by James Dale
Molly took Jack's face in her hands and made him lean down so she could kiss his forehead. "He'll be there when you need Him, Jack. You just have to have faith."
"Molly..."
"Faith is a funny thing, Jack. You have to believe to make it work." Tears were welling up in her bright blue eyes as she turned away.
Thanks to Harry's influence in Johnson City, and Jack's virtually limitless credit line, the trip to First Federal Credit Union only took fifteen minutes. At exactly nine o'clock, the two men were standing in front of Hal Tunney's Gun & Knife Shop, the back pocket of Jack's jeans stuffed with ten thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills. The front door opened almost immediately and a weathered face with steel gray eyes peered out intently.
"Hope you brought plenty of cash," Hal Tunney said, all business. No 'Good morning' or 'How ya'll doin?' So much for southern hospitality.
"Hope you have what I need," Jack replied, in the same manner.
Tunney looked Jack over from head to toe, flashed him a yellow toothed grin, and then opened the door just wide enough for the pair to enter. Jack noticed he didn't flip the cardboard sign over from closed as he locked the door behind them.
"Got your odds and ends already," Tunney said, nodding toward a black canvas bag on the floor. "You can look through it in a minute. The...hardware I got laid out in the back. Doc, stay out here. What you don't see you can't swear to in a court of law. I don’t care what Bobby Joe may have promised you."
With that Tunney motioned for Jack to follow, opening a swinging gate and heading for a door behind the checkout counter. On the door was a worn poster of Bin Laden seen through the cross hairs of a rifle scope. "Smile you son of a bitch!" was handwritten above Osama's head.
Jack had a feeling he'd come to the right place.
When the man flipped on the lights, he had no doubt. Laid out neatly on Tunney's work bench from left to right to left lay a Desert Eagle 44 Automag, a pair of AN/PVS7B night vision goggles, an M18A1 Claymore antipersonnel mine, complete with all the accessories to make it go boom, two M67 fragmentation grenades, and a .338 Lapua rifle with an 8 x 100 sniper scope. The polycarbonate stock, scope, and barrel of the powerful rifle were painted in a desert camo pattern, not the woodland he'd requested, but on such short notice, Jack would take what he could get.
"Guess it's a little late to ask if you are a Fed?" Tunney asked. He was nervous now, having agreed to make the sale on Doc Reese's word alone.
"If I were a Fed," Jack said casually, picking up the Lapua to test the ease of its bolt. "That piece you've got in your waistband would be against your temple and I'd be reading you your rights. How much?" he asked, moving on to check the Desert Eagle.
"Seventy-five hundred," Tunney said, moving his hand away from the .38 revolver he had stuffed in his belt.
Jack knew the rifle and handgun would cost him three grand at most any gun shop in America. That meant the rest was costing him over five thousand. He had no idea what grenades and a Claymore mine would bring on the black market, but he guessed he was paying more for the finder's fee than their actual worth. “Throw in a box of ammo for the Eagle and the Lapua and you've got yourself a deal, Mr. Tunney," Jack said, turning to offer the shop owner his hand.
"You got it, Mr...?"
"Wolf," Jack deadpanned.
"Mr. Wolf? Like the movie?" Tunney grinned. "Are you a cleaner? Gonna clean up the growler that's been running around these parts the last couple days?"
"You ask a lot of questions for an illegal weapons dealer, Mr. Tunney," Braedan smiled.
"Nice doing business with you, Mr. Wolf," Tunney laughed. "Go check the rest of your stuff and I'll pack up these goodies."
"Everything okay, Jack?" Harry asked when Braedan reappeared from the back.
"You done good, Doc," Jack nodded. Picking up the canvas bag, Jack placed it on the counter and began to check the rest of his 'odds and ends.' Inside was a woodland ruck sack, a Garmin 120 GPS, a Gerber hunting knife with six-inch blade, a camel back hydration system, a camouflage utility vest, half a dozen MRE's, long johns, three pairs of thick wool socks, and a set of the old style, OD green jungle cammies, long-regular. The boots he would wear were on his feet. A poncho and poncho liner, a spool of 550 cord, and a wide assortment of trip flares rounded out the remainder of his 'odds and ends.' Jack searched the shelf behind him and also threw in several packs of AA batteries, a box of chemlights, a zippo lighter, and two packs of Camel filterless cigarettes.
