Savage Species Read online

  Charly squeezed her daughter. “You and Olivia go back downstairs, honey. We’ll eat in a little while.”

  Kate darted away and escaped through the basement door, but Olivia moved very slowly, her large brown eyes—Eric’s eyes—never leaving her father.

  Eric was shaking his head and pacing about the kitchen. You asshole, Charly thought. How about you try loving them, too?

  “You plan on doing that when she gets in school?” Eric said, his voice echoing through the kitchen. “Shielding her whenever she misbehaves?”

  “Her teachers won’t overreact the way you do.”

  “Then they aren’t doing their job.”

  “It’s kindergarten, Eric, not the Marines.”

  “Keep coddling her, see where it—”

  The doorbell sounded. Eric got that look in his eyes, the one he reserved for referees who made calls against his team. “Good,” he said. “About time he showed up.”

  “Please don’t be rude to him.”

  “Oh no,” Eric said, moving through the kitchen doorway. “We wouldn’t want to hurt your boyfriend’s feelings.”

  Charly hugged Jake, whose wails were starting to make her teeth chatter, and said, “Mommy’s gotta put you down for a minute, honey.” She walked him over and deposited him in the pink swing they’d used for all three kids; Eric had wanted a new one, claiming the color might turn his son into a homosexual. As she laid him down, Jake frowned as though about to scream, but when the circus animal mobile began twirling to the cheerful music, he relaxed and grinned up in delight.

  “…hope you do a better job next door than you did on this place,” she heard Eric saying.

  “What can I help you with?” Sam said. His voice sounded pleasant enough, but when she rounded the corner and saw him, she could see the strain around his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and his light blue work shirt was badly wrinkled. Still, she thought, it brought out the deep blue in his eyes. He was a good five inches shorter than Eric, but she liked his build. Compact. Arms hard from manual labor. Bet he’s not afraid to change a tire, she thought.

  Standing there with only a few feet between them, she was able to contrast her husband to this man more clearly than ever. Eric with his gel-shiny black hair, Sam’s hair dark brown and probably finger-combed in the mirror of his pickup truck. Eric wore the red-and-white WIU women’s basketball T-shirt and light gray shorts; Sam had on a button-down blue polo and the same dark blue jeans she’d always seen him in. She doubted he owned anything else.

  And of course there was the age difference.

  “For starters,” Eric said, “the windows in the breakfast nook already have condensation on the inside.”

  “That’s because you insisted on choosing the company.”

  “Your men installed them.”

  “The problem’s not the installation. You went with the cheaper product.”

  “They’re brand-new, for Christ’s sake”

  Charly said, “He did try to tell you, honey.”

  Eric gave her a look that made her insides do a somersault.

  Then he turned back to Sam. “How about this? You fix every problem you and your crew have caused or you’ll be hearing from my lawyer. Sound good?”

  Charly held her breath, watched Sam wrestle with the anger that was no doubt consuming him.

  Sam exhaled heavily. “I’ll do my best, Mr. Florence.”

  “So far,” Eric said, turning, “your best is pathetic.”

  Charly and Sam watched him go.

  When the basement door closed, Sam said, “He seems like a fun guy to be married to.”

  “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

  “Part of the job, I guess.”

  She eyed him for a moment, let her gaze linger on his strong features. “Can I walk you to your truck?”

  “I’d like that.”

  They moved in silence through the side door.

  Sam said, “How’re the kids doing?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Jake’s a bad sleeper, so that’s made for some long nights lately.”

  “Your girls okay?” They moved slowly toward his royal blue pickup truck.

  “My oldest has been feeling her oats.”

  Sam grinned. “That her handiwork in the foyer?”

  Charly nodded. “She’s a future Rembrandt.”

  “I would’ve said Jackson Pollock.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “I wouldn’t either if my daughter hadn’t minored in art history.”

  “I didn’t know you had kids.”

  “That’s because we’ve never been alone together.”

  Charly’s throat burned with the onset of hives. Damn them, they came on at the worst times.

