Chupacabra Gift Set (Books 1 & 2 of the Chupacabra Trilogy)

By Lynne M. Hinkey

To celebrate the release of Book 2 in the Chupacabra Trilogy, get Books 1 (Ye Gods! A Tale of Dogs and Demons) and Book 2 (The Un-Familiar: A Tale of Cats and Gods) TOGETHER in this 2-book gift set.

"Ye Gods! A Tale of Dogs and Demons." The book that started it all: 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.

And NEW! The "Un-Familiar: A Tale of Cats and Gods," the second book in the Chupacabra Trilogy: The chupacabra returns in another zany caper that started with 2014's "Ye Gods! A Tale of Dogs and Demons." This raucous island adventure weaves the myth and mystery of the chupacabra (Spanish for goatsucker) with some endearing island characters in a madcap look at science, belief, and the gray area in between. There's a beast of a storm brewing and only a god can stop it. But which one? The chupacabra returns--and this time, he's brought some friends (and an enemy or two).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynne M. Hinkey
• Release date: Sep 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370505791

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

A Tale of Dogs and Demons

The Chupacabra Trilogy Book 1

by

Lynne M. Hinkey

DEDICATION

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

TABLE OF CONTENTS--Ye Gods! A Tale of Dogs and Demons

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. He raised his voice. As long as the authorities blame these deaths on feral animals, they do nothing to protect the citizens of Puerto Rico and the people of my community. If the police won't do their jobs, I will. I am organizing a hunting party. We will meet here, in the parking lot, at seven o'clock on Friday evening. All are welcome to join me. Thank you. He strode from the room, ignoring their raised hands and shouted questions.

~ ~ ~

SEÑORA MILAGROS

I'm awake and I will find you! she said to the walls. A thin rectangle of sunshine framed the dark shade covering the window. When is it? She shuffled to the front door, stiff from her long sleep, and retrieved the newspaper. Holding it out at arm's length, she read the date aloud. Two-thousand thirteen. Eighteen years. She felt as if she'd only gone to bed a few minutes ago.

An orange tabby cat wound in and out between her ankles. Hello, Señora Vinci...er, sorry, Matagata. Did you have a nice rest? The cat stretched a leg forward and spread its toes wide, claws springing out like switchblades.

Señora Milagros puttered around the house, working out the stiffness in her joints, becoming more limber with each step. She threw back curtains, put coffee on, and checked each room. Her cleaning girl, Laurie, had done a good job of keeping things in order while she'd slept, dormant. Not too clean, not too dirty, but lived in. It never ceased to amaze Señora Milagros how quick people were to accept the ridiculous. The last time she woke, she said she'd been away visiting family in the States for a few weeks. It had been sixteen years. Oh, I've been out and about. Busy, busy, busy. I guess we kept missing each other, she'd tell the neighbors when they asked about her absence. How have you been? Inevitably, they'd launch into lengthy and agonizingly detailed accounts of their very mundane lives. Once people started talking about themselves, well, there wasn't much you couldn't get away with, fascinated as they were with their own stories.

She sat down with a cup of coffee and looked at the stack of mail on the table. Just the right amount—a few days' worth, like most people let accumulate, but not enough to make visitors think she wasn't home. She'd give Laurie a bonus. The girl—she caught and corrected herself—the woman, Laurie would be in her thirties now, had done well. Pushing the mail to the side, she spread the paper open and caught her breath as she took in the headline:

BLOOD IN RINCÓN

Chupacabra claims first human victim in 20 years

By Miguel Graciento

The handsome man in the photo was the one she'd seen last night in her sleep. Crap. It really happened. I was so hoping I'd dreamed it. She quickly scanned the article, stopping to reread the last paragraph.

The chupacabra last terrorized the island almost twenty years ago, first killing poultry and livestock. The monster's rampage culminated with the 1995 murders of four members of the Del Toro family in Fajardo. At the time, authorities concluded the killings were a murder-suicide, saying Aurelio del Toro killed his wife and two of his three children before taking his own life. This reporter will continue to search for the truth regarding those deaths and the current murder.

