The Beast of Barcroft (8 page)

S
UNDAY,
N
OVEMBER 16

Ben awoke to a piercing scream in his ear. He bolted upright and looked around his bedroom. Dark. He whipped his head around to find the alarm clock: 4:20
A.M.
It was impossible to think with the deafening, relentless blaring, but his first conscious thought was that the repeater for the burglar alarm was in his bedroom closet. He leapt out of bed.

His second thought was to grab a weapon. He kept a baseball bat on the other side of the nightstand, in the corner. He grabbed it and stepped out of the bedroom in a crouch. From the landing at the top of the stairs, he could see into the empty guest room and down the dark staircase to the first floor. He turned on the hall light. Part of him wanted to beat an intruder to a pulp, but he thought it much more prudent to give a burglar every opportunity to get out of the house. Anyone not fleeing from the cacophony was not someone he wanted to meet. When he reached the main floor, he rushed to the front door and punched in the code. Immediately, blessedly, the blaring ceased, revealing a much softer ringing beneath it. The phone. He picked it up. It was the security company calling.

“Mr. McKelvie, this is Security Solutions; your alarm has been tripped. Is everything okay?”

He cradled the phone between his face and shoulder to keep both hands on the bat. “I don't know.”

“The police have already been dispatched.”

“Thanks.” He hung up.

He moved to the back of the house, clutching the bat and turning on all of the lights ahead of him. The kitchen was empty. The sunroom beyond the kitchen was empty too, its door to the backyard closed. He looked closer. It was still locked as well. Someone could have closed a door behind them fleeing, but they could not have locked it.

That left the basement.

“Shit,” he whispered.

Unlike Madeleine's unfinished basement, which had one large expanse that ran from one end of the foundation to the other, Ben's had been partitioned into a landing and a room that doubled as another bedroom. The bedroom was blocked by double doors. These were closed, but Ben felt a draft coming from underneath. The light switch to that room was behind those doors. He tightened his grip on the bat and threw them open.

He was met by a pair of glowing eyes, low to the ground. Ben's heart burned with fright. He took a step back and raised the bat. The eyes regarded him with languid ambivalence. He felt the cold wind on his skin.

From the light coming in from the landing, the shape around the glowing eyes slowly revealed itself. Ben inched forward and inched forward and found the light switch. It was the cat. That it was not the cougar did nothing to calm him since the animal sat in the middle of chaos. At the far end of the room, the window had been forced open. November wind swept through the room, ruffling scattered papers that had been blown from the nearby desk. Even the heavier items from the desk—his laptop, books, paperweights—had been swept to the floor. Muddy prints, reaching as far as the bookshelf, marked the floor in haphazard patterns, as if their owner had been dancing. More books had been knocked off the bookshelf. Instinctively, Ben looked to his father's shrine. The badge and the pictures remained undisturbed.

In the midst of the mess, the cat, its fur matted and dirty, looked at Ben with an eerie calm.

Ben remembered the installer had told him there was a forty-five-second grace period between the security system being tripped and the alarm erupting in full. At first glance, it looked like the intruder made it as far as the bookshelf and the shrine before the ringing began, scaring the hell out of him. Ben looked more closely at the prints then and wished it had been a
him
. They were not human, but animal. And familiar. He looked hopefully at the cat's paws, knowing no domestic cat could do all of this, but its paws were smaller. Far smaller.

“Drop the bat now!”

Framed in the large window well were two police officers pointing guns at his chest. Ben dropped the bat and raised his hands. The cat fled from the basement and up the stairs.

“I live here!” As the police dropped into the well and came through the window, he realized he was half-naked and wild-eyed. If Cushing had thought he looked crazy the last time the Arlington County Police Department paid him a visit, then he must look like an utter lunatic now. His wallet containing his driver's license lay on the carpet, knocked off the desk, but he opted against making any sudden moves. “I'm Ben McKelvie; this is my house. My wallet is on the floor there.”