  “I better go,” Sam said.

  Charly felt a sharp pang. “I’m sorry for the way Eric spoke to you.”

  “He always like that?”

  “I call it his coaching mode.”

  “I call it being a prick.”

  She laughed. It felt good. Sam made to get into his big dually, then paused, something shadowing his face.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Your daughter,” he said. “You know, the artist.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t be too hard on her, Mrs. Florence.”

  With that, he climbed in, closed the door, and started the truck. Charly watched him drive away, a dull ache starting in her stomach.

  Chapter Three

  “Two hundred acres of deluxe sites,” Linda Farmer said, “full electrical hookup, water, you name it. Next to that the primitive sites with fire pits and two parking spots.”

  “But no trees,” Colleen said.

  One bony hand on the wheel of the Gator, Linda regarded Colleen sourly and said, “There’re plenty of trees in Peaceful Valley, Ms. Matthews.”

  “Where your bulldozers left them alone.”

  Jesse glanced at Emma to see if she was as uncomfortable as he was, but she only looked bored.

  He couldn’t blame her. The deluxe section of the campground appeared lifeless despite the many RVs and popup campers sprinkled around the vast, treeless oval. Jesse fingered the lens cap of the Canon anxiously. He could take pictures of these campsites, but what was the point? It wasn’t like they were advertising for the AARP.

  He dragged a palm across his forehead and wiped sweat on his cargo shorts. The heat was oppressive out here in the most open part of the park. How bad would it be inside a smelly old tent?

  The Gator continued its smooth ride over the newly paved concrete. Marking each site was a large rock with a fluorescent yellow number on it. In the center of the deluxe section rose a large bathhouse. As Jesse watched, an elderly couple parked their bicycles against the building and hobbled to their respective bathrooms. He raised the Canon and snapped a shot of the old man scratching the seat of his trousers.

  He grinned at Emma. “That what we have to look forward to?”

  She gave him an inquisitive look.

  “The old couple,” he said, gesturing toward the bathhouse.

  She went back to staring vaguely ahead.

  Smooth, he thought.

  “What’re those poles for?” Colleen asked.

  “Tetherball,” Linda said stiffly.

  Colleen nodded. “Just the way the Indians used to play it.”

  Linda opened her mouth to respond, but Emma cut in. “Have you heard anything about the construction worker?”

  Linda’s lips thinned, but she didn’t answer.

  “Shane Dulin,” Emma prompted. “His mother thinks he got lost in the marshes that surround the park.”

  “He probably ran off with some woman,” Linda muttered.

  Colleen arched an eyebrow at her. “As long as he doesn’t ruin the Grand Opening, right?”

  Linda brought the Gator to a rapid halt. “You aren’t going to do a hatchet piece on our park, are you?”

  Colleen giggled. “Hatchet piece.”


  The anchorwoman Emma resurfaced. “Of course not, Linda. We want to celebrate the unique joys of Peaceful Valley.”

  “Coulda fooled me. Your friend here keeps running her mouth, I’ll ask you to leave.”

  “You can’t do that,” Colleen said without annoyance. “This place is funded by the state.”

  “And I’m charged with protecting it,” Linda said. “Are you gonna knock off the crap or not?”

  “I’ll behave.”

  Linda glared at Colleen a moment longer before sliding the Gator into gear. As they jostled over a speed bump, Emma’s leg brushed Jesse’s. Her smooth skin, he discovered, was sheened with sweat. Man, what he’d give to see her in a swimsuit. Or less.

  Jesse shifted on the hard plastic seat. On second thought, maybe it was better he didn’t see the rest of her. Lord knew he fantasized about her enough already. If he ever did see her naked, he might just have to leave his job at The Truth to masturbate full-time.

  “The deluxe section continues over there,” Linda said, pointing to their left. “That’s where you’ll find the showers.”

  “You mind if we just go to our campsite?” Colleen asked.

  Linda’s nodded dourly. “Maybe that’s best.”

