“This is wonderful,” Gorman said.
“My father, he’s the one saved these early articles. I’m the one added on, after he was gone, and put them all together here.”
After glancing at the four columns of small print, Gorman refolded the page. Subsequent articles described the capture, trial, and lynching of Gus Goucher. Then Gorman found another folded front page of the
“Here’s where I started keeping them,” the old man said.
Gorman scanned a story about the opening of Beast House for tours. Then he flipped through page after page of articles detailing the disappearances of towns-people and visitors, two or three for each year. “That’s a lot of missing people,” he said.
“It’s just the ones that got reported. I figure there’s plenty more, folks nobody missed.”
“And you suspect the beast was responsible for all this?”
“Maybe not all,” Captain Frank admitted. “Some of those folks maybe just run off, or got themselves lost in the hills, or drowned. There’s no telling how many, but I’ll wager Bobo got his share of them.”
“Why was nothing done about it? This must be fifty or sixty missing persons over a twenty-year period.”
“Well, sir, the police, they didn’t see anything so strange about it. Lord knows, I told them time after time it was the beast making off with those folks. Did they listen? No, indeed. They seemed to think it was normal, losing a couple folks a year.”
“Acceptable losses,” Gorman muttered.
“And they made up their minds, way back, that I’m just a loony. I can’t even get them to listen to me anymore.”
“Have you showed this to them?” he asked, tapping the scrapbook.
“Sure. Like I say, they think I’m loony.”
Gorman came upon another full front page of the newspaper. This one dealt with the attack in 1951 on Tom Bagley and Larry Maywood. After follow-up stories came more pages with clippings about disappearances. Finally, near the back of the book, he found articles about last year’s slayings of the Ziegler father and son, and patrolman Dan Jenson.
He reached a blank page.
Captain Frank took a swig of beer. “That’s all, till tomorrow’s
“You’re pretty confident Bobo got them?”
“I’d wager on it, matey.”
Gorman nodded. He gently closed the book, and stared at it. “This is a very impressive document, Frank.”
“I always felt it’s been my duty to keep a record of all these goings-on.”
“How would you feel about making it public?”
“Public?” The old man raised a bushy white eyebrow.
“I’d like to write up your story. Are you familiar with
“Aye.”
“I’m a staff writer for
“No, I…”
“Well, that’s all right. The point is: I find myself shocked and amazed by what you’ve told me this afternoon, by the information in your scrapbook, by the very existence of a monstrosity such as Beast House, by the seeming indifference of the local authorities to what appears to be a seventy-five-year string of disappearances and grisly murders. With your cooperation, I’d be willing to do a feature article that exposes the truth of the situation. With enough public awareness, the authorities will be forced to take action. The story, of course, will focus on you.”
Captain Frank frowned as if thinking it over.
“What do you say?”
He sighed. “I’ve always planned to take care of Bobo myself.”
“So much the better. If you can do that before the story’s printed, we’ll include your account of the hunt and photos of you with the body.”
“I don’t know, Mr…”
“Wilcox. Harold Wilcox.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Wilcox. It does sound like a fine idea. Mighty fine. What’ll I have to do?”
“Nothing, really. Just leave it to me. You’ve already given me sufficient information. Of course, I would need to borrow your scrapbook, at least long enough to have its contents photocopied. I’d be more than glad to give you a receipt for it. There must be a copying machine somewhere in town…”
“Over at Lincoln’s Stationery.”
“Fine. I could have it done this afternoon and get it back to you…” He paused. “Would tomorrow morning be convenient for you?”
“I do hate to let it out of my hands.”
“You’re welcome to come along, if you don’t trust me.”
“Oh, it’s not that I don’t trust you, Mr. Wilcox.”
“I could probably get it back to you this evening, if that’s preferable.”
Captain Frank chewed his lower lip.
“I tell you what. Suppose I leave a deposit with you? Say a hundred dollars. You keep my money until I return the book to you.”
“Well, that sounds fair enough.”
Gorman removed a pair of fifty-dollar bills from his wallet. “Do you have some spare paper so we can write out the receipts?”
“I don’t guess we need to,” Captain Frank said, and picked up the money. “You just take good care of this book for me, and I’ll take good care of your money.”
They shook hands.
With the scrapbook clamped under one arm, Gorman left the bus.
On his way through town, he spotted Lincoln’s Stationery. He grinned, and kept on driving.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Tyler, sitting on the edge of the bed, rolled a stocking up her leg. As she clipped it to the straps of her black garter belt, someone knocked on the door. “Who is it?” she called.
“Me,” came Abe’s voice.
“Just a minute,” she said, and quickly started to put on the other stocking. “Are you alone?”
“Very.”
“Poor man.”
“That’s me.”
She finished with the stocking, and rushed to the door. Staying out of view behind it, she pulled it open. Abe stepped into the room. “That was quick,” she said as she shut the door.
In the ten minutes since he left he had changed into navy slacks and a powder blue polo shirt. Tyler had managed to blow-dry her hair and begin dressing.
“I just couldn’t stand being away from you,” he said.
She stepped into his arms and kissed him. His hands roamed down her back, curled over her bare buttocks, pulled her closer against him. “Nice outfit,” he said after a while. He fingered a strap of her garter belt.
“Glad you like it,” Tyler said, and hugged him hard as Dan forced his way into her mind. Dan, who had given her the first one, gift-wrapped, during cocktails at the White Whale restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf. It was red and frilly with lace. He’d added a pair of nylons to the box. Without his asking, she’d excused herself and put them on in
