Slices of Night - a novella in 3 parts Page 11

  She stumbled over the uneven ground and realized the grass was getting thicker and taller. She struggled to keep up with Donny.

  He was a giant of a man, wide neck and barrel-chest. Maggie thought he looked like he was wearing a Kevlar vest under his button-down shirt, only there was no vest, just solid, lean muscle. He had to be at least six feet, five inches tall, maybe more because he seemed to bend forward, slightly at the waist, shoulders slumped as if walking against a wind or perhaps, uncomfortable with his height.

  Maggie found herself taking two steps to his one, sweating despite the sudden chill. The sinking sun was quickly stealing all the warmth of the day and she wished she hadn’t left her jacket back in Donny’s pickup. The impending nightfall seemed to only increase Donny’s long gait.

  At least she had worn comfortable and flat shoes. She’d been to Nebraska before so she thought she had come prepared, but her other visits had been to the far eastern side near Omaha, the state’s only metropolitan city that sprawled over rolling river valley. Here, within a hundred miles of the Nebraska/Colorado border the terrain was nothing like she expected. On the drive from Scottsbluff there had been few trees and even fewer towns in-between the miles. Those villages they did drive through took barely a few minutes and a slight decrease of acceleration to enter and exit.

  Earlier Donny had told her that cattle outnumbered people and at first she thought he was joking.

  “You’ve never been out to these parts before,” he had said rather than ask. His tone was polite, not defensive when he noticed her skepticism.

  “I’ve been to Omaha several times,” she had answered, knowing immediately from his smile that it was a bit like saying she had been to the Smithsonian when asked if she had seen Little Bighorn.

  “Nebraska takes nine hours to cross from border to border,” he told her. “It has 1.7 million people. About a million of them live in a 50-mile radius of Omaha.”

  Again, Donny’s voice reminded Maggie of a cowboy poet’s and she didn’t mind the geography lesson.

  “Let me put it a perspective you can relate to, no disrespect intended,” and he had paused, glancing at her to give her a chance to protest. “Cherry County, a bit to the northwest of us, is the largest county in Nebraska. It’s about the size of Connecticut. There are six thousand people in 5700 square miles. That’s about one person per square mile.”

  “And cattle?” she had asked with a smile, allowing him his original point.

  “Almost ten per square mile.”

  She had found herself mesmerized by the rolling sandhills and suddenly wondering what to expect if she needed to go to the bathroom. What was worse, Donny’s geography lesson only validated Maggie’s theory, that this assignment – like several before it – was yet another one of her boss’s punishments.

  About a month ago Assistant Director Raymond Kunze had sent her down to the Florida Panhandle, smack-dab in the path of a Category 5 hurricane. In less than a year since he officially took the position, Kunze had made it a habit of sending her on wild goose chases. Okay, so perhaps he was easing up on her, replacing danger with mind-numbing madness. Maggie specialized in criminal behavior and profiling. She had advanced degrees in behavorial psychology, pre-med and forensic science. Yet, it had been so long since Kunze allowed her to work a real crime scene she wondered if she would remember basic procedure? Even this scene didn’t really count as a crime, except perhaps for the cows.

  Now as they continued walking, Maggie tried to focus on something beside the chill and the impending dark. She thought, again, about the fact that there was no blood.

  “What about rain?”

  Almost instinctively she glanced over her shoulder. Backlit by the purple horizon, the bulging gray clouds looked more ominous. They threatened to block out any remaining light. At their mention Donny picked up his pace. Anything more and Maggie would need to jog to keep up.

  “It hasn’t rained since last weekend,” he told her. “That’s why I thought it was important for you to take a look before those thunderheads roll in.”

  They had left Donny’s pickup on a dirt trail off the main highway, next to a deserted and dusty black pickup. Donny had mentioned he asked the rancher to meet them but there was no sign of him or of any other living being. Not even, she couldn’t help but notice, any cattle.

  The rise and fall of sand dunes blocked any sign of the road. Maggie climbed behind him, the incline steep enough she caught herself using fingertips to keep her balance. Donny came to an abrupt stop, waiting at the top. Even before she came up beside him she noticed the smell.

  Donny pointed down below at a sandy dugout area about the size of a backyard swimming pool. Earlier he had referred to something similar as a blowout, explaining that the areas were where wind and rain had washed away grass. They’d continue to erode, getting bigger and bigger if ranchers didn’t control them.

