Skinwalkers Read online

  SKINWALKERS

  By Bear Hill

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Copyright 2013 / Bear Hill

  Cover design by: James E. Lyle

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Bear Hill’s loved a lot of women, but the only one who ever loved him back was his Mama. Beer and cigarettes are his favorite food. SKINWALKERS is his first novel. Look for his second book, BAD MOJO, to be released soon from Crossroad Press. You can now find Bear on Facebook and Twitter.

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  SKINWALKERS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I was drunk off my ass when Donovan DeChance strolled into my life, looking for the book you’re now reading. Now, I know what you’re thinking: DeChance is just a character in fiction. Well, I call bullshit on that. He’s as real as you or me. I know. I’ve met him. Here’s how it went down.

  I was in Chattanooga, my big bald ass putting the hurt on a barstool at Lamar’s while Gerald the bartender did the same to me, wielding whiskey as his weapon. The cigarette dangling from my goatee was hard at work, doing its part to add to the smoky cloud that always hovers over the place, refracting the shine of Christmas lights that hang year-round on wallpaper designed by a crack team of Martians and cowboys. The smell of the smoke mingled with that of the chicken frying in back—the latter being some of the best on the planet, much less the South. Billie Holiday was on the corner juke. Billie’s all right, I guess. Some of the old Blues that plays at Lamar’s is more my speed, though. But in this day and age, just so long it ain’t some ex-Mouseketeer, I don’t much complain.

  My cell phone rang, vibrating across the bar through puddles of condensation. I let it. It was the fifth call that night from a coed who’d slept with me for the same reason she’d pierced her nose and covered herself in tats: she still was trying to get Daddy’s attention any way she could. Sad, but not my problem, then or now.

  The phone rang again. This time, from another honey I kept on the side: one of those lonely, plastic housewives off Signal Mountain—the kind who wonders why her overweight daughter doesn’t love her. After all, when she makes comments, it’s for her daughter’s own good, right? Ha.

  I have a daughter. She’s in Europe, living with one of the few other women I’ve ever truly loved, her mother.

  Maria—her mother—and I had some good years. The best in my life. But for some reason, she left me for another when she found out she was pregnant with Gabby. I guess she figured a stable life for her and our daughter with a good man working a respectable and high-paying job was preferable to one with a moody, loud-mouthed ex-con who has a weakness for the bottle and a penchant for punching employers in the face.

  I know. She’s crazy, right?

  Anyway, as I was saying, it was thinking about Maria and Gabby that’d brought me to Lamar’s that night in the first place, so I wasn’t in the mood for tail. I shut my phone off, not wanting to be bothered. But of course, it’s when you want to be left alone that the universe will come throwing people at you left and right. And that’s exactly what it did.

  This tall emo with long, dark hair saddled up to the bar beside me. He was dressed to the nines. Looked like Loki from that Avengers movie—when he was in the long coat and scarf, ripping that dude’s eyeball out. Had the same mingling air of regality and creepiness about him.

  I’ve kicked a lot of men’s asses in my day. You have to growing up poor in the South. Fighting’s a way of life. So I’m used to violence the way most folks are used to having their morning coffee. But I’d be lying if I said this guy hadn’t gotten my hackles up.

  He caught Gerald’s attention and gestured to my glass. “Another whiskey for my friend, Mister—?“

  “Mr. Hill,“ I said. “But folks call me Bear.“

  “But I don’t know you.“ I ground out my cigarette in one of the ashtrays riding the bar. “And while I appreciate the whiskey, I’m certainly not your friend.“ There I went again, winning hearts and minds to the cause that is Bear Hill.

  He peered down at me, his eyes flashing with what at the time I thought was the reflection of the out-of-season Christmas lights. “My name is Donovan DeChance.“

  Gerald placed a newbie soldier in front of me. “Well, here’s to you, Donnie!“ I downed the amber liquid in a single gulp and wiped my salt-and-pepper goatee with the back of my hand. “You’re not a queer are you, Donnie? I’m flattered, but that’s not the way my teeter totters, if you know what I’m saying.“

  Irritation pressed its way through the tall man’s lips in the form of a thin stream of air.

  “I mean, it’s cool with me if you got sugar in your tank,“ I continued. “My sister’s a dike, and I fucking love her to pieces.“

  DeChance shook his head. “Mr. Hill…“

  “Bear. Call me Bear. Like I said, most folks do.“

  “Bear, I’ve traveled a long way to be here, tonight. A very long way. And I have something important—“

  Something struck the back of my head and DeChance’s words fell away. I tumbled like an avalanche from my barstool and smacked the floor. I rose up on my hands, the room pulsing in time with the jackhammer extending from my skull.

  I looked up and saw Rudy Velasquez standing over me, a metal napkin dispenser with a dent the size and shape of my crown held in his hand. Rudy’s no hoss like me. But he closes for the Lookouts—the local minor league team. So needless to say, the boy has an arm on him.

  “Hey, Rudy.“

  “Goddamn you, Bear! She’s my fucking wife!“

  The moment the dispenser left Rudy’s hand, I knew it was a strike. I would’ve asked him why he couldn’t do that against the Nashville Sounds, but someone decided to turn the lights out.