The first officer removed the license, looked it over, then at Ben. He was bald and imposing and his name tag read
WATTS.

“Sorry, sir. Are you okay?”

“No apologies necessary. I'm fine. The alarm woke me. I came down to the main floor, saw no one, then came down here to find…all this.”

“Did you encounter anyone?”

“No, sir.”

“You can put your hands down now.”

“Oh, right.”

As the other officer spoke softly into the small, shoulder microphone that ran to the radio on his belt, Watts said, “We need to clear the house, just the same.”

“Of course. Just let me put on some clothes.”

The officer sniffed and made a face. “Is that cat piss?”

“Probably.”

Ben grabbed the bathrobe hanging on the back of the bathroom door and followed Watts around the house as they checked closets and under beds. When they found nothing on the top two floors, Ben put on coffee while the cops returned to the basement to wait for the detective.

Ben brought down two mugs. The cops stood over the muddy prints.

“So a burglar brought a dog along?” asked the other officer. His name tag read
MALEEV.

“Was anything taken?” asked Watts.

Ben shook his head.

“Wonder what kind of dog,” Maleev asked no one in particular.

“Greyhound,” said Ben.

The detective arrived thirty minutes later, a man a few years older than Ben and named Brubaker. He processed the scene. He took pictures of the room, the window, and the muddy prints. Inside and outside of the house, he scoured for DNA evidence—blood, saliva, cigarette butts—but Ben knew he would not find anything. As time wore on and nothing turned up but animal hair, the detective performed a quick dusting of the area, though Ben got the impression it was more to put on a show than because he was expecting to find something.

When Brubaker finished, he jotted down some notes. He looked at the muddy carpet with Ben. The officers had left.

“They said you think these are greyhound tracks.”

“I had one. I've seen enough of them to know.”

“How would a dog force a window?”

Ben shrugged.

Both men stared at the tracks for a while and said nothing. Finally, the detective looked at Ben.

“It seems like someone is trying to get our attention.”

“Sorry?”

The detective stared at Ben. His gaze was not unkind. Calm but steady.

“You mean me?” Ben laughed bitterly. “Okay.”

“Someone forcing your window open then shoving a dog into your basement seems like a pretty bizarre prank, Mr. McKelvie. Just trying to suss everything out.”

“Last week, a mountain lion killed my dog in my own backyard. Two days ago, my neighbor drops dead. No idea why. And tonight, my house gets broken into. Fuck, yeah, I'm looking for some attention.” Ben walked over to his father's shrine and held his father's badge in front of the detective. “But I swear on
this,
I am one hundred percent not shitting you that someone broke into my home.”

Ben told him about the squatter at Madeleine's who claimed to be her mother. He left out the parts where he trespassed and squared off with her in the basement. The detective jotted down Ben's abridged story and said he'd check it out. Finally, he finished his notes and looked around the room.

“Well, I'll fill out my report. Not too proud to admit I'm not entirely sure what to make of it though.”

“Humility I can deal with.”

“Good to know. Do you have somewhere else you can stay? Someplace you might feel more comfortable?”

“Just check on that squatter.”

He nodded at the badge still in Ben's hand. “Keep your valuables close to you.”

The sun was coming up when he ascended from the basement to show the detective out. Ben had had several cups of coffee, but the adrenaline had worn off, and in the morning light, he thought he might have a decent shot at some more sleep. He walked upstairs to his bedroom to find that someone else had had the same idea. The cat, dirty and matted, was sprawled on his bed, sleeping soundly. His sheets were also covered with muddy prints, but these were from the Maine coon, as it circumnavigated his bed to find the optimal spot. The cat's ear twitched.

If only this thing could talk,
he thought.

Ben went to the bathroom and filled the tub.

“If I'm not sleeping, no one is sleeping,” he said. “And if you're hanging out, you're taking a bath.”

S
UNDAY,
N
OVEMBER 16

Ben sounded as if he had forgotten when she called him Sunday morning. He had promised to show her around the woods near Four Mile Run, but he was distracted and yelling at something in the background.

