A Malevolent Spirit.
Chapter 21 - There is simply no valid reason to leave a stake-out: Ever.
Stratton started the car, drove around the circular drive and headed down the long driveway to the street. Fifty feet from the main road they came across a gray sedan with no markings, cheap hubcaps on black-walled tires and a single small antennae rising from the trunk lid. Stratton pulled up alongside the car, drivers’ side to drivers’ side and rolled down his window. The two cars were no more than a foot and a half apart.
He greeted his two fellow agents who responded with curt nods.
“Drayton? Grubbs?”
They had questioning looks. Drayton, the driver, said, “You didn’t say much on the horn. Who are we looking for?” Steam wafted up from his lap, presumably from a fresh cup of coffee.
Stratton had his right wrist loosely draped over the steering wheel. He looked straight ahead for a few seconds before favoring Drayton with a reply. He said, “I don’t know.”
Grubbs sighed heavily and Drayton clucked.
“Well then how are we supposed to spot the subject if we don’t know who we’re looking for?”
Stratton made a sour face. He thought, ‘Guys who need the overtime always act like they’re doing you a favor.’ He produced a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and held it out toward Drayton, making him reach for it. As Drayton stretched for the slip of paper, he spilled hot coffee in his lap.
“Ow! Jesus Christ, God damn it!” The paper slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. Drayton was too busy grabbing napkins and wiping his crotch to worry about the dropped note. Stratton turned to Myers, rolled his eyes and shook his head.
Drayton said, “Fuck. Here, hold this Grubbs.” He transferred his coffee to his surveillance partner and opened his door roughly. His interior light came on as his door banged into Stratton’s. “Oh, sorry.” He said, as he reached to the ground and retrieved the folded up piece of paper.
Stratton swore. “You fucking imbecile! Did you just ding my vehicle? And turn your fucking dome light off, you’re on surveillance, asshole! Christ! Are you as competent in bed as you are on stake out?”
Drayton glared at him and said, “Fuck you, Stratton.” Not wishing to be rude, he glanced over at Myers and added, “Fuck both of you.” He handed the paper to his partner and demanded his coffee back; and then, seemingly addressing his saturated crotch, he said, “What does it say?”
“It’s the names and photos of the three people on the premises. If you spot anyone other than these three people on the premises, apprehend and hold them.” While he was talking, Myers could see that Stratton had pulled a small pen-knife out of his front pants pocket, had opened it, and was cleaning his fingernails: digging under each nail thoroughly, and then discarding the dirt out the car window.
Drayton grunted. “Mm, is that it?”
Stratton said, “No. If you turn it over, it says ‘don’t send an imbecile to do a moron’s job.” He smiled at Drayton humorlessly.
Drayton seemed to pause and hold his breath for a second. Then he said, “My dome light’s off, okay?” Then he opened his car door right into Stratton’s again, with a resounding crunch, and then slammed it just as hard. True to his word, no light came on inside his vehicle.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Stratton said, he transferred the pen-knife to his left hand and enclosed it in his palm. He half leaned out of his window and ran his left hand over the outside of his door, feeling the dent, concealing the small knife. For a moment, Myers thought he might reach over and punch Drayton in the face, or stab him with the concealed penknife. They were that close. “I’ll have to fill out eight fucking forms over that frickin’ dent, you useless bag of…”
But Drayton was rolling up his window. Without looking at Stratton he offered a parting shot. “Have fun filling out your fucking forms, fuck-head.” Pleased with his own alliteration, he and his partner began to laugh, the rising window muffling the sound.
Without saying a word, Stratton took his foot off the brake and let his car roll slowly forward. As he did, his left hand remained draped out the window and the sound of his penknife carving a groove in Drayton’s paint job made a sound like some poor wounded animal shrieking in fear. It seemed to go on forever, all the way down the length of the car. As they slowly idled to the main road, Myers draped an arm over the seat back and looked through the rear window. In the red light of their own brake lights, he saw agent Drayton get out of his car and look at the brand new scratch that ran from his driver’s side door, all the way to his tail-light. His face was contorted with anger, his fists clenched angrily. A coffee stain on his crotch made it look like he’d pissed his pants. He yelled something at them as they drove away, but neither Stratton nor Myers could make out exactly what he said.