  When I awoke, it was to the mingling smells of fresh coffee and pie. I felt a dull ache in my head, as much from the whiskey as Ruby’s fastball. In either case, the pain wasn’t half the white-hot poker it should’ve been.

  My eyes opened and the water-stained ceiling of my efficiency apartment greeted them. I heard the sound of liquid pouring and turned my head to see Donovan DeChance in my kitchenette, his coat off and his sleeves rolled up as he emptied coffee into a mug brandishing the Hooters logo.

  Hey. What can I say? I’m all classy and shit.

  I sat up on my Goodwill-appropriated couch and the room spun. But only a little.

  “Good,“ DeChance said. “You’re awake. I made coffee.“ Mug in hand, he took a seat at the table and chairs serving as the efficiency’s only other articles of furniture. “And pie.“

  My eyes found the pie I’d smelled. It rested on the table beside an expectant fork and saucer. I stood with a groan, and waited for the room to solidify. When it did, I stumbled to the table and took a seat.

  DeChance carved out a wedge of pie, and I seized my fork in anticipation, my mouth watering.

  “What happened with Rudy?“

  DeChance slipped the pie onto my plate. “I convinced him there were better ways to handle his…disagreement with you.

  “How’s your head?“

  I chopped off the tip of the
pie wedge with my fork. “Not too bad.“ An idea seized me. “That your doing?“

  DeChance nodded.

  “Damn. Thanks, man.“

  I stuffed the pie into my mouth, and it was a flavor explosion. “Holy shit, dude. Is that…?“ I chewed, savoring the morsel. “Is that a fucking sugar cookie crust I’m tasting?“

  Another nod.

  “You’re a master.“ I swigged coffee and swallowed another mouthful of pie. If the first bite had been delicious, the second was heaven turned inside-out. “Donnie, you keep making me pies like this, and I might turn queer for you after all.“

  DeChance exhaled and rubbed the spot where his nose met his forehead.

  I tend to have that effect on people.

  I emptied the mug and gobbled up the rest of the pie.

  “I read your book.“

  I dropped my fork and swallowed hard, the last of the pie vanishing down my throat. My eyes cut to the small safe in the room’s corner. The safe stood wide open despite no one but myself knowing its combination.

  “I see you’re somewhat of a dinosaur. No laptop. No thumb drive. No printed pages. That’s good.“

  I lasered in on DeChance. The brown accordion folder containing my handwritten manuscript, notes, and research materials now rested in his hands, having appeared there as if by magic.

  An ocean of dizziness washed over me and the room spun. Apparently, I wasn’t as okay as I’d first thought.

  “Your novel is as about as couth as you yourself,“ he said. “But it’s a real page-turner. I’ll give you that.“

  I shook my head, trying to regain my bearings. “How did you—?“

  “The same way I’ve stayed alive for the past two-hundred-plus years, Bear.“ DeChance leaned over the table. His dark eyes flashed with violet light and the room became a spinning top. “I’ve been looking for what’s now bound to your book ever since I came upon the remains of the ghost town you’ve written about.“

  My head began to lower of its own accord. “The pie…you …you drugged me, you…sonofabitch.“

  “Yes. But it was the coffee.“

  DeChance smiled. “I’d never ruin a good pie. And I only drugged your coffee because I had to. You exorcised most of the demon I came looking for when you wrote this book. But there’s still some of it lurking inside you. I can see it.“

  My cheek touched the cool faux wood of the table top. “You’re…fucking …nuts.“

  “Hush,“ DeChance said. “Sleep now. I would spare you what comes next.“

  And sleep I did.

  But I dreamed. Nightmares coursed through my head. Visions of DeChance and something…something other…locked in a battle of life and death, the two of them laying waste to my apartment as the pages of my manuscript swirled around them.

  When I awoke the second time, the efficiency was as right as it ever was, but DeChance was gone. So were my manuscript and research materials.

  This note was left in their wake:

  Bear,

  I have defeated the demon. It will hinder you no more, provided you make no further attempt to tell the story of the ill-fated town of Perdition, New Mexico, or the horrors that once walked its streets.

  Please heed my words. Do not unleash this tale of woe upon the world. It has claimed far too many souls already. If it were to ever be published en masse, I shudder to think of the havoc and destruction that would result.

  But take heart. As I said, if you will put this book behind you, the demon will no longer dog your steps.

  As for the other monsters residing in your heart, I’m afraid you’re on your own.

  Sincerely,

  Donovan DeChance

  PS – Glad you liked the pie.

  I cursed and crumbled up the letter within the palm of my fist. I dressed and headed out for the lockbox I keep at the Regions Bank downtown. I got there and breathed a sigh of relief when I opened the lockbox and saw the copies I’d made of my manuscript and research materials.

  I might not use a computer, but I’m no fool. Anyway, after my run-in with DeChance, I’m beginning to think a laptop and a Dropbox account might not be such a bad idea after all. But I digress.

  Time to get back to right here, right now.

  On that note, I’ve given you fair warning—told you what DeChance had to say about this book and its accompanying materials.