  The stench of death wafted up. Lying in the middle of the sand was the mutilated cow, four stiff legs poking up toward the sky. The creature, however, didn’t resemble anything Maggie had ever seen.

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  Don't Stop Reading!

  COLD METAL NIGHT

  by

  Alex Kava

  Sunday, December 4

  2:37 a.m.

  Downtown Omaha, Nebraska

  Nick Morrelli stuffed his hands deep inside his pockets. Damn! It had gotten cold and he’d forgotten his gloves. He could see his breath. Air so cold it stung his eyes and hurt to breathe.

  Snow crunched beneath his shoes. Italian leather. Salvatore Ferragamo slip-ons. Five hundred and ten dollars. The stupidest purchase he’d ever let his sister, Christine talk him into. They made him look like a mob boss, or worse – a politician – instead of a security expert.

  He was at a private party when he got Pete’s call. Figured he could easily walk the two blocks from the Flat Iron to the Rockwood Building. But it had been snowing steadily for the last ten hours. Now he treaded carefully over the pile of ice chunks the snow plows left at the curbs. He already almost wiped out twice despite the salt and sand.

  City crews were working overtime, trying to clear the streets for Sunday’s Holiday of Lights Festival. It was a huge celebration. The beginning of the Christmas season. Live music, carolers, arts and craft events. Performers dressed as Dickens characters would stroll the Old Market’s cobble stone streets engaging with the visitors. The ConAgra Ice Rink would be packed with skaters. Tomorrow night the city would turn on tens of thousands of twinkling white lights that decorated all the trees on the Gene Leahy Mall and strung along the rooftops of the downtown buildings. Even the high-rises.

  A festive time would be had by all but a huge security nightmare for people like Nick. The company he worked for, United Allied, provided security for a dozen buildings in the area.

  As Nick hurried across Sixteenth Street he glanced up to see the fat, wet flakes glitter against the night sky. It was the kind of stuff he and his sister called magical Christmas dust when they were kids.

  Pete was waiting for him at the back door of the Rockwood Building. It was one of Nick’s favorites. A historic brick six-story with an atrium in the middle that soared up all six floors. Reminded Nick of walking into an indoor garden, huge green plants and a domed skylight above. The building housed offices, all of them quiet at this time of night, making Pete’s job more about caretaking than guarding.

  But tonight Pete looked spooked. His eyes were wide. His hair looked a shade whiter against his black skin. He held a nightstick tight in his trembling hands. Nick had never seen the old man like this. He didn’t even know Pete owned a nightstick.

  “He didn’t show up at midnight like usual,” Pete was telling Nick as he led him down a hallway. Nick wasn’t sure who he was t
alking about. All he told Nick on the phone was, “to get over here now.”

  He was taking Nick to another exit, double-wide doors that opened out into an alley. It wasn’t used except by maintenance or housekeeping to haul the trash.

  “He usually stops by. You said it was okay.” He shot a look back over his shoulder at Nick but he didn’t slow down. "Does a little shoveling if I ask.” Pete was out of breath. The nightstick stayed in his right fist. “I made us some hot cocoa tonight. So cold out. When he didn’t show up I took a look around.”

  He pushed opened the doors, slow and easy, peeking around them like he was expecting someone to jump out at him.

  “Pete, you’re starting to freak me out.” Nick patted him on the shoulder, gently holding him back so he could step around him. “If someone’s in trouble, we’ll help him out.”

  After Thanksgiving he had made an executive decision to allow homeless people to sleep in some of the back entries of the buildings he took care of. He told Pete and his other night guards to call him if there was a problem. During the holidays he didn’t have the heart to toss them into the street. He figured he could put up with drunk and belligerent.

  Nick took two steps out into the frigid alley and immediately he saw a heap of gray wool and dirty denim in a bloody pile of snow. The man’s face was twisted under a bright green and orange argyle scarf that Nick recognized. His stomach fell to his knees.

  “Oh God, not Gino. What the hell happened?”

  Nick tried to get closer. The damned shoes slipped on a trail of blood that was already icing over. He lost his balance. Started to fall. His hand caught the corner of the Dumpster. Ice-cold metal sliced open his palm but he held on. By now he was breathing hard. Puffs of steam like a dragon. He took a deep breath, planted his feet. Then he reached over to Gino while still gripping the corner of the Dumpster.

  Nick pressed two fingers to the man’s neck. Gino’s skin was almost as cold as the metal of the Dumpster.