As they drove off, Myers sighed loudly. “That went well.”
Stratton said nothing as they drove down the deserted, blacktop highway.
It was after midnight, there was no other traffic, and they were on a deserted country road with empty, overgrown fields on either side of them. There was absolutely nothing to look at, or see, for that matter. Myers had to say something. “How do you expect people to assist you with a case if you piss all over them?”
After one quick glance at Myers, Stratton drove in silence for awhile. Finally, he said, “I don’t want or need their assistance. I want them to stay awake.”
This sounded like bullshit to Myers. “So? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Stratton fixed Myers with an irritable glare. “Have you ever tried to sleep when you were pissed off?”
Drayton and Grubbs sat in the dark, inside their car, with the engine idling. Drayton, in the driver's seat, had backed out of the driveway and wheeled the car to the left, then drove in reverse for about 75 feet and stopped off the side of the road. There was a break in the trees to their left, affording a clear view of the house. They were a good quarter of a mile away, so they took turns scanning the house with binoculars. The night was cool and misty, a thin fog drifted through the landscape, hampering their surveillance tactics. It was after three in the morning. They’d spent the first two hours bitching about Stratton and the marred paint job.
Grubbs had a white box in his hand and held it out to Drayton, “You want this last donut?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“It’ll get stale if you don’t eat it soon.”
Drayton ignored the box and looked out the window. “Ain’t nothing going to happen here.”
He looked at his watch. It was 3:35 a.m. “I’ve never seen a perp wait until 3:30. Never!”
“Let’s go then.” Grubbs said, making a joke. He took a bite of the donut.
Drayton noticed it and said, “Hey, you shit. That’s my donut.”
Something small hit the roof of the vehicle, making a tiny thwack, like a twig or a nut. The two agents ignored it. 30 seconds later, another twig hit the roof, and another. Grubbs and Drayton glanced at each other. Drayton frowned and said, “Racoons.”
Grubbs took another bite out of Drayton’s donut. A large nut clacked loudly against the roof, startling both agents. Drayton said, “Fuck. What next?”
As if in response, another nut hit the roof and rolled down the windshield and down the hood of the car.
“For Christ's sake, I can't take much more of this.”
The good-natured Grubbs paused between mouthfuls and gave Drayton a serious look. “What’s your problem?” He said. “What are those anyway?”
Drayton looked pained. “How the hell would I know: Oak nuts or something.”
“Yeah? So what are they, bad luck?” Grubbs asked.
“Bad luck? Bad luck for your paint job. Causes micro-fractures in the paint, starts to rust prematurely.” It reminded them both of the new scratch down the left side of the car.
“So? It’s not your car. It’s the Company car. What do you care?”
Just then, a clear liquid began to drizzle onto the windshield. The flow of liquid grew into a steady stream of considerable volume. The agents exchanged puzzled looks, and then back at the liquid flowing down their windshield. Steam began to rise from it. They looked at each other again, as enlightenment dawned simultaneously.
Drayton said, “Is that piss?” He paused. “Is that fucking piss on our windshield?” He reached into his jacket and drew his weapon.
Without warning, a 275-pound ape landed on the hood of their car. The hood crumpled under the mass and force of the impact, the nearest edges curling upward. Drayton lost his grip on the gun just as he was drawing it and dropped it to the floorboard. Grubbs kicked his coffee over, but shoved the rest of the donut into his mouth as he reached for his shoulder-holstered weapon. The ape clenched all of its muscles and screamed at them through the windshield. Then it stood upright and let loose with a long, loud, inhuman wail.
Drayton gaped open-mouthed at the specter of the howling beast. It leapt upward onto the roof of the car, denting that too, and then seemed to vanish. The car rocked, the windshield was covered with urine, and the car’s hood was severely dented. The two agents looked at each other in stunned silence.
Grubbs said, “What the fuck was that?” He had white powdered sugar all around his mouth. He’d drawn his gun and was holding it with both hands at a 45-degree angle upward.
Drayton said, “Where the fuck is my gun?” He began feeling around on the floorboard.
