Doppelganger Read online

  He got his gun ready but couldn’t move into a position where he could see in the direction the sound was coming from. It really didn’t matter though. It was so dark the deer would almost have to climb into the stand and introduce itself before he’d see it.

  The sound seemed to move to a position directly behind the tree, not too far away from the stand itself. It stopped there for quite some time.

  Damn, it must’ve smelled me, Johnny Paul thought.

  Then he heard it move again. It was coming directly toward the stand at a steady pace.

  Johnny Paul was confused. It still seemed to move more like an animal than a clumsy man, but he could swear he was hearing the steady movement of a man’s footsteps rather than the fluid tempo movement of a four-legged creature.

  The mysterious sound moved right up to the tree, then began to slowly make its way around to Johnny Paul’s right. Johnny Paul shifted to a left-handed grip on his rifle. He’d practiced shooting left-handed a few times, but he had never brought down a deer this way. However, a right-handed grip wouldn’t allow him to fire to his right without shifting his body, which could scare off the deer — if in fact it was a deer. Besides, at this range how could he miss? He took aim and waited.

  “Johnny Paul, what in the name of Sam Hill are you doing here?” a familiar voice asked as a human shape stepped from around the tree.

  Johnny Paul was stumped. It was too dark for him to make out the face, but the voice sounded very familiar. It could be one of the game wardens — he knew them all by name and they certainly knew him — but he was sure a game warden wouldn’t be addressing him in such a friendly manner.

  “Who’s there?” Johnny Paul asked, lowering his rifle.

  “Yo mama, that’s who,” the shape answered. “It’s Alan, shit-for-brains.”

  Johnny Paul, couldn’t quite make out the face, but he could plainly see the outline of Alan Craft’s scraggly beard.

  Johnny Paul was really confused now. He’d been partying with Alan earlier in the night. Alan had caught his seventeen-year-old live-in, Tory Leeman, talking on the phone with her ex-boyfriend, and beat the hell out of her. He then went over to Rick’s and proceeded to drink an entire half-gallon of vodka by himself. By the time Johnny Paul had shown up at Rick’s, Alan was over halfway finished with the bottle and was describing to everybody who would listen how he was going to put a pistol in Tory’s mouth and pull the trigger if he ever caught her talking to that son-of-a-bitch again. By midnight Alan had finished the bottle. He had thrown up all over the kitchen, bathroom, and living room before he finally, mercifully passed out. There was just no way he could have recovered from that kind of a drunk in just a few hours and followed Johnny Paul to Newton.

  But, here he was.

  “Alan?” Johnny Paul asked. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Just seein’ if you wanted to tilt a few back with me.”

  “How the hell did you find me?” Johnny Paul asked, leaning closer for a better look.

  Suddenly something struck him in the mouth, hard. His left cheek was split open in three deep cuts. One of these gouges extended his mouth from its original corner to the hinges of the jaw bone. All of his teeth on that side were knocked out. The momentum of the blow slammed Johnny Paul’s head against the tree. The pain was excruciating. His mouth was mangled and ruined, yet he managed to scream quite loudly.

  Despite the unstable nature of the stand, the blow didn’t instantly knock Johnny Paul out of the tree. His head still swimming from the blow, he toppled out a second after his scream had pierced the night air. He fell to the ground, bringing the wooden platform with him. The fall was a lucky one, however, as the beast had just lunged for him. It swung, but caught nothing but air.

  As soon as Johnny Paul hit the ground, he scrambled to his feet and started running. Still holding the rifle in his left hand, he aimed it blindly behind him as he ran, firing it with one hand, like a pistol. The recoil caused the rifle to jump over his head, but he managed to hold on to it.

  The bright muzzle flash caused a blue spot to dance before his his eyes, adding to his blindness. He could only hope that whatever was out there was having the same problem. He continued crashing through the woods until his shoulder collided with a tree, sending him sprawling. For a while he lay where he fell. He tasted his own blood and his tongue ventured gingerly over his ruined jaw and along the edge of the split in his cheek. Johnny Paul held his breath and listened, but all he could hear was the sound of his own sobs as he began to break down. Terror took hold and his sobbing increased until he was bawling like a baby.

  Then he heard something moving. He fought off his panic and once again held his breath. He listened.

  The sound came again. Something was moving slowly through the underbrush directly behind him — stalking him.

  When Johnny Paul had collided with the tree, he’d dropped his rifle. Now he frantically patted the pinestraw around him, searching for his lost gun.

  The sound grew much louder. Something was approaching at a very fast pace.

  Johnny Paul gave up his search for the gun, clamored to his feet, and took off running again. He made no more than two steps before a powerful force hit him in the back. He fell to the ground face first. There was a tremendous pain between his shoulders. He tried to rise, but something was on top of him. He heard a horrible crunching sound as the beast savagely bit the back of his neck.

