The Gleaners

By Craig Conrad

Paul Rice is still rather concerned with the wolf bipeds that have infiltrated the government, especially the CIA, and are entrenched in just about every state in the country. He is working to eliminate them but is momentarily sidetracked when Henry Running Deer, a young Lakota orphan that has run away from the reservation, asks Paul to find his friend, Sara Small Foot, who has suddenly disappeared. Paul takes on the case only to find that the bipeds are still very much with him and closer in government than he thought. Along with his usual cast of helpers, he also finds an unlikely ally who is also working against the bipeds called “The Gleaners.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664159228

Craig Conrad

Author resides in Milwaukee. Wisconsin, has been hooked on mysteries and supernatural thrillers since reading his first H.P. Lovecraft novel. He has written twenty novels, fourteen of them are Paul Rice novels, his reluctant paranormal investigator, with cameo appearances in two others that feature two of his war buddies along with two Dutch Verlander stories, and a collection of short stories.

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Copyright © 2021 by Craig Conrad.

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 03/18/2021

Xlibris

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Contents

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Epilogue

1

The woods were no longer safe, Jason Swift Eagle thought while standing on the back porch of his small farm, staring at the thick wooded area some fifty yards away that bordered his land on two sides. The woods had always been like another world, an entangled mass of trees, branches, roots, underbrush, and dead leaves, all winter dormant but still formidable for easy movement, even more so later with the green of spring. It was something he did every morning now for the past several months, ever since he noticed that the woods had begun to change. From this distance, the woods looked normal, but he knew they weren’t; and once you entered, you knew they weren’t. He no longer felt safe in the woods.

They were not the same woods anymore that he had known as a boy. Once, they had been beautiful and peaceful, even tranquil with a spiritual grace. Now they seemed menacing and foreboding. Something had changed them, almost overnight; something was wrong that he couldn’t put his finger on; something had drastically happened that completely upset the ambience and balance of the area. For one thing, the small herd of thirty to forty deer that Jason knew lived in this part of the woods, and that he had seen frequently for months on end, even grazing on this land occasionally, were disappearing. The herd was growing smaller day by day. Now, for the last month, nothing, not a deer could be seen in or outside of the woods. The deer had disappeared—completely gone. They could have just moved on to another location farther into the woods, but Jason didn’t think so, unless they were driven out of the area by fear. His Sioux blood told him that something wasn’t right. He could sense it, almost feel it. Something was killing the deer off, and everything else in the woods, even the smaller animals.

Jason came from a family that was one of the few Dakota Sioux that hadn’t left the state during the Ojibway uprising in Wisconsin and Minnesota and gone west into the plains like most of the Sioux. They stayed on the forty acres given to them by the government and became farmers and cattle raisers. They stayed on the land and kept it; the government even keeping its word for a change and did not take the land back, which was usually what they did every time they made a treaty. Later, when Jason took over the land from his parents, he switched from raising beef to dairy farming and put in two small fields of alfalfa and corn. His mother died several years ago, but his father was still alive and lived with him, still helping when he could. The farm was not big in comparison to other dairy farms. It was a little over forty acres, a modest piece of land with ten milk cows and yearly crops that kept him and his family alive. Now, he had a feeling that his livelihood might be threatened.

He picked up this lever-action Winchester leaning against a porch post that supported the roof above his head, jacked a shell into the chamber, and stepped off the porch, heading for the spot off his immediate pasture where he usually entered the woods. Jason never went into the woods anymore without being armed. Before the change took place, he liked to just walk along the trails when he wasn’t hunting. He liked being with the land and liked the solitude that the trees and the earth gave him. That was before things started to change and become eerily strange. He felt it wasn’t wise to be in the woods anymore without being armed.