There was a colossal crash on the trunk. Drayton looked in the rear view mirror in time to see hairy legs, big feet, and a hairy hand come down and rip the antennae out of its socket. Wires dangled loosely out of the hole it once protruded from. The ape jumped up and down a couple of times on the trunk, like it was having a temper tantrum.
Grubbs turned halfway around in his seat. “What in the fuck is that?” He spewed powdered sugar on Drayton’s pants when he said it.
The car rocked and the roof twanged as the ape launched itself back into the branches above them. Grubbs faced forward again, slouching low in the front seat. He held the gun directly in front of him, pointed up at the roof. He said, “It’s coming through the roof this time.” He glanced at Drayton. “I’m telling you, it’s coming through the roof, and I’m gonna blow it’s fucking head off. I don’t know what it is, but I’m gonna blow its’ fucking head off.”
“I think you’re over-reacting a little, Grubbs.” Drayton reached into his jacket and pulled out a cell phone with his right hand. “We’ll call the Sheriff and have them send a black and white, and animal control. He punched in a couple of numbers and raised the phone to his right ear. It was quiet in the car as the seconds ticked by and there was no further attack. Grubbs lowered his gun a little.
Drayton said, “Hold? No. I can’t do that.”
Grubbs looked at his partner.
“I shouldn’t open the door.”
Grubbs said, “Are you talking to me? Or what?”
Drayton didn’t respond. He still held the phone up to his ear, but his voice sounded flat and unemotional. Grubbs moved his foot and bumped the donut box that had fallen to the floorboard in all the commotion. He glanced down to see what it was, as his gaze moved from Drayton to the box and back, he noticed Drayton’s hand on the car’s interior door handle. He said, “What are you doing?” There was a note of panic in his voice.
Drayton looked at him and said, “I won’t do it.”
“Won’t do what? What are you doing?” Leaving the gun in his right hand, Grubbs leaned across Drayton’s chest with his left hand and grabbed Drayton’s arm. He pulled it off the door handle and toward him as he looked at Drayton’s face. He looked like he was in a trance. “Drayton!” He barked. “Drayton! What’s wrong with you?”
“I hear voices.”
“You hear voices?”
“I hear voices in my head.”
Grubbs stared at Drayton, not comprehending. “I don’t care, Drayton. Don’t listen to them!”
“I have to.” He turned and looked at Grubbs with a far-away look on his face. “I can’t not listen, they’re in my head.”
“Well don’t do what they say for God’s sake. Don’t do what they say!” He had a hold of Drayton’s left arm, and he held the gun in a ready position in his right hand resting loosely on the steering wheel. He scanned the impenetrable night for movement, suddenly remembering it had come from above twice already. He looked up nervously, and then leaned forward and looked behind him through the rear window.
With a crash and a shower of glass, the driver’s side window blew into the car under the force of a four-inch fence post used like a battering ram. The end of the post caught Drayton partly on the shoulder, but mostly on the head. The blow knocked the cell phone from his hand, which went flying past Grubbs and clattered off the window behind him. Grubbs instinctively recoiled from the implosion, barely moving back fast enough to keep Drayton from falling into him. He pointed his pistol at the hole where the window used to be and fired two rounds into the night. He leaned back, and with his left hand, Grubbs slammed the gearshift as far as it would go, down into Low. The car started to inch forward. Then he swung his left foot over to the drivers’ side of the floorboard and stepped on the gas pedal. Dirt and gravel shot out from the cars’ tires as it accelerated. It fishtailed on the gravel, then the tires chirped as they hit the blacktop. Inertia drove him back into Drayton, so he pulled himself forward using the steering wheel as leverage.
Driving with his left hand and his left foot, Grubbs stole a few quick glances at his injured partner. Blood covered the side of Drayton’s face. He moved and moaned though, so he was still alive, if not conscious. More for himself than for Drayton’s benefit, Grubbs said, “You’ll be all right, buddy. You’ll be all right. You just hang in there.”
He drove another mile and a half before he slowed the vehicle and came to a stop. He slammed the shift lever into Park, shifted his partner over to the passenger side, pulling him across the front seat by the armpits. Then he leapt out and ran around the front of the car, jumped into the drivers seat, threw the car in gear and slammed his foot down onto the accelerator. He gunned the car back up to 75 miles an hour, pulled out his cell phone and tried to dial 911, but there was no signal. He cursed under his breath and drove on into the night, pushing the car to speeds in excess of 100 miles an hour.
