Venator Page 2

  He gunned the old hearse up to 45mph and started sweating. Suicide. He whipped the big vehicle around a break neck curve, sending a wall of dirt into the puzzle work of trees. 55mph now, this was insanity. The hearse jumped over small rise in the road and was airborne for the briefest of moments. The big car crashed back down to earth, Frye’s 6'8, 280 pound frame sailed off the seat. He smashed the top of his head on the roof and howled in pain.

  Frye winced and checked his Fossil diving watch, 15 seconds to go. Frye was not a diver, in fact, he could not swim. Frye was convinced that one day, he would die in the water. 12 seconds, would he make it? Frye got the old machine up over 60 and the engine screamed in protest. Then the unthinkable happened, Frye’s luck ran out.

  An old station wagon appeared ahead. In the fifteen years Frye had flown down route 13, he had only encountered traffic a hand full of times. Now there was no where to go. Frye laid on the horn and wailed like a banshee. A petrified face became visible behind the wheel of the station wagon as it hugged the side of the road. Frye aimed the nose of the hearse toward the tiny opening between the wagon and the tangled mass of trees on the other side of the road. He would never make it. Frye closed his eyes and smashed down on the accelerator. His body tensed, waiting for the impact.

  It never came. The hearse sped down route 13, over a dilapidated wooden bridge and into the small town of Crusoe. Frye looked in the rearview, the station wagon was a shrinking speck on the horizon. Frye checked his watch and was amazed to see he’d actually shaved .7 seconds off of his best Snake Mountain Road time.

  The town of Crusoe was situated on the 2 and ½ square mile Jekyll Island, located in the Great Dismal Swamp of North Carolina just south east of Elizabeth City. The town boasted between 100 and 150 Cajun residents who’s descendants relocated there after being run out of New Orleans. Along route 13, a small general store sat just on the other side of the Alligator bridge. The rest of Crusoe was a patchwork of small shanties, wooden cabins, houseboats, Cypress tress and Spanish moss.

  The largest home was the ramshackle Frye family plantation house that predated the American revolution. The Frye’s purchased the land from Mark Crusoe and built their homestead on the eastern bank of Jekyll Island along the Beaverskin river. The property stretched out over 20 acres, most of which was thick foliage. A large outhouse which seated a family of five was located just past the house near the riverbank. In between the two structures was a round building that sank down in the earth so far that only the roof was visible. Inside, the Frye family had placed large blocks of ice and covered them with great mounds of hay, making somewhat of a modern refrigerator. There, all of the perishable meats, mostly fish, were stored so as not to spoil. A small wooden plank in the floor of the structure opened into an Indian tunnel. If the family were caught outside during an Indian raid and were too far away from the plantation house, they could escape into the tunnel which lead out to a discreet exit on the riverbank.

  The surrounding Currituck County authorities never ventured down Snake Mountain Road, Route 13. It had a habit of being a one way street. Visitors sometimes went south towards Crusoe and more often than not, they didn’t come back. So the local police officers let the Cajun’s alone. Which the old world fisherman and trappers liked. They had little or no use for, ‘outsiders.’ A fact Furman Frye was keenly aware of. His family were the only non-Cajun residents on the entire island. The locals in a word, tolerated, Frye.

  Furman passed the general store. He thought he should get some gas but he was still a little too jumpy from his near collision. Jean Foucheaux, who ran the little shop, stood in the doorway with Herb Savoy as Frye passed. Foucheaux glared at the hearse as it raced by.

  "May you lead an interesting life," Foucheaux whispered.

  "What?" Savoy asked.

  "Chinese curse. Think about it long enough, you begin to see the bad intentions that are implied."

  Frye peered through the thick Cypress grove and saw the old Indian burial mound. His father had often put him to bed with bloody stories of the real life raids his ancestors had endured. The unearthly howl of the painted warriors. The soft whoosh of a spinning tomahawk. The meaty thunk as it found its target in the back of a Frye head.