"Those things will kill you," Harry sighed.
"Cancer is the least of my worries," Jack shrugged.
Hal Tunney soon joined them, carrying another black canvas bag. He set it on the counter and opened it for Jack to inspect. After a cursory look, Braedan reached into his back pocket and tossed him a stack of banded one-hundred-dollar bills.
"That’s ten thousand, Mr. Tunney. Keep the change.”
Tunney stuffed the money in his shirt pocket without bothering to count it. He could tell at a glance there was more than enough to cover the transaction. "You come back any time, Mr. Wolf," he grinned, unlocking the door for the best customer he'd had in several years.
Jack nodded his thanks and picked up the bags. He and Harry exited the shop to find a sheriff's department, four-wheel drive Ford Excursion parked behind Harry's Mercedes. Leaning casually against the Ford was a man who looked like a cross between Dirty Harry Callahan and any Sam Elliot character. "Morning Harry," he said, removing a pair of mirrored sunglasses. His voice was rough enough to polish diamonds.
"Hey Bobby Joe," Harry smiled, "This is..."
“Before you do something stupid like lie to an old friend," Sheriff Hurst interrupted. "George radioed me last night after you left the Branson’s. Body cameras are wonderful thing. He snapped a picture of you on your way out,” He said to Braedan.
"I told you I was bringing in someone to help," Harry began.
"Andy Hobbson from Maine University?” the Sheriff asked. “Because the guy I sent his picture to, after asking 'holy shit where’d you get this?' said according to his file he’s supposed to be locked up in a Fort Leavenworth nut ward."
"Guess he mistook me for someone else," Jack shrugged.
“Well, I did some digging. Called in just about every favor I have left from twenty years in the Marshal’s service. Let’s take a ride gentleman.”
“Where are we going?” Harry asked.
“I’m going to ask your friend some questions," he said, opening the back door of his SUV. "If I don't like his answers, I’m going to be really pissed off I spent last night learning all about Jack Braedan when I should have been looking for my daughter. Then I'm gonna lock him up for what he’s likely carrying in those bags."
"And if you do like my answers?" Jack asked. “What then?”
"If I do..." the sheriff replied, "I'll take you to where I found Matt's Toyota and you can go find my Jenny."
"Harry, pop your trunk and get my case, would you?" Jack said, tossing his bags into the back seat of Hurst's Ford.
"Ask your questions, sheriff," Jack said as Hurst pulled on to Main Street and headed out of town.
"First question. Are you still crazy?" Hurst asked bluntly.
"That's out of line Bobby Joe," Harry said defensively. "Jack has PTSD. He was…"
"Doc, you know I love you. You're Jen's godfather for Heaven's sake, but shut the hell up and let him answer for himself," Hurst said. "I got a report here," he continued, holding up a thick manila envelope, "that talks about Paranoid Schizophrenia, Delusional Displacement Episodes...and lots of other psychobabble bullshit. Over half of it is black-lined. Even so, it paints a pretty disturbing picture about the fall of an idealist young Ranger who’s nickname was Preacher, into a raving psychotic nutcase. A nutcase who got caught on film by the BBC walking out of an ISIS compound in Syria, covered in blood, carrying a severed head in each hand, and shouting ‘I am Death.’ Last time anyone saw you, you were sitting in front of a congressional subcommit
tee, drugged to the gills, with army lawyers and politicans arguing over whether to put you to down like a mad dog or lock you up and throw away the key. Since you are riding in the back of my truck, then someone obviously doesn't know dick about key control. I think it’s a legitimate question to ask if you are still crazy."
"Sheriff," Jack sighed wearily, "I don't know where you got your report, but it probably doesn't tell the half of it. I don't remember killing those men..."
"They were later proven to be top tier ISIS lieutenants," Harry chimed in.
"Quiet Harry," Hurst warned. "Go on."
"I don't remember killing them," Jack admitted painfully. "I don't remember a lot of things from that period of my life. There are two years worth of memories which are just…gone. Hell, before Harry came along, I had trouble remembering my own name."
"Jack..."
