The Arbuckle’s crowd began to thin out just after midnight, even the casino traffic was light; nothing unusual for Thursday night. Tomorrow would be a different story though not everyone in the bar would live to see it. Waylon and Willie extolled the virtues of a good hearted woman from speakers mounted high in the corners, but failed to coax the bar’s patrons from their seats. The brave souls still hanging on were huddled in tight little groups of two or three. The lone exception was a short, square shaped man wearing a black leather jacket over a loose fitting cotton shirt and faded jeans of the same color. His worn boots were better fitted for combat than a night on the town. His dark hair was beginning to thin on top and streaks of gray showed at his temples and in the thick moustache he wore. A sweating bottle of Bud sat untouched on the bar in front of him. He was more interested in the three people sitting at the table near the door. The objects of his attention, a woman and two men, were oblivious to his focus on them.
The newly reconstructed Arbuckle Hotel and Casino opened a month ago to great fanfare. For the most part the customers were still locals, but with Memorial Day only a week away tourists were beginning to turn up. The bar was a muted oasis separated from the bright lights, harsh bells and buzzers in the casino by thick opaque glass. When the music in the bar faded, only the faint mechanical echo of the slots nearest the bar called to those within. The bar was typical casino modern; stark lines, black leather and polished nickel booths on red carpet. Stylized animals in traditional colors looking down from the walls reminded customers of the casino’s native heritage. A light blue fog of cigarette smoke hung a foot below the ceiling only slightly disturbed by the shining ceiling fans. The yeasty smell of stale and spilled beer had already worked its way into the walls and carpet.
At last call blue suited security men made their hourly walk through offering friendly waves to those still drinking. A few of the locals offered waves in return. Weapons and badges sparked the thirst of the man at the bar. He turned to his beer with bowed head. His interest lasted as long as it took security to make their way through the bar. His eyes wandered back to the trio near the door. He knew who they were. The couple, in their late twenties, called themselves Tom and Jen Waite. Their younger companion was Jon Frye. All of which was a lie, but one needed to be called something besides “Hey you” and one name fit about as well as any other. If anyone cared to inquire, and the man at the bar had, they were in Arbuckle to buy horses. Why in the midst of a drought and the declining value of hay burners anyone would be buying horses was as much a mystery as where they got their money in the first place. No one at the bar was the least bit curious about any of this. The only thing people really noticed was that they were an attractive group.
The woman’s coal black hair moulded itself around a thin face with a sharp, straight nose, high cheeks and full lips. She wore a sleeveless, green and lavender print, chiffon dress that draped seductively over her smooth, cinnamon skin. Even in flats, she was as tall as her companions. The men appeared to be brothers no more than a couple of years apart. They shared a thick shock of black hair that mirrored the color of their deep set eyes and a strong, square jaw. The elder of the two wore a simple white polo stretched over a muscular frame and twill khakis. The younger wore a gray and clay plaid Ariat whose long sleeves weren’t quite enough to cover all the ink he sported. Creased denim jeans someone took care to iron hung over his alligator boots. He wore a gold stud in the shape of a dog in each ear. Conversation lapsed at the table following the last call. Moments later, Tom and Jen headed back to the casino. Jon, determined to close out the Arbuckle, ordered another drink.
Security returned at one fifty nine. They were firm, but polite, the bar was closed. Everyone was invited to enjoy the casino and come back again tomorrow. The man in black left the bar alone. The rest of the customers crowded their way back into the casino.
The spring air outside hinted at the birth of morning frost. Tufts of silver clouds scudded across the dark southwestern sky. Vernon Parker, the man in black, searched the sky. The moon was lurking somewhere behind the thin cloud cover. Vern watched his sigh linger in the air; turned left and walked toward the park. His hotel, The Springs, was almost a half mile away along surface streets. It was half that distance through the park. Vern crossed the parking lot weaving through the scattered cars. He waited on the curb for a blue Honda headed west on Central. A soft breeze coaxed his coat closer. He pulled the zipper a little higher. Vern shrugged off the cold, smiled to himself and stepped into the street.
Two blocks south the buildings along Pine Street opened up to manicured lawn backed by a tall wrought iron fence broken by a huge travertine arch. Big Springs State Park was spelled out across the arch in matching black iron. The arch was lit by a pair of up lights set into pedestals. The park beyond the gate was dark; the tall oaks black silhouettes on a deep violet sky. Vern paused at the gate to light a cigarette and check his watch. He was being followed. The moon broke from behind the clouds turning the path through the park into a pale thread running into the dark mass of trees. The gentle splash of an artesian fountain to his right was the only sound Vern could hear. He checked the sidewalk behind him. No one there. Vern started down the path.
Thirty yards ahead, oak and elm spread a canopy over the path. Moonlight worked its way through the leaves at broken intervals. The gravel crunching underfoot kept Vern on the path. The path round a bend and his footsteps picked up an echo. Vern froze listening; straining to hear a repeat of the echo. His eyes strained and searched the surrounding dark. Something moved. Leaves rustled just left of the path. A soft step; coming closer. Vern heart pounded in his ears. His mouth went dry. Despite the chill air, sweat broke out on his forehead and ran down his back. Something moved again, louder this time and closer. Vern crouched in the shadow of an oak and tried to slow his breathing. A twig cracked sending Vern’s heart into his throat. A loud snort broke the stillness. The attacker abandoned all pretense of stealth and charged. An involuntary yelp escaped Vern’s lips. He bolted. A dozen steps told him that he was never going to outrun whoever was coming, but fear had him. Running was no good. Vern spun to face his attacker. His feet tangled and he fell---hard.
A deer burst onto the path from the cover of a clump of undergrowth cedars. The doe paused to watch Vern crabbing frantically trying to get away. Sensing no threat from the figure on the ground, the deer slowly walked into the trees. Vern began to breathe again; in great gulps at first, but then, slowly a normal rhythm returned. He was shaking with adrenaline induced waves of nausea, but he was alive. Vern lay back onto the path staring up at the moon and hoping it would pass quickly. When it did, he began to giggle.
“That was goooood, real good, Vern,” he said. “What a hunter you are.”
Leaves stirred along the path; a twig cracked in the wake of the deer.
“Oh, no you don’t, not again,” Vern told the dark.
A low growl answered. That was no deer. Vern scrambled to his feet and vainly yanking at his coat. Eyeshine, red and menacing glowed from the trees. The guttural growl came again as ten feet away a black shadow stepped onto the path. Moonlight shifted, slanting through the trees and the shadow became six feet of black fur covered teeth and claws. Wolf and human; both and neither; it crept closer on misshapen legs. The foul scent of decaying flesh wafted from its open jaws. Five feet; a long hand reached for him; clenched and open, clenched and opened. Three feet; Vern’s arm tangled in his coat. Jaws and hands opened wide. Vern’s eyes squeezed tight. The world exploded.
