evidence to you, to help catch a killer.“ The scene cut away to some kind of records facility, and the FBI agent explained in voice-over the story of Emmett Openshaw, an Arizona man who disappeared from his home forty-two years ago. They showed a picture: he was an adult, but not a very old one—forty, maybe? I'm no good at guessing ages. He looked vaguely familiar, in the way that old pho- tos tend to—that niggling impression in the back of your head that if the person had a modern haircut and modern clothes, it would be someone you saw every day. The police found blood and signs of violence, but no body. Most importantly, and the reason the story was related to Clayton County, they also found a puddle of black sludge in the middle of the man's kitchen floor. The police had a few theories of their own, which the reporter nervously explained, but none of them matched what I had seen—how could they? I stared at the TV screen and imagined Mr. Crowley in Arizona. He knocked on a door, this man opened it, and Crowley gave him some story about a broken car or a lost map. He asked to come in, the man let him, and when his back was turned, Crowley ripped the man's throat out and stole his... what? The police never found the body, so they never knew that the killer had stolen a piece of it. But why would he hide his bodies back then, and not hide his first three now? It didn't make sense. Thinking back to the FBI classifications, it was as if he used to be an organized killer, and had become a disorganized one. And now his attack on the drifter had moved back to the organized side of the spectrum again. Why? The news footage switched to show the FBI agent, sitting in a bland office for an interview that must have been filmed earlier. ”DNA testing has continued in the Clayton case,“ said Agent Forman, ”and the sludge found next to the three Clayton victims is consistent—the FBI can't identify whose DNA it is, but we do know that it is definitely all from the same person.“ The same person? That didn't make any sense either. If the sludge comes from the discarded organs, and each organ comes from a different body, wouldn't the DNA be different each time? That kind of science was a little beyond the tenth-grade level, unfortunately, so I couldn't figure it out myself, and since I was basing my theories on information the FBI agent didn't have, he didn't offer any further explanation either. ”Emmett T. Openshaw died so long ago, unfortunately, that no DNA testing was possible,“ said Agent Forman, ”and none of the sludge found in his home was saved as evidence. Quite frankly, we don't know why or even if this information is significant—only that the killer wanted to keep it quiet. If this information means anything to you, or if you have any leads at all, please talk to the police. Your identity will be kept confidential. Thank you." The screen switched back to the live reporter, who nodded
curtly and looked at the camera. “This is Carrie Walsh with Five Live News. Back to you, Sarah.” Any leads at all? Even preposterous ones? It was obvious that the demon was more than the sum of his parts. He could turn his hands—one of which belonged to a farmer just two months ago—into demon claws. He needed body parts from hurnans, that much seemed certain, but when he absorbed them they became a part of him. They took on his properties and strengths and, apparently, his DNA signature. But if that were true, why was the DNA recognizably human? Did demons even have DNA? Preposterous or not, I needed to go to the police. The only other choice was to try to stop him myself, and I didn't even know where to begin. Shoot him? Stab him? He could heal back from some pretty serious wounds, so I doubted either of those would do any good. Besides that, I knew it would be wrong. I'd spent too much time protecting myself from thoughts of violence to stumble into it now. The monster behind the wall strained and growled, awake and anxious to be set free. I didn't dare let it out—who knows what it would do? My only dilemma, again, was how to get the police to believe me. I had to give them more than just my word—I had to offer some kind of evidence. If they came by and looked at Mr. Crowley's house, they probably wouldn't find anything. He was being too careful now, and hiding his tracks too well. If I wanted them to know for sure, they had to see what I'd seen—they had to catch him in the act, save his victim, and see his demon claws for themselves. The only way I could do that was to study him, and follow him, and call them when he made his move. I had to become Mr. Crowley's shadow 9 The hardest part was the first step: out my door, across the street, and up Mr. Crowley's walk to his front porch. I hesitated before I knocked. If he had seen me at the lake—if he had any suspicion that I knew his secret—he might just kill me on sight. I knocked. It was several degrees below zero, but I kept my hands out of my pockets, ready to balance if I had to run. Mrs. Crowley opened the door. Was she a demon, too?