"No Harry," Jack sighed, "if anyone deserves to hear the truth, it's Jen's father. It's her life he's going to place in my hands. Sheriff, if I laid on a couch for a hundred head doctors, ninety-nine of them would probably say I still need to be locked up. Though Harry would think differently, maybe they'd be right," he admitted. "Maybe not. But that doesn’t really matter. What matters…the part that's black-lined...is the part which just might save your daughter's life."
"I'm still listening."
"All the delusional displacement stuff doesn’t even begin to describe what happened to me. Harry calls it PTSD because at least it’s a term people can understand. Truth is about, five years ago I started having bad dreams. I mean really bad. Not regular PTSD stuff either but Stephen King, straight out of hell nightmares. By the time I walked out of that compound carrying those heads, they’d driven me bat shit crazy. They hauled me off to Walter Reed rather than put me down because my dad is a ten-term congressman from Boston and my family is filthy rich.
"After my 'trial,' they didn’t really know what to do with me, so they pumped me full of so many different drugs, I'd probably still piss hot if you handed me a bottle. Electroshock. Hypnosis. Hell, they might have had the Pope do an exorcism for all I know. They eventually stopped my nightmares and cured the paranoia, and the delusional episodes sure enough. Funny thing was, their treatment had a…curious side effect. A side effect was so...unusual, if Harry hadn't rescued me, I'd probably be locked away at some CIA Black Site Laboratory, with sadistic, DoD witch doctors sticking probes up my ass and monitoring my brain waves."
"What sort of side effect are we talking about?" Hurst asked.
"Let's just say one day, after a particularly long night of 'Let's see what this drug does to the psycho?'" I woke up to discover I could...sense...the thoughts, the emotions, of the other inhabitants on my wing. Problem was," Jack explained, "they thought I was much too dangerous to keep around human patients. The only other inhabitants on my wing were lab chimps and stray dogs bought from the local pound."
“Is this shit true, Harry?" Sheriff Hurst asked skeptically.
"Well..." Harry cleared his throat, "they think...perhaps, it had something to do with the combination of electroshock and the experimental drug Altri..."
"Is it true?" Hurst interrupted.
"Yeah," Harry nodded. "It's true. I've been doing a research paper on Jack for two years now and..."
"Good Lord, you're both crazy," Hurst sighed. “You’re telling me the Department of Defense turned you into what? Some sort of schizophrenic Doctor Doolittle?”
"I can’t talk to the animals," Jack said quietly. He closed his eyes. “They are more like a constant…buzz in my head. If I focus hard enough, I can make sense of the jumble. There’s a pair of deer maybe a hundred yards to our east. They are scared. Terrifed in fact. That’s the part that will help me find Jen. But it’s the other thing you should know about.”
"There's more?"
"Oh, there's more," Jack nodded wearily as he opened his eyes again and looked at the sherrif.
"Ummm...you might want to pull over for this, Bobby Joe," Harry suggested.
Sheriff Hurst pulled the Excursion to the side of the road and turned around so he could look Braedan in the eye. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but... tell me the rest."
"This…animal…roaming your mountains," Jack continued slowly. "I've dreamed about it. My nightmares were about this...thing. They were the beginning of all my...problems. Two nights ago, I started dreaming again. Only this time, instead of hunting me, it was hunting Matt and Robbie..."
"What a minute," Hurst interrupted. "Are you saying you dreamed about...what happened to the kids? To my Jen?"
"Matt had his stomach ripped open," Jack shuddered, as he relived the horrible scene. "Robbie had his head bitten off. What was left of Karen would fit into a good-sized carry-on bag. The Toyota,” he continued, moving on to less grisly facts, “has a Greta Van Fleet CD in the stereo. I couldn’t tell you who that was if you held that .357 you’re wearing to my head, but the kids knew. They drank half a twelve pack of Miller Longnecks in the bottle. Jen...Jen was wearing a green sweater and jeans and had two diamond stud earrings in her left..."
"Her mother gave her those last week for her birth..." Hurst stopped, suddenly growing pale. "My God! You're telling the truth, aren't you?"
