Ye Gods! A Tale of Dogs and Demons

By Lynne M. Hinkey

AN E-BOOK, SAVE A DOG! All proceeds from e-book sales of Ye Gods! go to animal rescue organizations.

Author Jack Halliman sails to Puerto Rico seeking a cure for writer's block, but instead finds a dead body. When a second corpse turns up, Jack becomes one of two suspects. The other is the chupacabra. Jack has to find out who--or what--is responsible for the killings before he lands in prison. Again.

The death toll is mounting and the mayor is pressuring the police to capture the chupacabra. Detective Eddie Corredor thinks there's more than a monster behind the killings and he's determined to discover the truth.

As the conniving mayor, dogged detective, and a voodoo-practicing 14-year old drag Jack deeper into the investigation, he discovers that separating reality from myth is no easy feat. The lines between men and monsters, monsters and gods, and in this case, between gods and a dog, are thin and blurry.

Is the chupacabra real or myth? Dog only knows, but no one is asking him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynne M. Hinkey
• Release date: Apr 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310851797

Lynne M. Hinkey

SPECIAL!! 100% of the proceeds from book sales are donated to animal rescue organizations in the US Virgin Islands and Puerto Rico as these organizations work to recover from the devastating blow of Hurricanes Irma and Maria. To help, the e-books have been priced as "Reader's Choice," meaning you determine how much you want to give. I guarantee every cent of it will go directly to these organizations. Think I'm being mercenary to sell books? Then don't buy any. You can make a donation directly to these organizations at: St. Thomas Humane Society: http://www.hsstt.com/donate.html St. John Animal Care Center: http://www.stjohnanimalcarecenter.com/donate St. Croix Animal Welfare Center: https://www.stcroixawc.org/ Animal Rescue Foundation of Rincon: https://arfrincon.org/ BIO Lynne Hinkey is a marine scientist by training, a writer by passion, and a curmudgeon by nature. She spent years hanging out at marina bars around the Caribbean, where she eavesdropped in on fascinating conversations that she then turned into fun stories reflecting the zaniness of island life. She lives in Charleston, South Carolina, with her husband, cat, and two dogs. Her short stories, essays, travel articles, and book reviews have appeared in a number of print and electronic publications. She is the author of three novels: Marina Melee, Ye Gods! A Tale of Dogs and Demons, and The Un-Familiar: A Tale of Cats and Gods. The latter are books 1 and 2 of her Chupacabra Trilogy. The final installment, Ye Goddess! A Tale of Girls and Gods," is in development. When not writing, Lynne is an adjunct professor of biology and an avid, but not accomplished, dog agility competitor. Visit her website at www.lynnehinkey.com.

Book preview

DEDICATION

To Matt, for all the magic he brings to my life.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Ye Gods! A Tale of Dogs and Demons

Dedication

1. Dead Man Floating

2. The Monster Did It

3. The Legend of the Chupacabra

4. Same Dog, Different Day

5. Publicity Hound

6. The Coach

7. Making Friends

8. Dinner and a Story

9. Mercy

10. Company Coming

11. Visitors

12. Down to Business

13. A Funny Thing Happened on the Way Home

14. Another One Bites the Dust

15. Not Guilty As Charged

16. Desperately Seeking Carmen

17. Lost and Found

18. Unblocked

19. Investigations

20. Los Federales

21. A-Hunting We Will Go

22. Copycats

23. It's Magic

24. Scapegoats

25. Framed

26. Stakeout

27. The Hunt

28. The Monster Unmasked

29. So It Is Written

30. I Believe In Miracles

Acknowledgements

About the Author

1. DEAD MAN FLOATING

Chupacabra-of-the-sea discovered in Cartagena

Colombia Reports

Cartagena, Colombia, July 18, 2011

Elusive chupacabra captured, released in Maryland

The Examiner

Cheverly, Maryland, August 17, 2011

Could this be a chupacabra?

Rancher shoots mythical creature

Daily Mail Reporter

Tucson, Arizona, May 7, 2012

Chupacabra bites mayor's prized cock

En Otras Noticias

Rincón, Puerto Rico, August 4, 2013

The creatures were spotted, captured and killed, and their DNA tested. It didn't matter that the official reports indicated they were mangy foxes, raccoons, coyotes, and even a diseased wolphin (those randy dolphins do occasionally get amorous with their whale cousins). Once in print, it was too late. The word was out.

And the word was chupacabra.

