Da Bonemon

By Bob Harrison

A killer has returned. Nearly two decades after a series of murders, bodies are again appearing in the Appalachians. Special Agent Truman Eisenhauer arrives in the rugged mountains bordering the Great Smoky Mountains National Park where he and local sheriff Bill Watson investigate the latest bizarre murder.

Theories abound about the strange, ritualistic murders, but Eisenhauer has his own ideasideas that dont turn to the supernatural.

Confronting the mystifying had become his specialty at the FBI, but Eisenhauer was unprepared for what waited for him in the backwoods of North Carolina. Virtually nothing fit his preconceived notions of the area or of crime itself. Both an obvious pattern and an obvious signature existed for this serial killer, but that helped neither he nor Bill Watson in their initial pursuit of the killer. It was not until Eisenhauer began to confront his own past that the glimmer of an answer appeareda solution he did not want to find.

Set the rich and storied woods of rural America and populated with a cast of just slightly off-center characters, Da Bonemon is a novel of mystery, horror, and comedy, and is definitely not a book for younger readers or for those people who are offended by sex and violence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 13, 2002
• ISBN: 9781465322814

Bob Harrison

Bob Harrison is a retired educator who has been writing fiction since he was a child, completing his first novel at age twelve. Harrison’s college education included degrees in electronics communication, English, and theatre arts and professional writing, with graduate degrees and coursework in education and computer science. Harrison’s other interests include football, soccer, fishing, and computer gaming. An early pioneer in computer graphics, Harrison has edited and contributed to several textbooks. His varied background as a military veteran and college professor gives him unique insights into character and motivation. A life-long student of science and world events, Harrison brings that passion to his writing, creating a detailed and believable future history. He has published short stories, poetry, and a previous novel, Da Bonemon. In this first book in a trilogy, he has created a universe that stretches from man’s galactic empire to the end of time.

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Da Bonemon

Bob Harrison

Copyright © 2000 by Bob Harrison.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

Contents

April 30, 1981

May 18, 1981

May 19, 1981

June 6, 1993

June 7, 1993

June 8, 1993

June 9, 1993

June 10, 1993

June 11, 1993

June 12, 1993

June 13, 1993

June 15, 1993

June 16, 1993

June 17, 1993

June 18, 1993

June 19, 1993

June 20, 1993

June 21, 1993

June 23, 1993

June 25, 1993

June 26, 1993

July 1, 1993

July 2, 1993

July 3, 1993

July 4, 1993

July 5, 1993

July 6, 1993

July 9, 1993

July 10, 1993

July 11, 1993

July 12, 1993

July 13, 1993

July 14, 1993

July 15, 1993

July 16, 1993

July 17, 1993

July 18, 1993

December 31, 1999

FOR THE GANG

April 30, 1981

The moonlight reflected darkly from the sliver of a crack just above the empty staring eye socket of the skull. The crow sitting atop the skull stretched its wings, then settled back. For a few long moments it sat silently, a black statue amidst the dark green and violet of the night forest, then it twisted its head about. Sounds, limbs cracking, foliage thrashing, voices, glass tinkling, echoed up the freshly dampened slope from the valley below. Flashlights cut through the dark, and the crow swooped upward, vanishing in a quick unnatural rush among the pines.

Jess! Jess! Here it is. Right where Daddy said. A beam of light gleamed across the half-buried skull.

Sonfabith. Yer right. Coulda sworn he’d be over there. The second yellow beam danced away, waving aimlessly toward the forest.

Bastard’s ‘bout rooted hisself outta the ground. Reckon we’d better plant ‘im agin.

Hell no. Didn’t walk all this way to dig more. The second beam fell back onto the skull. Got me a good idear. A slurp followed by swish and the tinkle of a bottle hitting the soft earth fell flat in the still, dark forest.

Yeah? What’s that?

A metallic zip cut through the slurred voice. Piss on ‘im.

A steaming, pale stream of urine shot through the light and splashed across the skull.

