Bait

It was May. It was May and it was chilly. It was May and it was chilly and Grant Anderson's body had been discovered, washed up on Boxer Beach. Skin had just begun to burst out, bloating in the frigid Lake Michigan water. Eyes fixated on a cigarette butt in the Band-Aid-infested sand. Blood had drained out long ago, stirred into the water by the tide. Even the simplest man could tell. Grant Anderson was dead. The life had been smacked out of him like a midday wave against the boardwalk. His body had been caked in wet sand and gaping wounds. The lake water swirled throughout each missing hunk as it charged and retreated on the cool beach. Besides the seagulls, there was only one breathing vessel on the beach that May morning. One with enough quarters and a number he knew to dial the instance he witnessed the dead boy.

. . .

Myriads of pinks and purples littered the sky when the first patrol car arrived. Seven days prior, Grant Anderson had been reported missing to the Peccary Police Department. Officer Harold Webb had been the officer assigned to the case and the only officer on the beach as the sun began to break. Granules of sand found their way into the crevices of his shoes as he neared the fellow who had called this in. The man noticed him, instantly waving at his nearing figure. It was only after the man had acknowledged Webb that he realized the heavy dose of pep in his step. An unfortunate amount for a time like this.

The officer fiddled with a clump of lint he discovered in the corner of his pocket. He needed to release the energy from his five cups of Joe this morning. If it weren't for this call, he would be chugging down cup number six--hell, maybe even seven--and scribbling notes of nonsense on his legal pad. Instead, he was slipping through dirty, beach sand to see his twelfth dead body.

His first nine had all been victims of a horrific pile-up on US-31 N. A rented van bringing back five men in oversized sports coats on their way back from a convention, an octogenarian and her caretaker, a semi-driver, and a motorcyclist. He wasn't wearing a helmet. Webb recalled he rolled his eyes the moment he found that out. Ten and eleven was a murder-suicide. Lunatic man shot his lunatic wife and then shot his lunatic brains out. And now was number twelve. A kid. His first kid. His first fucking kid.

"Mornin' Officer!" The man laced his hands together and was quick to tug them apart and extend his hand to Webb. Webb took the man's hand in his own and shook it.

"Mornin'. I'm Officer Harold Webb. What can I call you, sir?"

"Name 's Clyde Haugen, Officer." The man grunted out. The grunt wasn't aggressive. The grunt was one that hinted at the packs he smoked every day for the past sixty-five years; an indicator that his lungs were in constant desperation for fresh air.

"Well Clyde, Betsy relayed the information to me as soon as she got off the phone with you. Are you sure it's the Anderson kid?"

"Boy's face has been plastered on every pole, carton, and shop window. I'm sure." He coughed.

"Lead the way, Clyde." Clyde turned away. His fisherman's jacket flapped behind him like a bottom-tier superhero. The two men trudged silently along the dew-soaked beach with a tension thicker than cement.

"I was gettin' ready to fish when I found him. Yuh see I dragged him out so he wouldn't wash away. Used my gloves though. Don't want any false accusations now for just doing my part, understand?"

"Absolutely," Harold responded coldly. He saw the lump in the sand. There was a space between life and death. A space he knew far too well. A space just long enough that he began to reminisce. He was up at bat, ready to swing for a ball that Grant Anderson would never throw from the pitcher's mound.

"It's a real tragedy, yuh know? Heard the boy was the next Walter Johnson. Never got to see 'em play, but word gets around 'ere, understand?"

"He was a hell of a player, Clyde. My son played with him."

"Ever play, Officer?"

"I was supposed to be the next Babe Ruth." As they approached the kid, a weight was doing everything but settling inside him. He felt it bounce back and forth, up and down, throughout his entire body.

"Got a good swing on yuh, do yuh?"

"Something like that." Webb knelt down, only a foot or two away from young death. He was far from a fresh kill. Webb knew that. He'd never seen one quite like this. The weight settled. A cannonball in his stomach sent a splash onto the sand between him and the boy. Perspiration dripped down his brow.

"Give me a quarter, I'll call backup." Harold Webb fished through his pocket for change and tossed what he had found into the bony hand splattered in sunspots. As the boots crunching across the beach drew quieter, Webb gave himself permission to add to the collecting puddle on the ground. The pungent odor of bloated flesh, coffee, and his bland breakfast of Cheerios swam into his nostrils, his blood pressure began to rise. So much for a happy, healthy heart. He thought.