The deer weren’t the only animals missing. There were lots of small animals gone too, like rabbits and squirrels and raccoons. And sometimes when he entered the woods, all the normal sounds you would usually hear in a forest would suddenly stop, and there would be a dead silence. Even the birds and insects were quiet, and the wind no longer moved. Nothing moved. Every tree and branch appeared to be frozen in place. Everything became deathly still and stayed that way for some time, or until he left. Jason noticed that the air that didn’t move had a bad smell that lingered, like sulfur. He had never experienced any of these things happening before. So now, whenever he checked the woods, which was at least twice a week, he took his rifle with him. Jason hoped to find some other explanation for what was changing the area, what was making all the animals disappear, other than what his wife and children and even his father believed—that some spirit-walker was in the woods. Jason believed something was in the woods all right, and it was killing off all the other animals. He wondered how long it would be before it started killing his livestock—or maybe even him and his family.

Later that night, miles away to the southeast, Dreamer saw almost everything that had happened that day to Jason and quickly sat up from his makeshift bed, feeling shaken and sweaty. His bed wasn’t much of one, just a threadbare blanket to lie on that covered the cement floor of the abandoned bus building and acted as a meager mattress, and another worn blanket to cover with. His upper body was rigid and as straight as a pipe as he sat and looked around, for a moment not knowing where he was. Dreamer was breathing hard and bathed in cold sweat. He had seen Jason in his dream, but not clearly; his dreams were never clear lately, and he could barely make out faces. Everything was always in shadow, dark forms moving in dark surroundings. Dreamer didn’t know Jason Swift Eagle from Adam. To him, Jason was just a dream shadow moving about in darker shadows, possibly a man with no name that happened to be in his dreams for some reason that Dreamer didn’t understand, but he felt Jason’s apprehension and his sense of foreboding; but more than that, Dreamer felt evil. There was something evil waiting wherever this man with the rifle was going.

The nightmare had rattled him and woke him with a start, that jerky motion you get when you feel your body start to fall or doze off, or slip into an even deeper sleep of an unwanted dream, and you try to jerk yourself awake, away from the edge from which you’d fall deeper into a black bottomless pit of sleep that you knew housed haunting nightmares waiting to claim you. Some science brains say that it’s an ancient safety mechanism still functioning, left to us by our prehistoric ancestors who slept in trees; and the jerking twitch was a body trigger that pulled you back to safety before you fell to the ground.

Dreamer didn’t completely buy into that theory. He wasn’t that cerebral and only had a high school education, but he read a lot and thought there was more to it than just falling out of trees. Sleep was a complex thing, more so than he could figure out, even normal sleep, and when was the last time he had a normal night’s sleep? But you would think that it would bring on unconsciousness and nothing more, but no, sleep came with a big bag of tricks that kept your mind active. Part of your mind might sleep, but another part didn’t and took you into different dimensional realms, most of which you’d rather not visit. Dreamer wished he could shut off that part of his mind, but knew that was impossible, especially for the last month when these recurring dreams started. He had dreams before, all his life, the worse ones were the PTSD dreams, a present from the government for his military service; but they were not like this and had taken a back seat to the new dreams ever since he began having them.

The doctor at the Veteran’s Administration Hospital told him these current dreams or visions he was having were products of his disease. Parkinson’s disease caused people to hallucinate, the doctor said, to see things that weren’t really there; The images he was seeing were of no significant importance and were not real events about real people or things. Dreamer wasn’t so sure that his nightmares could be dismissed so easily. He wasn’t sure about it at all. For one thing, they were more dominant than his PTSD dreams; and if they were hallucinations, why was he seeing them over and over again? Where did they come from, why did they exist, and why did they come especially to him? Anyway, the doctor had given him some meds to stop his hallucinations, saying they would help him; only they really didn’t.

Dreamer, whose real name was Frank Flood, was a veteran of three wars - World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. He was a career soldier and was no stranger to weird and frightening dreams. He had PTSD long before he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. His face and body carried the weight of sixty-two years, but he looked and felt thirty years older. No one in his little circle of homeless friends, not George and certainly not Doc, looked any better, except possibly the two kids that recently latched on to him and his little group. Living on the streets did that to a person. It aged you quickly, and he had been doing it for the last five years.

