Book Three: Part 7 - Varied Evil - Chapter 6

Tuesday – April 3rd – 8:29 a.m.

The Squad Room

“Just a few items.

“First, J.W. will be returning to work next Monday. The Captain got a call from him this morning saying the doctor has cleared him for duty. So, Devon, Poncho is coming back.”

“About damn time. Been kind of lonely being in the saddle by myself.”

There were a few throaty laughs.

“Another thing; between seventh and ninth off State and Melrose, the streets are blocked off due to a sinkhole right in the middle of eighth. It happened sometime during the night. So keep an eye on traffic in that area.”

Satchell walked in.

“I need a minute of everyone’s time.”

Satchell walked slowly to the front to face everyone. He had a pained, tired expression on his face.

“I have some bad news to give all of you. Very few of you didn’t know our former captain, Raymond Todd, but most of you sitting here do. Moments ago, I received a call from his son. Both Ray, and his wife, Elaine, were found dead two days ago up along the Sandbar Creek region in Northern California. They went up there for a weekend to do some fishing and relaxing.

“Reports are sketchy as to how they were killed, yet alone why. I have already called the State Police there, and left word for them to call me, but, according to preliminary reports, it’s pretty gruesome, as if an animal may have mauled them to death. Once I get more information, I’ll pass it on to you.

“I have spoken with Mayor Marsh, and she has authorized that all flags be flown at half-mast for the next seventy-two hours.”

Without taking questions, Satchell left the room and went back to his office. The only noises heard were footfalls, and the door closing behind him as he disappeared.

Silence became a blanket which covered the room. Not a word was spoken for the longest time.

Baker looked around the room at the shocked, surprised, and angry faces. Most of the men and women in the room had served alongside Raymond Todd for a number of years, herself included. A few others barely got to know him before he retired in January after putting in twenty years of active police duty. Decorated for valor several times; it was the last incident, a shooting that almost took his life, that prompted him to retire. Barely four months ago since he retired, and now he was gone.

People finally stood up, some muttering whispered curses, others, both men and women alike with a tear riding down their faces, turned and started to go their own way for the day. They still had a job to do.

“Baker said it loud enough to be heard. “Be safe out there and keep our streets safe.”

No one said a word.

Davenport Animal Clinic & Hospital

8th and Murrate – 9:45 a.m.

It felt oddly intense for Patrick to see his name in large letters over the entrance, but it also brought about a warmth of a brand-new beginning for him. This was now all his. He either made it work, or he didn’t. This was the dream come true he often spoke with Daniel about.

Before he found Terrie Norstrum, he whispered, “Daniel, dreams do come true.”

After he entered the building, he found a series of doors where one read: T. Norstrum, Assistant Vet. Another door, directly opposite Terrie’s read: Dr. P. Davenport, Executive Administrator. Fancy title, mused Patrick. He twisted the handle on Terrie’s door and entered. He immediately saw a secretary sitting behind a desk.

“Yes sir, how may I help you?”

“Yes, Terrie Norstrum, please. I’m Patrick Davenport.”

The secretary’s eyes widened, and she quickly stood, and started for the adjoining door. Her name, according to her desk plate read: Shirley Ames.

“One moment, Mr. Davenport.” She gestured with her hand at a leather chair just to his right. “Please, have a seat, sir.”

As her hand reached for the second door, Patrick smiled and said, “Try to relax, Shirley. I’m not the devil from hell.”

She stopped short, smiled nervously for a second, then disappeared into Terrie’s office. Five seconds later, Shirley reemerged, saying, “Dr. Norstrum will see you, sir.”

Shirley stepped back to her desk, sat down, and said, “Welcome to Montie, Dr. Davenport.”

“Thank you. Feels good to be here.”

Patrick stepped into a spacious office filled with shelves of books. A deep-reddish carpet covered the entire floor, and there was a modest oak table with five leather chairs scattered about. Behind the desk sat a man, who stood, walked around the desk, with arm to hand extended in greeting. Patrick was thoroughly surprised.

“Hello, Dr. Davenport. I’m Terry Norstrum. Welcome to Montie. I hope your move here wasn’t tedious.”

“It went smoother than I thought, and it feels good to be here. But please, call me Patrick.”

“Then, call me, Terry. Have you had a chance to look around since you have been here?”

“Montie? Somewhat. Still getting a feel for the area. But I came by today where you could give me the guided tour. That way, I won’t get lost or confused.”

“Then why don’t we begin. Please, follow me.”

Terry introduced him to fourteen employees, all of which knew what they were doing. Why shouldn’t they? Most have been here five years or longer, and three have been here sixteen years. Patrick made general conversation, asked a question here and there, got the answers he wanted, and with Terry, they moved from one room to another.

