THERIOPHOBIA: FEAR THE BEAST Part 27
Chaney left the police station and drove straight home. One of the policemen–Whitlow, he’d said was his name–had walked her to her car, trying to reassure her. The police were doing everything within their power to find Marley. Please go home and try to get some rest. She expected they rehearsed that bullshit. At least he hadn’t tried to chaperone her home, see that she got there okay. Because Chaney didn’t plan on staying very long.
Chester met her at the front door. He whined, wagging his thick tail, looking past Chaney as she entered.
Looking for Marley.
The big dog knew something was wrong, had known. He’d tried to get to Marley when she needed him. The scratches on the inside of the door proved that. But the door had been too strong. Chester hadn’t been able to help Marley then. But maybe he could now.
Chaney grabbed the phone book out of a kitchen drawer. She began to flip through the residential listings. *Please God.* Chaney Kidde hadn’t prayed since she was a little girl. The words came to her now without her even realizing, almost instinctual. Please.
She found the name she was looking for. Frye, Henry. His name and telephone number and–much more important–his address. Chaney tore the page from the book.
“Come on, Chester.” She headed for the door.
Hank Frye knew something. She had no doubt about that. The way he’d looked, the way he’d acted. The police might not be able to get the truth out of him; they had to play by the rules. They might not be able to make him tell them what he knew about her sister. Maybe they couldn’t make him talk. But she would.
She opened the passenger door of her car and Chester jumped inside, scarce fitting. Chaney walked around and got in. She cranked the engine and pulled out of the driveway.
Chaney didn’t have a gun. She didn’t need one. Beside her, Chester sat rigid, his hackles up.
“You know, don’t you, boy?” she said. She patted his neck.
Chester had always been as gentle as a puppy. But Chaney knew he hadn’t forgotten any of his training. Their father had bought the dog for his daughters not as a pet but as protection, a four-legged security system. And Chaney knew, if she gave the word, the big dog would tear a man to pieces in her defense. Hers and Marley’s.
“Okay, boy,” she said, smoothing out the page from the phone book on her thigh. “Let’s go pay a visit to Mr. Hank Frye.”
* * *
WAYNE MILLER is the owner and creative director of EVIL CHEEZ PRODUCTIONS (www.evilcheezproductions.blogspot.com, www.facebook.com/evilcheezproductions), specializing in theatrical performances and haunted attractions. He has written, produced and directed (and occasionally acted in) over a dozen plays, most of them in the Horror and Crime genres. His first novel, THE CONFESSIONS OF SAINT CHRISTOPHER: WEREWOLF, is available for purchase at https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/734763
MORTUI VELOCES SUNT!