I AM NO T A S E RI AL KI L L E R
“Hello, John, how are you today?” “I'm fine, Mrs. Crowley, how are you?” I heard a creak in the house behind her—Mr, Crowley moving slowly from one room to another. Did she know what he was?' “I'm fine, dear, what brings you out here on such a cold evening?” Mrs. Crowley was old and small, the most stereotypical “little old lady” I'd ever seen. She wore glasses, and it occurred to me that Mr. Crowley didn't— did he steal new eyes every time his old ones wore out? “It snowed last night,” I said. “I want to shovel your walks.” “On Thanksgiving?” “Yes,” I said. “I'm not really doing anything else.” Mrs. Crowley smiled slyly. “I know why you're really here,” she said. “You want some hot chocolate.” I smiled—a careful, practiced smile designed to look exactly like a twelve-year-old boy caught in an innocent trap. I'd worked on it all night. Mrs. Crowley gave me hot chocolate every time I shoveled their snow; it was the only time I was ever invited inside. I was here today because I needed to be invited inside—I needed to see if Mr. Crowley was healthy or sick, and how bad he was. Eventually he'd have to kill again, and if I wanted to send the police to catch him in the act, I needed to know exactly when it happened. “I'll put some on the stove right now,” she said. “The shovel's in the shed.” She closed the door and I walked around the house, my feet crunching softly in the snow. It had begun. Mr. Crowley came on to the porch a few minutes later, the picture of health; he walked straight and tall, and never coughed once. His new limbs were working well for him. Mr. Crowley walked to the edge of the railing and watched me. I tried to ignore him, but I was far too nervous to turn my back on him. I stood up and faced him. “Good evening,” I said. “Good evening, John,” he answered, as cheerful as I'd ever seen him. I couldn't tell if he suspected me or not. “Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?” I asked. “Just fine,” he said, “just fine. Kay cooks a mighty fine turkey, I'll tell you—best in the state.” He wasn't just watching me, he was looking all around—at the snow, the trees, the houses, everything. I'd almost say he was happy, and I guess that made sense. He had a brand-new set of healthy lungs—he literally had a new lease on life. I wondered how long it would last. He wasn't going to kill me. He didn't seem to suspect that I knew his secret at all. Satisfied that I was safe for now, I went back to my shoveling. , For the next two weeks, I spent my days shoveling snow, and my nights praying for more. Every two or three days, I found a new excuse to see the Crowleys—shoveling another snowfall, or chopping firewood, or helping carry in the groceries. Mr.
Crowley was as nice as ever, talking and joking and kissing his wife. He seemed a paragon of good health, until one day I noticed a laxative while unloading a grocery bag. “It's his tummy,” said Mrs. Crowley with a mischievous grin. “Us old folks can't eat like we used to—things start to fall apart.” “I thought he looked pretty healthy.” “Just a little problem with his digestion,” she said. “It's nothing to worry about.” Well, not unless Mr. Crowley has his eye on your digestive system. But I wasn't afraid for her—her seventy-year-old organs were probably not worth stealing, for one thing, but it was more than that. He treated her nicely; he kissed her hello every time he came into the room. Even if she was just his cover story, he wouldn't hurt her. On the ninth of December, late one Saturday night, Mr. Crowley slipped out of his house and removed his license plates. I was watching from my window, fully dressed, and as soon as he stowed the plates and
drove away, I sneaked quietly downstairs, and out the side door. The wind was blowing just enough to cut coldly through my scarf to my face, and I had to ride slowly to keep my balance on the icy roads. I'd taken the reflectors off of my bike, making me nearly invisible in the blackness, but I wasn't afraid of being hit. The roads were virtually empty. Mr. Crowley was also driving slowly, and I followed his taillights at a distance. The only things open this time of night were the hospital and the Flying J, one on each edge of town. I assumed he'd go to the latter to try to pick up another drifter, but instead he cruised slowly toward the tiny downtown area. This made sense—it would probably be empty this time of night, but if he did find anyone he could kill them with impunity. There were no open businesses, no homes, and no witnesses to hear the screaming. Suddenly another car came around the corner, far ahead of me, and pulled up next to Mr. Crowley at a stoplight. It was a police car. I imagined them asking him if everything was all right, if he needed anything, if he'd seen anything suspicious. Were they asking about his missing plates? Had they even noticed? The light turned green and they idled there a moment longer, then drove away—the cops went straight, and Crowley turned right. I pedaled hard to catch up, anticipating his route and turning down a side road to stay out of the street lights. I didn't want either Crowley or the cops to see me. When I found him again, Crowley was pulled over, talking to a man on the sidewalk. I watched them for several moments, seeing the man straighten up twice to look down the street; not searching for anything, simply looking. Would he be the one? He wore a dark parka and a baseball cap—not nearly warm enough for this weather, or this time of night. Crowley