“Maybe we should do this some other time.”

“Oh no, a deal's a deal. I'm just negotiating with a temporary guest.”

When she went to his house, ready for the day in a windbreaker, jeans, and boots, with a backpack slung over her shoulder, he looked as if he had a hangover, but he was similarly dressed and ready for their hike. He had even packed snacks.

“Come down to the basement, there's something I want to show you first.”

He must have noticed a cloud of hesitation pass over her face.

“I'm the only thing in this neighborhood that doesn't bite.”

Downstairs, Lindsay was perplexed by the footprints.

“They're greyhound, right?”

“I think so. I work with cats, but yeah, these look like canine prints.”

As they talked, the cat sauntered into the room. It was light brown with black rings and even streaks of white. Unfortunately, it was missing patches of fur, revealing some scabs that were healing poorly. Lindsay lit up and dropped to her knees. The cat trotted over to her, purring.

“You should have seen it before the bath. I thought it was one color,” said Ben. “Turns out it was just filthy.”

“I have a balm I can bring you for these rough spots.”

“How about I bring
you
the cat instead?”

“Nice try. What's his name?”

“I don't know and I don't want to know. He's not staying.”

Lindsay stuck out her lower lip in a pout. “Don't listen to him, he's mean,” she said to the cat. “How did you get him out?”

“That is a tale. I'll tell you on the trail.”

It was a mild day for November, clear skies and sunny. If not for the leaves on the ground and their rich colors on the trees, it could have passed for spring. Lindsay followed Ben as he retraced his chase of the mountain lion once more through the yards of his neighborhood until they reached the spot where it had disappeared into the trees. To anyone watching, she thought, they looked like a man and a woman out for a hike, but to anyone listening, it would have been disturbing. Along the way, he told her about his rescue of the cat and the crazy woman who stood in his way. He told her about Hazel and the rats, and finally about the break-in. Before they entered the leafy shade of the woods, Ben reached for her arm.

“Wait. Shouldn't we have weapons or something?”

“A cat like this would only need to kill one large ungulate every two weeks. It's only been a week since its last kill. And that's just the one we know about. Plus, believe it or not, they're shy animals. It's off hiding somewhere. We should be fine.”

“Should be.”

“Unless it's a mother with cubs.”

“Fantastic.”

“But…
one
mountain lion being here would be strange enough, so I doubt we're dealing with a mother. I just want to poke around, see if I can find any kill spots or a den. I'll even settle for scat. Something to take back to the curator.”

“What happened to the hair samples?”

Lindsay looked into the woods. “Inconclusive.” She looked back at him. “Look, I understand if you don't want to take me any farther. I'll be fine, really.”

“You're out of your mind.”

“You know, I do this for a living.”

“A zoo is a controlled environment.”

“Not always.”

“I'll just carry a big stick.”

They trudged through the woods, fallen leaves crunching beneath their boots. Ben led her to a deep valley with a small stream running through it. Charming Arlington homes lined the edge of the high ridge above the valley floor. Yet, if she momentarily ignored her peripheral vision, it was as if they were in a deep forest valley.
Well suited to a big cat,
she thought, though she saw no obvious signs. The stream was a tributary that led to Four Mile Run; where the two met, Ben and Lindsay turned north and hiked along the trail. In a quarter mile, they came upon Sparrow Pond, a small wetland.

“This thing is loaded with turtles in the summer,” said Ben. “I used to bike here a lot.”

“Not anymore?”

He shrugged.

“What do you do for fun?” she asked.

Ben looked serious for a minute. “I don't remember. What about you? You're all geared up. You must be pretty outdoorsy.”

“I work. A lot. When I'm not working, the zoo has these conservation campouts where some of us take families to tour the Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute in Front Royal. It's in the mountains. We camp, cook out under the stars. It's nice.”

“That's still work-related. What do you do for
fun
fun?”