He had walked away from his home and his wife one sunny day in June when he overheard her complaining to her sister that she was fed up, couldn’t take any more of it, and was going to leave him. She couldn’t stand the life they were living any longer and didn’t want to go on this way. In one small way, he didn’t blame her—living with someone whose mind was screwed up by war wasn’t easy; but then again he didn’t think she tried very hard to hold the marriage together and make it work either. She never made any attempt to find him after he left, neither did his son, who turned out to be more her child than his; yet they never missed cashing his pension checks. Maybe one day, he’d put a stop to it, but so far he hadn’t done anything and he didn’t care about it.

Still sitting up, getting his breathing under control, he looked around at his surroundings again. The old Greyhound Building seemed quiet and was as dark as some prehistoric cave except for a few little camplike fires scattered here and there across the floor. The time of night seemed late, although he had no idea how long he had slept and, looking around, he saw that everyone else in his group was still sleeping. Through the big open entrance to the old terminal, Flood could see that it was still dark, still night. Dawn was not visible anywhere in the sky. He didn’t have a watch so he didn’t know what time it was. He looked over at George who slept like he always did with his ragged half blanket over his head and his wool cap pulled down over his head on top of the blanket. Doc, who was the only one who had a watch, snored loudly; the sound of his nasal pipes drifted through the large bay where at one time all the buses would park to disembark travelers coming into the city, or load up with new ones who were leaving for various destinations across the country. Doc looked content and dreamless, huddled snugly in the blanket he had stolen from the Milwaukee Rescue Mission. Flood didn’t wake him. That would only cause bad feelings and a lot of unnecessary talk. Sometimes Doc wouldn’t shut up. He thought he knew everything, and tried to impress people that he did. He called himself a philosopher of the streets, hence the name, Doc, given to him by some other homeless whit in the building who dubbed him Doctor of Gab. The name stuck, just as the moniker of Dreamer stuck to Flood because of his nightmares. But Flood had to give Doc some credit though. He knew things, but he didn’t know everything.

There were some fires going for those that had wood, and some low voices talking belonging to people who couldn’t sleep, mindful of those that could by keeping their voices just above a whisper; and, of course, there were those that didn’t care one way or another. Their loud talk and cackling laughter echoed through the night and off the walls of the large bay like the walls of a deep canyon. The night air was cool, as was the large area they were living in, but not cold, and for the most part the old building kept the wind and the bad weather out. It was the last week of March heading into the spring of April, and winter should be on the way out. He wondered how long they would be able to stay here. It was already going on two years since Greyhound moved out to its new bus terminal at another location, and some of the homeless of the inner city moved in and made the building home. The City Fathers told the news media that the old terminal would be torn down, but so far nothing had happened. Flood was certain they were all living on borrowed time here, but that was nothing new to them. Their lives had been on borrowed time since they called the streets home and every day of existence was day-to-day. Flood’s life had probably been in a holding pattern decades before he even became homeless.

Flood felt sweat run down his face from under his woolen cap and wiped it away with his hand. When he did, he saw that Oliver was awake, sitting up from his floor bed and staring at him. Oliver wasn’t his real name, but they called him that, like Oliver Twist, but he didn’t look like an Oliver. He had dark skin, wore his black hair to the shoulder, and was all of ten years old, Flood guessed. His sidekick, who was traveling with the boy, was known as Nina, and was about the same age, had the same dark skin, and wore her black hair longer, almost to the middle of her back. Flood thought they were either Hispanic or Indian, but had never asked.

Was it the same dream? Oliver whispered so as not to wake the others.

Flood nodded and whispered back. Yes, just about.

What did you see this time, anything different?

I saw lots more people—shapes moving about in what appeared to be a large room of a big house or building, but nothing clear. It was the same as always, nothing was clear. He didn’t tell the boy about his other dream that tagged along after this one, the dream that frightened him awake.