Each of the eight rooms were laid out the same way. Each equipped with a table, medicine cabinet, and plenty of space for medical supplies for minor emergencies, or for that semi-annual to annual checkup required by state law. There were two smaller rooms designed for pedicures, shampoos, and the “Give my baby a fluffy look”, practically every owner wanted of their females.

There was also an extremely larger room with close to forty dogs housed that didn’t have an owner. Another smaller room was set up for adult cats, kittens, and even a few gerbils, hamsters, and even a parrot.

It had been Dr. Creekmantle’s wish that any animal who was a stray, or was abandoned, would be dropped off at the clinic. The clinic would feed and house them instead of them being euthanized. The only time they would be put down is when the dog, or cat, were either severely injured, or that age has simply taken its toll.

Once a month, Terry would appear on Channel 08 news in the morning and would show two or three different animals. The station dubbed it: “Terry’s Best Bets for Pets”.

Then came the hospital section itself. Not an extremely large room, but large enough to hold two operations if needed, at the same time. The room was divided into two sections, each having the same equipment.

“Business has been somewhat slow,” explained Terry. “What with people doing their taxes this time of the year, that’s almost to be expected. Add the weather getting better, so they can start to work on their flower garden or lawn, first. Most of the animal checkups will start near mid-May, to the end of June.”

“Things certainly seem to be in good order. I must say, you have done an extremely good job in Dr. Creekmantle’s stead.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m almost wondering if there is any reason I should even show up for work. Things are running like a well-oiled machine.”

“Trust me, Patrick, you’ll be needed; more often than not.”

Terry placed his hand on Patrick’s forearm and said, “Now, if you will follow me back out into the hall, I’d like you to take you to a place Dr. Creekmantle had designed and built for us.”

Maybe it was just Patrick, but the touch of Terry’s hand was almost too soft and warm, feeling almost too casual for a first meeting. Patrick shook his head and throughout his mental window. That wasn’t Terry trying to come on to him. That was Terry simply being friendly and directing him to another place.

But for that one moment—no, he thought. It’s me. It’s been so long since a man had touched him; not since, Daniel. He shook the thought clean away. Besides, Terry didn’t look, sound, or even act remotely gay.

Down the hall and then the first left, Patrick could see what Terry was talking about, in the distance. It was beautiful.

They arrived at a set of electronic doors that opened when they neared the entrance, and Patrick became exposed to a breathtaking view of a floral garden unlike anything Patrick had seen before. With Daniel, he had seen quite a few botanical gardens, but nothing quite like this. Al most every floral species known to man resided in this garden, aptly named: Eden’s Beauty.

The colors were resplendent in reds, whites, purples, greens, and yellows. The various shadings of whites and burgundies, velvets, and pinks were just so alive and inviting. Everything was mixed and matched in such a way that it must have taken gardener’s several weeks to display correctly.

“This is absolutely gorgeous. How long did this take to put together?”

“Believe it or not, three days. Dr. Creekmantle drew the design, listed exactly where and how he wanted all the flowers to be arranged, and they had to be just so; or he would pitch a you-know-what.

“What took the longest was having this addition added into the building and then the solar-gliders in place to conjoin with the windows over top. Throw in the special lighting, the small waterfall, and manmade creek that runs its winding path around the flowers, plants, and shrubs; and you have an almost picture-perfect shot of what Dr. Creekmantle often said was, ‘A small piece of God’s heaven’.”

“I believe it. This is incredible.”

“All of the staff come here for their lunch break. Before this was built, most of us would drive crosstown to the city park. And, when customers come in, they always enjoy coming here while waiting for their pet to be either coiffed, their yearly checkup, or, if necessary, an operation. Call it Dr. Creekmantle’s private little joke, but if you look around the bench to your left, you will see a small section of grass, and a fire-hydrant, as well as a pooper scooper. That’s for when customers have their pets here while waiting. They get to potty either before or after being cared for by us. It also keeps them from being too excited on the drive home.

Patrick laughed as Terry smiled, showing a perfect set of dazzling white teeth. He is attractive, thought Patrick. I’ll give him that much, and he certainly knows what he is doing.

“Pretty impressive tour. But I think I’ll go back to my own office and get settled in.”

“Very well, but so you know, you haven’t a secretary yet, but there are five interviews set up for next week. I’m afraid, until then, you will be pretty much on your own. Although, if you need help with anything, please come get me, or my secretary, Shirley Ames.”

“About the only thing I want to do for now, is look over everyone’s employment file. It will help me to know everyone better than just a mere hello-how are you-nice to meet you, greeting. I want them, and yourself to know, and understand, that I am a very relaxed person. If you like, you can set their minds at ease if any were thinking I might be planning to replace them with new help. That is out of the question. I firmly believe the old axiom of, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

Terry smiled even more.

“A few did share concerns with me that you may let them go, but I will pass along your message.”