  * * *

  The next morning, Tom Webster came strolling down the little path to his deer stand. As he approached, he saw that his little platform had been knocked down. At first he thought maybe a strong gust of wind had blown the platform out of the tree, but when he picked the platform up, he found blood. He looked around and found quite a bit of blood around the tree. Then he climbed his makeshift ladder up to the limbs that had supported his stand; he found even more blood up against the tree trunk.

  He got back down from the tree and stood over the fallen platform. Rubbing his chin, he thought, What in the hell did this?

  Then it dawned on him what it had to be. “Aw, Hell!” Tom cursed, removing his camouflaged cap and throwing it to the ground.

  He’d heard stories of tree-hugging Yankee liberals who would sneak into the woods and sabotage a man’s hunting stand, but he’d never figured he’d be one of their victims. His stand was ruined now. The hippies had put blood all over the tree and the platform, and they’d probably pissed all over the clearing. The fat deer he’d been seeing over the last couple of months would never show back up now that human-smell was all over the area.

  After a short barrage of cussing, Tom trudged back to his pickup and headed home.

  Tom Webster had never been accused of being very bright.

  Chapter 8

  A Reason to Live

  Greg had been given two weeks off to let his ribs heal, but in light of the fact that there had been two unsolved killings in less than a week, Bill asked him to come back to work as soon as he could. Besides, in order to give James some time to himself, Greg had already been spending a considerable amount of his time off at the Sheriff’s Department. Greg went back to work on Sunday, six days after the incident at James’ house. After he finished his shift at six in the morning, Greg was called into Bill’s office.

  For a man to be as much of a stickler for detail as Sheriff Bill Oates was, his office was a wreck. The only furniture was a small metal desk with a cheap office chair behind it, a large filing cabinet, and two folding metal chairs in front of the desk for guests; two more chairs were folded up behind the door in case they were needed. Noticeably absent from Bill’s desk was a computer. There was a computer in the squad room, but Bill didn’t know how to use it and wasn’t going to learn (by God). In place of the computer that was so customary in other sheriff’s offices throughout the nation were stacks of paper, some loose, and some in manila folders. There were a few pictures on the walls of prize cows he had bought at 4-H auctions throughout the years, a few pictures o
f himself and some of the older Texas Rangers (the police force, not the baseball team), one cluttered bulletin board that couldn’t possibly hold another single message, and one small, extremely old, picture of his wife, Faye. The biggest picture however, was directly behind his chair; it was an enlarged reprint of an old brown and white photo of Lieutenant Jonathon Oates of the Texas Rangers, Bill’s grandfather.

  “Have a seat, Greg.” Bill motioned to one of the steel chairs. Greg took his seat, and Bill continued. “I need to ask you a few more things about your friend James.” Bill’s chair squeaked loudly as he leaned back and Bill propped his boots up on the corner of his desk. “How well do you know the boy?”

  “I’ve known him since he moved here back in eighty-six. We’ve been friends since grade school.”

  “Well, Greg, I’m gonna get right down to the point. James was the only person at the scene when you arrived at his house the other day, and he promptly shot you. That certainly makes him a suspect in the case.”

  Greg started to say something, but Bill raised his hand dismissively. “I know, I know, we’ve been over all that. I know Chad was the one who screwed up there, but it doesn’t change the fact that he fired at one of my boys. And one who happened to be a close friend of his to boot.”

  “Bill, we’ve gone over this. I mean, can you imagine the shock of ...”

  Bill raised his hand again and interrupted, “I know we’re coverin’ old territory here, but something else has come up. Someone saw his truck out at Sharon Perrett’s place the day after she was killed.”

  Greg was stuck. He knew James was right not to tell Bill about the visions; the old sheriff was too hard-headed to believe something like that. But how could he explain James’ presence out at Sharon’s?

  “Maybe he was curious, Greg ventured. “I know of a lot of people who drove by to have a look. You know how it is, everybody’s talking, everybody’s curious.”

  “Oh, I know. Hell, the busybody who reported seeing him had no business down that road either, but then again everybody that lived in her house didn’t show up butchered five days later. I just thought I needed to tell you; James is our only suspect right now.”

  “James didn’t kill them,” Greg said bluntly.

  Bill shrugged, but didn’t reply. Despite the fact that his boots were casually resting on the desk, Bill didn’t look comfortable in the least. Something was weighing heavily on his mind. “I also want to make a suggestion. Mind you, I’m suggestin’ this as a friend, not as your boss.” Bill took his hat off and set it on his desk, then ran his fingers through his thinning hair while he tried to think of what to say. Greg couldn’t help but notice that without his hat on, Bill looked considerably older. “I don’t think you ought to have James in your house.”

  “Bill, he doesn’t have anyone else to turn to.”

  “Greg, you may not want to admit it, but there is a very good chance that he could be our killer. Think of your wife and kid, for Christ’s sake.”

  “James is not a killer.”

  Bill’s cheeks turned red, his boots came off the desk, and he leaned forward, “Goddamn it Greg. Then at least send Sandy and Carissa somewhere else while he’s there. Hell, they can come stay with me and Faye. But, I don’t think ... ”

  This time it was Greg’s turn to interrupt, “Bill, I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of my own family,” he said in a sharp tone that startled himself every bit as much as it surprised Bill.

