Diablero Read online

  A lonely owl hooted overhead, the sound echoing through the swamp like a voice in the wilderness. Hunter looked up into the cypress trees, but saw nothing.

  * * *

  Less than a mile away, deep inside the forest, something inhuman moved through the darkness.

  Seven

  Randy Harrell had worked in the Dismal Swamp most of his life. Farming had once been his mainstay, but then he had turned to moonshining. His father had been a logger, before the government declared the Dismal Swamp a protected wildlife sanctuary.

  Damned government, always sticking its nose in people’s private affairs, taking away their livelihood so some otters can have a place to frolic. It was enough to make a man turn to a life of crime.

  Harrell stood at the door of his wooden shack, watching as the powerful alcohol dripped into a glass jug from the end of a long, curling copper tube extending from a huge kettle. Another couple of gallons and he’d be set to make a run to Greenville. It seemed people couldn’t get enough of his potion, especially those crazy redneck, bedsheet-wearing KKK goons. Some of the biker gang members and a whole lot of fishermen went in for the stuff, too. Nothing like mixing alcohol and heavy machinery, Randy thought.

  Personally, Randy didn’t touch the stuff. He had sworn off firewater after watching his old man die from liver disease. There were much better—and quicker—ways to go out.

  Randy lifted up the front of his ball cap, and mopped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm.

  “It ain’t even hot, yet,” he said aloud, thinking about the summer to come.

  He looked around at the growing darkness, getting a little spooked by the preternatural silence.

  It sure is damned quiet out here.

  Normally, the sound of a million frogs and native birds created a nighttime symphony, one to which Randy had grown so accustomed to over the years, he hardly noticed it any more.

  Until it wasn’t there.

  Sure is weird. Maybe there’s some gators in here.

  Even so, gators wouldn’t frighten birds away unless the birds were in the water. Something strange was going on, and Randy began feeling just the least bit uneasy.

  Cops. I bet the damn cops found my still again, the bastards.

  Randy had been busted some ten years before, but the area he now occupied was secluded enough and off the beaten path that nobody should ever be able to find it, unless they had just stumbled on it by accident.

  He decided to not take any chances, however, and went inside to grab his rifle. You never knew who you were going to meet out on the swamp—maybe a bear, maybe a gator, or a rabid raccoon.

  The fire Harrell had made gave off plenty of light, and he could see a good ways in every direction, except behind the shack. Somehow, though, he felt the intruder, or whoever it was, was coming from the south, and he held his gun ready.

  His head suddenly exploded with pain as he was hit from behind with terrific force. Stars filled his vision and he fell to the ground, dropping his rifle in the process. Randy felt his head throbbing and tried to move, lying face down in the oozing mud and cypress roots. He heard the sound of creaking metal and rolled onto his back, slowly opening his eyes, and saw his rifle, bent into a horseshoe, fall to the ground.

  Then he saw what had done it.

  It looked like it was human, or once might have been, but that was long, long ago. Randy stared, transfixed, wondering in his reeling mind how this thing could possibly be alive.

  Randy tried to make a sound, to scream, to cry out, but nothing would come but a strangled sob.

  A rusty sword, which had been hidden in a sheath tied around the thing’s body, was silently pulled out and raised over Randy’s neck. As he eyed the wide, curved blade, Randy realized with his last sane thought that it looked like something he had once seen as a kid at the local museum—an ancient cutlass.

  He felt what he thought were snakes crawling over his arms and across his legs, but his eyes told him otherwise. They were cypress roots come to life, pulling themselves up out of the mud like giant, writhing worms. He watched in wild-eyed horror as the roots suddenly tightened, like ropes on a torture chamber’s rack, and held him fast to the cold, slimy ground.

  Then the cutlass came down and put a violent end to his life.

  * * *

  A few dozen yards away in the murky water of a Lake Drummond feeder ditch, a terror-stricken man in a boat watched the event through a thicket of cypress trees, and prayed to God that he hadn’t been seen.

  Eight

  Hunter got back into his car after relieving himself beside the Dismal Swamp Canal and picked the cell phone up off the passenger seat. He scrolled through the numbers, found the one he wanted and dialed it.

  “Coroner’s office,” came a female voice, a young one from the sound of it. Hunter wondered if she was cute, but a vision of Lisa quickly banished the thought.

  “Hi, this is Hunter Singleton of the River City Daily Tribune. I just wanted to let Dr. Hodges know I was running late, but I’m on the road right now and should be there in fifteen minutes or so.”

  “I’ll let him know, Mr. Singleton.”

  “Thanks,” he said and clicked the phone shut.

  Although Hunter was a young man, he was not ignorant to the ways of the world. He had been to battle a few more times than he cared to remember, and had the scars to prove it. Life had never been easy, though he had never complained. Abandoned as a baby, he was left on the steps of the police station at a reservation just outside of Tahlequah, Oklahoma, and taken in by a family in the nearby town. He never found his mother, but eventually figured out from his Caucasian features and dark skin that his father had probably been white, and his mother Native American.