Sitting on a rosin-covered limb in a high, near pine, the crow cawed.

Truman nearly screamed as the pain from the recoil of the pistol tore at the slug in his chest. In the mouth of the alley, a figure twisted upward against the glare of the blinding headlights and slammed back into the sidewalk. Truman lurched against a trashcan, then slid against the brick wall of the alley. He was going and going fast. The alley was dimming from red toward black. A woman screamed.

He slipped down the wall and crumpled to slick pavement. The .44 fell from his hand and his chin sagged down toward the widening stain on his chest. As the dark fell across him, Truman Eisenhauer only wanted to know one thing.

Colors assaulted Doctor Ibsen. Smells swirled through him. The slightest sound seemed a crescendo, yet he was at peace. The psychedelics were astonishing. His every nerve extended into the warm sand and the power of the earth flowed through him.

A brown face broke through the kaleidoscope and his voice boomed, Are you prepared, white man?

He nodded.

A chant, lilting, rising high and low, swelled to fill the cave as the colors and the earth and the smells are sucked back into him and his whole focus sprang from inside through his eyes into the flickering fire. As he spun deep within the fire, the chants trailed away and all around him was flame and sulfur and boiling rock and then the terror formed from the hell and reached for him.

May 18, 1981

Fred Moses swore casually at the cat as he pushed through the battered screen door. A can tumbled from the bag of trash. Fred cursed again as he bent and retrieved the can. A splash of red dribbled from the soup can onto his hand. He stuffed the can back into the bag, wiped his hand across his sweat-stained tan shirt right below the red-on-white patch that said unmistakably that he was Fred, swore again, and ambled down the cracked sidewalk toward the curb.

He leaned down, reaching for the lid on the trash can. The lid sailed past him as a flash of white exploded from the trash can. Something horrifically strong clamped around his throat. His vision blurred reddish; his tongue lashed across tobacco stained lips. The brown bags fell, scattering their chaos to dying grass and fractured concrete, as Fred grabbed at his throat. Then he was flying upward, held aloft, choking. He kicked, grabbed at the hard thing around his throat, and even as he slipped away into still black, he could not believe what was killing him.

Jimmy leaned into the smelly dumpster and poked a stuffed dog food bag. He snorted. No cans. He jabbed at another bag with the old broom handle. Its side split and a stark white hand tumbled from the bag. Jimmy squealed and stumbled back from the dumpster. He tripped across his sack of old cans and fell straight on his backside.

He sat, heart thumping, sweat popping from his brow. He rubbed a dirty hand across his tattered blue parka. Goddamn! ‘nother one.

He rubbed at his mouth. Better look. Be purse or something. Jimmy squatted then duckwalked to the edge of the rusty green box and peeped across the top.

Shit. The lag bolt in the wrist of the dummy’s hand gleamed oily amidst the trash. Jimmy snickered. He stared into the dumpster then turned to find his broom handle.

His breath stopped, his heart stopped, his mind stopped. All he could think, his whole universe became, his nightmares all became, WHITE.

May 19, 1981

It’s Fred Moses, all right.

Bill slipped the shades down his nose and squatted next to the corpse. The air was still, hot for spring, in the thick weeds next to the road. Fred Moses, eyes wide and dead-glazed, face frozen in terror and pain, was lying on his back, arms swept outward and upward. His legs were crossed at the ankles. A heavy black brogan clad one foot. The other was naked, bruised. Thick bluish welts circled his throat and neck. Dried blood crusted his uniform from chest to feet. He stank of sweat, beer, and feces. Bill studied the gapping hole in his chest. It was like nothing he had ever seen. Not even in his Tour. In the ‘Nam.

Bill stood and pushed the shades back across his eyes. Close to the others. He stared down at the bloody smear along Fred’s face. His left ear was missing, too. A prickle of fear tingled up his spine.