was almost certainly offering him a ride: “Come in out of the cold, we'll turn up the heat and take you where you need to go. Halfway there, I'll gut you like a fish.” The man looked up again. I watched him without breathing. I honestly don't know if I wanted him to get in the car or not. I was going to call the cops, of course, but they might not make it in time. What would I do if this guy died? Should I abandon my plan and just run out now to warn him? If I saved him, Crowley would only look for somebody else. I couldn't follow him for the rest of my life, warning people. I had to take the risk and wait for the right moment. .; The man opened the passenger door, and got in Crowley's car. There was no turning back now. There was a pay phone outside of the gas station on Main, and if I could reach it in time, I could call the police and tell them to find the car. They might arrest Crowley, they might shoot him; either way it would be over. Crowley's car turned right and I went left, keeping to the shadows until he was out of sight. When I reached the pay phone, I covered the receiver with my scarf, using gloves to keep everything free of fingerprints. I didn't want anyone to trace the call back to me. “911, what is the address of the emergency?” “The Clayton Killer has another victim, in his car, right now. Tell the police to look for a white Buick LeSabre, somewhere between downtown and the wood plant.” “The—” the dispatcher paused. “You say you saw the Clayion Killer?” “I saw him pick up a new victim,” I said, “send someone now.” “Do you have any evidence that this man is the killer?” asked the dispatcher. “I saw him kill somebody else,” I said. “Tonight?” “Two weeks ago.” “Did you report this incident to the police?” The dispatcher sounded almost. . . bored. “You're not taking this seriously,” I said. “He's going to kill somebody right now. Send the police!” “A squad car has been advised to patrol the area between downtown Clayton and the Clayton wood plant, on grounds of an anonymous tip,” said the bored dispatcher. “The thirteenth anonymous tip of the week, I might add. Unless you'd like to give me a name?” “You're going to feel really stupid in the morning,” I said. “Send some cops now—I'll try to stall him.” I hung up and jumped on my bike. I had to find them. They had turned toward-the wood plant nearly ten minutes ago; they could be anywhere by now, including Freak Lake. I drove back down Main Street to where he'd turned, to try to follow or guess his path, but halfway there I heard a
car door slam, and went to investigate. A block and half away, surrounded by quiet storefronts and dimly lit by the light of the moon, Mr. Crowley's car was parked behind another on the side of the road. Crowley was walking from his trunk toward a heap on the ground. As I got closer I could sec that the heap was a body lying on a tarp. I was too late. I dropped my bike in a shadow and crept closer to Crowley while his back was turned. I reached the corner of his block, just half a block away, and ducked into a storefront alcove. The second car was the victim's, I guessed, broken down in the worst possible place, on the worst possible night—in the dark, far from human ears, and close to Mr. Crowley. Crowley had apparently found him looking for help, and offered to take a look. Next to the body on the tarp was a pile of steaming black sludge—Crowley had already made the switch, of stomach or intestines or whatever he needed from this one, and he'd had the foresight to lay out a ground cloth to catch the noxious evidence. He straightened the corners of the tarp and began to roll it up just as the police headlights came into view. I ducked down as they drove past, and watched through a corner of glass as Mr. Crowley paused, hung his head, and slowly stood up. One of the policemen stepped out of the car and drew his gun from behind the cover of his open doors; the other was silhouetted in the driver's seat, talking on a radio. The body was rolled up and hidden, but there was blood on the ground from the initial attack. “Put your hands in the air,” said the cop. I knew some of the cops in town, but I couldn't recognize this one in the dark. “Lay down on the ground, now!” Mr. Crowley slowly turned around. “Sir! Do not turn around! Lie down immediately!” Crowley faced them now, tall and broad in the brilliant headlights. His shadow stretched behind him for nearly a block, a giant made of darkness. “Thank goodness you're here,” said Crowley, “I just found him. I think that killer got to him.” Crowley's pants were soaked in the victim's blood; I was amazed he even attempted the lie. “Turn back around and lie down on your stomach,” said the policeman. His gun was like an extension of his arm, black and straight. Crowley's claws were hidden now; he looked perfectly human, yet perfectly menacing. His eyes were thin and grim, his mouth closed tightly in a flat, emotionless line. “Turn back around, and lie down on your stomach,” said the policeman. '“We will not ask you again.” Crowley's eyes seemed to bore into the officer, and I wondered what he was feeling. Anger? Hate? I peered closer, seeing a glint of light on his cheek. Tears. He was sad.