You said you saw a small girl there the last time. Could you see her face? Do you think it was Nina?

I saw several small forms that could have been anything. That doesn’t mean it was a girl or a boy or that it was Nina.

Dreams are visions, Oliver said. They show us the way. It has to be Nina. She has been gone a full week. Who else would you dream about? It has to be her. She would not just leave. Something has happened to her. Maybe she is sending you this dream and asking for help.

Flood smiled. My dreams could mean nothing at all, and that large room or hall isn’t all I dream about.

Someone took her then, Oliver said with mounting concern, just like they have taken other homeless girls off the streets. We have to get her out of wherever she is. They might hurt her.

Flood wrinkled his brow in thought. Where’d you hear that? That’s news to me.

There is talk on the streets of young girls missing, Oliver said.

There aren’t that many young girls on the streets.

We should find her.

Flood shook his head. How can we? Where do we look? Even if what I dream is true what can we do? I don’t know where the house is, if it is a house. We don’t even know what the dream means, or if it means anything at all. Nina might just have decided to move on without you. Go back to sleep.

Even so, she would not just leave without telling anyone, Oliver said, shaking his head. She would have told me, and she did not. She did not say anything to anyone and that is not like her. We should look for her.

Where? I wouldn’t know where to start and neither do you. Go back to sleep.

They both lay down again and were quiet. Flood didn’t tell him about his other dream, about the guy in the woods with a rifle, or what it had to do with the large room with all the people—if they were people—and wasn’t about to. He didn’t know what they were really. All he could see were dark shapes that resembled human figures. He had dreamed of the man in the woods before, and this time, something about it frightened him, and he didn’t frighten easy. He never told Oliver about the man, and now he was sorry that he had told him anything about the other dream. The kid was grasping at straws looking for a needle and wouldn’t let it go.

Oliver thought things over for a long moment and then sat up again. I heard of a man that could do it. He could find her.

Flood didn’t rise up. He smiled a crooked smile and gave his mind a mental shake. Who would that be, someone with a crystal ball, some psychic?

No, Oliver said. I have heard of him. The Lakota call him Talks-To-Animals. It is said that he finds those that are missing.

Flood frowned at him, but didn’t sit up. What kind of a name is that? Doesn’t he have a normal name like everyone else?

It was the name given to him, Oliver whispered back. It is the only name I know.

Sounds like Doctor Dolittle to me, Flood said.

Who is Doctor Dolittle? Oliver asked. Is that Doc’s name?

"Never mind. I’m not talking about our Doc, Flood said. And what the heck is a Lakota?"

A Lakota is a Sioux.

You mean like an Indian?

Yes.

Flood nodded and closed his eyes. Just go to sleep.

But the boy called Oliver couldn’t, not right away. He thought of the man and of a way to find him. He felt his friend was in danger no matter what Dreamer told him, and someone had to help her.

2

Natalee Cruz, secretary to Paul Rice Special Investigations, entered the sanctuary of her outer office. The office door had been locked, but the lights were on and so was the coffee machine. Mr. Coffee’s green light was gleaming at her and a half pot of brewed coffee sat on the hot plate, which meant Paul was in early. She shook her head at the thought that crossed her mind, hoping she was wrong. He had been out of sorts lately, and she hoped this wasn’t another symptom of case obsession, which sometimes happened. He never beat her to the office unless he stayed there overnight, or if something was bothering him. She shrugged out of her coat, hanging it in the small office closet near her desk, then poured herself a cup of coffee, added coffee-mate and honey, and entered the inner office. Paul was at his desk, hunched over two stacks of books on either side of him. The room was dimly lit. Only his desk light was on. The daylight filtering in through the room’s bank of windows was dim, just as gray and gloomy as the heavy overcast morning sky outside.

She flicked on the overhead lighting, brightening the room considerably. Look at you, the early bird. How do you expect to catch a worm with all the lights off?