Here we go again. Señora Milagros made a to-do list:

Find Carmen

Find the god

Find out what the hell happened

Find a guava brazo gitano

She'd really missed those fruit-filled cakes.

~ ~ ~

JACK

Jack sat at the marina bar drinking coffee, his morning ritual. It calmed him, helped him think. He stared at the blank computer screen in front of him. Come on, Franz. Talk to me.

Nothing.

Franz Henle, the protagonist of his murder-mystery series—sixteen bestselling books—tended to be a very chatty character, dictating his adventures to Jack in rapid-fire blasts. Usually, Jack had all he could do to type as fast as the story spilled out. Franz had retired from the Miami police force with a dream of the easy life in paradise, sailing around the Caribbean. But Franz had bad timing. He arrived at each new destination right when a murder took place. Despite his best efforts, the wanna-be-retiree always found himself drawn into the case. But it seemed that perhaps this time, Franz had indeed retired.

The screensaver kicked in and Jack's one rule, A writer writes, scrolled across the screen, mocking him. He'd had writer's block before, but nothing like this. He wasn't sure how much longer he could avoid his agent's calls. Wouldn't she just shit if she knew he hadn't written a word other than grocery lists for the past six months? Jack arriving at a marina and finding a dead body was nothing short of his life imitating his art. If he couldn't come up with a story when he sailed into one, he didn't deserve to be called a writer.

Write what you know, he said, and began typing.

The detective looked at Henle over the top of his mirrored Ray-Bans and held out a photograph. His name was Manuel Costas. He was the coach of the local youth swim team.

Franz studied the victim's image, trying to reconcile the blue, bloated face he'd seen with that of the handsome young man in the picture.

The email icon popped into the middle of the screen. Jack dreaded the flashing envelope. The only people who had this address were his wife, his daughter, and his agent. A message from any of them couldn't be good. His wife had thrown him out of their house months ago. He'd been living on his boat at Porto da Vida marina on the nearby island of São Jorge since then. She would only communicate with him through her attorney now, so he knew it didn't come from her.

His daughter had stopped talking to him last week when she’d announced she was in love and getting married—at nineteen! What could his little girl possibly know of love and marriage at that age? After intense questioning to make sure she wasn't pregnant but merely in love, he'd tried to be helpful, offer advice. A marriage between two kids like you and Charlie has a slim chance of surviving, he'd told her. And besides, there are more, and definitely better, fish in the sea. Trust me. This infatuation will pass. He had to protect her. Besides, he'd merely stated facts.

She'd stormed off the boat and refused to see him or take his calls ever since. He’d left São Jorge for his annual haul-out in Puerto Rico three weeks earlier than planned to avoid further angering Janelle. Maybe it was an email from her apologizing, but since the only genes she seemed to have inherited from him were for blue eyes and stubbornness that seemed unlikely. That left his agent. He double-clicked the icon.

The subject line read: Urgent! Appointments.

As long as you're going to be there for a few weeks anyway, thought you'd be able to squeeze these in. BTW, where's that draft you promised? Gail. He groaned and read the itinerary of publicity appearances she had arranged for him, starting with a radio talk show the next afternoon.

As he always did before interviews, Jack Googled his own name: 339,000 results. Not bad. The first page of links included his fan page, some book reviews, a Wiki entry, and a number of Amazon and bookstore links. He clicked on the Wiki entry and scrolled down. Shit.

He really hated the Internet. Everything about you lurked in cyberspace, waiting for a persistent reporter to uncover the details. Miami was a mere footnote in his life. He'd moved beyond that incident. Everyone else should, too. Well, Hanna, let's hope these interviewers aren't very thorough. And if they are, let's hope they want to focus on the present instead of dredging up my past indiscretions.

