I had been to the Unger property once as a child. Malachi’s mother had insisted on escorts to go clean out her father’s belongings. My mother, Malachi, and I had gone with her. She had literally quaked with fear the entire time we were there. After a few hours, she decided it wasn’t worth the effort and just sold the house with all the contents still in it.
Tennyson Unger hadn’t been a serial killer. He’d been a brutal sadist. From what I remembered, his only pleasure came when he was beating something. The only time I had met him had been at Malachi’s house. He’d kicked the family dog and slapped Malachi’s younger brother. This had led to Malachi being horsewhipped and his grandfather going to jail for a short time. The incident didn’t make Tennyson Unger any easier to get along with, it made it worse. Malachi’s family cut complete contact with him. He died alone, with a dog, that he had abused and because Karma is entertained by suffering, it took six days for a neighbor to find him, by then the dog had found he was a decent food source.
The property might have changed hands, but it looked the same. The house was still rundown. It needed more than a few coats of paint. The porch looked dangerous. The shutters were hanging at odd angles or missing completely. The roof had patches on it. The yard was dead, not just dormant for winter, but obviously dead. It was mud, missing the customary dead crunchy grass that happened during a Missouri winter.
The house set about three hundred yards from the road. However, the property itself was massive. Tennyson Unger had been a farmer and he’d been paranoid. A thick grove of trees with a dirt road lead to the fields he had once plowed. There were a couple of barns and out buildings on the property, but I had never seen them.
A large double door with stained windows stared at us. However, the door, like the house, was old and worn. One side was slightly crooked, its weight resting against its companion. If it was locked, the entire thing would probably come crashing down out of the frame if we used brute force against it. Of course, we only used brute force, none of us knew the art of picking a lock.
We didn’t force the door. Instead we stood in the cold, waiting for Gabriel to make a decision. We could go storming into the house or we could search around for the outbuildings and see what goodies they contained. Experience had taught us that serial killers with outbuildings were bad. It gave them space to work with less risk of being caught. It also gave them a more secure location to hide their trophies. Cellars were the second worst thing a serial killer could own. Weapons were bad, but it really was all about location.
“Cain, Reece, head down the path and see what you find. Bryan and I will take the house,” Gabriel pointed with his head, one hand already on the butt of his gun. I didn’t bother with the formality of pretending I might not need it. I drew mine as Xavier and I began to walk.
“I’m starting to enjoy these little treks through the wilderness with you,” Xavier whispered.
“I hate woods,” I told him. “It’s too easy to hide in them.” I looked at the barren branches. It was a little harder to hide in winter, but it was still possible. My ears listened for noises other than our footsteps. Gabriel and John could be heard, searching for a way into the house that didn’t require them to climb the porch of death.
Xavier drew his gun and put his arm out. I stopped. He pointed. Through the barren trees, I could see a large barn. It was in much better shape than the house. It hadn’t been painted, but it just seemed better kept. The doors weren’t on this side, instead there was a large heating and air conditioning unit. It was weird finding meters running to a house that still bore blood stains, it was creepy to find a barn with a heating and air unit. Especially one as large as this. It wasn’t the normal house model. I didn’t know much about heating or air conditioning units, but I’d bet a pizza it was industrial sized.
We took a few more steps and another building came into view. This one was smaller. The clapboard had been painted, it wasn’t peeling or fading. It looked like a small barn that had been converted into a house. I frowned and stopped.
“What?” Xavier asked.
“The house is a decoy,” I pointed at the second building. “That’s his living quarters.”
“Why?”
“Would you live three hundred yards from the road if you were theoretically dead?”
“No,” Xavier agreed.
“I don’t know what the hell is in the barn, but that smaller building is where he lives. We should wait for Gabriel and John.”
“How do you keep a jaguar in Missouri in winter? You heat it up,” Xavier motioned towards the large unit. “That thing would cook a turkey in a house. Jaguars are tropical. It would stay warm enough.”
“Tropical and subtropical,” I corrected off-handedly, my attention drawn to the ground. There were no tire tracks, but I hadn’t seen a car or truck at the house. A gas station attendant had said he came in regularly to fill up his truck. I took a step backwards, towards a tree. Xavier walked with me, unsure of my intentions, but trusting me. When my back was against the base of a large tree, I slid down it, ending in a crouch. Xavier mimicked me.
“Nothing in the house,” Gabriel’s voice crackled in my ear. “Not even food.”
“Have someone find out if there is a second entrance to this property,” I said back. “Also, I think he lives behind the trees. Don’t come down the road.”
“Where are we going?” Xavier whispered as I stood up.