~ ~ ~

JACK

Jack Halliman reached over the gunwale of his sailboat, the Holey Ship, and passed a line to the man waiting on the dock. He waved and nodded to fend off the verbal onslaught that invariably followed when fans recognized him: the Jack Halliman. It was a pain in the ass, but after twenty years, he'd grown used to it.

Yes, I'm Jack. Jack Halliman, he introduced himself. He was met by a blank stare. The writer. This time he got a frown.

He tried again. The Franz Henle series? Nothing. Did this guy live under a rock? "¿Habla inglés?"

Of course, the lanky young man responded. "Bienvenido. Welcome to Puerto Rico and Club Náutico del Oeste, Mr. Henle."

Halliman, he grunted. The name is Halliman. Franz Henle is the protagonist in my books.

You're a writer? The young man dipped his chin and looked over the top of his mirrored sunglasses. Me too! I have some good publishing contacts on the island. Maybe I can help you out.

Jack sighed. His agent was right. Your fans forget you if you don't put out a book or two each year. It had been eleven months since the release of Dead Man's Chest. He still didn't have any ideas for Franz's next adventure. Maybe you've heard of the—

A rhythmic wheeze-grunt-snort, wheeze-grunt-snort interrupted him. Long black ears appeared in the gangway, followed by a flat face with wide-set eyes. A chubby French bulldog flopped onto the deck, flipped onto its hindquarters, and proceeded to slurp and lick at its nether region.

Hanna! Jack snapped. Stop that. He turned to the marina dockhand. She's a poor substitute for a first mate, but there you have it. He stepped over the gunwale and stumbled midstride. Catching his balance, he landed on the dock and pointed over the side. Holy shit! he finally managed and pointed to the water under the bow.

The young man forced a chuckle. Yes, I saw the name of your boat. Funny. Then he looked to where Jack was pointing. His swarthy face blanched. "¡Madre de Dios!" He made the sign of the cross in front of his chest.

Jack scurried on board to grab the boat hook. Leaning down, he prodded the corpse on one shoulder. The body bobbed over onto its back. Vacant eye sockets stared up from a bloated, blue-gray face. Small crabs scurried over, in, and out of the ragged, gaping gash in the corpse's neck.

Hanna peered over the side and snorted her disinterest at the dead man. Then she plopped down onto the deck and contorted to a good angle for gnawing at her ever-itchy butt.

~ ~ ~

EL FLACO

Mayor Félix El Flaco Reyes smoothed his thin black hair and stepped to the microphone. He waved and smiled as if facing the White House press corps rather than a few reporters in a small town in western Puerto Rico. Good afternoon and thank you all for coming. He waited while they settled into the plastic chairs arranged in neat rows in the Rincón Community Center gymnasium.

Alcalde. A man in the front row raised his hand. Mayor Reyes nodded. Can you describe the attack for us? the reporter asked.

Not the attack, only the aftermath, the horror. Reyes paused, casting his eyes down to the side, his chin pressed to one shoulder. He'd studied the move diligently on the afternoon telenovelas. Drawing a deep breath, he continued. It's well-known that I love my cocks, care for them like my children. When I fed them last night, they were fine. But this morning, I went into the coop and what did I find? Death. Destruction. Nothing but feathers, blood, and gore! Roosters and hens, torn apart. He struck a distraught pose, covering his eyes with one hand, and peeked between his fingers. Yes, he had their full attention.

Mayor? Another reporter raised his hand. The police report said there were no signs of a struggle. Are you saying the report is wrong?

Flaco frowned. How could there not be a struggle? The birds—five of them—were drained of blood, their necks torn open.

Could it have been one of your cockfighting competitors? the reporter asked. The mayor prided himself on his roosters' success in the ring. "Or one of your rivals in the upcoming election? They're calling for a close race in this municipio."

Perhaps it was someone who opposes the brutal, inhumane practice of cockfighting? asked the lone female reporter in the room.

Flaco stepped from behind the podium. Brutal? Inhumane? He glared at the woman. "You obviously know nothing of the sport of kings, of our ancestors. This is our patrimonio, our heritage. No. Our sport has too much honor for such an act. I think you all know what's behind these attacks. It has been many years, but you remember."

The reporters avoided eye contact and hid their smirks. They fidgeted with their pens, press passes, and recorders.

A rumpled man sitting off to the side stood and cleared his throat. Miguel Graciento, he introduced himself. "With En Otras Noticias. There were a few groans and sniggers as the journalists recognized the name of the island's alien-chasing, conspiracy-theorizing rag. Miguel ignored them. It's like we've been saying. The chupacabra is back."

