The Ambrosia Lot

By D. E. Pruitt

“Serial killer? Murderous cult? That would be easy.” Do you believe in a higher power? A spirit world? Unseen things that influence human lives? While Caleb Dwyer went to church, he thought no more about these matters than any other typical person. At his place of worship, of course, he contemplated his God and, in his life, tried to say daily prayers, though mostly short ones. Other than that, not really. Then, along came the coyote. Detective Lieutenant Dennis O’Brian believed in nothing but cold, hard facts. Anything else—particularly other-worldly forces—was total mumbo jumbo. Then, along came Caleb Dwyer. When Dwyer, retired and recently moved into his brand new villa, decides to explore the vacant lot across the street where he sighted the mangy animal, spirits suddenly become all too real. What he discovers sets off a police investigation that tests the boundaries of reality and the depths of sanity. The journey involves strong detective work, revered Native American lore, and an old man caught in between horrific disbelief and strong physical danger. For Caleb Dwyer, seeing that coyote in the lot across the street from the deck on his villa was the beginning of a nightmare from which he couldn’t escape, even wide awake. “Twisty. Scary. Totally different.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Aug 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781977257727

D. E. Pruitt

After more than four decades as an advertising copywriter/creative director, Dennis E. Pruitt was able to retire and focus his imagination on fiction. The Ambrosia Lot follows his well-received debut novel, Do-Overs, a fresh take on time travel. He and his wife, Kathy, who live in the greater Kansas City metro area, enjoy chasing grandkids and taking relaxed road trips to explore America.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

His whole life, ol’ Bud could never catch a fucking break.

Every time something would go a little sideways, assholes would just pile on until that something, whatever it was, would tumble over and smash to the ground.

He tried, he really did. He had skills. He was good with his hands. Actually made a decent living as a bricklayer, then as an HVAC guy. But he put a lot of his pay directly up his nose. And he got really good at being the last one out of a bar at closing time.

Still, in his mind, it wasn’t his fault. He was dealt a lousy hand, particularly when it came to parents. His father...Shit, who knows? Left their little crap hole apartment when he was six. His mother hit the bottle pretty good, then started hitting him pretty good, too. When he was eight, he entered the state foster care system. That was a hoot.

So, no breaks, starting as a kid. He survived state care (using the word very loosely), but just barely. At eighteen, he walked and never looked back.

Now, at twenty-nine years of age, Broderick Bud David Thompson was doing what he’d been doing for the past ten years. He’d pick up an odd job when he was sober, and actually managed to keep a couple for more than a few weeks, from time to time. When he had a little cash, he’d head to a bar or to his friendly neighborhood drug dealer.

There were times, when he was high, he’d attempt to rob a liquor store or some house in a wealthy neighborhood. Mostly, that didn’t work out too well, as his rap sheet would attest.

Tonight, he was doing what a dude who never caught a break always did: sitting on the stool at the end of a bar at the end of town at the end of the night. Last Call was twenty minutes ago, and he couldn’t talk the barkeep into sneaking him one more round.

So Bud pulled his six-foot two-inch, two-hundred-thirty-pound body up off his perch and wobbled his way towards the door. Outside, he was disoriented for a moment, not sure which way to go. Then he remembered the direction of his beat-to-shit apartment and began staggering that direction.

A searing pain in his upper left arm almost sobered him up. He looked over and saw blood running from just below his shoulder, his work shirt shredded there.

What the fuck? he said to himself.

Then he felt the same pain in his right thigh. Again, there was blood running from his torn blue jeans.

The alcohol was wearing off quickly, and Bud was genuinely scared.

Then he saw what was attacking him. He started screaming and throwing punches like his life depended on it.

It did.

1.

The thing was a nervous nelly. It moved in jerking motions, constantly lifting its head and looking around, like it knew it shouldn’t be there. When it seemed sure there was nothing close by to bother it, the thing went about its business searching—for food, more than likely. And boy-howdy, did it look desperate.

Coyote, Caleb Dwyer said out loud to an empty room. His wife, Angela, was in the lower level of their new villa either sewing or painting, her two biggest passions, not including him, of course. Caleb was standing in front of the sliding glass door to the screened-in deck looking south, watching the skittish animal bounce around in the empty four-acre tract of land across the street.

He smiled. They had been here for about two months, the first residents of Deer Run, a smaller development they had discovered when they had decided to down-size. Even with unpacked boxes still in the garage, the windows still without blinds, and the small lawn still without sod, everything else was pretty great. Angela loved the place and that made Caleb happy. He was still getting used to it, but had to admit he liked the new home, liked it a great deal. Plus no more mowing, no more shoveling snow, which was very nice for a seventy-four-year-old retiree. Caleb was more than physically capable, he simply didn’t want to do that kind of thing any more. They’d moved from a large comfortable home in a well-established suburb to here—a developing area that, while not in the boonies, had a lot more wide openness, which was taking some getting used to. But it was an area where they could enjoy a home they really wanted at a price they could actually afford. The Dwyers were the first and only residents of what would become an intimate, thirty-five-unit development. The model villa just to the north was in its later phases of construction, and a foundation for another place was going in to the east. But, as far as actual humanity, they were it.