Paul leaned back in his chair, stretched out the kinks in his arms and back, and looked at her with amusement dancing in his eyes.

Natalee caught the look. "Don’t you dare call me a worm."

Paul smiled a little smile. I wouldn’t think of it.

I’m sure, she said and walked over to the two leather client chairs facing his desk and sat down in one, holding the coffee on her lap with both hands. What are you doing? I thought you were working on that restaurant case?

I am, or was.

Was?

Yes, it’s complicated. The spirit haunting the place is a woman cook that worked there at the turn of the century, right after the place stopped being a stagecoach stop.

Did you get her to leave and move on to where she’s supposed to be?

No, that’s the complication. She doesn’t want to leave, and so far I haven’t been able to convince her that leaving would be to her benefit. She doesn’t want to pass over to the other side and would rather stay on this plane.

Natalee took a sip of her coffee. You can’t talk her into it? Did you ask your spirit friends to help?

Paul gave her a stare. What spirit friends?

Those spirit friends of yours that are on the Other Side and help you from time to time.

I don’t know what you mean?

Natalee gave him a mock frown. Really, that’s what you’re going to stick with?

Paul relented. It was a small victory for her. He had a hunch that she knew and the others probably did too, or at least suspected. Sounds like you’ve been talking to Paige. She has the same crazy notion.

"It’s not a crazy notion, and so what if we know. Paige said she heard from Buddy Bayer who heard it from John Little Bull. Besides, we’ve suspected it for years. That’s how all this started, isn’t it? You, the coven, and the Ladies of Salem. Why deny it? We all know, or at least suspected it."

"We? Paul made a face. So everyone knows? God, I’ve got as much privacy in my life as a goldfish."

Natalee laughed. Well, what do you expect? We talk to each other. Women talk, especially a group of women. Besides, you started all this. She paused, getting back on track. So what’s going to happen at the restaurant? They’re still going to pay you, aren’t they? After all, you did find out what was causing their problems.

The restaurant people paid me already. The check is in your middle desk drawer ready to bank. They’re just not sure they want me to take any further action. They’ve decided on keeping the spirit around. She really isn’t hurting anything, and now that the owners know she’s harmless, they’re reluctant to get rid of her.

So the owners are okay with her turning on the stove, rearranging the plates and silverware, and making coffee whenever she feels like it.

Apparently, or at least for now. They feel that she’s not really a threat.

Natalee raised her eyebrows. They might change their minds if her stove antics start a fire in the place and burn it down.

So far that hasn’t happened, and she’s been doing it for over eighty years.

Natalee rose from her chair, coffee cup in hand, and moved to the front of his desk, picking up a book from one of the piles. "Monsters of Wisconsin, she said, reading the title. Her feelings about him had been correct. Don’t tell me you’re still obsessing over that Baker case? She gestured with the book at the two piles on his desk. Did you read all of these books? You must have twelve or more stacked up here."

Browsing would be more like it. He took the book away from her and put it back on one of the piles. And I’m not obsessing, but that Baker case has no final conclusion. These bipeds or werewolves are still out there doing God knows what, and according to what people are seeing and others are writing about, there are lots of quadrupeds running around the country too, especially here in Wisconsin. They look like some kind of a wolf, or at least the head does, but some are as big as a horse, and the body appears like it was crossbred with a bear. He tossed her a look. What bothers me is what do all these things want and why are they here, especially those that can change into human form and are walking among us?

What did you possibly hope to find going through all these books?

I wanted to know if any strange phenomenon writers knew what these cryptids really were and why they’re here.

Do they?

Paul shook his head. No, no one has a clue. These things are just here, and people are seeing them, more so now than in the past. They seem to enjoy running along country roads late at night and scaring the hell out of motorists.

You found nothing new then. She paused and then continued. These runners and changelings you found in the CIA can’t be the same species.

