Creatures of Appetite

  Creatures Of Appetite

  Todd Travis

  Dark Matters Press

  They call it the Heartland Child Murders. Everyone else calls it a nightmare. Locked doors don’t stop him. He leaves no trace behind. He only takes little girls.

  His nickname … The Iceman.

  A deranged serial killer roams wintry rural Nebraska, targeting little girls, with a demented purpose no one can fathom.

  FBI Special Agent EMMA KANE, a former DC cop considered to be damaged goods, is assigned to babysit burned-out profiler JACOB THORNE as they both fly to Nebraska to catch this maniac.

  Thorne is erratic, abrasive and unpredictably brilliant, but what he and Kane find in the heartland is much more than anyone bargained for, especially when the Iceman challenges them personally, where it hurts most.

  The clock is ticking and a little girl’s life is on the line. And maybe even more with that, once they find out what he’s really up to.

  REVIEWS

  "You're used to clever plots, complex characters, twisted cases and brilliant writing. Few things can surprise you, because most times you figure out who the murderer is before the book ends. Well, let me tell you something: 'Creatures of Appetite' by Todd Travis is like nothing you've read before.Prepare yourself to be hooked from the very first pages, to forget that you need to eat or sleep, and to be taken by surprise by a twisted ending that you could have never guessed." -- Jo Ammons, NY Books Examiner

  "If you start reading this book thinking that you'll be able to put it down before bedtime, you're wrong. You'll only be able to fall asleep after you turn the last page. Usually, readers who read a lot of crime novels gain the ability to guess how everything is going to end, or at least suspect. It's not going to happen with "Creatures of Appetite",because the ending will come as a shock." -- Top Books Worth Reading

  "No, as a reader you won't guess who the murderer is before Jacob Thorne puts two and two together, but that's not what makes Creatures of Appetite stand out in its genre. What makes it really worth reading is on the very last pages." --All Fantasy Worlds

  Over nine hundred five-star reviews on Amazon!

  Leave your review there today!

  Books By Todd Travis

  Creatures of Appetite - Emma Kane/Jacob Thorne Book 1

  Trophies - Emma Kane/Jacob Thorne Book 2

  Talents - Emma Kane/Jacob Thorne Book 3

  The Hail Mary - Emma Kane/Jacob Thorne Book 4

  Sex, Marry, Kill - a novel

  Derelict - a horror novella

  The Living & The Dead - a short story collection

  Copyright

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  Copyright © 2013 by Todd Travis

  Cover illustration by

  Bosa Grgurevic: www.Buddhacandy.com

  For the darkness, that black bastard in us all … I ain’t scared of you, not no more.

  1

  Maureen dragged her daughter Tami through the crowded outdoor flea market on the hunt for a deal. Snow fell, covering the school parking lot, the entire market, customers and vendors alike, but that stopped no one. In Nebraska during the winter, snow fell nearly every other day, but the flea market was but once a month.

  And no one looked forward to it more than Maureen. While some women were addicted to soap operas, some to pills and others to Facebook, Maureen’s drug of choice was secondhand sales.

  It wasn’t from economical necessity, for her husband Richard was a good provider with a decent job and good benefits. It was simply that the search for bargains was Maureen’s personal primal urge. Each find a treasure, each dollar saved a victory, and as a result very few items in Maureen’s household were brand new, except for her husband’s golf clubs and, of course, everyone’s underwear.

  Even Richard, divorced when he met Maureen ten years earlier, would remark that she’d been primarily interested in him because he was used goods, but he smiled when he said that. And it was easy for him to have a sense of humor about it, since he wasn’t forced to accompany Maureen on her excursions as Tami was.

  Tami, only five years old and definitely not used goods, was very much bored by it all, the flea market, the yelling and especially the constant pulling from place to place. Tami eyed the nearly empty school playground and yanked at her mother’s hand.

  “Mommy, swings!”

  “Hush, Tami, Mommy’s busy.”

  Maureen spotted a marked-down crock-pot and released Tami’s hand to beat two other housewives to it. Finally free, Tami took advantage and made for the playground, away from the crowd and the noise as Maureen argued with her competitors.

  Tami wandered over to the swings, her boots crunching in the snow, and gave each one a push to watch it go back and forth. She noticed two boys, a couple of years older than her, next to the jungle gym on the other end of the playground. The boys beckoned Tami over and she shyly joined them.

  “You wanna see something really scary?” the larger of the two asked, frozen mucous crusted on his upper lip.

  Tami nodded, proud to be included in the activities of the older children. The smaller boy, a scarf wrapped around his lower face so that only his eyes could be seen, pointed a snow-covered mitten into the shadows underneath the jungle gym.

  “Tami!” Maureen called out over the crowd but the children paid no attention.

  Tami wasn’t quite able to make out what was on the ground. She slipped under the gym bars to get a closer look. The boys stayed right where they were.

  “Tami Sue Paulson!” Maureen yelled, more frantic and closer now.

