Bad Things Read online

  “Yes, Mrs. Vandercleef?”

  “It’s…” She pauses for dramatic effect. “It’s that little shit-ass Pendergrast.”

  Dibs dips his shoulder down farther, wiggling a bit to free himself from her relentless death grip. He looks around the yard for any kind of sign it was kids being kids. No real sign to be found, but that doesn’t mean she’s not right. He wonders if the woman’s theory could be correct. Vandercleef isn’t above false accusations. She has a somewhat spotty record. Dibs thinks about attempting to console her a bit, but she’s moved into the anger stage and just wants vengeance. Not to mention, his shoulder hurts like a bastard.

  “Art Pendergrast?” he asks, thinking of Carol’s comments about Mara and Art earlier.

  “Yes, yes. Art Pendergrast.” She sucks between her clenched teeth again. “He’s evil. An evil little spawn sent directly from hell who needs—”

  "Okay." Dibs holds up a hand. His patience is reaching its limit. "I know he's got a bit of reputation for being a problem, but there's no real record on him."

  “Find him.” She grabs Dibs by the collar now. Vandercleef’s eyes bore into him. “He’s probably got his fingers in that whacko Mara right now.”

  Dibs remembers Carol telling him Mara was at the station earlier in the night. He files it away as Mrs. Vandercleef’s face gets closer to his. Their noses are almost touching one another. She has more to say. He braces himself for whatever is next.

  "Those are the same fingers that fucked my roses, Chief Dibs." Her lips curl into a creepy grin. “And let me tell you something. Nobody finger-blasts my roses."

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Pendergrast house is one of the newer homes in town.

  It’s in one of the few new developments in Stagstone. Actually, the only new development in Stagstone in many years. The owners of these mega-homes (by Stagstone standards) are tech types who telecommute into wherever and who like the idea of “roughing it” out in the mountains. Dibs heard about some big-ass hullaballoo when Art Pendergrast’s parents, and others, petitioned to have a custom cable laid for their internet connection. It was a whole thing—This town isn’t good enough for you? and all that.

  Dibs knocks on the door at this borderline late hour hoping this doesn't turn into a whole different thing. A nice, good-looking couple answers with smiles. Dibs exhales, relieved he doesn’t have to deal with a bunch of bullshit. It’s been a day. Art’s parents are in their early forties, pleasant, with an unmistakable new money glow about them. Good skin dressed in a mix of Nordstrom and REI.

  “Hi. Chief Dibs is it?” Mr. Pendergrast extends a hand.

  Mrs. Pendergrast gives a warm wave and politely excuses herself to tend to the Labradoodles that are going apeshit in the background.

  "Sorry to bother you at this hour," Dibs says.

  “No problem.”

  “Okay.” Dibs takes a beat, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you know Mrs. Vandercleef down the road?”

  Mr. Pendergrast’s expression fades a bit but he does his best not to completely let his thoughts and feelings about dear Mrs. Vandercleef show. “Yes.”

  “Yeah. This is my job, you understand?” Dibs resets, not believing this is his life now. “I just need to check on things, just following up, no accusations, no charges, just could use some information from you.”

  “I understand. Is there a problem?”

  "Kinda. Not really." Dibs can't take this bullshit. "Look. Here's the thing, man. That old ache in the nutsack Vandercleef thinks your boy fucked up her roses." He breathes in through his nose. Shrugs. "Thoughts?"

  Mr. Pendergrast smiles, appreciates the honesty. “Art is upstairs doing homework. Been here all night.”

  Dibs knows that’s not the truth. He's at least been out getting freaky with Mara. Not uncommon for a high school boy to sneak out through a window, tightrope the roof to get some. He's pretty sure Mara did a similar routine. Although that fortress he's heard she lives in might require more skill and finesse.

  “You want me to go get him?” Mr. Pendergrast asks.

  "Oh, no, that's cool." Dibs puts his hands out, not wanting to bust a fellow male doing his thing out on the town. He thinks of Kate in the window. Thinks of his own need to get freaky. "I'll just chalk it up to stray dogs having fun with roses or some shit."