The only thing new I found in the books was about these wolves that are horse-sized quadrupeds. I hadn’t heard about that before. And no, I thought the same thing about them that you did that they couldn’t be related—but they are related but different.

Natalee looked amused and hitched an eyebrow at him. So then you’re not obsessing about these things?

It took him seconds to answer, then ran a hand over his face. Okay, so I’m obsessing. I’d like to know what the hell is going on. Wouldn’t you? You shot one of them.

She lowered her eyes. True, I did. Thanks for reminding me. I’m trying to forget I did. I try not to think about them. I don’t think you should think about them either.

Sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it, he said, making note that she hadn’t gotten over the incident at the Baker house yet.

She studied him. You’ve had cases before where everything wasn’t resolved, so why is this one bugging you?

He leaned forward, picked up a pencil off his desk, and then threw it down. Because this one has too many loose strings not accounted for. It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop. How many more of these things are out there? The ones I found were in our government—the CIA, for Pete’s sake. Where else? They must want something, and based on past experience with them, I have a feeling that what they want isn’t very conducive to our well-being. Why is the year 2016 important to them? Is that the other shoe? Or is it going to drop before then?

Natalee gave an involuntary shiver and drank more of her coffee to warm up. You’re giving me goose bumps.

I have them too, every time I think about this mess. I always suspected that we weren’t alone here, but this world is even more screwed up than I thought.

I take it that these quadrupeds you’re talking about don’t walk upright.

From what I’ve read, they don’t, at least no one has seen them do it. They walk and run on all fours, but they’re huge, lots bigger than a normal wolf.

She closed her eyes for a moment, visualizing the animal and shook her head. And I’ve always liked wolves.

So did I, and I still do . . . normal wolves. These animals aren’t normal.

Do they talk like the bipeds do?

No, or at least I found nothing in the books that they have ever spoken to anyone who has encountered them.

Maybe they’re just an animal that no one has seen before. That’s what they think Bigfoot is, and you told me there were some weird animals in Vietnam that no one really knows about. It could be they’re just animals that are close to extinction.

Paul shrugged. "I think there is more to them than that, but there are two species mentioned in the books that are supposed to be extinct but match the descriptions of people that have seen the quadrupeds—Canis dirus and Amphicyon."

Natalee frowned. Meaning?

"Amphicyon means bear-dog and Canis dirus is fearful dog. Both species aren’t supposed to be around anymore."

Natalee made an unpleasant expression. Oh, great. Nothing’s safe anymore, not even a pleasant walk in the woods. A thought struck her. What if they’re not extinct?

I don’t know. If they’re not, where the hell have they been all this time?

Where has Bigfoot been? Maybe they hang out in the same places.

Maybe. People that have encountered them say they have intelligent eyes but have an evil presence and an unearthly quality about them. And they seem not to be afraid of humans. In fact, witnesses have said they felt intimidated in their presence. And they kill—at least the bipeds that can change into human form do, as we know.

Natalee moved her eyes to his and kept them there. You’re doing wonders for my nerves.

3

Natalee looked at Paul with deep concern. So what are you going to do? You don’t have the time to pursue this. Not now and maybe not ever. You’re late getting back to Mrs. Thomas. You have five cases pending, waiting on hold besides hers, and more people calling in every day for your services. Your ghost-hunter fame is spreading.

I’m not a ghost hunter.

I know, but that’s what people think you are, and you’re very good at it. You’re good at finding people that are missing too, not to mention your other skills, one of which I definitely won’t name.

He gave her a knowing smile. What other skills?

Never mind, you know what. She drank more of her coffee, making a face after swallowing. This coffee is cold. I’m going to warm it up. You want a refill? That coffee you made for yourself must be cold by now too. Give me your cup.

A small smile still played on his lips. What other skills are you talking about?

She looked directly at him. Do you want coffee or not?

Paul studied her. You’re blushing.

I’m not blushing. I don’t blush. Give me your cup.

Then why is your face changing color?

It’s warm in here and maybe you need glasses.