  Tami finally got near enough for a good look at it and stopped right in her tracks. She put her mitten-covered thumb into her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers. Maureen, Crock-Pot tucked under one arm, marched over to the jungle gym.

  “Tami Sue Paulson, how many times do I have to tell you about wandering off-”

  Maureen stopped. The Crock-Pot fell from her hands and broke on the ground. Her face froze in mid-sentence for an instant, and then melted into a horrendous scream.

  The two boys gawked, shocked at the volume of noise the grown-up was able to produce. Tami didn’t even acknowledge her mother, just sucked her thumb and stared at the object, or rather objects, on the ground.

  In the shadows, a child’s foot lay, frozen and bare. Another foot, mate to the first, was also in the vicinity on the ground but at enough distance away to suggest that the two feet were no longer joined together by a body.

  Maureen screamed and screamed as her daughter simply sucked her own thumb, unable to look away from the pieces of a dead child’s body on the playground.

  2

  Special Agent Emma Kane forced herself to stop pacing and instead leaned against the dark sedan double-parked outside the auditorium on Eleventh Avenue. A few homeless people eyed her as they scavenged through the trash for empty cans and other forgotten treasures. She eyed them right back. She’d never liked New York City.

  Kane, thirty-three with dark hair, deep blue eyes and the natural build of an athlete, was considered by many to be an attractive woman, but Kane herself considered her looks, as well as those who considered her looks, to be of secondary importance in the grand scheme of things. Kane did what she could to underplay it, wore conservative clothes and shoes, avoided skirts and jewelry and of course never put on makeup. But she got attention anyway and hated it with every fiber of her being.

  Her right foot tapped on the ground several
times unconsciously like a mad puppet until she caught herself at it.

  Nerves, I’m nervous, Kane thought, I can’t be nervous. I’m on my first assignment and I’m about to meet a legend. Nervousness not allowed, she told herself.

  Kane reflected on her status as a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, effective all of six days. She was fresh from Quantico and didn’t want it to show. It wasn’t as though she were an untested rookie, after all. She was a seasoned investigator with a drawer full of citations and even a medal.

  A cop in DC for twelve years, she started out as a uniform and spent her last eight years as a detective in Homicide, where she’d done very well. Her rise in the ranks, even before The Van Incident, had been stellar due to her natural smarts and hard work. Peers whispered, behind Kan’s back, that her good fortune had as much to do with her physical attributes as her close rate, but that was just jealous bullshit gossip.

  Kane saw the smirks and heard the rumors, of course, but ignored them while systematically closing case after case. She loved the work, loved the long hours, most of all she loved being in the right, which was how she thought of the law. The law was about fighting for what was right, standing up for it no matter what. Once she’d made up her mind in regard to what was right and what was not, Kane was unbendable, which oftentimes put her at odds with her superiors.

  That attitude, Kane’s looks, her disinterest in socializing with other cops and her cold temper made her less than popular within the division. The rumor that she was on the fast track to Internal Affairs didn’t help, either.

  Though heavily recruited, Kane had no interest in IAD; she liked the street, but once tagged as IAD fodder, the label was hard to get rid of. She’d had three partners in her eight years in Homicide and hadn’t been close to any of them. Her first two partners were older married men and very careful not to get too familiar with her, lest it might lead to rumors that could wreck their marriages and careers.

  Her last partner was female and the worst of the bunch; she could barely speak to Kane without a sneer on her face. The woman, an experienced detective with the air of a tough biker grandmother, often acted offended by Kane’s very existence within the department. Kane shouldered it all, the snickers and whispered comments, her partner’s disdain, caught up in the work.

  This was all before The Van Incident, as she liked to refer to her last Homicide case in DC. It was easier for her to think of it that way, in her head it was always The Van Incident in capital letters; somehow that made it less raw and painful despite the acclaim and honor the case brought her.

  After The Van Incident, her partner no longer treated Kane with barely masked annoyance; her partner and almost everyone in her division looked at her with only guilt and pity. Kane preferred the annoyance and disdain. An opportunity to go federal presented itself during the media circus afterward and she leapt for it.

  And here she was, a federal officer.

  Kane spotted an object on the ground in the alley between the auditorium and the building next to it. It broke her out of her reverie and made her blood rush.

  The object appeared to be flesh-colored.

  Kane moved into the alley fast and headed for what looked like a small, bare white foot lying on the ground in the alley, covered in trash. Catching her breath, Kane crouched down and carefully moved the trash out of the way with a pen, revealing a broken toy doll, missing the other leg and foot.

  A toy. It was just a toy. Kane stared at it a moment and exhaled slowly. Jumpy, she thought, not only am I nervous, I’m also jumpy.

  Kane stood and walked back down the alley toward her sedan, frustrated with herself. Three tough-looking Hispanic men on their way down the sidewalk filled the alley exit to the street. They chattered back and forth with each other until they saw Kane standing in the alley. They stopped to stare. The largest whistled and the short one made an obscene gesture with his tongue.

