Night Prey

by Carol Davis Luce

  He groaned, shimmied up the wall until he stood, his knees weak, his head pounding.

  The cats had separated again. They glared at each other, guttural moans low in their throats. He moved toward them. The closest cat, an immense gray tabby, divided its attention between the giant lumbering toward him and its tan adversary. The man growled. The two cats scattered in opposite directions.

  He rubbed his large, callused hands over his face.

  It was over for the night. After a seizure, control was gone. He could turn into a wild man. He’d try another night.

  He headed for the parking lot and his truck.

  That’s it, Carl told himself when he tripped over an exposed root and pitched forward in the dirt. Pack it in.

  On his knees, through the seemingly endless line of vertical trees just ahead, Carl saw a solid rectangular mass. With his breath coming in deep gulps, he leapt to his feet, then jogged ahead until he was close enough to see a wooden structure nestled snugly in the pines.

  Staying within the shelter of the trees, Carl worked his way around the building. At the front, above double doors, he made out a large wooden cross.

  “Jesus,” he breathed. Jesus Christ almighty, Roberta was right. Here in the woods, miles above her parents’ property, was the church she’d seen in a vision.

  He quietly moved from tree to tree, taking it in. The north side of the structure was gone. The roof sagged, large portions missing, open to the stars and treetops. The interior a mere shell.

  His heart raced. Robbi had seen a church, and it was there, not much more than a façade, but a church just the same. His excitement turned to despair. If the church was real, then was Maggie’s death no less real?

  A sudden rage consumed him. The sonofabitch. The filthy sonofabitch couldn’t kidnap his woman, kill her, then expect to get away with it. No fucking way.

  The one in the old pickup was the one he had to reckon with. The bastard was gone now, no doubt to look for another unwilling companion for his mountain retreat. Carl had to get inside his living quarters. There was, after all, a slim chance Maggie was still alive. He tightly gripped the rifle, patted the sheetrock knife in the pocket of his Windbreaker, then cautiously approached the old church.

  Inside the dilapidated ruin, behind the altar, it took Masser another twenty minutes to find the trapdoor in the wooden planks of the floor. On the first step was a flashlight. He flipped it on and descended the steep staircase. Within minutes Carl was down in an airless, sparsely furnished basement surrounded by the rank odor of unwashed bedding and decaying food.

  It took him only a few minutes to make certain the place was vacant. The squat door cut into the stairwell stood open. Carl waved the flashlight beam inside. Another door at the back of the stairwell, at the high point, was also open. Carl ducked, went in.

  He stood hunched over in the tiny room at the end. An army-issue cot with a lavender spread took up most of the space. Pictures torn from magazines hung on carpeted walls. The room, Carl realized, was meant to look homey, feminine. It was the most depressing room he had ever seen. Maggie’s room. Carl swallowed over a vast lump in his throat.

  He quickly returned to the main room. In a makeshift closet he found women’s clothing. Alongside a soiled white dress, a black skirt and white blouse hung on a hook. Carl stiffened, backed away.

  Several footlockers sat along the east wall. He hurried to the nearest one and lifted the lid. He laid the rifle on the floor and began to rummage through the items. It was filled with men’s winter apparel—long- johns, wool socks, and plaid shirts, stocking cap and gloves. The second footlocker held women’s things. A straw hat with a wide brim, a vanity set—mirror, comb, and brush, toiletries. The brush contained strands of long blond hair.

  Feeling sick to his stomach, Carl dropped the brush and was about to close the lid when the beam caught a reflection. In the corner of the locker something metallic glinted. Cari lifted out a bracelet of gold and silver. A tiny silver star charm dangled from it.

  There was something about a bracelet. What? Robbi had said the woman before Maggie had worn a bracelet. No, not a bracelet, but an ankle chain. Excitement raced through him. This was proof! This was the evidence Robbi spoke of in the deli.

  “Oh, Christ, Robbi, you were right,” he muttered aloud. “You saw it! You really saw the fucking bastard do it!”

