Devils Prey

By Matthew McCain

“When a freak accident results in the escape of the serial killer known as ‘The Brainiac’, Detective Gail Beamer quickly realizes the only way to prevent a cascade of violence is to emerge from retirement and confront the only enemy she’s ever feared.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369400807

Matthew McCain

Matthew McCain is the author of a dozen books including The Hunting, Scribbles: A Drug Story and Just Under Nine. He lives in Hooksett, NH.

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DEVILS

PREY

Matthew McCain

Copyright © 2023 by Matthew McCain.

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: 06/12/2023

Edited by: Stephanie Brown

Author Photo by: Michael Triminio

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

853295

Contents

Chapter 1: Splintered Shadows

Chapter 2: The More Things Changed

Chapter 3: The More It Stays the Same

Chapter 4: A New Mourning

Chapter 5: Pure

Chapter 6: Arriving

Chapter 7: Past Memories

Chapter 8: Homecoming

Chapter 9: TimeCop1983

Chapter 10: First Night Out

Chapter 11: Dead Sun Rising

Chapter 12: If We Had Known

Chapter 13: Little Invitro

Chapter 14: Intruder

Chapter 15: Here in the Black

Chapter 16: Mercy

Chapter 17: My Last Day

Chapter 18: The Pain You Serve

Chapter 19: The End of Dragons

Chapter 20: Today

Afterword

For Ryan Messier—a friend I’ll forever cherish in this life and the next…

Chapter 1: Splintered Shadows

The long, rural highway was all but vacant as the freshly cleansed police cruiser continued on its four-hour ride from the beautiful, rustic village of Stowe, Vermont, to the harsh reality of Boston, Massachusetts. It wasn’t the first time that particular cruiser had made such a trip and all signs pointed to it not being the last. When the patrol car had left the Stowe District Courthouse, the late spring daylight occupied the sky. A sonorous, ocean blue consumed the sky, free of any clouds. However, thanks to an unusual amount of traffic, that bastion of sunshine was long gone by the time the vehicle crossed the New Hampshire border.

Behind the wheel, twenty-four-year-old Andrew Boilard procrastinated until the very last second before turning on the brand-new cruiser’s headlights, an ill attempt to convince himself it wasn’t dark enough out. However, by the time he made it to the halfway mark of the inelegant ride—somewhere south of Lebanon—he couldn’t deny it any longer. The rest of the ride would be adorned in twilight.

But it wasn’t the darkness that unnerved him. In fact, the night didn’t faze him in the slightest. It was the occupant in the backseat who gave him pause.

Officer Boilard’s decision to turn the headlights on illuminated the extended stretch of unobstructed highway before him. It also lit up the interior of the cruiser from the radio and display panels just behind the steering wheel. The ambient lighting was already as dim as it could be; the bright display from the dash constantly strained Officer Boilard’s night vision. But, despite the lights being on the faintest setting, he could still see the neon orange jumpsuit and the pair of eyes grimacing at him in the rearview mirror.

Directly behind the young officer, Dennis Roth sat handcuffed and motionless behind the metal mesh separating the driver and passenger seats, acting as an inadequate barrier. Wrapped in prison tattoos ranging in nature from the bodies of naked women to silhouettes of hanging bodies, along with the deep scar running along the right side of his face, Roth fit the stereotypical physical profile of a psychotic madman perfectly.

Having admired some of the most notorious killers in history—he was particularly drawn to the B.T.K Killer—Roth had decided to join that elite club of horrific boogeymen. Aside from his obsession with serial killers, though, little else was known about him.

He also had a taste for theatrics that gave him a leg up on the rest of his grotesque peers. Dennis Roth didn’t want just name recognition. He wanted to be the face of evil—or come as close to it as he could, at least.

And, sure enough, he got exactly what he wanted.

Glancing away from his rearview, Boilard’s heart fluttered with a fear that he tried to hide by clearing his throat, concentrating instead on the road and the relaxing week of vacation that would begin once he finished tonight’s shift.

To say the menacing look in Roth’s eyes was frightening would be an insult to the very definition of the word. It only got worse when Roth suddenly began smiling at him through the rearview mirror, a mocking gesture he’d displayed since his first court appearance.

The urge to reprimand the killer and scold him for making such a face was strong. Hell, he even began slowing down a bit, but he never came to a complete stop. Instead, the two exchanged several seconds of eye contact through the mirror; just enough time for Boilard to be incapable of swerving the cruiser away from the large deer standing in the middle of the highway—

At the speed the cruiser was going—65 to 70 mph—the majestic-looking deer didn’t stand a chance. A haze of pink mist spattered across the windshield as its body split in half from the impact, rolled across the front of the cruiser and fumbled back onto the highway.