Someone laughed out loud.

Laugh if you will, señor, the mayor chided. But mark my words, it won't stop at poultry and livestock. Don't forget what happened last time.

Last time? The Del Toro murders were solved. You don't believe that girl, the daughter who survived, do you? They call her Crazy Carmen for a reason. And regardless of what she says, the old man killed them, not the chupacabra. The reporter made air quotes with his fingers as he said the last word.

Miguel Graciento mimicked the motion. "The chupacabra is real. And unlike some so-called news agencies on this island, we at En Otras Noticias don't rely on the lies fed to us by the government. We investigate. He turned to the mayor. I suppose the official veterinary report is blaming wild dogs again?"

Flaco suppressed a grin. He could always count on Miguel's support. Yes, as if wild dogs could enter a closed coop, drain the blood from the birds leaving no visible signs of a struggle, and latch the gate behind them when they depart.

You just said it was a scene of 'death and destruction...feathers, blood, and gore.' The female reporter read back from her notes.

Embarrassment wasn't in Flaco's nature or he'd have blushed when caught in such a blatant bit of spin. Instead, he blustered. Two hens and three roosters dead, isn't that enough destruction for you?

But no signs of a struggle and no indication they'd been drugged? she pressed.

Exactly. The manner of their deaths cannot be attributed to natural causes, only to the supernatural. The chupacabra has returned, and I, Félix Reyes, will not rest until this monster has been captured and the people of my community are safe.

The heavy double doors to the gymnasium opened with a long, dramatic creak and two uniformed police officers entered. Excuse the interruption, Alcalde Reyes, one said. But there's been an incident at the marina. He approached the podium, covered the microphone, and whispered in the mayor's ear.

Flaco's lips curled into a grin, exposing his gold front tooth. A dead body. Fate was obviously on his side.

~ ~ ~

SEÑORA MILAGROS

Señora Milagros Isabela Hernán de Santiago twitched and swatted absently at the buzzing around her head. Or was it in her head? Whatever. It was enough to rouse her from deep sleep. Don't want to get up yet! she mumbled. She burrowed down in the covers and drifted into a hazy gray world.

Uh-oh. She knew this place. If only it was somewhere as innocent as a dream, but it wasn't. Her charge was awake and she was watching events unfold through his eyes, as both the animal and an observer outside its body, similar to the disorienting way dreams had of changing perspective. But this view, his view, was real.

She followed a young man, in pursuit but remaining in the shadows. Ice cubes rattled in the plastic to-go cup he carried. He tipped the last of the drink into his mouth, then tossed the cup into the twisted mangrove trees along the road. The smell of rum stung her nose and curled her lip.

A feral rumble, the kind that made cavemen believe in demons and invent gods, came from her dream-being's throat. The man stopped, eyes searching the tortured shapes of the prop roots for the source of the noise.

Now she towered over him, leaning down, close. She could smell the tang of his sweat. Her hot breath tickled the back of his neck. She let out another low growl, almost too soft for hearing, but not for feeling. The man's shoulders squinched up toward his ears, his chin tucked into his throat, and he froze.

Motionless, she waited.

Slowly, the man turned and raised his head. He forced his eyes open to face whatever loomed over him. What the—? A yip drew his eyes to the ground and he laughed in relief. "Stupid sato. How'd you get here?"

Ah, sato, her dream-self figured it out. Her charge had taken the form of a dog, of course.

Kiki's gonna be so grateful when I bring your ugly ass home. No telling how she'll show her appreciation. The man leered.

The dog leered back.

The man leaned over and reached for the small pooch. Its jaws clamped down on air with a loud snap, like a bear trap slamming closed. He jumped away in the nick of time. The dog wiggled its eyebrows, taunting him.

What the hell? I should sell you for bait, let some pit bull get a taste of you. But he didn't reach for the dog again. I hope a car hits you. He turned his back and began walking away.

The dog crouched, ready to spring. That low rumbling growl, like an earthquake, vibrated through Milagros' body. Helpless to stop what came next, she watched from within the dog's eyes as she, or rather the dog, leapt.

The man looked over his shoulder. His mouth moved to scream, but nothing came out.

Señora Milagros' large, golden-green eyes flew open and she threw layers of down comforters to the floor. Not a dream. Crap.