He greeted his two fellow agents who responded with curt nods.
“Drayton? Grubbs?”
They had questioning looks. Drayton, the driver, said, “You didn’t say much on the horn. Who are we looking for?” Steam wafted up from his lap, presumably from a fresh cup of coffee.
Stratton had his right wrist loosely draped over the steering wheel. He looked straight ahead for a few seconds before favoring Drayton with a reply. He said, “I don’t know.”
Grubbs sighed heavily and Drayton clucked.
“Well then how are we supposed to spot the subject if we don’t know who we’re looking for?”
Stratton made a sour face. He thought, ‘Guys who need the overtime always act like they’re doing you a favor.’ He produced a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and held it out toward Drayton, making him reach for it. As Drayton stretched for the slip of paper, he spilled hot coffee in his lap.
“Ow! Jesus Christ, God damn it!” The paper slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. Drayton was too busy grabbing napkins and wiping his crotch to worry about the dropped note. Stratton turned to Myers, rolled his eyes and shook his head.
Drayton said, “Fuck. Here, hold this Grubbs.” He transferred his coffee to his surveillance partner and opened his door roughly. His interior light came on as his door banged into Stratton’s. “Oh, sorry.” He said, as he reached to the ground and retrieved the folded up piece of paper.
Stratton swore. “You fucking imbecile! Did you just ding my vehicle? And turn your fucking dome light off, you’re on surveillance, asshole! Christ! Are you as competent in bed as you are on stake out?”
Drayton glared at him and said, “Fuck you, Stratton.” Not wishing to be rude, he glanced over at Myers and added, “Fuck both of you.” He handed the paper to his partner and demanded his coffee back; and then, seemingly addressing his saturated crotch, he said, “What does it say?”
“It’s the names and photos of the three people on the premises. If you spot anyone other than these three people on the premises, apprehend and hold them.” While he was talking, Myers could see that Stratton had pulled a small pen-knife out of his front pants pocket, had opened it, and was cleaning his fingernails: digging under each nail thoroughly, and then discarding the dirt out the car window.
Drayton grunted. “Mm, is that it?”
Stratton said, “No. If you turn it over, it says ‘don’t send an imbecile to do a moron’s job.” He smiled at Drayton humorlessly.
Drayton seemed to pause and hold his breath for a second. Then he said, “My dome light’s off, okay?” Then he opened his car door right into Stratton’s again, with a resounding crunch, and then slammed it just as hard. True to his word, no light came on inside his vehicle.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Stratton said, he transferred the pen-knife to his left hand and enclosed it in his palm. He half leaned out of his window and ran his left hand over the outside of his door, feeling the dent, concealing the small knife. For a moment, Myers thought he might reach over and punch Drayton in the face, or stab him with the concealed penknife. They were that close. “I’ll have to fill out eight fucking forms over that frickin’ dent, you useless bag of…”
But Drayton was rolling up his window. Without looking at Stratton he offered a parting shot. “Have fun filling out your fucking forms, fuck-head.” Pleased with his own alliteration, he and his partner began to laugh, the rising window muffling the sound.
Without saying a word, Stratton took his foot off the brake and let his car roll slowly forward. As he did, his left hand remained draped out the window and the sound of his penknife carving a groove in Drayton’s paint job made a sound like some poor wounded animal shrieking in fear. It seemed to go on forever, all the way down the length of the car. As they slowly idled to the main road, Myers draped an arm over the seat back and looked through the rear window. In the red light of their own brake lights, he saw agent Drayton get out of his car and look at the brand new scratch that ran from his driver’s side door, all the way to his tail-light. His face was contorted with anger, his fists clenched angrily. A coffee stain on his crotch made it look like he’d pissed his pants. He yelled something at them as they drove away, but neither Stratton nor Myers could make out exactly what he said.
As they drove off, Myers sighed loudly. “That went well.”
Stratton said nothing as they drove down the deserted, blacktop highway.