“That
is
fun fun.”

“You know what I mean. What do you do for you?”

She paused for a moment, considering whether or not to tell him. Finally, she said, “I do like fencing.”

“Fencing?” he said. “Get the fuck out.”

She stared straight ahead, wishing she had kept quiet. She felt his eyes on her and turned red. “Seriously?” he asked, laughing.

“What's wrong with fencing?”

“Wrong? I think it's the greatest thing I've ever heard.”

She pushed herself off the railing overlooking the pond and marched back to the trail. “Okay, jackass.”

“Wait!” he called after her. When she kept walking, he yelled,
“The Mark of Zorro!”

She turned around slowly, still scowling.

“Tyrone Power and Basil Rathbone—best duel ever committed to film. I own it.” He jabbed at the air with his walking stick. “I still watch
The Princess Bride
every time it's on, just for the swordfights. Are you any good?”

She eyed him with less suspicion. “I aspire to fair. It's not like in the movies. Not if you're doing it right anyway.”

“I've always wanted to learn how to fence.”

“Why don't you?”

He shrugged again. “No time.” It was his turn to stare out at the wetland. “No, that's a cop-out. I have time. It was just something I always wanted to do but thought it wasn't right for me. Or, more accurately, I wasn't right for it. Not graceful enough.” He looked at the walking stick in his hand and tried a smile. “More suited to carrying a club, I guess.”

She thought of her last opponent. “You'd fit right in.”

They continued north at a leisurely pace. When they saw beaten paths into the woods, they veered off the paved trail looking for signs, but found none. They stopped where Wilson Boulevard crossed over the trail. Lindsay turned around, but Ben said, “Come on, I want to show you something.”

They crossed the street and entered a sprawling park, bordered by the stream to the left, but on the right, the land lifted up into a broad rose garden. In the distance were a small playground and a tree garden.

“It's called Bon Air Memorial Rose Garden. In the spring and summer, the roses are every color—red, pink, orange, yellow, purple, crazy hybrids—it's really something.” He pointed to a section of the stream. “Fish, trout I think, actually spawn here. For a couple of days, fishermen will line the banks right there.”

“The stream is like five feet wide.”

“I didn't say it was fair.”

There were a few families out and some Hispanic boys playing soccer on the large field between the playground and the stream. “This place is filled with families in the spring and summer. It's nice. I haven't been here in a while.”

“It's beautiful,” she said.

He leaned in for a kiss. It was so unexpected, it landed before Lindsay could shove him away.

She wrenched back. “What the hell?”

“Sorry. I'm sorry.”

“That is
not
why I'm here.”

“Sorry. Seriously, I'm on zero sleep here…I just misread the signals.”

“There weren't any signals! If anything, there were negative signals.”

“Okay, you made your point. Jesus. It'll never happen again.”

“You know who makes a move like that in the woods? After they show you their basement? Serial killers, that's who.”

“This isn't the woods, it's a park. With roses in it.”

“They're not even in bloom!”

Ben stared at her for a moment, his brow furrowed and his mouth a hard line, but then he exploded into laughter. After a moment, Lindsay could not help but join him.

He put his hand over his eyes. “I'm really bad at this.”

“Next time, kiss the girl closer to the end of the hike so you don't have to walk all the way back with the embarrassment hanging over your head. Idiot.”

“Where's a cougar to carry me off when I need one?”

They laughed and headed south toward Ben's house.

They decided to take a different trail on the way back. It ran parallel for a time next to the W&OD trail but sat at a lower elevation, on the other side of the stream and closer to it. They were nearing the point where the Sparrow Pond wetland was on the other side of the stream when the wind shifted and they smelled it.

“What is that?” asked Ben.

“Meat,” said Lindsay. “Come on.”

They stepped off the trail and continued south, close enough to peek down into the stream, scanning the banks and large rocks piled along Four Mile Run's bottom and sides. They nearly missed it, but nestled among the large rocks was the mouth of a large drainpipe, adding its trickle to the stream. Directly above it, the smell was stronger.

