Page 1 of The Sister's Curse

1

Handfishing for Monsters

“You can’t keep running!”

No one really could. Truth always slithered to the light. It could wait underground for years—decades, even—exulting in darkness. But truth inevitably lifted its head and flicked its tongue at the sun. It was sometimes beautiful, often terrifying, and usually poisonous.

And painful as hell when it bit.

“It’s all over, Rod!” I shouted as I ran into the gloom. The sun had set, the last golden light fading from the tassels of summer grasses.

The man I chased was just ahead of me, a stringy dude in a camo T-shirt and jorts. He looked back over his shoulder, fearful. If he had any sense, he would’ve gone to ground and crawled through tall grass and purple ironweed. But Rod Matthews hadn’t thought straight in many years. Decades of bad decisions had led him to today, to being chased by the Bayern County Sheriff’s Office, on charges of meth production. A whole nest of meth headshad been disturbed, scattering to the four winds, and Rod was my chosen quarry for the evening.

“I ain’t goin’ back to prison!” he shouted.

Rod put his head down and pumped his scrawny fists, running for what was left of his life. I hadn’t judged Rod to be in great shape, but adrenaline was a helluva drug. I’d eventually wear him down and he’d collapse. Eventually.

I toyed with the idea of taking my time, of hunting him. Sometimes…I wanted to enjoy circling my prey, feeling the space of air in my lungs, and the tightness of my muscles ready to spring.

But I didn’t take that slow luxury. I increased my pace. I’d take him down quickly, haul him back to his meth lab. Clean. Like the good cop I once was, and was trying to be again.

In my peripheral vision something rippled the grass, as if an invisible shark swam beside me. It moved parallel to me, surged past me.

My heart lurched into my mouth, shattering my single-pointed concentration.No…

Rod screamed and collapsed, disappearing from sight.

“Fuck. Fuck. Stop it!”

I rushed to the place where Rod had fallen. He was lying on the ground, whimpering. A large, spotted pit bull was sitting on Rod’s chest, chewing his T-shirt and growling like thunder.

“Gibby! Gibby, get off!” I reached for my dog’s collar.

Gibby huffed at me. He drew his lips back into what I interpreted to be a smile, but Rod took as an expression of utter bloodthirstiness. I pulled Gibby back. Gibby liked hunting, too, but his methods were more direct. I couldn’t really fault him for that.

I turned Rod over, shoved him face down in the grass, and cuffed him. To my relief, I noticed no blood on either Rod or the dog—just lots of slobber.

I glanced at Gibby, who smiled and thumped his tail on the ground. “You were supposed to wait in the car with Monica.”

I swore he laughed at me. I had no idea how he’d gotten out of the SUV; I’d closed the doors and left the AC running. Gibby was a rescue dog with a very questionable reputation. A year ago he was on death row with animal control for mauling a cop; I’d pulled some strings to get him released into my custody.

“You’re under arrest for the manufacture, possession, and distribution of a Schedule II substance,” I told Rod, rolling him over to search him for drugs and weapons. His pockets were full of foil-wrapped pills—likely pseudoephedrine—and a pop bottle half-full of liquid. I squinted at it. It was the wrong color for cola or piss. Likely, it was one of the precursor chemicals for meth production—acetone or ether. I stuffed the evidence into my pockets and hauled Rod to his feet. I read him his rights as we crossed back through the field, toward a distant barn. He’d lost a flip-flop somewhere in his attempt to escape, so I took it slow for his benefit.

Above us, starlings flew west to their nests, chattering to themselves. They clotted together in a murmuration, twisting and turning in a cloud of seething, chirping shadow. It never failed to amaze me how they could become something so much more than the sum of their feathered parts, and I wondered what invisible current drove them.

Rod hung his head and plodded along, ignoring the show in the sky. “I’m going back to prison.”

“Probably,” I agreed, one eye still on the sky.

“Can I cut a deal? What if I roll over on my brother, Timmy?”

“Depends on what you’ve got to say about Timmy. Is he in town?” Rod’s brother was a well-known drug runner. He was well-known because he wasn’t very good, and got caught with some frequency.

“He’s back from Florida, with a trunk full of ketamine.”

“A whole trunk full?” I was skeptical.

“He picked it up at the airport, with some dudes from Germany…”