  Hunter loved his family. They had taken him in and raised him as their own, and though they were white, they diligently taught him the ways of the Cherokee. Trips to the library for books about the tribal customs and language, to the reservation, videos about what life had been like long before Columbus had set foot on America’s shores. Hunter appreciated the history lessons, and the fact that it allowed him to know and understand his roots, to find himself and his identity, and he never forgot it.

  There were times as a child when Hunter wondered why his mother had left him. Had he not been loved? Was there something about him that she found so repugnant that she couldn’t stand the sight of him? But his father had explained that it wasn’t like that. Hunter probably had been loved, otherwise she wouldn’t have taken the pains of putting him on a police station’s doorstep. It was just the circumstances of life, and her circumstances didn’t allow for the raising of a child.

  That was something Hunter thought he could live with, so he never asked again. But sometimes, late at night, he would still dream about his mother and wonder how she was and what had become of her.

  After high school, Hunter longed to experience life outside the Midwest and the United States. A career in the navy seemed like the most logical way to achieve that goal, and that brought him east to Virginia. After the navy, he went to college on the GI Bill, and since writing had always been his first love, decided journalism would allow him the chance to write full time.

  His first job had been at a weekly newspaper in a small town in North Carolina, doing everything from selling ads to taking photographs and even designing pages. His editor had been a miserable old fart who thought that the world was his enemy, but still Hunter learned a lot, and he loved all of it.

  When the reporter’s position came open at The Daily Tribune the following year, he sent off a résumé and was hired two weeks later. That was three years ago.

  Hunter did not relish the thought of seeing a dead body tonight, but the coroner’s office had offered, and of course Stanton had jumped at the opportunity to send Hunter to get a look-see. He had seen plenty of dead during his time in the navy, but never one without a head. He hoped he could hold on to his dinner this time.

  He came to the end of the sw
amp. The highway broke out into open space, surrounded by farmland and covered by a dome of sky the color of blood. From the other direction, cars began turning on their lights, anticipating the coming of night. Better Than Ezra’s One More Murder blasted out of Hunter’s car stereo as he began to think about what he had witnessed on Ocracoke Island. In his mind’s eye, Hunter could still see the German shepherd high up in the pine tree, wrapped in vines as if they were somehow trying to ingest him.

  And exactly what had that diver—what was his name, Brickhouse?—seen on that dive that had made him forget everything he had learned as an experienced diver? What made him shoot to the surface like a guided missile? A shark? Whatever it was, getting the bends was less important than getting the hell out of there.

  Hunter’s gut told him that this death in the swamp and the events on Ocracoke were somehow connected, and it bothered him.

  Then, there were the bizarre dreams he had been having, dreams of dark shapes and strange, misshapen beings howling in fury, waiting to break free of a prison that had held them captive for untold eons.

  Hunter involuntarily shivered at the thought, and then put it out of his mind.

  He said a silent prayer as the Chesapeake General Hospital came into view, asking for the strength to see what he knew he didn’t want to see.

  Nine

  As Hunter pulled into the parking lot, he saw Lisa’s light gray Subaru and winced. His stomach immediately became a knot and he tried to think of a reason for not going inside.

  He couldn’t think of one.

  He pulled up as closely as he could to the ME’s section, shut down the car. He sat for a moment, collecting his thoughts, gathering his courage and hoping that everything would go smoothly, and without him saying something stupid, as he often did. If only things hadn’t gone this far, he thought. If only we could have been less stubborn, more willing to compromise.

  If only…

  Hunter sighed deeply and opened the door, stepping out into the humid evening air. It was early summer and still getting dark later, which Hunter always liked. It gave him more time to get things done, but of course it also gave Stanton more reasons to make him work late.

  Working late—the story of his life.

  And to make matters worse, he would now be competing with the Virginian-Pilot reporters and radio and television crews. Even USA Today would probably take an interest in the story, along with some national TV reporters. At least he still had some inside scoops, like this one.

  He checked his back pocket for his reporter’s notebook, made sure a pen was in his shirt pocket, and began walking toward the hospital, wishing it was all a dream and he would soon be waking up.

  * * *

  She stood in the hall, just inside the door, waiting for him. Normally, this would have filled him with joy, but under the circumstances, he only felt dread.

  “Hey,” Lisa said with no sign of emotion.

  “Hey,” Hunter said back. “Thanks for lining this up for me. Stanton appreciates it, I’m sure. Don’t know if I do, though. Never was one for blood and guts.”

  “Don‘t worry, there aren’t any guts, just blood. Of course, it’s all dried up now. And you‘re welcome.”

  They walked toward the coroner’s office, Hunter noticing the silence and smelling a musty odor that was typical of a medical examiner’s office. Whatever it was, it reminded him of death.

  They came to a set of double steel doors and swung them open, Lisa in the lead.

  “Hey, Doc, our boy finally made it,” she said.

  Ten

  After the formalities, the viewing of the actual body was less traumatic than Hunter had expected. Maybe he could chalk that up to his time in the military, or to watching too many horror movies. But somehow, he was able to detach himself from the reality of death and see the body for what it was—an empty shell.