  A huge black boot stepped on the rifle at Carl’s feet. A hand the size of a medicine ball reached down and snatched the ankle bracelet from his fingers. Carl instinctively lunged for the rifle. The man grabbed him in a chokehold.

  The big man squeezed. “Who’s Robby?” he growled in Carl’s ear. “What did he see?

  Bright spots danced before Carl’s eyes. The man was choking him. Carl grappled to get to the sheetrock knife in the pocket of his jacket. The rifle was out of reach. His only chance was to get the knife.

  “Who’s Robby?!”

  The man was crazy! His arm was cutting off all the air and Carl was unable to utter a word. His neck felt about to snap. He struggled, his mouth opening and closing in desperation as he fought to stay conscious.

  Abruptly the pressure eased. He was still being held in the headlock. Any moment the choking could resume. Carl sucked deeply, filling air-starved lungs. At the same time his fingers closed around the handle of the knife.

  “Talk! What does he know?”

  Carl felt his other arm being wrenched up behind his back. He screamed out in pain.

  “She ., . saw everything, you ... crazy bastard!” Carl blurted out. He inched the knife from his pocket. “You killed Maggie—” Carl’s arm shot out and took a wild swipe at the side of the man’s neck with the knife. The man jerked back. Carl felt coarse whiskers along his knuckles. There was a measure of resistance as the triangular blade sliced through something.

  A low bellow, an inhuman sound, erupted from the big man. He wrestled the knife from Carl’s hand and, with a ferocious spark in his black eyes that made Carl’s gut twist painfully, he drew the blade across the front of Carl’s throat.

  “What’s her name?” the man whispered hoarsely.

  But Carl would never tell. He was incapable of telling. Blood and air whistled out of the severed larynx and trachea. In a matter of minutes Carl lost consciousness. Death followed soon after.

  Eckker disposed of the man’s body in the shaft with the others. Then he found Masser’s silver and black pickup. As he drove the truck to the Truckee airport— where he would abandon it in the parking lot—he thought about this bad turn of events. According to the dead man’s Nevada driver’s license his name was Carl Masser. He must have come for Maggie. But how did Masser know where Maggie was?

  Robby? Who was Robby?

  He thought hard. Someone ... this Robby, had seen him kill. When? Who? Maggie or Belinda? Then he recalled that rainy afternoon in the woods. Maggie—no, it was Belinda that time. Belinda had gotten away from him at the church. She had given him quite a chase. An hour later he had caught her near the east boundary, and it was there they had shared their last moments together. He forced his mind to concentrate on that particular part of the hunt. Belinda had been in sight the entire time. At one point, just before bringing her down, he’d seen her stop and stare at something on the ground, but only for a moment, then, with him close behind, she’d raced on a dozen more yards. End of hunt.

  Eckker squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Now he remembered. He’d heard something in a stretch of saplings just below Cutter’s Ridge—the cliff had partially given away in the steady downpour. A wounded animal, he’d guessed. Before he could investigate, he was interrupted by the sound of someone approaching. Not wanting to be discovered, he’d quickly retreated.

  Robby? Robby who? Masser knew. He hadn’t meant to kill Masser. He’d lost control. In one of his black rages he’d slashed the man’s throat before he realized what he was doing.

  It was his temper that always got him in trouble. If only people wouldn’t cross him ... wouldn�
�t give him reason to snap like that.

  He thought of Celia. Sweet, beautiful Celia with her long blond hair and innocent blue eyes—his first love. He’d been sixteen, nearly twenty years ago, but the memory was still so fresh, so vivid. He had found her all alone at the lake that afternoon. He still loved her even though she had been responsible for the eighteen months he’d spent on the detention farm. He offered her another chance, but she’d struck out at him, called him names, threatened to have him locked up again. He couldn’t bear being locked up, he loved the open spaces too much. So he’d snapped. Even now, after all those years, he still thought of Bluegill Basin as their place. He hadn’t been back. But Celia was still there, tied to an anvil in the deepest part of the lake ... waiting.