  Without a word, Bill eased his stance, leaning slowly back into his chair. However, he didn’t break eye contact and his eyes remained as hard as ever. They sat there staring at each other for about ten seconds. It seemed like forever to Greg.

  “If it makes you feel better, James is only supposed to stay for a week or two,” Greg said, finally breaking the silence.

  Bill nodded then put his hat back on. After another brief pause he said. “Well, I guess that’s all then.”

  As Greg walked out the door from Bill’s office, he felt strangely guilty about snapping at the old sheriff. He thought about thanking the old sheriff for his concern for his family, but thought better of it. It would only make Bill feel uncomfortable.

  * * *

  On the same morning Greg was called into Bill’s office, James was sitting on Greg’s couch watching TV. James sighed heavily, picked up the remote, and turned the television off. He looked at the clock: 4:23 a.m. James then glanced at the small suitcase in the corner that he had been living out since the funeral six days ago. With another sigh, James got up and walked into the kitchen. He found a post-it note and a pen and wrote a simple message:

  Greg,

  I’ve gone home.

  Thanks for everything.

  James

  James then got his bag and started out the door, sticking the note on the front door where he was sure Greg would see it.

  He didn’t bother telling Sandy “bye.”

  When James got in his pickup, he was actually surprised to find his keys in the ignition. It was common enough to leave your keys in your car when you lived out in the country — there aren’t exactly hoards of car-thieving gangs in small towns like Newton, Texas — but Greg had been so adamant about him staying James had about half expected his keys to have been hidden.

  James fired up the pickup, backed out of the driveway, and headed home. Oddly enough, James was happy to be going home. His spirits picked up a little as he drove and even lifted a little more as he pulled into the familiar driveway.

  Lady came out to greet him, wagging her tail furiously. She had obviously been out prowling when the incident occurred. James got out of the truck and perched down on the ground. She ran to him practically bouncing with joy. James scratched her behind her ears and said, “Some watchdog you are.” He managed a little laugh in spite of the morbidity of the joke.

  James unlocked the door. He reached to open it, then stopped, Oh God, I hope they’ve cleaned up the blood. I don’t know if I could take that. Then he remembered Greg saying that he and Darren had cleaned his house the morning of the funeral.

  James opened the door and hesitantly looked down. No blood.

  James stepped through the doorway. The house was surprisingly clean. Well, they’re not maids, but they did a pretty good job, James thought, looks like they even vacuumed the carpet.

  Passing though the kitchen, James saw that the dishes had even been cleaned and put away.

  James looked at the empty kitchen table. He remembered Jimmy’s sixth birthday party. It had only been five weeks ago. About half a dozen children from Jimmy’s first grade class, and Angie’s cousin Heather’s two little girls were all packed on one side of the table for James to take their picture. They looked like Leonardo Da Vinci’s The Last Supper, done using smiling six-year-olds, with Jimmy playing the part of Jesus. Angie had been the one adult in the picture. She was kneeling down behind Jimmy, so that her smiling face was just above his shoulder. She had a beautiful smile that always seemed to light up a room. Jimmy was in the middle blowing out his candles. His mouth was puckered in an “O,” but his eyes were smiling brightly. James remembered Jimmy opening his presents, grinning and laughing each time he would tear into a package. He remembered Jimmy running around for the rest of the afternoon wearing the football helmet Greg had bought him. He remembered sitting on the back porch with Angie while they watched the kids run and play in the yard. He had been holding her hand. Her left hand. The one with the ring. The one he still saw lying in the doorway covered with blood every time he closed his eyes.

  James tore himself away from the painful memories and started down the hall to his room. He kept expecting Jimmy to burst out of his room and start barraging him with the endless supply of questions six-year-olds seem to have at their disposal. He expected Angie to meet him at his door and ask how his day had been, or for her to greet him at the door without saying a word, wearing only a towel. Walking down the hall James noticed the sound of his boots on the old hardwood floor. The
y had lived there for years, and he had never noticed how loud it was. The sound even seemed to echo as he walked toward his bedroom.

  The house sounded so empty.

  James reached the bedroom door and hesitated, then he opened the door and went on in. It had dawned on Greg what a shock it would be when James finally returned to his now empty home scattered with various painful memories, so he and Darren had done their best to hide most of Angie’s things from plain sight. But the effort proved in vain. When James went into the bedroom and turned on the light, the sight of the empty bed brought tears to his eyes. He remembered Angie’s touch, her smell. He remembered holding her and wished he could hold her again. He left the bedroom without putting up his things. He could live out of a suitcase for one more day.

  As James went down the hall he sped up when he passed by Jimmy’s room. He knew he couldn’t handle that yet. No, there was no way he could look on Jimmy’s toys, his clothes, and those boots just like Daddy’s that he’d wanted so bad and gotten last Christmas.

  James went into the kitchen to put his medicine in the cabinet. Then he stopped, looked at the bottle, and walked over to the kitchen garbage can and threw them away.