"I'm afraid there's more," Jack said. "You saw the tracks in the Branson house. You don’t need Andy Hobbson or the guys from Knoxville to tell you they weren’t made by a bear or mountain lion or any other animal known to the wildlife department. This monster, it's not...natural. In more ways than one. Most predators kill for survival or only when they are threatened. This thing kills for pleasure. The Branson house reeked from it. It reeked of...hate. Until two days ago, this thing’s hate was only directed at me. And only in my dreams. Dreams that haven’t happened in three years. It didn't kill Jen in my dream, and I believe she's still alive, but only because somehow this…thing knew, leaving her alive would bring me to it. Looks like it worked.”
"That sounds..."
"...paranoid as shit. I know," Jack sighed.
"Why...why does this thing want you?” Hurst asked.
"I don't know sheriff," Jack sighed truthfully. "Why did it show up here instead of on my front porch in Maine? How this thing from my nightmares is alive at all, I don’t know. All I know...all I am sure of, is that if you put me anywhere near this monster's trail, I'll be able to track it. And when I find it...maybe I'll find Jen. I don't know if I've given you any of the answers you’re looking for, but I've told you the truth."
Hurst silently studied Jack's face. He'd been the sheriff of Johnson County for five years. Before that, he'd been in the US Marshal Service for over twenty. He knew when someone was lying. Braedan was telling the truth. Either that or his demented mind thought it was the truth. That Harry Reese, the man who had introduced him to his wife, who had assisted in Jen's birth, who he trusted like a brother, believed him was painfully obvious. He made his decision.
"You need to stop anywhere before I drop you off?"
"Tunney didn't have any water in his shop," Jack said.
Chapter Three
You have to Follow
"We're here," Hurst said, pulling the SUV to the side of a nameless dirt road.
"Give me a quick rundown on where we are," Jack nodded. Stepping out of the truck, he began to quickly prep his gear.
"Johnson City is twenty-two miles back the way we came," Sheriff Hurst said, laying a map out on the hood of the Ford. "Matt...Matt and Robbie and Karen, what was left of them, were found at an old logging camp about three miles north of here. Jen hit a rock or something leaving the camp. Busted the fuel line. Toyota was right here. Out of gas. Smart girl would have stayed..."
"With the vehicle," Jack agreed. "Unless something was after her."
"Her tracks lead that way," Hurst pointed. That way was down a ravine, leading deeper into the mountains. "Ray Kincaid's hounds were out here an hour after we found the truck. Made one circle around the Toyota, pissed themselves, then ran off. Far as I know, he still hasn’t
caught them yet. North Carolina line is five miles east. Nearest city is Martinsburg. Nothing between here and there but thirty miles of wilderness. National Forest Service chopper has been circling this area for the last eighteen hours. It only stops the search to go refuel, but the woods are so thick Jen could be standing in their rotor wash and they wouldn't see her. If she's still alive..."
"She's alive, sheriff," Jack said confidently.
"This your...ESP talking?" Hurst asked.
"More like…intuition," Jack admitted. "I may not know how this thing got here, but I do know...I do know what drives it. It delights...it revels in killing. But it’s ultimate...goal is to kill me. It'll want me to find her. It'll want me busy protecting poor, helpless Jen so I'll make mistakes."
“You ever kill this…thing?” Sheriff Hurst asked. “In your dreams I mean.”
Harry knew the answer to that question. Jack’s dreams always ending with the monster’s teeth ripping out his throat. He ignored the sheriff’s question, letting his silence answer for him as he loaded AA batteries into the Garmin 120. When the GPS powered up and was tracking satellites, he entered their current position as a waypoint. "When I find Jen,” he finally replied. “I'll send her back to this spot. You park some men up here, armed to the teeth, and you have them wait. Probably won’t be a bad idea to have a paramedic with them."
"I’m on it," the sheriff nodded.
"You mean when you come back here with Jen, right Jack?" Harry asked.
"Harry," Jack said, clipping the Garmin to his utility vest, “Wherever the hell this monster came from, whatever...devil or god helped it crawl out of my dreams and into the world, it was done so I would have a very bad day." Jack picked up the Lapua and loaded it with rounds. He was almost ready. There was only one more item left to complete his packing. He returned to the back seat of the Excursion and opened the battered rifle case he'd brought from Maine. Removing the ancient sword, he unsheathed the blade about six inches, admiring the bright sheen of the deadly weapon. He’d brought it for another reason entirely, but blades never ran out of ammo. Jack strapped the sword across his back, shouldered his ruck, and turned Hurst.