Hanna's pink tongue poked out and curled over her nose in a gaping yawn. She flipped over onto her back, paws straight in the air. He rewarded her with a belly rub.

~ ~ ~

KIKI

Kiki slammed her bedroom door. They don't realize what they're dealing with, do they, boy? I made it happen, so I have to fix it, too. Muggle jumped onto the bed and ran his sticky tongue over her cheek.

I want that crap flushed! And don't use my good pots and pans to make mud pies again! Even muffled by the door, Kiki heard the exasperation in her mother's voice. The IQ of Einstein and yet she believes in magic. Incredible.

They aren't mud pies, they're potions! Kiki yelled back. She pulled Muggle into her lap and whispered in his ear. You believe me, don't you, big guy? She paused and studied his mustached terrier face. Really big guy. You're getting heavy. Dr. Deb will be happy to see that.

When they’d moved to Puerto Rico, Kiki's parents had promised she could have a pet. I want a familiar—a cat would be best, but an owl will do. Or a bat. Her parents wouldn't even consider an owl or a bat, and her mother nixed the cat suggestion even when Kiki swore she didn't mind getting monthly allergy shots. Instead, her father had come home from work a few weeks ago with this scrawny rat of a dog he'd found in the parking lot at Agri-Pharm, the pharmaceutical company where he was the director of R&D.

This thing has no hair, Kiki had complained. I don't even think it's a dog. What's wrong with him?

Look, that pack of wild dogs or whatever it is has already killed a few roosters in the neighborhood around the plant. I couldn't leave this little guy alone in the parking lot, her father explained. But if you don't want him, I'll take him back, let him fend for himself.

The rescued dog may have been mangy and small, but he had good instincts. He laid his head on Kiki's foot and looked at her with his big brown eyes. Well, not exactly what I had in mind, but he'll do. She named him Muggle because the scraggly little thing was obviously non-magical. They'd been inseparable ever since.

I will find a way to fix this, Muggle. I hated Manny, and I wanted him sort of dead, but not like forever. Tears ran down Kiki's cheeks and the dog licked at them. A kiss to make it better. Thanks. Funny, the kiss really did make her feel better.

~ ~ ~

EDDIE

An eerie, early-morning quiet filled the police station. Detective Eddie Corredor called this time the wanting hour—the period when officers on duty want something to do. Six o'clock brought an anomalous lull between the rush of booking last night's drunks, prostitutes, and thugs, and the pending rush hour of paperwork and phone calls that signaled the start of a new day. It was a good time to think.

Eddie picked up a recent photo of the victim. He'd been a handsome young man, this Manuel Costas Figueroa. Only twenty-three. Too young to die. What a shame.

Eddie's instincts blamed the damn punks and drug addicts, killing to get their next fix. Stupid kid, wearing all that gold—a Rolex, boulder-sized ring, and thick chain—like a big billboard saying, Come mug me. But he'd still had his wallet and flashy jewelry on when they fished his body from the water. Either something scared off the attackers or it wasn't a robbery at all.

Eddie stared at the pictures spread across his desk. Bloody paw prints crisscrossed the spot where the murder took place, just outside the marina's gates. Probably some of the stray dogs—satos—that ran rampant on the island. Although the body had been pulled from the marina, the coroner had determined the victim was dead before entering the water, his throat slit with a jagged implement, possibly a broken bottle. The only other marks on the body were from the crabs.

How did he get into the water? Had they put him in a car? Carried him? Eddie made a mental note to check the marina security cameras and talk with the guard who'd been on duty the night before.

Hey, Eddie. You might want to see this. His partner Ruiz pointed the remote at the television and turned up the volume on the news. The mayor is holding another press conference. You know what he says killed the kid, right?