  If you keep reading, it’s on you, and only you. Not me. Not David Niall Wilson. And certainly not the rest of the team at Crossroad Press.

  Still here?

  All right, then.

  Strap on your six-shooters. We’re saddling up and heading out into the Weird West.

  I promise you it will be one hell of a ride.

  Giddy up,

  Bear Hill

  Chattanooga, TN

  October 2012

  From an Old West wanted poster …

  $500 Reward!

  We will pay five hundred dollars for the arrest and extradition of

  J.T. FARNSWORTH,

  Alias, THE PROFESSOR,

  Five feet seven or eight inches high, 155 to 165 lbs. weight, 26 years of age, blue-gray eyes, dark, curly hair, usually clean-shaven, wears spectacles and bowler hat and suit. He claims he is a writer of books.

  He is wanted on several counts of horse thievery and adultery. The above reward will be paid for his arrest and extradition to Santa Fe, New Mexico; previous rewards as regards him are withdrawn.

  ANY INFORMATION LEADING TO HIS APPREHENSION WILL BE REWARDED.

  Address

  ALLEN PINKERTON

  191 AND 193 Fifth Ave.

  CHICAGO, ILLNOIS

  Or

  SHERIFF JOHN LADD

  21 East Main St.

  SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

  Chapter 1

  GHOST RIDERS

  J.T. Farnsworth was enjoying a five-dollar poke when he felt fingers of iron entwine his hair. Before Farnsworth could do anything to prevent it, the hand wrenched him from his paid company and slung him across the room.

  “God damn it!“ The paid company in question yanked up the yellowed sheets of the bed, covering her slight breasts. “Wait your fucking turn! Christ Almighty!“

  The hand that had held Farnsworth’s hair moved itself to his throat and lifted him to his feet.

  “J.T. Farnsworth.“ The voice was a rockslide. “I’m here to collect the bounty on you. We can do this easy, or we can do this hard. Your choice. Ain’t no never mind to me.“

  J.T. looked up and saw the biggest, meanest black man he’d ever laid eyes on. His assailant had a week-old beard and wore a large, weather-worn Stetson and Duster.

  “My good sir,“ Farnsworth rasped, “there is no need for violence. I am your most humble servant.“

  “Uh-huh,“ the bounty hunter said. “Don’t fuck with me, Professor. You behave yourself if I let go?“

  J.T. nodded. The bounty hunter relaxed his grip.

  “Get dressed,“ the bounty hunter commanded. J.T. stepped into his trousers, pulling the attached suspenders over his bare chest.

  “I don’t suppose there is any chance we might be able to palaver on this issue as gentlemen?“ Farnsworth placed his bowler on his head and stepped inside his boots, “Perhaps reaching an agreement amicable to all parties concerned—?“

  The bounty hunter snarled and shifted his duster to show Farnsworth the large black revolver at his hip. Farnsworth’s eyes ran the length of the bounty hunter’s torso. The revolver’s twin jutted from the opposite side of the bounty hunter’s gun belt, its grip facing outward.

  “You can carry the rest of your clothes. Put these on.“ The bounty hunter tossed Farnsworth a pair of rusted irons.

  Farnsworth snatched them from the air with one hand as he massaged his throat with the other.

  “Hey, God damn it!“ the girl said, “He still owes me money, you fucking cock—!“

  Farnsworth took advantage of the distraction to sling the irons at the bounty hunter’s head. The black m
an dodged right to avoid the projectile, leaving J.T. an open path to the room’s door. Farnsworth bolted through and made for the stairs leading down to the saloon. He was about to make his descent when he felt the pointed toe of a boot separate his ass cheeks. The kick sent J.T. tumbling down the staircase, his bowler hat lost somewhere along the way.

  Farnsworth smacked the saloon’s sawdust-covered floor and the wind left his lungs. Before J.T. could catch his breath, he felt well over two hundred pounds of bone and muscle digging into his back and yanking his arms behind him.

  The cool irons clamped over J.T.’s wrists, tearing his skin. The pain helped Farnsworth find enough air to yell.

  “Get up.“ The bounty hunter jerked Farnsworth to his feet, all pretense of civility gone. The bounty hunter shoved Farnsworth’s clothes back into his cuffed hands.

  The saloon’s patrons watched in silence as the bounty hunter dragged Farnsworth to the establishment’s swinging doors.

  “Sir,“ Farnsworth said, “if you intend to continue in this course of action, I’m quite afraid I shall be forced to take—!“

  “Shut up,“ the bounty hunter said without breaking stride.

  “Very well. Let the consequences be upon your head, sir.

  “Fifty dollars to whoever rids me of this Pinkerton errand boy!“

  The bounty hunter struck Farnsworth across the back of his skull. “I said, shut up!“

  Farnsworth shook his head, clearing it. “One hundred dollars. Gentlemen, I beseech you! I am an innocent man!“

  A fat, bearded prospector who’d been drinking himself into a stupor for quite some time traded sidelong glances with his fellow card players. The prospector began to rise from his seat. The bounty hunter’s revolver appeared and took a bead on his nose.