“To the barn. I bet there’s an entrance at the back,” I whispered, darting across the path and into the trees. My feet moved on their own, avoiding as much debris as possible. We still sounded like a herd of elephants. I missed Lucas, he could have snuck up on the place quiet as a church mouse.
Gabriel and John joined us at the back of the barn. We had seen and heard them coming. They were quiet, but not silent, it was hard to sneak through the woods, especially in winter.
There was a backdoor. It was a small house door. It looked like it had been added after the land changed hands.
Gingerly, I touched the knob. It was locked. I had a bad feeling about forcing it open. Too much noise when we didn’t know what was on the other side or where the occupants of the living quarters were. Gabriel sighed and stepped forward. He produced something that looked like a Swiss Army knife from his pocket. After a few seconds, the doorknob turned. I frowned at him as I pushed it open and entered.
Instinct replaced thought when I entered what could be a serial killer’s lair. It did so now. My eyes took in the cage, the smell, the large rocks, the fake cave, the lush trees and bushes, but my mind didn’t process all of it. Instead, my free hand grabbed my Taser. A shadow darted past me.
I yanked the door shut before anyone could follow me. It slammed hard in the frame. Another shadow moved. Outside, I could hear the men moving, shouting. The door slamming gave us away. I backed up against the cold steel door that I knew we shouldn’t have opened. The first shadow was fast, moving at incredible speed as it shot past me. My brain kicked in. I had just shut myself in a cage with two jaguars. I couldn’t make out the second, it stayed in the shadows, but few things could share a space with a jaguar. I was betting this was a mother and her offspring. I was in her territory and she was not happy.
It leapt at me, coming from my side. My arm swung and the Taser prongs shot out of it. The creature let out a whimper as it fell limply to the ground, twitching. The next sound was human, a loud scream, I shifted my attention. Outside the cage was a young girl, she looked to be around eight. Her hands were bound above her head and she dangled a few inches off the ground.
A low growl and movement caught my attention. The creature nearly blindsided me, hitting my arm still. My Taser skittered across the floor and I tumbled to the ground with it on top of me. I put my gun to where I thought the head should be and stopped. The eyes were human. The teeth that clamped onto my arm were also human. They were dull and tore at the skin instead of puncturing it. She gnawed at my wrist.
Her hair was long, dirty, and matted. Her face and body were scarred. She was completely nude. I understood the human teeth marks suddenly. I punched her in the face with my other hand. Her hands tore at me, digging into my sides. I punched her again, this time her teeth loosened and she let out a guttural noise that didn’t sound human.
I dropped the Beretta. She wouldn’t know how to use it and I didn’t think shooting her was the answer. Twisting beneath her, I gained leverage and flipped her over onto her side. She grunted, but kept attacking. I punched her in the face again. Her nose broke and blood began oozing from her mouth. This time when she bit me, her front teeth dislodged from her gums and became imbedded in my arm.
“Damn it!” I screamed at her, rolling over and on top of her. I pushed up on her chin, forcing her head back. My other hand attempted to secure her wrists. Her ability to fight me off was startling. I planted all my weight on her chest and moved my hand to her throat. My fingers tightened, her face began to turn red. She stopped digging at my side and clawed at my hand. I didn’t let up, but I had a free hand now. I dug out handcuffs and put one on a flailing wrist.
This was the worst thing I could have done. She freaked out. Her hands no longer clawed at me, trying to get me to release my grip on her throat. They now searched for my face and long nails raked down the side of cheek. The red began to turn a mottled purple. I was hoping she’d pass out soon. She didn’t. Her instinct to survive kept her fighting. I finally released my grip, worried I’d strangle her. She gasped, gulping in air, while trying to throw me off of her.
I grabbed hold of the handcuff and yanked it, feeling her arm give at the socket. My hands stung as I twisted around and slipped the other cuff onto her ankle. Her free hand dug into my hair and scraped down my back. I jumped off of her. She wiggled on the ground, trying to free herself and attack me. I reached down and grabbed a handful of hair, bringing her close to me.
“I don’t know if you understand me, but if you do, stop fighting. I’m not here to hurt you,” I told her. She stared back at me, her body becoming motionless. “My name is Aislinn Cain, I’m a US Marshal.”
She grunted at me. I hoped like hell she understood me. I stood back up, picked up my gun and holstered it. As I grabbed my Taser, she bit my leg. The prongs hit her in the back and I felt the surge of the electricity as it danced up my leg. Saliva is a great conductor of electricity. It wasn’t enough to make me flop, but it tingled. It caused her to bite down harder, my leg was probably the only thing that kept her from biting off her tongue or slamming her jaws together hard enough to break out more teeth.
I stopped the flow and looked at her. Slowly, I realized I recognized her. Horror crept over me. August Clachan was going to die.