~ ~ ~

KIKI

The afternoon sun beat down on the parched brown grass around the house. Kiki Cristatello stretched in the hammock strung across the veranda. She hung a leg over the side and gave a push with her toe. The swinging created the tiniest hint of a breeze in the otherwise stifling tropical afternoon heat. Her scraggly dog, Muggle, lay quietly on the cool tile floor beneath the hammock. With each arc, Kiki's left hand stroked the dog's back. In her right hand, she held a paperback over her head. Well, that's stupid, she said. That's not how genetics works.

Genes, chromosomes, and mutations fascinated Kiki. She'd done her science fair project that year on the recently mapped genome of Aedes aegypti, the mosquito that transmitted dengue fever. It earned her both a first-place ribbon, and a reputation as a geek in her ninth-grade class where, because she'd skipped a grade to join them, she was already considered a freak. Her belief that she possessed magical powers didn't help her cause.

I could write a better story than this! She had a very low tolerance for simple scientific errors, even in fiction. Suspension of disbelief was one thing, but bad science was uncalled for. She sat up and threw the vampire book across the porch. She had to go to swim practice anyway.

Muggle rolled onto his back, waving one paw at her. Kiki rested a hand on his belly, still damp from his earlier bath. A series of images flashed in her head: torn open garbage bags, a pile of horse manure, a greasy stain of roadkill. She shivered with excitement. Maybe that was her power, maybe she was an empath. Or would that be a psychic. Either way, cool. Certain she'd sensed Muggle's plan to roll in something that would overpower the flowery shampoo stink of his recent bath, she told him, Don't you dare. He sighed and flopped back onto his stomach.

A blast of cold air poured from the sliding glass doors to the veranda and her father stepped out, sliding the doors closed behind him. Kiki pointed to the dog. Look! That mange shampoo is working. He has hair.

We have to talk, her father said.

Kiki shook her head. My potions did not ruin those stupid pots. I used all natural, organic ingredients I picked from... Her father's grim face stopped her midsentence. It's not that, is it? She thrilled at her newly discovered ability to sense others' thoughts. What's wrong?

I just got a call from María's father, the mayor? She nodded that she knew who he was. Something's happened.

To María? María Reyes was one of the few friends Kiki had made since moving from Connecticut to Puerto Rico at the beginning of the summer. She'd quickly discovered that her three years of elementary school Spanish meant nothing here. Puerto Rican Spanish was a whole different language from what she'd learned. Rapid and clipped, with syllables elided and letters omitted, it had taken her two weeks to figure out people were asking how she was when they said "¿como-ta-oo-ted?"

She'd joined the swim team to make friends. The coach told the other kids to speak to her only in Spanish to help her learn. Swimming didn't lend itself to lengthy conversation, and Kiki's constant asking of "¿Cómo?" discouraged what little efforts the others made. María, however, chattered away in English about the summers she'd spent with her grandmother and an aunt who lived in New Haven.

No, María's fine, her father assured her. It's Coach Manny.

Kiki made a face. What'd he say about me? It's a lie. Don't believe anything that creepy old letch says. Seriously.

John Cristatello squatted down to look her in the eye. He was a nice young man, Kiki. He was a good coach.

You think. He's a perv. You should see him drool over the swimmers and make silly goo-goo eyes at their mothers. It's— she stopped. Was?

Manny is dead. Her father wrapped her in a hug.

Dead? It came out more like nyeh because in his comforting embrace, her father had squished her face against his chest. She pushed him away. What do you mean, dead?

He blinked and frowned. Dead. As in not alive. He was killed.

Kiki narrowed her eyes. What do you mean, killed?

I mean, he died of not natural causes.

Exactly how not natural? Her father was silent. Kiki really hated when her parents couldn't keep up in conversations. Both PhDs, they were supposedly intelligent people, but sometimes she really had her doubts. They often seemed baffled by even her most mundane questions. Well?

Oh, Kiki, honey, you don't need to hear the details.

How? she insisted. It's important.

He rubbed his hand across his forehead, then said, His...his throat was slit. They found him at the marina, in the water.

Her father tried to hug her again but Kiki pushed him away. I did it. I wished him dead and now he is, she confessed, sounding more amazed than contrite.

Wishing someone harm doesn't kill people, Kiki. Don't feel bad just because you didn't like him.

I don't feel bad about not liking him. I feel guilty because I killed him. I'll show you. She flipped out of the hammock and ran into the house. A moment later, she returned carrying a small doll made from yarn, sticks, and cloth. A thin piece of torn Lycra swimsuit stretched taut across the middle, and two small slivers of broken mirror were glued on to look like the coach's reflective sunglasses. The part with the mirrors hung down at an odd angle. I made this. It's Manny. Last night, I was...well, I was casting spells, thus the stained pots from my potions. Muggle must've thought this was a toy and he grabbed it. His neck snapped. I didn't mean to hurt him. Well, sort of, but not, you know, dead.