  “Oh Mommy,” said the man in the middle. They didn’t move from where they stood, in essence blocking Kane’s way out.

  Kane shook her hair out of her eyes and continued out of the alley. The men didn’t move out of her way and Kane had to pass close as they openly leered. A small ball of anger and fear festered in the pit of her stomach. At the last second, before she stepped completely past them, the largest man winked to his friends, reached down and grabbed a handful of Kane’s ass.

  Kane grabbed the big man’s hand quick and twisted, putting him into a wristlock. He yelled in pain and went down on his knees. The two remaining men took a threatening step but the business end of Kane’s automatic pistol stopped them. The barrel of her gun shook, just a bit.

  “I don’t think your mothers would be very proud of you right at this moment,” Kane said. “But maybe they wouldn’t give a shit, because if this is the way you treat women, then they didn’t do a very good job of raising you.”

  “Fuck you,” spit one of the men, following that with a torrent of obscene Spanish.

  “Fuck you right back,” Kane replied in Spanish as she cocked her pistol. “Next time you get the urge to grab the ass of a woman you don’t know, bear in mind that she is also somebody’s daughter, somebody’s sister and someday somebody’s mother.

  “Would you like it if somebody grabbed your mother’s ass?” Kane twisted the big man’s wrist to underline her point and he grunted in pain.

  The men held up their hands and backed away slowly. Kane released the big guy and stepped back. He crawled away from her until he was able to stand and join his friends, rubbing his wrist painfully. Kane kept her weapon trained upon the three men.

  The point of her pistol wavered and shook noticeably. The men noticed, exchanged knowing grins with each other before they turned tail down the street.

  “Pricks,” Kane took a deep breath and holstered her weapon. She looked at her still-shaking weapon hand. She took another deep breath and gritted her teeth, willing the shakes to stop. Finally her hand stilled. Kane returned to the sedan.

  It’s kind of funny, she thought, I used to like pimp-slapping punks that deserve it. Punks like them. Not now.

  Now it just gave her the shakes.

  Now it only brought her back to a place she’d rather not recall.

  3

  Inside the auditorium, a silent but very engaged audience observed a massive chess tournament that had just begun. Two long rows of tables and chessboards ran parallel to each other on the auditorium floor, each board with its own player, seated on the outside, perched and ready to rumble, chess style.

  The Grandmaster, a spry old man with long grey hair held back in a ponytail, walked the center of the floor, going down one row of boards and up the other, making fast moves against opponents who were obviously no match for him.

  On his third lap around, near the end of the second row, the Grandmaster stopped, disturbed by the layout he saw on that particular board. The Grandmaster thought about it, and then slowly sat down at the chessboard to give the situation his full attention.

  An excited murmur raced through the audience. This never happened, the old man never sat down, never. Heads craned to see who the Grandmaster’s opponent was.

  Jacob Thorne watched the Grandmaster calmly from across the chessboard, chewing bubblegum. Thorne, in his late forties, was unremarkable in appearance, enough so that once you saw him you were apt to forget what he looked like almost immediately. Unless Thorne opened his mouth and spoke. Once he opened his mouth, he usually made a very memorable and lasting impression. Very pleased with himself, Thorne blew a bubble and winked at the Grandmaster.

  Come on, old man, Thorne thought. Come get the candy.

  Something caught Thorne’s attention up in the audience stands. A man in the bleachers stared plainly at Thorne and held up a large white tablet.

  Printed on it in black marker, the words “I NEED YOU.”

  Thorne shook his head at the man in the stands and focused back on the board. The Grandmaster finally made his move a
nd stood back up. Thorne countered immediately and the Grandmaster sat back down to consider the new situation.

  Thorne glanced up again. This time the tablet read: “IT’S IMPORTANT.”

  The Grandmaster made another move and Thorne countered immediately. The Grandmaster moved again and Thorne countered yet again, putting the Grandmaster on the run. The Grandmaster sat quietly a moment, stumped. Thorne didn’t want to look up at the audience but couldn’t help himself.

  On the tablet, the word “PLEASE” printed in very large letters. Thorne sighed and cursed silently under his breath. With a shrug, he tipped his king over and ceded the game to The Grandmaster. A murmur went through the watchful audience. The Grandmaster, surprised, stood and held out his hand to shake but was spurned as Thorne walked out of the auditorium without a backward glance.

  The man from the bleachers, Peter Viera, found Thorne waiting for him in the lobby. Viera held up the tablet again. It read “THANK YOU.”

  “Cute,” Thorne grunted. “Cute, deliberate and slick as shit. Ivy League nickel-and-dime-store pysch-fuckery, as usual.”

  “Worked though, didn’t it?” Viera tossed the tablet to one side.

  “We’ll see. What do you want? This better be important. You know how long I’ve been waiting to trap that gray-haired prick in there? This better be rock-star fucking important.”

  “Would I come all the way here by myself if it weren’t important?”

  “You might, yes.”

  “You haven’t returned our calls or emails. Most of the time we can’t even locate you.”