Lindsay removed her backpack and retrieved a small penlight. She scrabbled down the side of the bank, clutching riprap and rocks until she was in front of the mouth. The smell was powerful here, putrid. She pulled her shirt over the bridge of her nose and lit the penlight. Nothing inside but sticks, tangle, and muck as far as the tiny lance of her light could penetrate. Beyond that, total darkness. Ben dropped down into the stream, losing his balance and soaking one boot. “Shit,” he said. He hopped from rock to rock until he drew alongside her.

Lindsay put her face into the pipe and yelled at the top of her lungs.

“What are you doing?” Ben asked her.

Then she picked up some stones and threw them deep into the pipe. Over the rushing of the water at their feet, they could hear the faint echo of stones pinging off the sides, then nothing.

“Give me a boost,” she said.

“You've got to be kidding me.”

“It's riparian,” she said, barely listening to Ben. She was too intrigued by what could be inside. She slung her backpack back on. “Zero thermal advantage. It's not even
dry
…”

“Hey, snap out of it. You're not going in there.”

“Something is in there, something big. It might be your dog.”

“As much as I'd love to stumble upon the grisly remains of my beloved pet, Bucky might not be the only thing that's in there.”

“Mountain lions make their dens in dense vegetation, preferably a place that can maintain a cozy ambient temperature.”

“Maybe Garfield didn't get the memo? What if someone screwed up his den and he relocated here?”

“Hello? The screaming, the stones?” She cupped her hand to her ear. “Nothing.”

“I can't let you go in there.”

“ ‘Let me'?”

“I'm not going to let you crawl in there and get mauled.”

“Not when you can maul me in the rose park?”

He rolled his eyes. “Come on.”

“Are you going to give me a boost here or not?”

They stared at each other for a moment, then Ben relented, cupped his hands for her boot, and boosted her up to the entrance.

The pipe was large enough that she could crouch and make her way in without getting on her hands and knees. She turned around and flashed a wide, satisfied smile down to him.

“Don't get eaten,” said Ben.

She pulled her shirt over her nose again and ventured inside. Within two steps, her smile vanished. The rot was sharp and overpowering in the close confines of the pipe, funneled right to her with no fresh air to dissipate it. It was all she could do not to throw up. She shone her light forward, hoping to find the source without getting much closer, but it was a small flashlight and the beam gave way to pitch black after ten feet.

She inched forward carefully, in a crouch, one hand pressing the shirt to her face, the other hand aiming the light forward. A small stream and a layer of slime ran along the bottom of the curved tunnel, and slipping would not help her situation. Whatever was causing the smell was upstream and the water was polluted. After advancing ten feet, Lindsay's beam revealed a sharp turn ahead to the left. Where the tunnel veered out of sight, the water passed over a heap, bloated and half-hidden around the bend. Ben's dog. Or maybe a deer. It wasn't until she was nearly upon it that she realized it was wearing flannel.

She gasped into her shirt and staggered backward.

“You okay?”

She maintained her balance and fought the urge to vomit. She turned toward the gaping hole of daylight twenty feet back down the pipe to Ben.

“It's a body!” she yelled into her shirt.

“What?”

“A bod—”

The attack flattened her. She saw the circle of daylight, then nothing. Utter black. It took her a moment to register what was happening, and when she tried to scream, her face was pressed into the rotten drain water.

Then came the thrashing. It was on top of her.

It wrenched her back and forth with blinding speed, rattling her brain in her skull and scrambling her thoughts. She had no time to be scared, and when coherent thoughts came, she fought to fit the fragments into context.
Ambush from behind. Neck strike. Consistent with mountain lion. Ben was right
. She wondered why the biting did not hurt more. The punctures, the teeth. She heard the animal growl then, low and frustrated, as it shook her into the sides of the drainpipe and back down into the water, and she remembered the backpack
.