Eddie groaned. The last thing they needed was the mayor riling up people's fear of some stupid monster. Eighteen years ago, chupacabra-fever had overtaken the whole island, right when Eddie had joined the force. The hysteria had turned anyone with a gun—and that was almost everyone—into a vigilante. Had people forgotten? There'd been no monster or space alien behind the Del Toro killings, just a very disturbed man. Mob mentality worried Eddie more than any possibility of a mythical monster running wild. It would only take a little encouragement for mass hysteria to spread again, and Mayor Reyes was fanning the flames.

But why?

3. THE LEGEND OF THE CHUPACABRA

JACK

Jack sipped his Heineken and watched the bustle of activity as the bar filled with happy-hour customers. A sultry breeze blew across the deck, carrying the familiar smells that permeated marinas throughout the Caribbean: saltwater, frying food, and diesel. He spread out his selection of newspapers to discourage company or conversation, and placed ketchup, sugar, and hot-sauce bottles on the page corners to keep them from blowing away in the steady trade winds.

Usually, when writer's block struck, he could find story ideas in the news. He flipped through the papers, looking for any mention of the dead man. One paragraph, three pages in, indicated the alleged murder was under investigation. Apparently dead bodies floating in marinas weren't front-page news in Puerto Rico. He reached for the next paper in the pile and paused. Emblazoned on the cover was an artist's rendering of the chupacabra, based on eyewitness accounts. Jack did a quick inventory of his limited Spanish. Goatsucker?

The creature in the drawing was standing on hind legs, looking back over its shoulder at the reader. Large, slanted eyes stared from a lightbulb-shaped head, round at the top, tapering to a small chin. The quintessential alien's face. A row of spines similar to those of an iguana ran down its back to the tip of a reptilian tail, and blood dripped from three long claws on each hand.

Jack snorted. Seriously? The bartender looked up and nodded at Jack's half-empty beer in a silent question. No, thanks. I'm fine, he answered.

The bartender spotted the picture. Ah, you're interested in the chupacabra. That's what killed the swim coach, no? The alcalde—the mayor—he announced today that he's organizing a hunt for the monster. Friday night.

I think I'll pass. But tell me about this chupacabra. What is it?

Sure. I'm Bobby, by the way, the bartender said, extending his hand.

Jack. Jack Halliman. He waited expectantly.

There used to be a writer named Jack Halliman, Bobby told him. He lived in São Jorge. Wrote a book set in Puerto Rico years ago. A murder mystery. I'm not sure what ever happened to him. I think maybe he died.

Jack's mood plummeted. Died? Gail was right; he was becoming a has-been. He propped his elbows on the bar and leaned in conspiratorially. Well, the São Jorge part is right, but the dead part's not.

Did you know...Oh, wait! You're him, aren't you? So are you writing anything now? Is that why you're here? The chupacabra killing that guy would be a great story.

Jack ignored the suggestion. So, tell me about this monster.

Bobby looked around to make sure everyone's glasses were full, then settled onto a barstool to tell the tale of the chupacabra.

~ ~ ~

The Chupacabra, Version 1.0

"Chupacabra is Spanish for goatsucker, he began. There are many different stories about its origins, but what I learned in the cryptozoology class I took at the university last semester is that it's the embodiment of Tēōtl, a demon the Aztec priests called forth to torment the Spanish conquistadors when they invaded Central America. That makes sense, right? Since the only place the chupacabra is active is in Latin American countries.

"The priests knew the conquistadors would win in the end. The Spaniards had superior weapons and they brought diseases that wiped out entire civilizations. So the Aztecs asked their gods to send the demon to scare the Spaniards away, keep them from successfully settling in the New World. The Spaniards kept bringing goats and poultry with them to establish farms. Every time they'd get a foothold and a settlement started to grow, the chupacabra would strike, killing their livestock. Brap! He swiped his palms together. End of them."

Jack chewed on his lips to hold back the threatening guffaw. The bartender was so earnest he didn't have the heart to point out all the holes in that story.