"Mornin' Officer!" A man approached. Fishing pole in one hand and a styrofoam cooler in the other. "What's the man in blue up to?" Webb stumbled to stand. His hands slipped through the sand. He stumbled forward and cleared the distance between himself and the stranger. The man reached out and steadied Webb from tripping once again. "Easy there, Officer. What's got you all riled up?"

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step back. This is a crime scene." Webb breathed out, the taste of sour coffee on his breath. The man craned his neck to look past the policeman.

"So you found the boy?"

"Yes, which is why I'm asking you to step away."

"Hold this for me, Officer, will you?" The man stuck his fishing pole into Webb's grasp. The man cracked open the flimsy cooler in his other hand.

"I don't recommend fishing here for a while. My crew is on their way to help with everything here."

"Don't worry Officer . . ." The stranger squinted forward to read the shiny nametag. "Webb. Now that's a powerful name, Officer Webb. But no need to worry. I'm gonna go straight to the pier and fish over there. Won't be anywhere near you. Just thought I'd use your assistance. Baiting can be such a hassle."

"Since you know my name, sir, have you got one yourself?"

"Frederick. You can call me Fred though."

"Well, Fred, I don't think fishing anywhere on this beach is a good time at the moment. Tell you what. You call up the police department tomorrow morning and I'll have Betsy tell you if it's alright to fish. How does that sound?"

"You know, I was suspecting that the fish took an even greater liking to him. I'm surprised to see him washed back onto shore." He slipped on a rubber glove and reached into the cooler. A familiar, yet less rotten smell, interrupted the scent of decay. From out of the cooler, he pulled a vibrant lump of crimson flesh. "My pops told me that fish like nothing more than fresh meat." He pierced the hook through the hunk. At the end of the pole, Webb felt how the hook slipped into the peculiar bait with ease. "Not as fresh as it could've been, but it's better than how it would've been if I found it today, understand?"

"I've never seen bait quite like this before. Did you go to a butcher to get it?"

"You see, I like to call myself somewhat of an amateur butcher. I'm no Hannibal Lecter, but I don't do a crazy hack-job like Leatherface either. What I'm saying is that my cuts could be better, but they could be a lot worse too, understand?"

"Yes, sir." Webb forced out. He took a good look at the bait again and back at the boy. "You didn't say where you got the meat. Your pops run a farm?"

"Believe it or not, Officer Webb, I got it from this beach right here. Came back to get some more the other day, but the source disappeared. Thought the fish got to him." From behind Frederick, Officer Webb spotted his colleagues with Clyde not too far from them. They appeared to have the same struggle with the beach's sand that he did.

"Fred, you know, I can't help but notice a similarity between two things on this beach." The flick of Webb's eyes had an indication that Fred could read. They were not alone. Fred whipped his head back and saw the three figures nearing in.

"Is that similarity between me and that man back there?"

"You're-"

"Frederick Haugen. Clyde's son. Who, I can tell you've already met." Webb let go of the fishing pole. It fell to the ground. The cold meat collected specks of sand the instant it hit the ground

"Drop the cooler and put your hands up!"

"Easy there Officer. I mean no harm. Did you and my pops have a little kerfuffle before I showed up?" The lid was crammed back into place and then sat gently onto the drying sand. Fred leaned back up with the speed of a wheelless bike. His hands were up. His fingers were curved. Webb yanked his gun out of its holster and aimed at Fred. He had no plans to shoot. He never did. He always kept the safety on and never pulled the trigger at anything but a paper target.

"The similarities weren't between you and your father. I noticed something about the boy. The cubes. Just like the ones that were pulled from his body, straight down to the bone." His father. Webb prepared himself to yell a warning to the other officers. His mouth fell open to speak but opened wider when he heard two pops of a revolver.

"Put the gun down, Officer, understand?" Clyde shouted down from the top of the hill. Another gun cocked. Out of his pocket, Fred pulled out a gun of his own. There were six people on the beach now, but only three of them showed signs of life. Webb extended a finger and turned the safety off. He couldn't shoot. If he shot at one, the other would shoot at him. So here's to hoping. He let go of the gun and prayed for an "unintentional" discharge. It bounced on the sand with a thud. No bang. No pop. No boom. Nothing. Fred broke the hopeless silence.

"You know, Officer. We always did like the taste of pig. I'm sure the fish will too."

. . .

It was May. It was May and it was chilly. It was May and it was chilly and four bodies had been picked apart on Boxer Beach. Skin had just been ripped through, bodies bobbing in the frigid Lake Michigan water. Eyes fixated on the grey, cloud-filled sky. Blood had drained out not too long ago and stirred into the water by the tide. Even the simplest man could tell. Four people were dead. That is, if they ever found them.