FOREWORD:
Some time ago, I was working the scene of a vehicular homicide investigation with an associate of mine, Mike Collins. Mike and I assisted prosecution and defense teams by conducting forensic analysis and reconstruction of crime scenes and accident locations. We meticulously crafted scale models of scenes ranging from freeway interchanges to hospital rooms to entire city blocks. In court, those models and investigations were used to clarify locations and sequences of events to the jurors.
While measuring skid marks on a residential street in El Paso one afternoon, we got around to the subject of serial killers and mass murderers. Mike told me of a case he had worked on recently that involved a man with no functional sexual organs - a man who later was proved to be the most dangerous form of psychotic. "Jim," he said, kneeling with a tape measure, "what I learned when researching this case scared the hell out of me. In cases where a man’s senses of manhood and masculinity are destroyed or impaired, those men are often capable of horrific brutality. That type of deficit can breed the most dangerous type of man."
Mike knew that I had just completed my first novel, "Glass," - a story of how dangerously fragile a young mind can become in an environment of unrelenting hostility. His comment to me was the answer to a question I’d posed earlier: "What is the most evil, unpredictable type of killer you can imagine, and what would motive him?"
Much of what you are going to read here was already drafted out on paper: the ice cream truck, the Monopoly game, the guys out in the desert collecting bones, the boating scenes on the lake, the Naked Harem, and the singing and dancing over the grave. All I needed was the perfect killing machine. I found him between the lines of Mike’s answer.
If you are hoping to read a suspense story that has elements of danger, romance and humor, go pick up my novel, "Secret Things" - this is not for you. If, on the other hand, you are prepared to experience the hideous depravity, horror and pureness of evil that can reside in what might - from the outside - appear to be a normal, functional human being, this is your book. If halfway through you realize you are in over your head, don’t say I didn’t warn you. There is no warranty expressed or implied here. From this point on, you are on your own.
In just a few pages, you will meet Cliff Rilek. I just wanted to wish you the best.
Jim W. Coleman
Running, running, panting, sweating, running. Prowling and sweating and panting and running, crashing, running.
The werewolf crashed awkwardly through the thicket, still lacking the innate ability to run like a wolf without the clumsiness of man. The transformation had only recently matured and was largely untested, hence the reason for the spill.
Running, running.
Drooling, he thought nothing of the mishap, for by now the sensation of liquid on the chin was exhilarating. He was starting to fully enjoy his role as a predatory canine.
Running, panting, running, sweating.
The desert was inherently dangerous in the summer months but, though the season was at its peak, he paid no heed to the threat of scorpions and rattlesnakes. In human form he would have tread lightly, placing each step with deliberate care. But as the werewolf he was able to run, run, run-panting, sweating, running, panting, panting-with no regard for the reptilian threat. He was honing himself into the ultimate essence of evil through a process of transmutation incomprehensible-and ultimately humbling-to the majority of the world's population. He was now the beast, the creature of the desert, the lithe and scheming Canis Lupus, untouchable by man or by desert predator.
Running, running, panting, running.
Overhead, the swollen moon resisted scarlet tainting as the shadow of the earth pursued, prepared to paint its rugged lunar surface as if with great splotches of blood. The werewolf paused to watch, captivated by the impending occultation. He felt one with the celestial display as if it were somehow a triumphant omen of his own liberation, his grand transcendence, his transformation to a higher being. Although he was alone and sequestered in the dark humid desert, the celestial Sign marking his victory was visible over half the world. It was a miraculous, coincidental omen. The world was its audience, the world his prey.
He was Clifford Scott Rilek, son of Patrick and Josephine, accidentally castrated as an infant by a careless physician during a routine circumcision operation. Cliff Rilek, the man. That had been his name yesterday. However, the transformation was an event of such importance that his life was now forever divided into a distinctive Before and a wonderful After-an After with unlimited potentials, unfathomable opportunities, tremendous successes. Today he fancied himself a werewolf, the undisputed king of the desert barrens, a god in his own right.
When baby Jesus was born, a star appeared in the east to signal the event-to herald the holy birth and lead mankind to the manger. The werewolf knew instinctively that the lunar eclipse over the desert was similar in meaning to that star over ancient Bethlehem. This was his party, his welcome, his Sign. And how fitting that his celestial Sign be the deep, rich color of life-sustaining blood.
Muted thunder rolled across the barren plains and he snapped his attention eastward to witness stroboscopic pillars of writhing lightning silhouette features of the rough terrain surrounding him. The tumultuous sky spat its ordnance downward, illuminating his kingdom with majestic flashes of light and static pops of what he considered to be thunderous applause. The heavens celebrated his transcendence in much the same way the angels had when announcing the birth of the tiny Savior. He quivered with excitement, anticipating the storm.
The nasty weather was fueled by the annual monsoon flow of moisture from Central America. He knew from experience that the front would advance rapidly and generate sheets of rain, which would then run to flood gullies, wash out ravines and transform sandy canyon floors to raging rivers. The flash flood danger was very real and that meant he would have to hurry.