  He shakes Mr. Pendergrast’s hand and heads back to his Blazer. As he slides into the seat, he picks up his phone to inquire if Kate has found her missing cat without him. He sees he has a new text. It’s from Kate.

  Too much wine. Crashing. Tomorrow?

  Dibs flips his phone up into the air out of frustration, letting it drop-bounce into the passenger seat. Cranks up the Zeppelin, letting the beats and notes wash over him. Attempts to forget about the missed opportunity. He tries to remember the last time he felt this way about a woman. He knows the answer but hates to admit it. It was Julie, his first wife. They were in love, no doubt, but it was young love mixed with a heavy dose of lust and stupid. She wasn't a bad person, they just got together way too young, and as they grew, they wanted different shit. It happens. No hard feelings.

  There's been a series of women he's liked. Falling in like is a different animal. Some he didn't like at all, but they wanted him. Didn't stop him from the sex, but still, he knows the difference. Kate is a different deal. He thinks of picking up his phone and pressing the issue. Maybe try and sweet talk her, charm himself into her house. Instead, he decides to text her back.

  Tomorrow? Sounds like a long time. I’ll wait. Hope your pussy is okay until then.

  He snickers to himself, hoping the joke lands okay. It’s always a roll of the dice with a text sex joke. Don’t always know how it will land on the other side. Translations get lost in the digital age. Subtle things get interpreted the wrong way without a facial expression or a tone in your voice to go along with the words. These are anxious moments indeed. The waiting for a response back. Something letting Dibs know he didn't cross the line with that pussy joke. He knows she started it with that missing cat shit, but he also knows sometimes you need to let the innuendo just be innuendo and not blow it all up with words like pussy.

  "Dumbass,” he says to himself, letting his mind spiral into worst-case scenarios. She’s going to get that text, be offended and this is all over. All over because Dibs got sexually frustrated and had to roll with the ham-fisted pussy joke. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Hell, even that little shit-ass Art Pendergrast knows better than that. He’d never fastball a pussy joke to Mara. Good God, I’m more useless than a teenaged mountain boy fuckstick.

  Dibs thinks of New York. Shakes his head. Tries to shake it loose again. He’s allowed his stupid pussy text spiral to drag him down into something darker. Thoughts of Louis Cody. NYC Detective Louis Cody. The man who tried to have him killed and came damn close to succeeding. The man who ran him out of his own homeland.

  This is how quickly it all happens. A stray thought turns, spinning into a tornado, twisting him over the edge into the abyss. His palms begin to itch. His shoulders inch up to his ears. He doesn’t even realize it’s happening. Anxiety, fear, and shame all collide when his heads gets to this place. He knows he needs to talk to someone about it all. He’d like it to be Kate, but he knows they are a long way from that kind of sharing. Shit, he can’t even get through a text chat without dropping an ill-timed pussy joke, so how in the sweet name of Christ is he ever going to open up and—

  His phone buzzes. The screen lights up, notifying him there’s a new message from Kate, but he can’t read it without unlocking the screen. His heart pounds in his chest. Is this the don’t talk to me again text? The text to end it all? It’s been a good run, he thinks.

  His eyes gloss as he looks to the screen. It’s below fifty degrees outside, probably colder with the wind, and he’s sweating like an overweight waiter. The back of his neck is damp. Zeppelin cranks out lyrics about drugs, sex, mountains and some random shit about elves. Dibs breathes in deep then picks up the phone.
He unlocks it.

  The message from Kate reads:

  My pussy is disappointed but patient. The cat is still missing, however : )

  Dibs exhales huge. His shoulders creep down to a reasonable place. A smile as big as New York spreads across his face. Still got it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Walter pushes himself up through a hatch in the roof covered in steel spikes.

  Night vision goggles rest atop his head, a massive fifty-caliber rifle thrown over his back. Holsters are strapped to each shoulder with Glocks at the ready. He drags a large pack stuffed with ammo and gear along the roof. Once he reaches the center, he drops the ammo pack with a thud. He lowers the goggles over his eyes and begins to twist the knobs, putting the world into view. This greenish illuminated look at life is intended to show him the things that go bump in the night. Walter intends to bump back.