  Eckker pulled to the side of the road. He emptied out Masser’s wallet on the seat of the pickup. Sorting through the credit cards and paycheck stubs, he found half a cocktail napkin with a name and number written in red pencil: Roberta Paxton 555-2441.

  Roberta Paxton. Robby.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Roberta, with Tobie sharing her bed, slept fitfully. The running nightmare played over and over in her head. At midnight, so as not to disturb her sister, Robbi took her pillow and moved to the living room couch. The dream continued throughout the night, leaving her exhausted by morning.

  Roberta called Sophie, told her that her sister was in town and she was taking the day off. Then she tried Carl again. No answer. She’d call again that evening.

  Over a breakfast of toaster waffles, canned peaches, and coffee, Robbi told Tobie about their proposed day at the lake.

  “Hurry and eat, Jake will be here soon,” she called out on her way into the bedroom.

  Into a tote bag she stuffed a change of clothes, a couple of swimsuits, Windbreaker, sunscreen, and some toiletries.

  “Who’s Jake?” Tobie asked, entering the bedroom.

  “A doctor I know.”

  “Is he cute?”

  “Judge for yourself.”

  “He’s cute. I can tell by your voice and the spacey look in your eyes,” Tobie said. “What about Donald?”

  Robbi paused. Should she tell her sister that her relationship with Donald was probably over? She snapped the tote bag closed. “You ask too many questions.”

  A few minutes later, when the yellow school bus arrived filled with nine outpatients of St. Mary’s Hospital and several parents, Tobie and Roberta boarded.

  As the bus headed for the freeway, Jake introduced everyone. Robbi noticed that some of the children were without hair—a side effect of chemotherapy; several of them were missing limbs, but all of them appeared bright-eyed, energetic, and ready for a day at the lake.

  For Robbi, the day turned out to be special. The children marveled and exclaimed over every little thing. Some fished with Tobie, others were taken on boat rides by Jake, and the less ambulatory sat with pails and shovels along the sandy shore. On the beach under a vast rectangular canvas tarp suspended on poles, they ate deli box lunches.

  At six P.M. the group boarded the bus for the journey back to Reno. Jake, Roberta, and Tobie stayed behind. They stood in the road and waved back at the kids in the belching, backfiring bus until it turned the corner and disappeared.

  As a gentle breeze rippled the lake’s surface and stirred the leaves of the aspens, they climbed into Jake’s vintage ‘40 Ford pickup and started off around the lake.

  They took Highway 28 to Kings Beach, then cut off north on 267, the road to the Paxtons’. The three filled the tiny cab. The stick shift lever rose out of the floor and Robbi, no matter where she put her legs, seemed to be in the way when Jake shifted gears, which he did often on the curvy two-lane highway. They both pretended not to notice, but the charged air in the cramped quarters was palpable.

  They reached the house by seven-thirty. Lois Paxton, just rising from her bed, the worst of the migraine over, asked that they occupy themselves until she had dressed and could visit with them.

  With the sun low in the sky, Tobie brought Prince around, and when Jake and Robbi declined to ride, she mounted him bareback and took off, leaving them alone in the yard.

  “So this is where you had your accident?” Jake asked.

  She stared toward the trees. “Out there somewhere.”

  “Feel like taking a walk?”

  Robbi held back. “Not really.”

  “Then we won’t.”

  “What you mean is that we should.”

  “Sometimes it’s best to confront the fear before it gets a real foothold.”

  “How’d I know you’d say that?”

  His smile was reassuring.

  She began to walk in the direction of the meadow. “We’d better hurry; it’ll be dark soon.”

  Atop a large boulder Joe Eckker lay on his stomach, staring at the reflection of the setting sun in the water.

  She was late. It occurred to him she might not come at all.

  He had to see her.

  He scrambled down from the boulder. At the bottom he paused, listening. Somewhere far below could be heard the echo of hooves. He started down the mountain.