It was after midnight, there was no other traffic, and they were on a deserted country road with empty, overgrown fields on either side of them. There was absolutely nothing to look at, or see, for that matter. Myers had to say something. “How do you expect people to assist you with a case if you piss all over them?”
After one quick glance at Myers, Stratton drove in silence for awhile. Finally, he said, “I don’t want or need their assistance. I want them to stay awake.”
This sounded like bullshit to Myers. “So? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Stratton fixed Myers with an irritable glare. “Have you ever tried to sleep when you were pissed off?”
Drayton and Grubbs sat in the dark, inside their car, with the engine idling. Drayton, in the driver's seat, had backed out of the driveway and wheeled the car to the left, then drove in reverse for about 75 feet and stopped off the side of the road. There was a break in the trees to their left, affording a clear view of the house. They were a good quarter of a mile away, so they took turns scanning the house with binoculars. The night was cool and misty, a thin fog drifted through the landscape, hampering their surveillance tactics. It was after three in the morning. They’d spent the first two hours bitching about Stratton and the marred paint job.
Grubbs had a white box in his hand and held it out to Drayton, “You want this last donut?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“It’ll get stale if you don’t eat it soon.”
Drayton ignored the box and looked out the window. “Ain’t nothing going to happen here.”
He looked at his watch. It was 3:35 a.m. “I’ve never seen a perp wait until 3:30. Never!”
“Let’s go then.” Grubbs said, making a joke. He took a bite of the donut.
Drayton noticed it and said, “Hey, you shit. That’s my donut.”
Something small hit the roof of the vehicle, making a tiny thwack, like a twig or a nut. The two agents ignored it. 30 seconds later, another twig hit the roof, and another. Grubbs and Drayton glanced at each other. Drayton frowned and said, “Racoons.”
Grubbs took another bite out of Drayton’s donut. A large nut clacked loudly against the roof, startling both agents. Drayton said, “Fuck. What next?”
As if in response, another nut hit the roof and rolled down the windshield and down the hood of the car.
“For Christ's sake, I can't take much more of this.”
The good-natured Grubbs paused between mouthfuls and gave Drayton a serious look. “What’s your problem?” He said. “What are those anyway?”
Drayton looked pained. “How the hell would I know: Oak nuts or something.”
“Yeah? So what are they, bad luck?” Grubbs asked.
“Bad luck? Bad luck for your paint job. Causes micro-fractures in the paint, starts to rust prematurely.” It reminded them both of the new scratch down the left side of the car.
“So? It’s not your car. It’s the Company car. What do you care?”
Just then, a clear liquid began to drizzle onto the windshield. The flow of liquid grew into a steady stream of considerable volume. The agents exchanged puzzled looks, and then back at the liquid flowing down their windshield. Steam began to rise from it. They looked at each other again, as enlightenment dawned simultaneously.
Drayton said, “Is that piss?” He paused. “Is that fucking piss on our windshield?” He reached into his jacket and drew his weapon.
Without warning, a 275-pound ape landed on the hood of their car. The hood crumpled under the mass and force of the impact, the nearest edges curling upward. Drayton lost his grip on the gun just as he was drawing it and dropped it to the floorboard. Grubbs kicked his coffee over, but shoved the rest of the donut into his mouth as he reached for his shoulder-holstered weapon. The ape clenched all of its muscles and screamed at them through the windshield. Then it stood upright and let loose with a long, loud, inhuman wail.
Drayton gaped open-mouthed at the specter of the howling beast. It leapt upward onto the roof of the car, denting that too, and then seemed to vanish. The car rocked, the windshield was covered with urine, and the car’s hood was severely dented. The two agents looked at each other in stunned silence.
Grubbs said, “What the fuck was that?” He had white powdered sugar all around his mouth. He’d drawn his gun and was holding it with both hands at a 45-degree angle upward.
Drayton said, “Where the fuck is my gun?” He began feeling around on the floorboard.
There was a colossal crash on the trunk. Drayton looked in the rear view mirror in time to see hairy legs, big feet, and a hairy hand come down and rip the antennae out of its socket. Wires dangled loosely out of the hole it once protruded from. The ape jumped up and down a couple of times on the trunk, like it was having a temper tantrum.
