CHAPTER 1

Hunters & Gatherers

Homicide Detective Jack Hillard sat at his desk staring down the barrel of his gun. A small lamp lit his body. There were black and white photos of five women on his desk. At the top of the pages there were printed the words “Missing in Person”. Hillard had black hair and a moustache with a goatee grown long. He no longer was the rookie, but he still was a little green. The LAPD Police Chief Howard Mull had told him to cut his facial hair short at least once a day. Hillard thrived on breaking the rules. His style of hunting criminals was a bit barbaric too. If it wasn’t for his partner James Felix, an older, wiser, more philosophical foil, Hillard would’ve been arraigned for murdering a man who he had no cause to shoot. Felix went to bat for young Hillard more than once. Nearing retirement, he wanted his payback, but he’d been content in keeping the young buck under his wing.

Hillard and Felix were working late. The sound of a man vomiting could be heard followed by a toilet flushing. Felix came out of the bathroom and saw Hillard with his gun sitting like a statue in the angelic aura of the lamp’s light. “It’s not worth it,” Felix yelled across the room.

Hillard looked up. “That’s what you always say, you old fuck.”

“Far be it from me to tell you what to do,” Felix told Hillard. “Right when we’re getting somewhere you want to run.”

“Getting somewhere?” Hillard questioned. “You call the questioning of a blind as a bat hag five years after Melissa’s disappearance a lead? That fucking senile broad.”

Hillard almost married Melissa DeVey, but she chose to go to Hollywood and make it big. And she had. She had everything. Broke Hillard’s heart, but became rich after two flicks, Heaven’s Hurts and Dawn of Day. Her ego became big, but Hillard never stopped loving her. He took a job with the LAPD just to be near her - he was even turned down two times before being hired. It had been five years since she disappeared. All his energy he put towards finding her. He was positive she didn’t run away. She disappeared right after a nomination for an Oscar. “Five actresses,” Hillard commented. “All rich. All vain. And famous. 1984, ‘85, ‘86, ‘87, and ‘88. These aren‘t coincidental. Who’s next?”

“I’ve asked myself the same thing,” Felix replied. “We’ve been on this case for five years. And I’m tired.” He paused. “I asked Mull to take me off the case.”

“What!?” Hillard questioned, standing up from his chair.

“You heard me. I’m done,” Felix said.

“Just like that?! You’re going to abandon me?” Hillard fired back.

“I’m not abandoning you,” Felix told him. “It’s almost time to hang up my hat. Besides, you know all there is to know about these missing women.”

“Just a minute ago you told me we were getting somewhere. What the hell?” Hillard pointed out.

“My old bones are just too tired,” Felix commented.

“Fuck you, Felix! You’re not dead yet.”

“I’ve had cancer twice and my liver is shot. I’m weak. I’m tired,” Felix declared.

“I need you. I can’t do this alone. This is too big. And mark my words. It’s not over. Not even close,” Hillard pled with Felix.

“You can still consult with me. But I‘m through with the ‘big time’ cases. I’m not a hunter anymore. Not even a magician. I feel like worms are nibbling at my brain. Wrecking my reason.” Felix was an alcoholic. But a damn good cop. The best there was.

“Fine, fine. Fuck you!” Hillard yelled. “I don’t need you. Let the cancer eat you up. Some life. You’re the reason we were making any headway with this. I don‘t understand. Don‘t you want the satisfaction of solving this fucking mystery?”

“I don’t need to stroke my ego anymore than those women did,” Felix let out.

“Thanks. Thanks a lot,” Hillard retorted. He picked up his gun and grabbed his black leather jacket hanging over his chair. “I’m outta here!” He moved by Felix and headed for the door.

“Hillard!” Felix yelled after him.

Hillard stopped and turned around.

“I’m sorry,” Felix said.

Hillard turned to go, slamming a door behind him.

Felix reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a flask. He poured some alcohol into his coffee then drank it.







CHAPTER 2

THE ANIMAL

Cain. Maniac name. His game full of pain. Victims full of blood, unclean faces in the mud. Slurping sludge. Manslaughter on people’s daughters. Not a hobby, his hazardous hallucinogenic halo hoaxes. Just hostel habits. Took a plunge into the pit, oh, that sick shit. Viper venom gonna get ‘em. Insane brain - it’ll wreck ‘em. Profuse sin. Gin and voodoo doll pins.

God needed to wash that fucker. Wash him real good. Boil him down to a jellyfish dish. That’s right. His pointed poison penis seeking to steal souls. To split his victims into two with his warped weapon. To sting ‘em. Sting ray Cain. That could be his blasted name.

Cain Shepard was built like an ox. He was thirty-one years old. His face had a scar running down the left side from his eyeball to his mouth. Someone actually fought back. The first and the last time he let that happen. He bought the family farm in 1982 and lived a solitary, suspicious lifestyle in the rural town of Eden, an hour from Los Angeles. The only exception was that he raised sheep and goats. Not for company, but for blood.