Officer Boilard jammed on the brakes, sending both him and Roth forward so violently that Roth’s head was slammed against the metal mesh in front of him, creating a large laceration across his tattooed forehead.

Boilard panicked as he spun the cruiser wheel back and forth, hoping to get it under control and keep all four tires right side down—he figured he could blame the deer for all the damage.

He did everything he could to safely stop the vehicle but was unsuccessful. The deer had shattered the left headlight on impact, leaving only the passenger side illuminated, but it was enough to see the large cement guardrail coming at them dead on.

Boilard closed his eyes, tightened his grip on the wheel, and held on—

The cruiser struck the guardrail on the right side, allowing the front tire to gain what little traction it could and rumble up the cement before the weight of the rest of the vehicle overpowered it and tipped upside down, landing with a colossal thump as the windshield, mirrors and windows instantly shattered across the two-lane highway.

Silence followed the crash, leaving behind a soothing, almost peaceful calmness that was typical of a spring evening in the great north woods of New England.

A couple yards behind the cruiser, the deer moaned and flapped about as blood gushed from where the lower half of its body used to be. That the animal was still alive was nothing short of a miracle—a short-lived one as, following a pitiful moan of pain, it lost its skirmish to stay alive.

Officer Boilard slowly lifted his head and wiped the blood sopping from his left cheek, then managed to turn on the hazard lights. Their steady click, click, click was the only noise inside the flipped-over police car. The large moon hanging overhead managed to light the rural highway and surrounding woods with a baby blue hue but did little to provide much else for the interior of the vehicle.

Despite the hazards blinking and the single remaining headlight flickering off and on, the dashboard inside the cruiser was dark. Through the haze that plagued his mind in those first few seconds, Boilard managed to spot the large cracks on both the touch screen and the mounted laptop in the epicenter of the dashboard.

The strap of leather that was the seatbelt prevented Boilard from falling head-first onto the roof. The gap between his head and the roof was extraordinarily narrow but enough for the officer to move his head and spot the latch to open the door. He reached for it with his left arm, only to feel a sharp pain, hinting at a possible fracture. It sure felt like it, anyway.

With the pain too much for his left hand, Officer Boilard ignored the noises coming from the backseat and gently pushed open the driver’s side door with his right. He was hell-bent on getting himself right side up any way he could. Once he managed to get the door open, he unbuckled himself, landing on his wounded left arm with a painful thump.

A deep grunt erupted from him, mimicking the sound he made the last time his Kevlar vest took a bullet. Still, through the hurt and blood dripping into his left eye, Officer Boilard kept his head on straight—so to speak. He took hold of the radio attached to his police uniform and used it moments before spotting a set of headlights coming toward them.

This is Officer Andrew Boilard. I need paramedics out on Highway 89, about four miles south of exit 7. The pain in his voice was obvious, but he powered through until he heard the acknowledgment on the other end of the radio. Thank you.

When he finished with the radio, Officer Boilard focused on the headlights coming from the opposite direction. The vehicle appeared to be slowing down.

A chill ran down Boilard’s spine. Maybe it was the fog of just being in an accident, or perhaps it was the notion of a mass serial killer being inches away from him. Still, the sight of the headlights frightened him—the approaching car abruptly stopped, and the red and blue lights on its roof started twinkling.

Oh, thank God! Boilard said out loud, spotting the State Police emblem along the side of the vehicle as it pulled up alongside him.

Pulling up to the upside-down vehicle, State Trooper Shawn Peller quickly reduced his speed while his new partner Diane Williams called for backup.

Backup is on its way, the dispatcher confirmed.

Thank Christ; hopefully, they send an ambulance, Peller said as the headlights of his large SUV lit up the debris scattered across the highway. This looks bad.

Agreeing with the assessment, Diane quickly looked in the rearview mirror, only to be met with darkness. The protracted stretch of highway was empty as far as the eye could see. Still, Diane questioned whether they should pull off to the side of the road.

Naw, we’ll be fine, Peller dismissed. I’ll keep the lights on, and if someone still plows into them, they shouldn’t be driving.

Diane snickered, somewhat amused by her partner’s immediate dismissal.

The snicker faded when the driver-side door to the upside-down police cruiser flung open, and a bloody hand emerged in the ring of light from their approaching car.

Peller put the vehicle in park and hustled out onto the derelict highway toward the wreckage. Peller called in a request for an ambulance himself the closer he approached the accident. I need paramedics now!

Taller and faster than his partner, he quickly reached the cruiser, spotting the blood around the front bumper and tires. Peller whipped out his flashlight, powered it on and shined it inside the cruiser—Andy!

Flooded by a rush of adrenaline, Peller focused entirely on Officer Boilard, even after spotting movement in the cruiser’s backseat. Diane, check if the person in the back is alright.