  Hunter watched, tense and anxious, as the balding, over-worked medical examiner pulled the sheet off the body. Thankfully, Hunter saw that the autopsy had been completed and the chest cavity was sewn back up. The head had been severed, but the wound was ragged, as if cut with a dull cleaver or axe. The skin on the edges of the wound had small rips, like the instrument had been not only dull, but covered with some sort of encrustation.

  “I ran a test of this green stuff around the wound,” the ME said matter-of-factly, like a car mechanic explaining a tune-up. “It comes from the sea. Probably barnacles.”

  “Barnacles?” Hunter asked.

  The doctor nodded without looking up, poking and prodding around the headless body.

  Wherever the weapon had come from, it had been under seawater for a long period of time. Someone had found a sword on a beach, or possibly while diving, and decided to go psycho and decapitate people with it. At least, that was one explanation.

  For Hunter, though, it just didn‘t add up. There was something about this case he was missing, something important and something bigger than just a freak on the loose. This thing was more than human. It was unnatural, even supernatural.

  The ME looked across the examination table at Hunter and Lisa.

  “Want to see the head?”

  The pair looked at each other, then back at the doctor.

  “Uh, no thanks. I appreciate your time, though,” Hunter said with as much sincerity as he could muster.

  The ME gave a shrug and pulled the sheet back over the body, hiding it from view.

  “No problem. Anytime.”

  Hunter and Lisa walked back through the steel doors and down the hall to the door leading to the parking lot. There they stood, awkwardly, like two high school kids meeting for the first time.

  “Well, thanks for helping me out with this story,” Hunter said. “None of the other papers got a scoop like this and I appreciate it.”

  Lisa smiled and glanced away, unable to look him in the eye.

  “Hey, well…I’m glad to help out,” she said. “I‘m not a total bitch, you know. Only when I need to be.”

  “I never thought you were. Not even once.”

  She glanced back at him, a hint of surprise on her face.

  “Well, I have to get back to work,” she said.

  “You mean home, don‘t you?”

  “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  Long silence.

  “So, how do you like your apartment?” Hunter asked.

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, crossed her arms and looked down at the floor. “It’s okay.”

  Hunter decided not to prolong their tortured conversation any longer. “Well, I hope you have a good night’s sleep and I’ll call you later, just see how you’re doing. Okay?”

  Lisa glanced back at him, and for a fleeting second Hunter thought he saw joy in her eyes. Or maybe it was his imagination.

  “Sure, that would be great.”

  As he turned to leave, Hunter felt a twinge of hope for the first time in a long while.

  Eleven

  Lisa watched as Hunter climbed into his Accord and made his getaway. He never could stand intimate conversation, she thought, and had to smile in spite of herself. Though her estranged husband was in most ways a great lover and provider, when it came to frank discussion or confrontation, he would turn tail and run. Perhaps that was the problem with their marriage.

  Was she projecting? Maybe that was her problem, too. Maybe she refused to face the fact that what she saw in Hunter was a reflection of her own shortcomings.

  Lisa sighed heavily and replayed their conversation in her mind. She actually hoped he would call her, check up on her. That was what she wanted, though she’d never say it. She wore a tough exterior like a turtle’s shell, but inside she was still a woman with emotions and needs that only a man could fill—her man.

  But things got out of hand after the baby died and Hunter just let them happen. He thought Lisa had wanted space, wanted to be left alone, but it was exactly the opposite. She needed him more than ever, and he grew more distant with each passing day
. Finally, she had to say, “Enough.” She couldn’t let the charade go on any longer, going through the motions like two people acting in a play with no direction. She filed for separation and left home the same day, getting a place in Virginia so as not to accidentally run into him around town in River City.

  But it hadn’t helped. She felt like hell. To top it off, she felt guilty and she felt sorry for Hunter, leaving him alone when she knew how much he loved her. But she also knew the blame wasn’t all hers. Somewhere along the way, Hunter had to take some responsibility.

  Maybe he was starting to.

  Lisa turned from the door and walked back toward the coroner’s office to let the doctor know she was leaving. She opened the steel doors and stuck her head in, purposely avoiding close proximity to the corpse she had seen earlier. One viewing was enough.

  “Hey, Doc, thanks for everything. I really appreciate your help. Let me know if anything else comes up, will you?”

  The doctor looked over the top of his glasses at Lisa, his hands continuing to work on the body laid out before him as if they had been trained to work without supervision.

  “Sure, Ms. Singleton, no problem. Bye, now.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was smiling under the surgeon’s mask or sticking out his tongue.

  She let the doors swing out and walked toward her car in the parking lot.

  The moment she got in the car, her cell phone rang. She pulled it out of her front pocket and flipped it open.

  “Singleton here.”

  “Lisa, we just got a call and thought you might want to know about it.”

  It was the park superintendent, Jasper Frey, who had been a ranger since before she was born. He was also her friend and mentor, a man without whom she would not be where she was today.