“Thanks, and can you have Shirley type up a memo for me to give everyone?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“I will have open house in my office all day, every Wednesday, if anyone has issues, concerns, or problems that would affect their job or personal life. I’m here to work with them, and just not have them work for me.”

“Patrick, I see already that you are going to blend right in.”

For the rest of the morning, into mid-afternoon, Patrick poured through everyone’s files.

Kevin Ames, employed six years. Both he, and John Sanders are both in charge of caring for stray animals; both with outstanding records.

Madge Ingram, Donna Mason, and Edie Blanchette, have been with the clinic fifteen, seventeen, and nineteen years, respectively. All three are groomers, and all three have done minor surgeries.

Every name he read over, he could find only positive remarks, and this showed him an unswerving loyalty. Dr. Creekmantle was a genius in finding quality people like this.

But he saved the best for last.

Terry Norstrum.

What a surprise it was to find out Terrie, was in fact, Terry. That’s what he gets for assuming too much.

Terry is thirty-two, six-feet even, one-ninety, sandy-blond hair, medium complexion, and ocean-blue eyes. The middle brother of three; one four years older, the latter, five years younger. Single, never married, originally from Tulsa, Oklahoma. Like himself, Terry somehow found his way to Montie. Was it by accident, or by design? He would have to ask him one day. Everyone else was either from Montie, or Stanhouse.

Patrick felt he made the right move. Montie was a clean break; that new fresh air he desperately needed.

And maybe—no, he had to wash that thought from his mind. He just attested it to his hormones acting up.

After all, Patrick is human.

Beaver Creek Bar – 6:55 p.m.

8 Miles From The Canadian Border

The music from the jukebox played loud. The lights were down low, the crowd was sparse, but it wouldn’t be much longer before the place would fill up. Tonight, was half-price night. In another hour, and you would have a hard time finding a place to stand, yet alone a place to sit.

Back in a darkened corner, sat a man nursing a double-shot of Jack Daniels. He sat alone, and what few patrons there, who walked by him, never so much as said hello. The look on his face made it plain he didn’t want conversation. Those who went by him the first time, to a wider path to where their drink was the second time. Even the waitress who brought him his drink felt apprehensive about serving him, but he didn’t do anything but sit. As long as he paid her, and didn’t cause any trouble, he could have looked like the devil himself. Which he almost did.

It was his looks that bothered people.

Bald head with a tattoo of a swastika on the right side of his skull, and another tattoo of Hitler on the other side. From just above his forehead, running straight over the top to the back, at the base of his neck, ran a lightning bolt. Down each arm were more tattoos of snakes curled around one another, but when you saw his hands, you saw five snake heads with their tongue’s out, running along each finger.

His face held one scar that traversed from under his left eye to end in a curving arc at the edge of his left ear.

He was a huge man, well over three-hundred, but not one ounce could be considered fat. At six-seven, that made him a dangerous man if anyone dared to tangle with him.

It was hard to tell in the darkness of the bar where he sat, but his eyes were a steel gray. From a distance, were you to look, they would seem to be coal black. To know their true color, you would have to look much closer, and willing to be that close.

Jesse Waynestead. He had been down twenty-three years for a double murder. Released five months ago, and now, his only purpose was to take up where his sister left off. He had taken care of one problem, but there would be more. He had to be smart; smarter than his sister, and up until her demise, she had her groove going on. Jesse planned to keep that groove, grooving, like no one’s business but his own.

Sitting at the table, he came up with a plan for retribution. He knew his looks frightened people away, and that didn’t bother him. Intimidation was something he enjoyed. It always gave him an edge. Another difference about Jesse, was his smile. More importantly, his teeth.

The edges were filed down to represent teeth of a dog, or, a wolf. Plus, he had made “special teeth” when he was in Chino, similar to a retainer, to be inserted into his mouth for attack purposes. Three inches in length, made of steel. He used them twice on snitches in Chino. Bit right into their jugular veins. Gave him such a rush.

He remembered a hooker he paid for a few nights ago as he sipped more of his drink. She was impressed with his tattoos, but it was the one on his back that interested her most.

It’s a large depiction of an attractive woman, long-flowing dark hair, being held in the arms of a werewolf, fangs bared, eyes staring at her. The woman didn’t have a fearful look in her eyes. What she did have, was a longing to be taken.

Jesse explained it to the hooker.

“The woman is my sister. The wolf, me. I’m not out to kill her. Only to protect her.”

It was a tattoo he had put on his back when he was much younger. Long before he went to prison. Jesse and Claire had been inseparable until a year ago. Now, she was forever lost to him.

He swore an oath. People were going to die. People who were responsible for her death. He wouldn’t stop until they were split open from belly to brains.

The same waitress came to his table and asked, “Another drink, mister?”

He looked at his shot glass, finished what little there was, stood up, threw a ten-dollar bill on her tray she carried, shook his head no, and headed for the exit.

He had work to do.