  Furman pulled the hearse almost into the roadside vegetation to allow an old dodge pick up truck towing a boat trailer to pass. Many of the locals were fisherman, they ate carp and catfish by the barrel full. Furman despised fish. It was all he’d eaten since he was a boy, every night they ate that slimy, smelly crap. Furman instead felt himself drawn to the trappers and hunters that made up the rest of the population.

  Why, he was a hunter himself, Furman thought. Yes, Furman Frye, the hunter. He liked the sound of that a lot.

  Furman pulled his dusty hearse into a long winding drive that ended at the Frye plantation house. It had been his home since the day he was born. He had, in fact, been conceived in the Indian tunnel. To this day, Furman could not venture down there without the sound of his father’s soft grunts in the back of his mind.

  A red fox sprinted across the drive in front of him. Furman touched the brakes and coasted the rest of the way, finally coming to a stop in front of the plantation house. He exhaled, it was good to be home. He cautiously looked out at the surrounding Cypress grove and listened intently for a long while. All was quiet, too quiet.

  He stepped out of the hearse and watched the trees, nothing. He surveyed the grounds, empty. Then the earth crunched behind him. Furman wheeled around and almost tumbled to the ground. His face was white and his eyes were bulging. It was only Rocky, Furman kneeled down and ruffled his head. Rocky was the friendliest of the pack of feral dogs that roamed the island. The pack, often hunted for sport by the Cajuns, spent most of their time on the Frye plantation. Furman whispered a soft thank you to Rocky and wished him to pass it along to his pack. Rocky snorted a reply and trotted back toward the woods. Furman caught the fleeting shapes of more dogs just beyond the tree line. He smiled and counted himself lucky for their presence.

  He looked up at the big house were he’d lived his entire life. No one resided their anymore except for Furman, his parents and sister had died about ten years ago. He buried them all out back.

  Frye reached into the hearse and behind the passenger seat. He removed his duffle bag and headed for the front door, something, a shape passed by the upstairs window. He shuddered a moment and paused. He looked back over his shoulder, the dogs were all gone but there was still something crunching around in the trees. He quickly climbed the front steps and an eerie feeling of being watched crept down his spine and buried itself in his stomach. Furman put his key in the front door. It was silly really, to lock his door way out here, especially with the dogs prowling the area. No one in their right mind would want to break into his house but there were things that just felt safer if they were kept behind lock and key.

  Frye thought about the fleeting upstairs shadow again as he entered. He closed the door behind him and thumbed the lock. He threw his duffle bag over his shoulder and disappeared into the dark humming the Black Oyster Cult’s, "Don’t fear the reaper."

  6

  Detective Eric DeJesus parked his unmarked car in front of the night desk entrance of Chesterfield County Police Department. He’d been on the force 15 years now and figured he’d seen it all, especially since the DC snipers and al Queda. But then again, no sooner than he thought the sicko’s had run out of idea’s, someone new came along with a different bag of tricks. Whoever the crazy was that stalked the woods of Chesterfield County would have to wait, there was someone even worse on the horizon.

  Eric hung a right and headed for Emily Sanderson’s office. He cursed himself for indulging in that fourth barbecue pork sandwich. Eric had the beginnings of a great belly which, for right now, was cleverly disguised in his 6'2 frame and muscular 225 pounds. Eric was proud of his mixed heritage, African-American, Puerto Rican and Native-American. His father was half African-American and half Puerto Rican and his mother
was half Native-American and half Caucasian. He was the only member of his family to attend college. He’d received a scholarship to play for the Richmond Spiders while he studied criminal justice.

  All in all it hadn’t been a storybook life for Eric though. He’d hadn’t gone to all the right schools, met all the right people and besides that kind of life always sounded so fake somehow, like a dream or some cleverly orchestrated performance. His father was a Richmond beat cop killed in the line of duty. Some junky has shoved a broken bottle into his dad’s carotid artery.

  Eric grew up a skinny and painfully shy child. His mother could not look at him without weeping.

  "You’re a carbon copy of your father," she would moan.