Yeah, said Sheriff Baylor as he hitched his khaki trousers up, trying to pull a too-tight belt around an overhanging belly, and circled around Fred Moses. Laid out the same way. The Sheriff arced a stream of tobacco juice toward the road. No blood around. Looks like he’s got an ear gone, too.

Bill nodded. Reckon we’ll find some blood somewhere.

Musta been a helluva knife to leave a hole like that.

Bill grimaced. It could’ve been a shotgun for all they knew.

Didn’t appear to be an exit wound, though. Still… I don’t think so, Sheriff. More like… Well, a shovel or something.

Huumph. Well, no matter. Git on the radio and git the meat wagon out here. The Sheriff spat again and casually kicked at Fred’s naked bloody foot. Guess he couldn’t outrun ‘im, he laughed.

Uh-huh. Bill shrugged and turned toward the cruiser. As he waded through the weeds along the edge of the road, he heard Sheriff Baylor mutter, No body gonna miss that worthless piece of shit.

June 6, 1993

O’Lord come into my heart ‘en give me strength! The Reverend Billy Bob Burns thrust his arms upwards toward the high, hot lights of The Church of The Son. His voice reverberated through the one room church, thundering the Lord’s word to his forty-person flock.

Sister Sarah here has begged Your forgiveness. Yea, though she has sinned. Yea, though I have sinned. Yea, though we are all sinners. Almighty God, show us your love. Lord, give me the strength! Let your love flow through me! Billy Bob dropped his arms from the heaven and clutched Sister Sarah’s gleaming forehead. He positioned his thumbs precisely in the center of her forehead and cried, Let it flow! Let it flow! God’s love. Like a mighty river, let it flow!

The congregation gasped, then tensed forward: men, forgetting the discomfort of the stiff, unusual clothes; women, eyes gleaming, bosoms heaving beneath the Sunday finery; children, awed by the rapture of their elders, all strained to see the wonder flowering in front of the simple wooden altar. Rainbowed rays of sunlight danced through the few stained glass windows and sparkled from the varnish along the pews and altar. The dull gray of the lead cross mounted on the front of the pulpit became softer, tinting toward white.

Sweet Jesus! I feel the power! Like a mighty river, let it flow. Wash me in thy blood, Savior Jesus. Let it flow! Billy Bob pressed his thumbs harder into Sarah’s wet forehead. A trickle of blood appeared beneath each thumbnail and dribbled down onto the woman’s face.

Lord God! Lord God! Sister Sarah screamed as she raised her arms high. I feel it! I feel it!

The congregation focused on her one withered and twisted hand, framed by the soft crucifix upon the pulpit. Slowly, with cries of Mighty God and Bless us and Amen ringing from the assembly of believers, she straightened the hand and flexed the fingers that had been stilled since the polio epidemics of the 50’s.

June 7, 1993

Truman Eisenhauer stared at the telephone. A shiver passed across his shoulders. It was going to ring. The hard drive chirped on his computer chirped. The air conditioner hummed. A shiver thrilled down his spine.

The telephone beeped electronically. Truman’s hand trembled ever so slightly as he reached for the phone. Eisenhauer.

A voice rang hollow, distant through the receiver. Truman, this is Pete.

Truman sucked in a sharp breath. The muscles across his stomach tightened. Long time, Pete. How’s Gail and the girls?

All ship-shape. She’s been asking about you. When you going to drop by?

Truman smiled. It had been a long time. For a few long moments, they chatted, the almost aimless small gossip of men, long friends, now somewhat detached, who were both avoiding the inevitable business of their meeting. Finally, the conversation stalled and Truman said, You have another one for me, don’t you?

Breath stopped short over the phone line. Silence, then Pete cleared his throat and replied. Yes.

Where?

Down South.

Truman suppressed a groan. Not—

No, not New Orleans. North Carolina. Appalachians.

Visions of skinny, ragged, in-bred children, shanties, rusted cars and a couple of horrid scenes from Deliverance raced through Truman’s mind. He grimaced. But then, maybe it would be scenic. Okay. What’s the story?