  Bump ’em back to hell, he thinks.

  Still not entirely sure what the ’em is, but he knows the signs when he sees them. He walks the edges of his family’s rooftop fortress scanning his land like a shepherd looking over a flock. Watching over the night. Protector of the castle. Something rustles in the night toward the far corner of the property. Near the fence line. Walter shoulders his fifty-cal ballbuster, pushes up his goggles and sights in. Through the night vision scope is a glow of eyes. The blur of fur.

  “Shit.” Walter breathes out. “Damn ferrets.”

  He considers putting a fifty-caliber bullet up its ass, but lowers his rifle instead. The juice isn't worth the squeeze, not to mention the sound might scare off what's really out there lurking in the night. This is the one. The big one. Walter can feel it. Stella's ready. The twins are prepared. Well, as prepared as they can be at their tender-ass age. Mara is—

  “Holy shit,” he says under his breath. He’s completely forgotten about Mara. She’s out there. Surely Stella didn’t forget, she’s better at these types of things than Walter is, but he can’t believe he completely spaced on his daughter. Now. At a time like this. He can’t believe that in all the excitement of the unquestionable apocalypse he forgot about his baby girl. A tear wells in his eye. What’s become of him? She’s the best shot in the family. Maybe the meanest fighter, if he's honest. Walter picks up his phone, taps out a text to Stella about Mara.

  A roar sounds in the distance.

  Walter drops his phone. Another, lower roar. Then another. The last two were more machinelike, but still holding on to some animalistic qualities. Walter has never heard anything like it. He stands up, raising his rifle. His chest feels tight. His breathing accelerates then stops as his body has seemingly decided it is time to go into shutdown mode. He presses the scope to his eye. Just beyond the fence line is more movement. This time something large. Dark.

  That ain’t no fucking ferret.

  He fingers the trigger. Whatever it is hasn't breached the fence. Walter's mind becomes a scramble of every conspiracy podcast, every radio show, every Reddit avalanche of paranoid verbiage he's ever pored over. He remembers hearing something about how something has to actually be on your property before you can blast it to shit. Legally, that is. He knows this is the starting bell for the end of all things, but he doesn't want to go to jail either, in case he's wrong. He knows he's not, but still. Until the fabric of society completely goes shithouse, he has to abide by their rules.

  “Shit,” he whispers to himself.

  The towering, dark figure beyond the fence looks his way. Its eyes light up with a terrifying red glow as it stands up straight. It has to be eight feet tall, maybe ten. Its head brushes the limbs of the trees. Walter almost shits his pants. A little pee trickles out, without question.

  “Shit. Snot. Shit. Balls,” he stammers.

  They stare at one another. Walter and the bump in the night. The dark, massive beast with its glowing red eyes staring dead at Walter and his shaking fifty-cal ballbuster and his pee-trickle pants. The cold night air feels tight. Walter starts to sweat. The dark figure turns its head sharply then vanishes into the night, leaving only a rustle of branches behind it.

  Walter turns his rifle in quick jerking motions, trying to find that big night-beast. It’s gone. Vanished. Only swaying trees and brush. He finally exhales. Not sure how long he was holding his breath. The feeling in the rest of his body comes back online. He takes a moment of quiet reflection.

  Screaming like hell, Walter hauls ass toward the hatch.

  “Stella!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Those rose bushes are toast.”

  Dibs is relaying his notes on the great Vandercleef Rose Bush Case to Carol. He puts the pedal down en route to Kate's. He thought about hitting the lights up top and blasting the siren but decided better of it. Sure, she said she was going to sleep, but she might still be up. Right? Maybe?

  “What should I do with it?” Carol asks with some huff to her words. “That woman has called three times since you left. Wants to know who’s on it.”

  “Jesus.” Dibs rubs his face. “Give it to Larson.”

  “Larson? He’s an idiot.”

  “I know he’s an idiot. You think I don’t know he’s an idiot? But I’m asking you to please call him.” He thinks of his chat with Mr. Pendergrast. Thinks of his son Art. “Did that Mara girl come back?”

  “Who? No.”