If you’re not blushing, you’re certainly changing the subject, which you are very good at.

Oh, shut up and give me your damn cup.

Paul laughed and handed it to her.

Natalee left the office and returned with two cups of hot coffee, handing him one. As I was saying, you don’t have time to spend on your obsession. You have too many other things to do. Besides, you don’t really have any leads to follow on these things anyway. Other than occasional sightings and encounters, the trail is cold. Where are you going to look? The CIA? You don’t know who’s a wolf biped and who isn’t. The ones you knew of are gone, dead. And there’s no way you can tell them apart from us until they change. The only thing you do know is that they’re not human, so they have to be aliens, which brings up lots of possibilities. And your friend Campbell, in the Agency, knows less than you do, other than the fact that they shot him and tried to kill him. They might try that with you if you keep poking around.

They might, but I don’t like just sitting around waiting for them to act out their plans.

You don’t even know if they have plans.

No, I don’t, but I’m sure they do, and so do you. Why else would they be here? They must have an agenda.

She didn’t answer. He was right, but she still felt it wasn’t a good idea to go hunting for trouble, especially if you didn’t know what you were up against, or whom you were hunting. You could be talking to one and not even know it.

Paul drank some coffee and put the cup down on his desk. I could call David Baker and see if he’s still living in that house.

And what’s he going to tell you? The only thing he knows is that his Uncle Cyrus was weird and so was his house—or still is. He doesn’t even remember that he and his wife disappeared from that place and were in limbo for a week or more. And she’s no better.

Perhaps nothing, but if he and his wife are still living there, they might be experiencing some of the same phenomena that we did.

I fail to see how that’s going to help.

Just then the phone rang in the outer office.

Natalee put her coffee cup down on his desk and picked up Paul’s phone, punching in line one. Paul Rice Special Investigations, she said and listened. Then, One moment, please. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. Speak of the devil. It’s David Baker. He wants to talk to you.

She handed the phone to him. You don’t have time for this. You really don’t. What’ll I tell Mrs. Thomas if she calls again?

Tell her that I’ll see her later this afternoon, Paul looked at her. Satisfied?

She rolled her eyes. Not very.

David Baker didn’t say much over the phone other than he needed to talk to Paul and could Paul find the time to drive down to the house. It was an emergency and it concerned his children. Paul agreed and started to head for the door, throwing on a jacket and cap, leaving Natalee standing there, shaking her head at him. She finally agreed that he should go when he told her it concerned the Baker’s kids, only admonishing him for wearing his usual army fatigue jacket and a Milwaukee Brewers baseball cap when he went out on a case.

What do you want me to wear? Paul said, frowning at her A deerstalker cap and an inverness cape?

No, but a suit would be nice and more businesslike, she said. Besides, you look good in a suit.

I’m sure the bipeds aren’t going to care what I wear, Paul told her and went out the door.

The drive down to the town of Falls Corners, which was more of a village than a town, was uneventful. Paul saw no wolf bipeds or strange quadrupeds running along or across the roads or taking a swipe with a clawed paw at his car, the time for which seemed to be reserved to the dark hours of night for some reason. This area, which was close to Kettle Moraine State Park and the now defunct Bong Air Force Base, was a hotbed for the sightings of strange animals, as was the house the Bakers were now living in—a house left to Baker by his late uncle who died suddenly last year.

The early morning was receding into its late hours before the afternoon took over the day. The morning’s overcast sky gave way to patchy sunlight and then eventually to full sun, making the day appear warmer than it was. The Falls Creek bank clock moved its big hands to ten o’clock as Paul left the city and entered the neighboring outskirts of the village of Falls Corners. The two towns were much like Milwaukee and Wauwatosa, or any other of Milwaukee’s several shoulder-to-shoulder suburbs.

Paul pulled in the driveway and rang the bell. Linda Baker answered the door confirming that she and David were still together, although at the time last year when he was asked to find them, they were on the verge of splitting up.