I’ll send the file over.

A cold knot formed in Truman’s stomach. Pete didn’t talk about the monsters over the phone. When do I need to go?

You’ll need to leave A-SAP. This one is hot now.

How bad is it?

It’s real bad. Pete paused, only a small breath whispering through the fiber optics. But at least it’s not kids.

Truman exhaled. Dodged another bullet.

June 8, 1993

Truman rested the battered leather case across his knees. He wiggled in the narrow seat as the jet hum once again changed pitch. He drummed his fingers on the case. The too-sweet perfume of the woman beside scratched at his nose. He wanted to dig into the case, pull out the file and scan it again, but he knew better. This was not the place for those kinds of photographs. So, he simply closed his eyes, dropped his head back, and wandered through the scattering of data in the file.

Twelve, now thirteen, murders. Similar M.O.’s. Body always left in the same position. Body always missing a left ear. Body always missing one other organ. Always killed in one place and then moved. Never any blood in the body. Six murders. Three murders, six days apart. Then 18 days later, three more murders, six days apart. Then, six years later, six more. Six years later. One more. It has started. Obviously, there was a pattern. But then there is another pattern within the pattern. What? He grimaced. It kept eluding him, but he knew it was there. In the file.

The speaker clicked on. Something about passing over some mountain. Landing. Change planes soon. What was that population? Oh, yeah. Damn. That place must have one of the highest murder rates per capita in the U.S. Let’s see. That’d be about——seat belts, the speaker crackled. Truman felt about and snapped the belt in place. God, another three hours before he’d be in a car.

As the plane nosed down, Truman wondered why he had never heard of the case before.

Truman studied the map. He was lost. And he didn’t like it. Two hours off the interstate and he was going to have to backtrack at least an hour to get back on the right road. He folded the map back precisely, clicked off the dome light, and wheeled the Tempo around in a U-turn. The headlights played against the steep banks surrounding the narrow road; fractured stumps of broken pines jutted mottled gray and brown from the dismal forest, shattered reminders of the Blizzard of ‘93, he presumed.

He was deep in the mountains and the forest was thick about him. He hadn’t seen a car in a half-hour and had finally decided that somehow he had ended up in a national forest. He held onto the wheel tightly, palms damp, as he wound down the curvy road.

It was the file that had him lost. He was back into it, sifting through the facts, when he went right instead of left. But, it was still there. The pattern within the pattern, hiding from him, taunting him. He knew it. He just couldn’t see it.

A shape loomed suddenly in the dark road. Truman slammed both feet into the brake pedal; the Tempo skidded and for one heart-stopping instant, Truman thought he would plunge from the road into the deep darkness off the shoulder. He fought the wheel into the skid, and, tires screaming, the car smoked to a stop just short of a deer frozen in the headlights. The deer stared dumbly into the light.

Truman exhaled. Damn! Immediately, he regretted his curse, for his language had become a personal project and swearing was strictly forbidden in his new regime. But the creature had caught him by surprise, and the anxiety and irritation of the strange and dangerous place had for one split second broken his emotional control. He stared back at the animal, a doe he thought, for he had never seen one in the wild. He gazed at the unblinking brown eyes for a long minute but the animal simply stood.

Finally, he tapped the horn and the deer bounded into the darkness.

Keep your mind on it. You’re gonna end up in a ditch. Or off a cliff. Be a fine start. Truman grimaced and eased the car back down the road. He was determined he would not begin this investigation by having the locals bail him out.

But, as he clung to the wheel and inched back down the mountain, his thoughts kept wandering back to the deer. The brown eyes stared blankly, like death, at him. The file seemed far away now, for where it once dominated him, now the deer stood there, and as he thought of it, studied its shape and form, searched for the feeling behind the appearance, an old ache throbbed in his chest, and somehow the deer seemed to be in an alley in long-ago New Orleans.