  “Tell me again. What did she say tonight?”

  “Dammit, man. One damn thing at a time.” She hacks. “You’re goddamn killing me with your crap. Now, Larson is working the Voss party.”

  “What?” The pressure-grip Dibs puts on the steering wheel rivals that of the Jaws of Life. His face rushes to red. “He’s where?”

  "The Voss party. On the Voss Ranch." She hacks, waits, smacks her lips. "Darius Voss. Rich asshole. You know the guy. Pretty sure you know the guy."

  Oh, he knows the guy. Dibs is not a fan.

  Darius Voss is the wealthiest man in town. He's one of the few who made it out of both the dot-com bubble and the financial crisis without a scratch. Hell, he made even more money in 2008. He’s got a fake tan and a real Rolex, and firmly believes it is his taxes, and his taxes alone, that provide enough money for the town of Stagstone to run. Therefore, he often treats its civil servants as his own private staff.

  Dibs and Voss had a run-in on Dibs’s first day on the job. Voss decided to walk into the station and explain to Dibs how the town worked. He was passive-aggressive as hell, but it was clear he was letting the new sheriff in town know how shit was done in Stagstone. That Voss was the ruler and king. Christ he was smug. Dripping in this thick film of complete, entitled douchebag. He reminded Dibs of someone (many someones, actually) he hated in his old life. Voss always has this look in his eye. Also something about the way he stands. It’s what's behind his smile too. It hits Dibs like a freight train. Can't believe he hadn't pieced it together before now, but Voss possesses all the horrific qualities of Louis Cody. And those, folks, ain't good things to have.

  "Larson works for me," Dibs says, almost talking to himself. "There's a lot going on tonight. Shit, a lot going on all day. What the hell, man?"

  “Don’t tell me, sugar mouth. Go bitch at Voss.”

  “I will.”

  “You should.”

  “I said I will.”

  “You done being a noodle dick about this shit or are you going to do something about it?”

  “What? I’m your damn boss.”

  “So hot when you’re all pissy.”

  “Oh, shut the hell up.” He pinches the bridge of his nose for the fifty-second time today.

  “There it is, sexy as hell.”

  Dibs bounces the handset off the passenger seat like a basketball. He stabs the radio until he reaches a song that matches up with his rage. A song that has something to it. Something with drums, screaming, a bone-crunching guitar.

  He’s had a shit day. A lot of dead things with no answers as to why. Strange behavior. Odd happenings across the town. Blue balls. Missing meth dumbasses. A
scared teenager roaming around somewhere in the night who might hold a lot of the answers. Stupid rose bushes. Blue balls, still. Someone needs to pay.

  Dibs jams down the pedal. This time he hits the lights and lets the siren loose. Red and blue gumdrops light up the dark streets and the Stagstone PD siren’s wail obliterates the quiet night. Voss is about to get a party gift.

  A beautiful, size twelve foot up his ass.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A man walks into the station.

  He stands in front of the desk where Carol is slumped over taking a nap. Her snores are almost too much to witness. There's a violent snorting with a jive and jiggle to them, coupled with added drooling. Her feet are propped up on the desk and she's pulled off her shoes and socks, revealing years of neglect to her poor feet and tootsies.

  The man stares on.

  He is tall, handsome, with long dark hair and dressed in a smart black suit with a bloodred tie. A black beard reaches just above the perfect Windsor knot tied in his tie. His striking eyes cut through you, like a staring Siberian Husky. Hard to guess his age. He possesses the eyes of someone who’s seen a great many things, but his skin is free from wrinkles or from the ravages of the sun.

  He watches Carol’s display of awful sleep and allows a small hint of a smile. He clears his throat. Carol doesn’t wake, doesn’t even move. The man clears his throat again. Same result. The man looks up, closes his eyes, then nods as if the answer came to him from the wind.

  "Carol," he says, calm and serene.

  She snorts hard. A snot bubble forms, then pops out from her nose. Carol begins grunting and waving her hand, signaling for whatever it is to go away.

  “Carol.” This time he tries a singsong voice.

  "Eat shit," Carol calls out without opening her eyes.