  Eric would try to console her but his words were always muddled through a thick stammer. He’d been home schooled by his mother and it had taken many years to overcome his speech impediment. She made him stand with his face buried in the thick mildewy living room drape and recite Shakespeare from memory. Each word had to be clear and concise, perfect articulation and enunciation. If he could get through an entire scene then he would be allowed outside for one hour only. Therefore the opportunities to make friends didn’t exactly fall into his lap and as he grew older things only got worse.

  His mother became abusive, physically and emotionally. He often snuck out at night and walked the neighborhood streets. Many times he would not come home at all. This would fuel a heated argument when he did arrive home. His mother would curse him and throw things at him. But Eric soon became bigger than his mother and she in turn, mellowed with age. He attended public high school and fell in love with football. This led to the scholarship with the University of Richmond and finally into police work.

  But it still didn’t feel right. This wasn’t his life, not the one he wanted at least. He’d become a cop for all the right reasons, he thought, but more and more it seemed that the only thing that got his motor running, the only thing he enjoyed about work, was the sickos. In fact, he was chomping at the bit to start on this new case.

  Eric breezed into Emily’s office, "How goes it Em, you working hard or hardly working?"

  Emily nonchalantly flashed him the bird as she attempted to finish up her phone call. Eric’s big paw fished around in the jade colored candy dish on Emily’s desk. Emily swatted his hand in mid conversation and produced a Reese’s peanut butter cup mini. Eric grinned and inhaled it while Emily hung up the phone.

  "The I-95 kidnapper struck again this morning," Emily frowned.

  "Yeah, I heard. FBI wants a couple of volunteers from the department to join the task force."

  "Eric, I just don’t have the time with everything going on right now."

  "Too late. The Chief thinks it would be a good idea for us to help out the Bureau on this. There short on manpower and..."

  "We’re short on manpower too, Eric. I don’t see the FBI knocking down our door to help us out."

  "That’s the point, Em. We scratch their back, maybe they’ll scratch ours."

  "What? And take all the glory for our hard work? I’m sorry, Eric. One looney tune running around in the woods shooting people is enough for me."

  "Aw c’mon, Em. This is the I-95 kidnapper. National coverage. What do you say, babe. You and me. The dynamic duo strikes again!"

  "That’s a lovely compliment, Eric. But there’s nothing about you that’s dynamic," Emily said, patting his belly.

  "Oh, Emily. You know you hate it in this stuffy office. Besides, you’d make a great Scully to my Molder, a great Robin to my Batman..."

  "... a great Marge to your Homer," Emily finished.

  Eric frowned.

  "Fine," she said giving in. "I’m game. Besides, we could use the help... and I’m sure you’ve already volunteered me anyway, right?"

  Eric grinned sheepishly.

  Emily exhaled, "When’s the meeting?"

  "Tonight at seven. You had dinner yet?"

  "No, but obviously you have," Emily said patting his belly one more time.

  7

  Eric has his unmarked cruiser moving along at about 80mph down interstate 95. It was an easy commute now that rush hour was dying off.

  "When are they planning to hold the memorial for the undercover guy that was killed?" Emily asked.

  Eric looked over at her, "Detective Ellms? End of next week sometime."

  "Were you two close?"

  "Not really. We pulled a couple of over night surveillance’s together but that was about it. The rest of the guys are pretty broken up about it."

  Eric watched as the city of Richmond rose up on the horizon, "Since when are you interested who my friends are?"

  "I’m not. It just seems like you don’t have any."

  Eric was quiet a long moment as they rushed over the James River bridge. A clock tower that always reminded Eric of London’s Big Ben slid by and he changed lanes to make the interstate 64 exit in time.

  "This may sound really strange," Eric said. "But the simple fact of the matter is that I just don’t like cops."

  "What?" Emily laughed. "Are you serious?"

  "Yeah, I know. It sounds stupid but its true. I mean, my dad was a cop, but the fact remains, I don’t like them. I never have and I never will."

  "Do you mind telling me why, or is too personal? Because if it is just forget that I asked, okay?"

