Chapter One:
Dead Broke in Denbrook
His first intimation that something was wrong were the double doors, which lay open to the chill October wind. The carved pumpkin on the concrete stoop was a crushed mass of orange pulp, and Damon St. Cloud's heartbeat sped as he stepped through his front door, his words nearly catching in his throat.
"Myra, Stanton?" he called.
There came no response to his cry, and he tossed aside his jacket and briefcase onto the cluttered bench in the stone-worked foyer. He called again, and veered to the right into the spacious red-tiled kitchen. Steam filled the air, and a thin layer of water at the bottom of a pan boiled furiously. Damon turned off the burner on his way into the bookshelf-lined living room.
What he found wrenched a scream of horror from his lips.
As Damon woke from the dream that he relived so many nights, he found that he was screaming. The paunchy cabby placed a massive left forearm on his seat and turned to glance back at his fare.
"Are you dying or something?"
Damon stifled the scream and felt the cold dream-induced sweat that soaked his body. "Sorry, about that," he muttered as he formulated an excuse in his mind. "Sometimes I have dreams about Iraq."
"That was a nasty piece of business," consoled the cabby. "Sorry you had to be there."
"We all try to do our part," said Damon. He pushed back his jet black hair away from his widow's peak, and in the cab's rear view mirror he could see the white streak that he had developed that dreadful night in Denbrook.
They crossed the Union City Bridge and Damon could see the familiar Denbrook Tower rising up in the distance. This place brought back the anguish, opening up the wounds and revealing the scars he had attempted to hide and heal in vain.
The sticky filth of the Hopkins River slowly filtered out toward Lake Erie, even as the sticky traffic started to flow again and finally the cabby pulled to a stop in front of the Denbrook Municipal Police Department--a less than impressive looking building with wide, cracked steps that led up to a single glass door, pocked with bullet marks that showed that the glass wasn't the run of the mill variety, but of a more sturdy stock.
"That will be $83.50," read the cabby as he punched the meter.
Damon sighed and fished ninety dollars out of his billfold. He handed the wad of green bills to the cabby. "Keep the change."
"Ya don't have to twist my arm," replied the cabby. He waited until Damon removed his two cases from the trunk of the yellow sedan and then gunned his vehicle back out into traffic--on his way to another fare.
Damon shook out the folds of his trench coat, and searched his pocket for the letter that had brought him back to Denbrook. He unfolded the creased piece of parchment and once again examined the cramped, and spidery handwriting.
If you want to find your family's killers pay Sal, the evidence officer at the Denbrook Municipal Police, forty dollars and ask to see the evidence box for Case #3247652-07.
A Friend
It was a strange letter, and an unexpected clue after all these years of fruitless searching. He'd discovered what sort of creatures the killers of his family were, and he had learned how to fight them, combating creatures like them on a number of occasions. But never had he grown any closer to finding the ones who had left his wife and son nothing more than lifeless, desiccate husks.
He didn't want to get his hopes up; this could be a red herring or some wild goose chase that the real killer was using to torment him even further. How this person had even tracked him down to send a letter was a mystery. Damon had spent the last several years in Tibet and various parts of Europe. His hunt had last taken him to Chicago where he'd been able to track down the missing intern of a senator--but his effort had come too late to save her. Now the senator was missing, but the populace was fickle and Damon doubted if the voters would really miss one less crooked politician picking their pockets with taxation and hollow promises.
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