On it!

Straining to calm himself because of his arm and throbbing headache, Officer Boilard reached out to Trooper Peller once he realized it was him. He tried to speak, but the violent crash and nub of bone poking out of his skin just below his left elbow left him mute.

Peller dropped to his knees, placed the flashlight down and tried reassuring his old academy buddy. Andy, Andy, it’s okay…it’s okay. I got you.

Boilard coughed, sending a mist of blood across Peller’s face. D…d...

Realizing Boilard was trying to speak as his body violently convulsed, Peller leaned over Boilard. What?

The horrendous headache sprinted across to the other side of Boilard’s face, turning his eyesight into a world of gliding stars, but with what little energy he had, he found what was left of his voice. Don’t let him out! Don’t!

Peller turned to the backseat.

Using all the muscle she had, Trooper Diane Williams grabbed the handle to the back door and yanked it open.

Diane, wait! Peller shouted.

Had Peller spoken a second or two earlier, he may have saved the life of his partner, himself, and potentially Officer Boilard. But he hadn’t. Diane edged him out by a split second. Before she was even able to acknowledge Peller, the giant hand of Dennis Roth leaped from the backseat and sent a large shard of glass through her neck, lacerating her jugular vein in one swift stroke.

And before the death of his partner managed to register in his mind, Roth had already snatched up Diane’s service revolver, taken aim, and double-tapped the trigger, the two bullets penetrating Peller’s left cornea. The officer fell, lifelessly, onto the road beside his partner.

Still fading in and out of consciousness, Officer Boilard—feeling the tugs of eternal darkness nipping at his heels—watched in horror as inmate #6623 surfaced from the backseat and stepped away from the flipped cruiser, relishing the night wind and autonomy that had just been unintentionally provided.

The pain he had been in was indescribable. However, in those last few seconds, Officer Boilard became numb—even pain-free to a certain extent—making him the most fortunate of the night. Because, by the time Dennis Roth made his way over and bashed Officer Boilard’s face in with his foot, the young officer was already dead.

Chapter 2: The More Things Changed

Screams hurtled into the crystal-clear night sky above the small rural town of Devil Hills on that Wednesday evening in early June. Given the past history and dark secrets the town concealed in the shadows, one might assume the screams were worrisome and undoubtedly cries of pure anguish. At least that’s what eighty-eight-year-old Rina Millard thought when she phoned the Devil Hills Police Department to report screaming coming from Ryan Beauregard Memorial Field.

The calm, sweet voice on the other end of the line assured her there was nothing to worry about. It’s Old Homes Day—all the screams are coming from residents down at the traveling circus.

While the overly pleasant voice of the dispatch officer was somewhat encouraging, Rina wasn’t ready to believe the blood-curdling screams were coming from the circus. The circus came to town every summer for Old Homes Day and, as a long-time resident, she had never heard sounds like that coming from the grounds where the tent was erected. While her mind wasn’t quite as sharp as it used to be, and she had struggled with words since her last stroke, the town’s history was too embedded in her mind for her to forget.

The same could not be said for many others. Like everything else, time had dulled the town’s dark secrets to the point many residents had forgotten about what happened not so long ago. It was as if a strange curse had engulfed the town and made people forget about the horrors of the past.

Responding with a pleasing voice of her own, Rina thanked the young female operator and hung up. The warm voice and smile that accompanied it vanished the second the landline’s receiver hit its cradle. Before the old woman knew it, she was wobbling through the empty house, unsteady despite a recent hip replacement, and double-checking every lock in the place.

When she reached the last window in the kitchen and found that it was locked, she felt a bit better. She was sure no one was in the house. She was home alone. Like always. And for the first time in a while, she didn’t mind knowing that.

That blanket-like sense of security warmed her both inside and out, easing her mind—or what was left of it. Still, for whatever reason, Rina couldn’t shake the minor nuisance of curiosity she felt. She did her damnedest to resist it, but slowly she found herself conceding to the temptation and heading over to the sliding glass patio door on the opposite side of the kitchen - the one that led out to the large deck. That sense of safety followed her out, mainly because the deck was up on the second floor with no staircase leading down.

Matching the temperature inside the old woman’s house, the humidity loomed large. It had been a mild winter—very little snow and a damp spring. The early days of June felt more like the middle of summer than the conclusion of spring, indicating that mother nature was punishing the old town and its residents with another scorcher of a summer.

Rina hated the heat, especially when the dew point was high and everything felt sticky. On any other night, she would’ve stayed inside, but the screams coming from below the hill altered what would’ve been a typical night. Thanks to the height of her deck and all the trees she had removed last fall, she had an excellent view of the valley below, including the warm tint of light coming from Ryan Beauregard Memorial Field.