Paul, it’s good to see you. She gave him an unexpected hug. I’m glad you could come. Linda Baker was a tall, attractive blonde. Today she was wearing black slacks and a black turtleneck sweater that accentuated her hair and features.

David said there was an emergency concerning the children. What’s going on?

Linda closed the door behind him. David is in the kitchen having coffee. I just made fresh. Would you like a cup?

Sure, Paul followed her into the kitchen.

David, dressed in jeans and a plaid, long-sleeved shirt, greeted Paul with a handshake when he was halfway into the room. Thanks for coming.

What’s wrong with Greg and Lucy? Paul was used to them rushing to greet him with crushing hugs whenever he visited. Where are they, in school?

Linda poured coffee from the kitchen percolator. There’s no school for a few days, teachers’ convention or something.

They’re spending time with my uncle and cousin, David added. Didn’t Leighann tell you?

No, Paul said, she didn’t, but I haven’t spoken to her for a couple of days.

Linda handed Paul a cup of coffee. You like it black, right?

Right. Paul took the cup and sipped the coffee, waiting for them to get around to it.

David exchanged glances with his wife and then started. Something seems to be after the children.

Paul immediately became concerned. After them how? You mean in this house?

Yes, it seems to happen at night while they’re sleeping.

Linda took up the explanation. Both of them started having bad dreams and red marks on their backs. Scratch marks, like they were made by someone or something with long fingernails, or at least Lucy does. So far, Greg doesn’t.

Paul looked at David. "Something?"

David looked at his wife again. Linda knows what you and I talked about. I told her. She knows the house can be weird at times, and she saw one of those wolf things, so she knows what they are.

"At times? Paul shook his head. This house is weird most of the time. Why don’t you just move out of here and get out of this area?"

I don’t want to be forced out by whatever is going on here, David said.

You said Linda saw one, where?

Linda finished her coffee and rinsed her cup in the sink. It was in the yard near the edge of the woods the night David was struck over the head while outside checking on something the children saw in their window. After he didn’t return right away, I went out to look for him. This thing was watching me from a distance but close to the start of the woods. It looked like a large dog at first. It was watching me for a quite a while until I found David, and then it got up and walked away on its hind legs and went into the woods in the back of the house. I never believed things like that existed, that there were unnatural creatures roaming about. It shatters every concept a person ever had of the world. She paused briefly. This world is not a safe place. It’s even worse than I thought.

Paul smiled, thinly. He had heard those same words before not too long ago. Yes, sad to say that’s very true. Did the kids tell you what the bad dreams were about?

No, the kids said the dreams were frightening, David told him, but couldn’t remember what they were about, or what frightened them.

Linda’s eyes traveled to her husband and then settled on Paul. I can’t believe I’m saying this since I’ve never been a very brave person, and at times I feel like I’m barely holding it together, but I am stubborn and I agree with David. We both like the house and the area is beautiful, except for what has been happening here. So weirdness or not, frightened or not, I don’t want to be forced out either. This area should just be a peaceful country.

Paul finished his coffee and put the cup in the sink next to Linda’s. What if staying here is harmful to the children?

If there’s a definite threat, we’ll move. David looked at his wife for agreement and then back at Paul. But I thought you might be able to resolve what’s happening, so we can stay. Leighann says that’s what you do, and that you’re very good at it.

Leighann gives me too much credit.

I don’t think so, Linda said. Leighann isn’t one to praise anyone unless they deserve it. Will you help us?

I’m not sure I can, Paul told them.

David studied him. If you can’t, then who can?

Paul didn’t reply for a long moment. Natalee wasn’t going to like him taking this on, but then on the other hand, it might not take all his time. I’ll give it a shot, but I really don’t know what these cryptids are or what I’m up against. I don’t think they’re spirits, although the Native Americans think they are. He looked at both of them. Have you seen these things lately?

David nodded. We both have, but not lately.

"Did you ever