Grubbs turned halfway around in his seat. “What in the fuck is that?” He spewed powdered sugar on Drayton’s pants when he said it.
The car rocked and the roof twanged as the ape launched itself back into the branches above them. Grubbs faced forward again, slouching low in the front seat. He held the gun directly in front of him, pointed up at the roof. He said, “It’s coming through the roof this time.” He glanced at Drayton. “I’m telling you, it’s coming through the roof, and I’m gonna blow it’s fucking head off. I don’t know what it is, but I’m gonna blow its’ fucking head off.”
“I think you’re over-reacting a little, Grubbs.” Drayton reached into his jacket and pulled out a cell phone with his right hand. “We’ll call the Sheriff and have them send a black and white, and animal control. He punched in a couple of numbers and raised the phone to his right ear. It was quiet in the car as the seconds ticked by and there was no further attack. Grubbs lowered his gun a little.
Drayton said, “Hold? No. I can’t do that.”
Grubbs looked at his partner.
“I shouldn’t open the door.”
Grubbs said, “Are you talking to me? Or what?”
Drayton didn’t respond. He still held the phone up to his ear, but his voice sounded flat and unemotional. Grubbs moved his foot and bumped the donut box that had fallen to the floorboard in all the commotion. He glanced down to see what it was, as his gaze moved from Drayton to the box and back, he noticed Drayton’s hand on the car’s interior door handle. He said, “What are you doing?” There was a note of panic in his voice.
Drayton looked at him and said, “I won’t do it.”
“Won’t do what? What are you doing?” Leaving the gun in his right hand, Grubbs leaned across Drayton’s chest with his left hand and grabbed Drayton’s arm. He pulled it off the door handle and toward him as he looked at Drayton’s face. He looked like he was in a trance. “Drayton!” He barked. “Drayton! What’s wrong with you?”
“I hear voices.”
“You hear voices?”
“I hear voices in my head.”
Grubbs stared at Drayton, not comprehending. “I don’t care, Drayton. Don’t listen to them!”
“I have to.” He turned and looked at Grubbs with a far-away look on his face. “I can’t not listen, they’re in my head.”
“Well don’t do what they say for God’s sake. Don’t do what they say!” He had a hold of Drayton’s left arm, and he held the gun in a ready position in his right hand resting loosely on the steering wheel. He scanned the impenetrable night for movement, suddenly remembering it had come from above twice already. He looked up nervously, and then leaned forward and looked behind him through the rear window.
With a crash and a shower of glass, the driver’s side window blew into the car under the force of a four-inch fence post used like a battering ram. The end of the post caught Drayton partly on the shoulder, but mostly on the head. The blow knocked the cell phone from his hand, which went flying past Grubbs and clattered off the window behind him. Grubbs instinctively recoiled from the implosion, barely moving back fast enough to keep Drayton from falling into him. He pointed his pistol at the hole where the window used to be and fired two rounds into the night. He leaned back, and with his left hand, Grubbs slammed the gearshift as far as it would go, down into Low. The car started to inch forward. Then he swung his left foot over to the drivers’ side of the floorboard and stepped on the gas pedal. Dirt and gravel shot out from the cars’ tires as it accelerated. It fishtailed on the gravel, then the tires chirped as they hit the blacktop. Inertia drove him back into Drayton, so he pulled himself forward using the steering wheel as leverage.
Driving with his left hand and his left foot, Grubbs stole a few quick glances at his injured partner. Blood covered the side of Drayton’s face. He moved and moaned though, so he was still alive, if not conscious. More for himself than for Drayton’s benefit, Grubbs said, “You’ll be all right, buddy. You’ll be all right. You just hang in there.”
He drove another mile and a half before he slowed the vehicle and came to a stop. He slammed the shift lever into Park, shifted his partner over to the passenger side, pulling him across the front seat by the armpits. Then he leapt out and ran around the front of the car, jumped into the drivers seat, threw the car in gear and slammed his foot down onto the accelerator. He gunned the car back up to 75 miles an hour, pulled out his cell phone and tried to dial 911, but there was no signal. He cursed under his breath and drove on into the night, pushing the car to speeds in excess of 100 miles an hour.