The heavy brass door clicked solidly as Fran McClure turned the key in the lock. She removed the key and slipped it into her purse as the street light pulsed to orange life. She strode briskly down the steps, heels click, click, clicking solidly on the fresh stone. She glanced back at the Library as she hurried down the sidewalk. A year old and still beautiful! Fran, like most of the people of Pallas County, was proud of the Library. It was a work of art, a modern wonder in an impoverished area. A magnet the more commercial among them hoped would draw investment and commerce from the far-flung flatlands hidden beyond the old shoulders of the mountains.

She pulled open the door to the battered Chevy. Maybe it would help. The new school hadn’t done them any good yet, though. Damn Reagan. It was his fault. After a couple of false starts, the old Chevy coughed to life and Fran backed into the empty parking lot. A fleet, dark shadow swooped past her rear window. Fran gasped, then relaxed as the shadowy figure sailed high into the dark branches of a nearby maple.

An owl. A twitch of anxiety trilled across her shoulders. Omen, the old folks’d say. No. No. Not like last time. Not like ‘87.

"…and Ijust can’t wait to get that big, hard one in me again.

"Love you forever,

Crystal

Steffie giggled, pleased at her craft, and folded the finished letter. She plucked a sprayer of Chanel from among her collection, arranged along the dresser like soldiers in ranks, and squeezed a puff of fragrance onto the letter. With a flourish and another laugh, she slipped the letter neatly into a flowery, pink envelope.

She licked a stamp, slowly, tongue caressing the sweet glue. After addressing the envelope in her best-disguised handwriting, she placed it in a tidy stack with her bills and ten sweepstakes entries. Steffie glanced at the clock next to her bed.

Nearly 12. Good time. They’ll be asleep. She slipped her chair back from the edge of the dresser and padded over to the bed and plucked a leatherette address book from the stand. Who will it be tonight?

An exquisite red nail traced down the list of names. Mr. & Mrs. John Godder. 555-0978. Oh, yes! The carpet store man. And his bitch wife in the Jag. That’ll do nicely.

Steffie smiled, passed her hands up and across her breasts, then shrugged her gown to the carpet. She stood nude, a smile playing across her face for a moment, then touched the table lamp and the room winked into darkness.

She sat on the bed and admired herself in the dim glow from the telephone keys. Her fingers danced across the luminous numerals as she cradled the receiver. After several long rings, a sleepy female voice answered.

Hello.

Is Johnny there?

Steffie suppressed another giggle at the woman’s gasp.

The eight ball wobbled in the corner pocket then dropped from sight. Poog Ramey laughed and straightened up from the pool table.

Shit. You couldn’t make that agin’ in a hundred years, growled Jess Bolick as he stuffed a thick hand in the back pocket of his jeans.

Poog grinned, snapped his fingers, and stuck his hand out. Jess slapped a twenty in the Poog’s hand and started tossing balls from the pockets onto the table. Poog rolled his stick on the table and said, Keep goin’ like that and we may hafta make another run to ‘Lanta.

Jess grunted. Too soon. Plenty other stuff to git into ‘round here.

A twangy, wailing song spilled from the juke box in the far corner of Fat Man’s Roadhouse as the bartender yelled, Last call.

One more, said Jess, staring after a bleached blonde wiggling by the pool table.

Poog grinned and rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Mebbe some action after that?

Jess laughed. Sounds righteous to me.

June 9, 1993

The tired, oaken planks running length-ways across the cabin porch creaked as William Robert Burns stood, for he always addressed the Lord with his Christian name when he prayed. To everyone else, he may be Billy Bob, logger, snaker of timber, jackleg preacher, but to his Mama and Daddy he was, and always will be, William, and since they now rested in the bosom of the One True God, he would respect them, and his Lord, and call upon Him with his true name. So, his prayers always began, and always ended, with Sweet Lord, this is your unworthy child, William Robert.

He raised his head and opened his eyes. He ignored the throbbing in his knees and stared down the valley, his heart bursting with love for the God that gave him the sight to see the beauty of the