  "No, its alright. I just haven’t talked about it before." He scratched an imaginary itch on his chin, "You know that I grew up here in Richmond, right?"

  "Yep, all time sack record holder for U of R."

  "I grew up in the west end."

  "With all the uppity white people, right?"

  "How would you know?"

  "They’re uppity to other white people too."

  "There not all like that, Em. I went to high school with all white classmates. All of my mom’s friends were white. Hell, my first girlfriend was white. I had no idea what racism was. Oh, sure I learned about it in text books and heard about it on TV but it just seemed so, antiquated. You know?"

  Emily nodded.

  "In fact, it wasn’t until I went to college that I learned about real racism. You see, me and some buddies from the team decided to go bar hopping downtown one night. Well, we weren’t exactly on our best behavior, I’ll admit that. So when the bouncer asked us to leave, we decided to see if he could make us. We talked a big game and tried to intimidate the guy as best we could but as drunks so often do, we got bored. Well, the cops showed up just as we’re making our way out the door and they start herding us down the alley. By this point, were sobering up pretty quick. And without any provocation, the first cop cracks my knee with his night stick and then the back of my head. When I come to, my buddies and I are bloody and laying in a garbage dumpster."

  "Did you report them?"

  "Sure, but nothing ever came of it. There were a couple of off-duty officers working downtown that night in addition to the beat cop. All were questioned but no charges were ever filed."

  "Jesus, Eric not all police officers are..."

  "I know that. But, that night was like an awakening for me. I decided that I wanted to pursue a career in law enforcement. I want to help people, Emily. I want to keep them safe. Just as safe as I felt before I learned how things work in the real world."

  They became silent and Eric’s mind wandered to the road, I-95, the same road their killer abducted from. It energized him and made him feel sick all at the same time.

  8

  Eric breezed off the highway and onto Parham Road. After a few stop lights he hung a right and then an immediate left into the FBI’s Richmond field office. It was an ordinary brick building that easily blended in with the nearby lawyer and dentist offices.

  After showing ID at the guard house, Eric and Emily parked and made their way inside. They passed through a metal detector, twice. Eric’s watch set it off both times. The lobby was a shrine to everything about the FBI. There were portraits of former directors and retired agents, even glass case
s that boasted old patches with the FBI emblem that were littered down the walkway. At the far end of the room was a bulletproof glass cube that housed a hunched over old woman behind a desk. She checked in Emily and Eric, gave them visitor ID badges to hang over their necks and said that an agent would be down to escort them to the task force meeting shortly.

  Twenty minutes later a harried looking young black man came down.

  "You DeJesus and Sanderson?"

  "Yeah," Eric offered.

  "I’m Special Agent Wheatley, follow me please."

  Wheatley lead them quickly through a hallway and into an elevator which he had to activate with a swipe card. Emily made note of the security camera in the hall and the one in the elevator. They got off at the top floor and once again the agent swiped his card to let them into a conference room.

  The room was packed with computer terminals, phones and fax machines. Every machine seemed to have a small cluster of people around it. Agents scurried around talking on cell phones and their escort motioned for them to sit down. Then Wheatley’s phone rang and he disappeared into the chaos.

  9

  Furman Frye sat in the darkness of his home for a long time. It was so quiet and peaceful. Far different from when he lived there as a boy. His mother and father were constantly yelling at each other. Often times these arguments erupted into full out brawls with neither parent claiming total victory.

  Once his father locked his mother outside for the entire night. It was snowing and his mother didn’t have any clothes on. When Furman asked his father what was happening, his dad’s only response was to pick him up by the neck and hold him against the wall. With his feet desperately trying to touch the ground Furman eventually passed out.

  Furman remembered his mother shoving Phoebe down the stairs. His sister tumbling awkwardly down, breaking her collarbone and leg. Phoebe didn’t walk or do anything else for a few months. One time his mother had gotten so angry with his father that she beat him with a shovel. The result was that she cracked open his father’s head. Furman remembered sitting quietly on the couch with Phoebe, staring at the red mask that was their father’s face as their mother stitched up his head with a sewing needle and thread.