The policeman on the driver's side opened his door and stepped out. He was younger than his partner, and his hands trembled. When he spoke his voice was shaky. “Backup's on its way—” he said, but before he could even finish his sentence, Crowley rushed them, still in full human form but snarling angrily. The older policeman shouted a warning and both men began firing, bullet after bullet slamming into Crowley's chest. He went down. “Holy—” said the young cop. The older cop lowered his weapon slowly and looked at his partner. “Suspect down,” he said. “I never would have guessed this tip was any good—what is this, the third one tonight?” “Fourth,” said the young cop. “Well, what are you waiting for?” asked the older one. “Call for an ambulance!” In a flash, Crowley was up again, standing at the old cop's side—his face inhumanly elongated, his mouth a ragged quiver of fangs. Bone-white claws slashed through the cop's gut, and he was dead almost instantly. The demon Crowley leapt over the squad car toward the young cop, who screamed and fired wildly, hitting the rear corner of Mr. Crowley's car just before the demon jumped on him and pulled him down, out of my view. The policeman screamed once more, and stopped. As quickly as the violence had erupted, it ceased. The police- man, the demon, the guns, the street, the cold night sky—all were as silent as a tomb. Crowley came around the side of the police car a moment later, dragging the two bodies with his right arm, his left hang- , ing uselessly at his side. He was fully human again. He unrolled the tarp and flopped the policemen's bodies next to the first victim, and stood for a moment, surveying the scene— three dead bodies, a sea of blood, two extra cars, a
nd a bullet hole in his. He'd never be able to cover it all up before the police backup arrived. Crowley walked back to the police car, and shut off the headlights; the carnage fell into gray silhouette. He rum-, maged around inside a while longer, and I heard nothing but cracks and scratches, until at last he emerged and tossed a couple of black blocks onto the pile of bodies. I guessed it was the squad car's video camera, but there was no way to be sure from this distance. There was still time. The police had called for backup, but even if they hadn't, someone was bound to come and find Crowley. He couldn't possibly hide all of this. He pulled off his coat and flannel shirt, tossing them into the pile, and standing pale and half-naked in the moonlight. His left arm was badly wounded from the bullet he'd taken, and he poked at it with a grunt. He reached up with his right hand—the fingers shifting fluidly into claws—and rested his fingers on his shoulder. He set his feet carefully on the sidewalk, bracing himself for something, and then jumped as a cell
phone chirped loudly at his waist. He grabbed the cell phone with his good hand, and flipped it open, raising it to his ear. “Hello Kay. I'm sorry, dear, I couldn't sleep.” Pause. “I didn't tell you because I didn't want to wake you. Don't worry, honey, it's nothing. Just insomnia. I went for a drive.” Pause. “No, it's not my stomach, I feel just fine.” He looked down at the pile of corpses at his feet. “In fact, my stomach feels better than it has in weeks, dear.” Pause. “Yes, I'll be home soon. You go back to sleep. I love you, too, dear. I love you.” So she wasn't a demon. She didn't know anything about it. He turned off the cell phone and, fumbling, clipped it back to his belt. Then he reached up and sliced into his left shoulder, cutting away the flesh and wrenching the bone free with a sickening pop. I fell back in surprise. He gasped, falling to his knees, and tossed the arm onto the first victim, where it began immediately to sizzle and collapse. Once separated from whatever dark energy kept the demon alive, the limb degenerated into sludge within seconds. Awkwardly, with only one arm, Crowley did the same to the corpse of a policeman, removing first its coat and then its left arm. He held the limb up to his tattered shoulder, and I watched in amazement as the flesh seemed to reach out to the new limb, enveloping it and pulling it close, knitting and flowing together like putty. A moment later the arm moved, rising up at the shoulder, and Crowley swung it around in circles, first small, then wider and wider, feeling its weight and testing its motion. Satisfied, and shivering with cold, he pulled a handful of garbage bags from his trunk and began to pack up the bodies. I found myself wondering, of all things, why he didn't just take the arm from his first victim—why go to the trouble of undressing the policeman when there was a perfectly good body right next to it, prepped and ready to go? I heard a car approaching, wheels plowing heavily through the slush, and looked back. A pickup passed a block and a half away, on Main Street, bright red in the streetlights. There was no way they could have seen Mr. Crowley's grisly work from so far away, and in the midst of such darkness. The truck drove on, and its noise faded into the distance. Crowley worked quickly and efficiently, stuffing the policemen into the trunk of the first victim's stalled car. The owner of the car, wrapped tightly in a garbage sack, went into the trunk of Crowley's own car, along with the bagged remnants of Crowley's clothes, his bloody tarp, and the stolen hardware from the police car. It was a smart plan—when, investigators finally found the policemen, they would appear to be the only victims, and the owner of the car would be the natural suspect. If Crowley hid the man's body well, they might never realize that he had also been a victim tonight—instead, he'd he the prime suspect, throwing the police and the FBI off of Crowley's trail for weeks.