Her father tensed and pulled back. An awkward silence hung between them. Kiki waited, giving him time to absorb what she'd told him. Finally, he patted her on the back and sighed. Someone with a knife killed Manny last night, Kiki. Not you with a doll.

It was me. I saw it. I thought I was dreaming, but it was real. She dropped the doll to the floor. Muggle picked it up, shook it, and trotted off to bury it in the yard.

2. THE MONSTER DID IT

EL FLACO

In the bathroom adjacent to his office, Flaco worked on getting the correct facial expression. On a solemn occasion like this, he'd have to avoid flashing his gold tooth, no matter how handsome his trademark smile. Today, his competent, self-assured look had to be tempered by sorrow. Let the people see not only their take-charge mayor looking out for them, but a compassionate leader who had things under control. But not too much. Fear made them more pliable; ensured they would turn to him and do as he said to keep their families safe.

His plan, and the timing, couldn't be any more perfect. Two more people had announced their intentions to run in the upcoming mayoral election—Javier Dieppa and María Beatriz Respaldo. Bah! he spat. A woman. Ridiculous. Even the last pope said politics is no place for women. Who could argue with that? This crisis would win him the election. He glowered into the mirror. No, too angry. His daughter was right, that made him look like Richard Nixon. Not what he was going for. He relaxed his forehead and turned up the corners of his lips into a confident but not happy smile. Perfect.

The same reporters from the day before stood around the room, heads together, exchanging notes on the big story. When he entered, they turned toward the podium. Thank you. Please, be seated, he began.

Conversations ceased and chairs scraped as they settled in. Flaco waited while video cameras and voice recorders clicked on. When all was still, he nodded to them. Thank you for returning. Under the circumstances, I'm sorry to see you again so soon. As you've heard, a young man, Manuel Costas Figueroa, a dear friend of mine, the swim team's coach, a respected and beloved mentor to my daughter and dozens of children in this town, was killed in the early hours of the morning yesterday. When I was informed of this during our recent press conference, there were few details available, but now I can tell you more. His body was discovered in the marina waters yesterday afternoon. Police are investigating, but this much is clear: his throat was viciously ripped open and his blood sucked out. It is as I feared, and as some of you doubted. The chupacabra has returned.

A few hands went up and he nodded to the female reporter, the one who'd had the gall to question the legitimacy of cockfighting. Yes?

I spoke with Detective Corredor this morning. He says this appears to be a robbery gone bad, possibly punks looking for drug money.

Did he also explain why then the victim's wallet, money, and gold jewelry were not taken?

The reporter mouthed a silent oh and sat down.

The police are inventing these stories to cover for their inability, or unwillingness, to acknowledge the real culprit. I told you the monster would one day return.

Return from where? If the so-called chupacabra does exist, why haven't there been any killings for almost twenty years?

Flaco shrugged. Maybe it goes into hibernation? Maybe it only needs to feed once every twenty years. You're all aware of the frequent mysterious sightings in the area. Perhaps, as some experts have proposed, this creature isn't of this world. If so, then how can we know its ways?

A few of the reporters rolled their eyes and others stifled giggles. Some even voiced objections, but Miguel Graciento from En Otras Noticias rose and interrupted them. Flaco breathed a sigh of relief.

Mark my words, the reporter addressed his colleagues, the official report will be out in a day or two and will blame wild monkeys, or a rogue mongoose, or have some other equally preposterous story. You can deny it, take the lazy way out and print what the government tells you. Personally, I find it sad that in our country, murder has become so commonplace that reporters don't even bother to investigate. But that's just me, and I plan on looking into this further.

Titters rippled through the room, but Flaco noticed they were all scribbling on their notepads or tapping on their tablets. This was his chance.

Reviews for Ye Gods! A Tale of Dogs and Demons

[cissa_5 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Jack writes murder mysteries that start with his sleuth sailing into a port and finding a corpse.Jack was not expecting this to happen to him in real life.I am generally not a fan of novels with a vast assortment of POVs- but it really works well here. The plotting is pretty good, and gives a good base for the character development.And the characters are great, as are their interactions. I include the dogs here!If you like solid murder mysteries and don't mind a somewhat paranormal spin- BUT with solid and interesting characters- I totally recommend this book.I received this in a parcel of the author's books, in exchange for an honest review.