  “What about the Native American,” Emma said, leaning forward. “What was his name?”

  Linda looked away.

  “Frank Red Elk,” Colleen said.

  “Could you tell us where to find him?” Emma asked.

  Jesse had been on the verge of asking, himself. Frank Red Elk was the lone descendant of the original Algonquins who had briefly resided here. The online sources Jesse had referenced and the history books he’d found back at the campus library had cited poor living conditions and a tendency to flood as the reasons for the land’s sparse population. But to Jesse it didn’t make sense. Aside from the heat, he was finding the park a rather neat place. He’d certainly be coming back to take shots of the forest.

  “Ms. Farmer?” Emma asked.

  “I heard you,” Linda said without turning. “He lives along the old canal road. Just head east.”

  “I thought everyone was forced to take the buyout,” Colleen said.

  “That’s a pretty dramatic way to put it,” Linda responded. “Those homeowners were paid twice what their properties were worth. More in some cases.”

  “But not Red Elk?” Emma asked.

  Linda frowned. “You’ll see some woods ahead. Beyond that the primitive sites start.”

  Jesse looked at Emma, but she only shrugged. Soon the sounds of loud rap music made him forget about Frank Red Elk.

  Colleen said, “Is that part of the opening ceremony?”

  Linda was shaking her head. “Damned liars.”

  “What is it?” Emma asked.

  “Grad party,” Linda spat. “A couple fraternities at WIU asked if they could have it here, and Ron told them yes. I said it was a bad idea and now look at them.”

  The Gator emerged from the thicket of evergreens. To their left sprawled dozens of cars and scores of tents. On several sites there were people dancing in the beds of pickup trucks, and in four or five places Jesse saw kids tossing beanbags into slanted wooden boxes. Cornhole, they used to call the game back when Jesse was an undergrad.

  Linda floored the Gator, bypassing the milling groups of young people, and made a beeline for a campsite about thirty yards beyond the party. As they crunched to a stop, Jesse beheld three people ranged around a campfire. One was a balding man in his late fifties who wore a checkered shirt, black socks and white tennis shoes. Across the fire from him were a man and woman in their thirties. The man was tall and broad and handsome. The girl was wraith-thin, her frizzy black hair trimmed too short. It was toward the older man that Linda Farmer marched.

  “You said there wouldn’t be alcohol,” she said.

  The man’s smile was serene. “I said there wouldn’t be too much alcohol.”

  “Those kids might be underage.”

  “They’re graduating seniors, Miss Farmer. Many of them are twenty-four or five. You know how long it takes kids to get through school these days.”

  “Can they produce ID?”

  The balding man gave Linda Farmer a you-can’t-be-serious look. “We’re light years from the nearest town, Miss Farmer. These young people aren’t hurting anybody.”

  “If they drink too much, they could.”

  “I’ll make sure they don’t get out of hand.”

  Emma was out of the Gator, her Dictaphone extended. “And who are you, sir?”

  “Wait a minute,” Linda said.

  “Gordon Clevenger,” the man said.

  “And what is your association with WIU?”

  Clevenger regarded his loafers. “I’m head of our history department.”

  Emma waved the Dictaphone toward the students. “How did you…”

  “The seniors needed a faculty member to chaperone their get-together. I volunteered.”

  “Why did they need a chaperone?” Emma asked. “Graduation was a month ago.”

  “Technically, some of these students need summer school credits to graduate. And,” Clevenger said, smiling a little, “in order for their fraternities to pay for the celebration, they needed official sponsorship.”

  “I’m not happy about this,” Linda said, hands on bony hips.

  “They’re not bothering anyone, Miss Farmer.”

  “The moment they do, I’m shutting you down.”

  With that, she marched back to the Gator and fired it up. Emma smiled at Gordon Clevenger, who winked at her. They got back into the Gator.

  “Riveting interview,” Colleen said. “That one might snag you a Pulitzer.”

  “He was sweet,” Emma said. “Who were the other two?”