Caleb returned his focus on the wild thing across the way. It was a mangy creature with matted grey-brown hair over a very boney, malnourished body. It continued its nervous habits, all jittery and agitated. The coyote moved around on the lot, but seemed to always return to the same spot on a small bluff near the north-center of the empty property. And each time it returned, it would start pulling on something in the ground that Caleb couldn’t see because of the weeds and scrub brush covering the area.

Caleb? His wife calling from downstairs.

Yeah, hon, he answered, turning away from the glass doors.

Are you doing lunch yet? she asked.

About ready to. You want an apple with yours? I’ll slice it for you.

That would be great!

When he turned back to look at the empty lot, the coyote was gone.

2.

ToCaSabBe crouched silently in a stand of wild wheat, downwind one-hundred paces from the encampment. His brother warriors—eight total including him—were all hidden at different points around the field, effectively surrounding the enemy site.

What he felt in his soul, he had not said out loud to the other members of his war party. WaKonDa, the universal spirit to all of the Osage people, was silent on this matter, which he knew could be a very good sign or a very bad one. And NoPaWalla, the war party’s ninth member and sacred leader whose sole task was reciting wi-gi-e, or prayers, for the success of the group, had offered no indication of a negative aura.

But ToCaSabBe knew instinctively that all was not right. They had come north from their Osage settlement to kill a small group of Cherokee—that was, once again, invading their hunting lands—and take their horses, weapons and supplies. There were only six, and a lightning-like strike would normally make quick work of them. There was, however, something in the twilight air that made ToCaSabBe nervous. The area had been well-scouted, all precautions taken. Still...

3.

The nervous nelly returned the following afternoon, doing the same nervous-nelly things it had done the day before.

There it is again, Caleb said. This time, Angela was in the room.

What? she asked

Come over here and take a look. So she did.

The two Dwyers were staring out the sliding glass door to their screened-in deck across the street at the empty lot. Then she saw what he saw.

Oh my God, what is it?

Coyote, I think.

Poor thing. What’s it doing over there?

Well, by its looks, I’d say searching for food.

Just then, the mangy thing began pulling at something in the ground, the same place it was pulling yesterday.

Maybe it found something? Angela asked.

Maybe, Caleb answered. It was there yesterday, too.

Really?

Yeah, just before lunch. You were downstairs.

They were silent as they watched the animal pull, look around, pull, look around. Finally, something came loose, and the coyote was chewing.

I’m going to go for a walk here in a little bit, Caleb announced. I’ll check it out.

That’s fine, but don’t do it while that thing is there, cautioned Angela.

As if on cue, the coyote—still chewing—looked their direction, then casually trotted off toward the other end of the field until it disappeared in the brush.

Well that takes care of that, Caleb said.

You just be careful, okay?

4.

ToCaSabBe made a bird sound, a bit longer and a bit louder than the actual bird, not really noticeable. But the seven other Osage warriors recognized the difference and began moving as one, tightening the circle on the Cherokee encampment. When the circle closed to approximately fifty paces, they would charge in unison. ToCaSabBe preferred his tomahawk, but others, like his close friend KaHaTunKa, liked knives or clubs for these close-in battles.

Now in the moment, ToCaSabBe placed his concern in the back of his mind, stood up straight to show off all six feet seven inches of his muscular body, screamed the Osage battle cry and charged. Seven of his brothers did exactly the same. The six Cherokee turned outward in unison, weapons ready, unsurprised. That is when ToCaSabBe’s concern became bloody reality. His enemy was expecting them.

5.

Caleb Dwyer, iPhone in his pocket, buds in his ears listening to some great old classic rock, crossed the street that bordered his villa to the south, and headed toward the vacant field. This area was ready for development. There was a concrete cul-de-sac—complete with curbs—already in place near the northwest end of the lot, close to the Dwyer villa. At some point in the future, that section would hold what he guessed would be six triplexes of condominium units, just like the ones on the other side of the north-south street that crossed into the entrance of his development. At the south end would be a small retail complex, or so he heard. Right now, though, it was empty, with the exception of the occasional coyote.

He walked to the far west end of the cul-de-sac and stepped off the concrete and into the field. Another fifteen-or-so yards and he would be at the coyote’s favorite place in the lot.

6.

As the eight Osage charged toward their enemy, tightening the circle, ToCaSabBe heard more battle screams to his left where a thicket of tall trees stood on a small bluff. Then he saw. At least twenty, maybe two dozen, warriors had burst out of the tree line and were rushing to the fight. They were Cherokee, mostly, but he also saw white men in their buckskin clothes—traders and