I can tell what you're thinking, Bobby continued. 'So why were the Spanish successful? Why didn't the demon prevail and the Aztecs live happily ever after?' That's simple math. There was only one demon but hundreds of thousands of Spaniards. They overwhelmed the demon's ability to keep up. When all of the indigenous people were wiped out, priests included, there was no one left to return the demon to hell. The chupacabra is stuck here, still doing what it was brought to Earth to do.

Jack frowned. Was this kid pulling his leg? I thought it was a Puerto Rican legend, he said. And not even a very old one. Hasn't the chupacabra only been around for twenty or thirty years?

Oh, no. It's an ancient demon. Aristotle even referred to it in his writings. Jack raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Honest. You can look that up. My professor, Doctor Miramonte, showed us the quote. It's the first written record of a chupacabra, then there's nothing for a while. What shows up next are European accounts of vampires. Some scholars think they're merely another form of the same demon, that it followed the Spaniards back to Europe from the New World, then rampaged there for a while.

In modern times, the attacks occur in different places on a rotating schedule. You see the same pattern, a reemergence every twenty years or so, in Puerto Rico, Mexico, and other Central and South American countries. Personally, I think the monster makes the rounds. Spends a year or so spreading terror in one country and then moves on. Now, as more and more Latinos migrate to the U.S., the thing is expanding its range. There've been attacks in south Florida, Arizona, and New Mexico. There was even a sighting in Maryland not long ago.

Is it possible that people who move there take this story with them and spread it? Jack asked.

Exactly what the gringos always say because they don't want to believe in magic. Besides, the demon doesn't attack them or their livestock. But the chupacabra has a very specific and unique modus operandi, so it's impossible to deny its attacks. Other animals—wild dogs, coyotes, monkeys, whatever else the killings get blamed on—only kill for food. The chupacabra kills for revenge. It doesn't eat its victims. They're drained of blood—a slow and painful death—then the bodies left as evidence, to strike terror in the hearts of the Spaniards' descendants. Us.

Don't the investigators find that odd?

Bobby shook his head. The government and church have to hide this thing's existence, don't they? If the church admitted an ancient demon summoned by Aztec priests was on the loose, it'd be like admitting that our whole belief system is wrong and the Aztecs' pantheism was right. The government hasn't been able to catch the beast and doesn't want people to panic, so they deny the chupacabra exists. The Department of Agriculture veterinarians who investigate are all in on the conspiracy. But the people aren't stupid. That's why Santería, Obeah, Voodoo, and other, older religions are still around in Latin America. People are trying to appease the gods who can control the chupacabra and other monsters.

Others?

Bobby nodded and pursed his lips in a knowing pout. Lots.

OK, so say this is true, that the chupacabra is a demon, why didn't it just kill the Spaniards themselves? Wouldn't that have been more effective than killing their goats?

Bobby snorted. Hello? Chupacabra? It's a goatsucker, not a people sucker.

What about the swim coach? Jack pointed to the newspaper. This article says that it's killed people before.

The bartender shrugged. It's not for us to understand the ways of the gods, is it?

~ ~ ~

EDDIE

Detective Eddie Corredor rapped on the screen door and waited for an answer. According to the mayor's secretary, the alcalde had gone home early to check on his daughter, who was upset over the death of her swim coach. Eddie could hear the television blaring from somewhere in the back of the house. A girl, Eddie guessed she was in her mid-teens, opened the door. Mascara streaked her cheeks, and snot glistened on her upper lip. When he flashed his badge, she merely raised an eyebrow and motioned for him to come in. Then she flounced to a chair and threw herself onto it. Eddie said a silent prayer of thanks that he was gay and would never be cursed with having to deal with an adolescent daughter.

"Buenos días, Detective. Please come in. Looking as touched up as his campaign photos, Mayor Félix El Flaco Reyes entered the room, arms spread wide, face split in a broad smile, flashing his gold tooth. Forgive my daughter. She's distraught. You understand."

"Of course. Death is a traumatic thing for