  “His TAs,” Linda answered. “The good-looking one was Marc Greeley. The mousy girl…I forget her name. Ruth something, I think. Personally, I never understood why a college professor needed assistants. They only teach two classes a week, and they still get somebody to grade papers for them? Hell, I wish I had it that easy.”

  “Is this all primitive camping area?” Emma asked.

  Linda nodded. “This and the next half mile. You can select whatever site you want.”

  “We only get one campsite?” Colleen asked.

  “All your paper would pay for,” Linda answered with just a trace of relish.

  Awesome, Jesse thought, though he kept a neutral expression. Maybe he shouldn’t rent a tent after all. If he began the night under the stars, the girls might take pity on him and invite him into their tent. At the very least he could see what Emma wore for pajamas. What if she slept in a cut-off shirt and underwear?

  As if sensing his train of thought, Linda glanced back at him and said, “I’ll have a couple of the boys set up a tent for you.”

  Jesse forced a smile. “I appreciate that, Ms. Farmer.”

  Chapter Four

  Sam meandered along the edge of the woods. He knew he shouldn’t have come back to the almost-empty subdivision tonight, but home seemed too depressing, and it was way too early to head to a bar. He knew it was a bad idea to be out here, that if Eric Florence spotted him he’d launch another tirade about the shoddy construction of his house, but something about Charly seemed to magnetize Sam. Though it was hopeless and sad and more than a little dangerous, being closer to her made him feel better.

  He cast a glance along the strip of desolate lots and rued the day he signed the contract. He and the developer both agreed that the Indian Trails subdivision had a lot of potential; the land was breathtaking, it was protected on three sides by government property purchased for the state park and the neighborhood afforded homeowners the privacy of a three-acre plot.

  The problem was, nobody was buying.

  When the basketball coach and his wife signed on that winter, Sam was sure his investment would pay off. Since then only one more lot had sold, and no more buyers were showing interest.

  Sam stopped and spat toward
the valley. How much longer would his creditors wait for him? Six months? Half that?

  He turned and peered down the line of woods until, in his periphery, he spotted Charly Florence’s house.

  With a flutter in his belly, Sam realized Charly was standing on the back deck. She had her baby boy on her hip—didn’t she always?—and was bouncing him gently to get him to stop screaming. Sam could hear the little guy caterwauling as though someone had ahold of his ear and was giving it a vicious twist.

  “Teething, I’ll bet,” he said.

  Charly shifted the boy to her other hip, caressed his back, bounced him some more, her pretty knees flexing as she tried in vain to make the little guy feel better. Where’s your husband? Sam wondered. Then, How’d you ever end up with that jackass anyway?

  Better stop that kind of thinking, his father’s voice admonished. The man had been dead six years this August, but Sam still talked to him every day.

  He lingered on Charly’s turned back a moment, the shimmering blond hair, the curve of her hips, the killer legs. Just the way a woman should be, he thought. Not plump, but a little meat on her bones.

  He turned away with an effort. A woman like that, with her dazzling smile, her playful personality and best of all, a brain in her head…why did she have to be chained to a bastard like Eric Florence?

  Sam sighed. He couldn’t escape the Florences these days, it seemed. When he wasn’t daydreaming about Charly, he was checking his voicemail to see what complaint her husband had lodged that day. Sam had gone to the drugstore earlier to get something for his allergies. He happened to buy a newspaper, and who should he see on the cover of the sports page? Coach Eric Florence and his Western Indiana Golden Eagles. To torture himself, Sam had read the whole article. How Florence had been promoted from lead assistant to head coach after the old one was fired, how he became the youngest coach to lead his team to the Sweet Sixteen this decade. How he’d signed a lucrative extension that spring. His highly rated recruiting class.

  The article failed to mention how much of an asshole he was.

  Sam slapped a mosquito on his forearm. When he lifted his hand, his palm was smeared with blood and mosquito guts.

  What are you doing out here? his dad’s voice asked.