The werewolf had visited this place before, though then in the weak and vulnerable shell of his human body. That was yesterday-Before-and his burden had been the dead weight of freshly slaughtered prey. He'd spent considerable time and energy concealing it in order to foil the olfactory senses of other carnivorous predators indigenous to the desert. Now that he had finally egressed and stepped out of the confines of his awkward human body, he was returning to drink of the blood spilled Before, to taste the sweetness of the kill.
Running, running, sweating, panting, running.
Almost there.
The advancing storm front overwhelmed the blood red Sign as Earth's umbra proceeded to devour the outer fringes of the crimson lunar edge. The desert tittered instinctively with nervous rustling in the brush.
The werewolf shook off his instinctive fear of the darkness and whined softly, running a rough tongue over rows of deadly, carnivorous teeth. The fact that his celestial crowning Sign was diminishing rapidly could only mean one thing-the inauguration party was winding down; it was now time to accept the crown and rule his kingdom.
Sprinting from cover, the werewolf leapt into the storm, challenging black winds with a fierce, throaty growl.
Mounting gusts of wind sparked life into the sands and they danced, animated in a swirling frenzy. Overhead, swollen clouds moved off of the moon, providing a brief glimpse of the blood drenched Sign again. An evil blackness seeped into it, staining it, turning its delightful crimson hue as black as the consuming sky. Thunder boomed from unseen heights as stinging droplets of water were wrung from the sky. Howling winds collided with crashing roars from surrounding horizons, combining to create a symphony of horrific noise, terrific earsplitting cacophony. Like a rabid lion lunging, the cold front surged forward, obliterating the Sign, smothering the sky, drowning the desert. The world was plummeted into a slippery, liquid darkness complete.
The werewolf paused, slowing to a trot. Ahead and to the right, he'd find his treasure. If luck held, the kill would be as he had left it-intact and spared mutilation by others less deserving. He would soon be able to savor the meat, the flesh, the ripping and tearing, the shredding, the exhilaration of the kill.
Although the transformation had rendered his appearance somewhat primitive, he knew himself to be superior-an inexplicable meshing of genetics that somehow suppressed the inherent bad in each form and amplified all that which was good, strong, and necessary for survival in the harsh desert environment. He took great pride in the fact that he was the only one in modern times to have successfully picked the tumblers of the formidable lock protecting the guarded, ancient recipe of shape shifting.
Certainly, there had to have been others before, for every myth had an element of truth. Cliff had been fascinated by the legends of werewolves as far back as he could remember. Late at night, after Patrick and Josephine retired to bed, he'd made a habit of creeping out into the living room to turn on the old television, to absorb the celluloid images of man and wolf incorporated: Wolf Man, Werewolf. It was a private, secret thing.
A stick of lightning fractured the tempest sky, tearing it open like an old wound. Cacophonous thunder was instantaneous and a crazed javalina erupted from nearby cover, fleeing the storm's electric tension. The werewolf lashed out as it thundered past, missing the beast by inches.
Picking up speed, he trotted down into a wash, marveling once again at his new abilities. Running on four legs was now as comfortable as walking had been Before. The thick pads on the bottoms of his feet protected him, insulating sensitive nerve endings from the incessant barrage of cactus needles, rock and tumbleweed debris.
Only a few yards remained to be crossed between himself and his final destination. He could not smell the hidden kill and that was good. If he could detect its whereabouts, others would have been able to do so and the bones would have been picked clean.
Digging, digging, scratching, heaving. Digging. Moving dirt.
He dug faster, amazed at the way his claws tore through the desert soil. It required little effort since the hole he was digging had already been dug out Before.
Digging.
Shredding plastic, he slowed the pace and turned to dig down the length of what he knew was there. Tattered ribbons of plastic flapped in the harsh desert gale.
Within minutes, the werewolf was finally able to drag the bundle up out of the hole. It was a complex endeavor and he finally regretted the limitations of his higher form. A pair of hands would have made the task much simpler.
Using his teeth, he pulled the bundle up over the brink, growling with delight and anticipation. He tore at the wrappings until Johnny Turner's stiff, naked body spilled through the ragged ribbons of plastic and rolled into the muck. The werewolf circled the corpse warily, sniffing for any sign of intrusion.
Satisfied that his treasure had not been molested, he howled triumphantly, flinging his eerie cries to the biting wind. He lived the exhilaration, relishing the pounding of his heart, the curious quivering in his loins. Together, they betrayed a primeval desire for a mate-or for simple gratification, at the very least. The night was still young. Perhaps. Perhaps.
As he prepared to rip into the flesh, he thought of his date with Beverly-a date scheduled Before, but planned for this evening. He'd forgotten all about it.
No bother, he thought absently, dismissing it. Other business was now at hand.
Drooling in anticipation, he sniffed the kill, treasuring the delightful scents of rot and decay. Finding what he was looking for, he choked back an excited whimper and nuzzled it, pausing as if to give thanks.
Finally, after rolling a drooling tongue over hideous rows of gnashing teeth, the werewolf pulled it loose.
Chewing, gulping, licking, drinking, chewing, swallowing...smiling.
OMENS photo documentary: A tour of Safford, Ariz. »»
BUY THE BOOK »»
EMAIL THE AUTHOR »»
OMENS NEWSPAPER BOOK REVIEW »»
OMENS NEWSPAPER ARTICLE »»
