  "Foxfire," Emily thought. It was a chemical reaction within the decaying wood and swamp fungi. The overall effect of the fiery glow turned Emily’s stomach as she came out of the woods and found Provo’s body laying still at the bottom of a green mound.

  She desperately searched the surrounding area for Furman Frye or Eric, but since the last gunshot, everything had become very quiet. She thought she heard sirens in the distance but that could have just been her imagination. Then something crunched behind her, Emily wheeled around with Eric’s 9mm shaking uncontrollably in her wet hands.

  A dog stood in front of her, growling. Emily began to back peddle. Another dog appeared out of the mist and then another. Did she hear quiet sobbing, or was that laughing? Emily slowly trudged backward toward the sound with Eric’s 9mm out in front of her, hoping to keep the dogs at bay. She noticed blood on the surrounding trees and something gooey.

  Emily passed a headless body spurting out buckets full of blood. A big man sitting beside it was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes. The dogs began to howl wretchedly. Emily raised the weapon toward the big man and every instinct in her body told her to fire. And she would have if the laughing man had not made eye contact with her.

  "Emily?" he said, relieved.

  "Eric? Is that you? Are you alright?"

  "Yes," he said, wiping his eyes. "I am now."

  She fell into his arms. "Oh God, you killed him! The Hunter is dead!"

  "It’s okay, Em," he said stroking her hair. "I’m the only one left now." The dogs measured him with a parting scowl and faded away into the fog.

  71

  The EMT’s loaded Provo onto a stretcher and wheeled her past Wheatley, Emily and Eric. She shot her hand out and grabbed Emily’s wrist.

  "It’s okay," Wheatley said to the EMT.

  Provo fought against the oxygen they were giving her until the EMT pulled the mask away from her nose and mouth.

  "Emily?" Provo croaked.

  "It’s alright," Emily smiled. "Eric killed Frye. You're going to be okay, everyone is safe."

  Provo’s eyes fluttered over to Eric who grinned back at her. His shirt was ripped open and his big muscular arm was naked in the cool
air. There was a word tattooed to his biceps.

  "Venator?" she asked.

  "Huh?" Eric said. "Oh that, yeah, it's Latin. I’ll tell you all about it later, okay?"

  Provo fought against the constraints again but Emily put a hand on her shoulder, "Rest Mary. We’ll come see you soon."

  The EMT replaced the oxygen mask and began to wheel her toward a waiting ambulance.

  "Oh and Provo?" Eric called after her. "Happy Halloween!"

  72

  The face of Furman Frye hung over her. He had that manic look about him that warned you to keep quiet, except that he was asking her questions. Provo strained to hear him but couldn’t. What was he saying? Whatever it was seemed important.

  She studied his features, let her eyes wander over his sweaty face. She wasn’t necessarily afraid of him. But that didn’t calm the unease in her stomach. She didn’t think he was there to harm her but his business with her was serious.

  Struggling to make sense of what he was saying, Provo thought about everything he had told her about. His childhood, his family. She thought about his murder spree and her profile of the man. Nothing there seemed out of place. It all came together perfectly except for the letters of course. Now that she’d met the man face to face, had actually talked to him, the letters he’d signed as the Hunter made no sense to her at all.

  She thought that Frye would have had multiple personalities, so severe in fact that one would have almost no knowledge of the other. But that wasn’t the case at all. She had found no evidence of anyone other than Furman Frye, no Hunter, no Death, no one else rattling around in his brain.

  So what was he trying to get at? What was he trying to get her to see? It reminded her of a difficult math problem in high school. She’d taken AP Calculus in high school and was only able to scrape together an A minus in the course. It was so frustrating for her to actually have to grapple with a problem. To beat it into submission so that she could stand over its breathless husk and proclaim victory.