The voice of that sociable young dispatcher kept replaying in Rina’s head for much of the night, but something inside warned her not to dismiss that strange feeling she had in the pit of her stomach.

Something was off. Something felt different.

*

With nothing more than the sounds of childish screams and the potent smell of stale popcorn and baked pretzels following him, fifteen-year-old Richard Stewart bobbed his head back and forth, trying to locate his friends through the large gathering of townsfolk that had gathered at the field.

In typical Devil Hills fashion, this cheesy excuse of an event had drawn quite a crowd; many people were curious to see what was going on. Plus, given some of the cheapskates still in town, it was hard for some to pass up the notion of free food and rides for the kids—even if the food was awful. Hell, that’s why Richard was there in the first place. Well, sort of.

The cotton candy, burnt popcorn, and over-salted pretzels were enticing, especially to the teenagers who called the complicated town home, but even though he tried to convince himself otherwise, Richard hadn’t come just for the food. He purposely spent extra time showering and spiking up his outrageously long hair before donning new clothes and splashing a bit of cologne across his cheeks in case he ran into his ex-girlfriend, Ashley Wilson.

As his eyes scanned the crowd, searching for his friends, the idea of suddenly running into her was hard to dismiss. After all, the rest of the town was there, so it seemed rather logical that she would manage to find her way down to the football field—

Richard! a voice shouted from somewhere off to the side. Rich! Over here!

Over the past year, Richard had gotten accustomed to random people calling out his name—mainly just to say hi and put a face to a name that had become so familiar in such a short time. But, as soon as he heard the voice again, he recognized it instantly. Only one person ever called him Rich.

Once he spotted the thick hand holding up a baked pretzel drenched in salt waving at him, Richard returned the gesture. Hi, Jimmy.

Hey! His friend Jimmy Peters waved, leaning against the metal fence blocking the forest behind the field. Chewing the mouthful of pretzel, he had just bitten into, Jimmy smiled sloppily. Sorry, I had to pee before I got a pretzel.

You’re fine. I just didn’t want to be lost here on my own, Richard confessed before accepting the tiny piece of pretzel Jimmy had broken off. Fucking cheapskate!

Richard, spotting how much salt was layered across the top, wiped some of it off with his finger before popping the whole piece in his mouth. Looks like the whole town is here.

Or what’s left of it, Jimmy added, wiping off his own chunks of salt stuck to his rosy lips with the back of his hand. Didn’t you hear?

Hear what?

Brendon Covey is moving; his parents sold their house. His last day is next Monday, I think.

Richard nodded, somewhat stunned by the news that his longtime foe would be leaving. Jesus, everyone is moving.

Can you blame them? Jimmy asked. Hell, if my Dads didn’t put so much money into our house, we’d probably be moving, too.

The idea of grieving the loss of another friend unnerved Richard. Jimmy, don’t tell me you’re moving, too.

Jimmy shoved the last mouthful of pretzel into his cheeks and waved his hand to answer despite his mouth being full. Nah, we’re not moving. Maybe after high school, but that’s still a few years away.

Richard sighed. Yeah.

The thought of the end of high school being years away was somewhat soothing. The truth was this past year had flown by so quickly; it seemed like it was only yesterday they were in fifth grade running around the schoolyard at recess. Now they were both about to start their freshman year. Time seemed to pass faster every year. Lord knows how many times he’d heard time flies from the adults in his life.

Speaking of moving away, have you heard from Nico at all? Jimmy hesitantly asked after wiping the sweat off his cheeks.

Declining to answer, Richard shrugged. We talk every week or so, but…I don’t know. It’s not the same, you know?

Despite not being able to really sympathize, Jimmy did his best. Although Richard and Jimmy had been friends for years, at the end of the day, he always knew the best friend title in Richard’s mind belonged to Nico Accorance. However, Jimmy was willing to fill in for that role since Nico had moved away. Yeah, I know.

The surprising question tugged on the heartstrings of Richard’s imperfect yet undiluted heart. Ever since Nico and his family moved—next week would mark three months—no one had really asked him if they stayed in touch. Many assumed they would, given the long and complicated history they shared.

Had there not been so many people wandering back and forth—with a few occasionally shouting and waving to Richard—a more impactful conversation may have taken place. Richard was certainly in the state of mind to have such a dialogue, but once Jimmy spotted their other best friend—Carl Sweeney—heading over, the conversation took a U-turn.

Here comes Sweeney.

The knot in Richard’s stomach that was preparing him for when he spotted Ashley—if he did, that is—tightened. Over the past year, with all the media exposure about him solving the missing childrens’ case that dogged the town of Devil Hills for decades, it was overwhelming, to say the fucking least. When all was said and done, Richard’s reputation had changed from local troublemaker to local hero and he was exhausted. Honestly, he’d be willing