  As Robbi and Jake made their way through the woods, Robbi’s heart occasionally skipped a beat. She repeatedly pushed thoughts of the recurring nightmare away. Jake was with her, she’d be okay. There were no clouds, no chance of rain.

  She tried to lose herself in conversation. She told him about her vision in the tub the night before; told him she suspected the killer had been stalking another woman before having a seizure in the bar. It was dusk when they reached the meadow.

  Robbi stopped at the edge of the tall dry grass and stared toward the copse of trees on the other side.

  “What do you feel?”

  “From here? Nothing more than a little apprehension.” She pointed straight ahead. “It happened somewhere across the meadow, deep into that forest. I can’t say where exactly.”

  Jake looked to the horizon, the jagged outline of the mountain. The sun had already set though it was still light.

  “We better head back,” he said.

  Robbi gratefully turned and led the way.

  On the walk back they were unusually quiet. Every now and then Robbi stooped to pick up a pine cone, examining it first before deciding whether or not to keep it. She explained to Jake that she collected them for craft making.

  When she could carry no more, Jake began to gather them. As they neared the rear yard, the lights from the house visible through the trees, several cones fell from her overloaded arms. She bent to pick them up and more tumbled out. She laughed as she retrieved one, only to lose two more in the process.

  “What we have here is the case of the monkey with his fist in the jar. He traps himself out of sheer greed, refusing to open his fingers and let go of his meager cache.”

  “Here, I can remedy the greedy-monkey dilemma,” Jake said. He dropped his armful of pine cones, pulled is knit shirt over his head, laid it out on the floor of the forest, and filled it with the cones. Robbi deposited hers on top. He brought two ends together to make a satchel. “There’s room for more,” he added.

  Robbi looked around. A large ponderosa pine stood to her left. She circled the tree, searching. As she reached for a prickly cone, a rustling noise made her pause. A tiny dormouse scurried out from a mound of leaves and ran over her foot. Startled, she cried out and rose abruptly, only to be seized from above by low- hanging boughs.

  She grabbed at her hair, trying to free the long strands.

  “Here, hold still,” Jake said in an amused tone, reaching up to work at the branches.

  Standing very close, he manipulated gently to loosen her hair. She felt a radiating warmth from his naked torso.

  She wobbled, her feet unsteady upon a network of exposed twisted roots.

  “Hold on to me,” he said softly into her ear.

  She put her hands on his chest and felt curly, fine hair beneath her palms; heat pulsated into her fingertips. He smelled manly; he smelled
of the sun and of the forest and of the lush natural elements surrounding them.

  When the last trapped strands were free, he seemed reluctant to move away. His fingers, like the tree branches a moment ago, became buried deep in her thick hair.

  He pulled his head back slightly to look into her eyes. In the remaining twilight she watched the pupils of his keen blue eyes grow large; his eyelids grew heavy, closing. She leaned into him as he used his body to press her against the broad tree at her back. His lips, when they met hers, were warm and supple.

  The kiss was deep, sweet, and searching, their lips alive with a current that sang through her body and made her heart trip rapidly. Her mind reeled with the sensations of the moment. His smell, his taste, his warm skin beneath her hands. The only sound was the rushing of her pulse in her ears.

  His mouth seared a path to her throat, his hands brushed over places that had suddenly sprung to life, places that cried out to be caressed, commanded, triumphed over. Her body grew warm, matching the incredible heat of his bare skin that penetrated her layers of clothes to her aching breasts beneath.

  She wanted him. Here, now, on a bed of pine needles and maidenhair ferns, the warm night air permeated with the earthy aroma of all organic life around them.

  Somewhere behind them a dry branch snapped.

  Within yards of the house he came across two people leaning against a tree, embracing. Stunned, Eckker pulled up short. Tobie with a lover? Impossible! She was his. Rage exploded within him. If he couldn’t have her, nobody could. He would charge them, tear them to pieces, beat them with his fists until they were nothing but bloody, fleshy pulps.

  He advanced several yards in a blind fury before the clopping sound of hooves echoing through the woods stopped him cold. He listened a moment, his pulse racing.