Night Prey

by Carol Davis Luce

  “Don’t start that,” she said sharply to her mother. “You never believed me. ‘It’s not normal, Robbi. People will think you’re crazy, Robbi.’ Well, I wasn’t crazy then. And I’m not crazy now.”

  Lois looked to Jake, questioning.

  “It’s true, Mrs. Paxton,” Jake said. “Believe her.”

  Roberta stormed into the house. In the kitchen she snatched the receiver off the wall and began to dial the number of the local sheriff. Hanley appeared. He pressed the lever, held his hand on it.

  Robbi turned on him, shaking with rage.

  “Calling the police won’t help,” Hanley said.

  Then Jake was there. “What do you mean?”

  “If he does have Tobie ... he might kill her or ... or let her die if he thinks ...”

  “What?” Robbi said.

  “He won’t do nothing unless ... unless ...”

  “Unless what?” Robbi wanted to shake the words out of him.

  “Unless his back’s up against the wall. I made him promise he wouldn’t bother nobody here.” Hanley avoided her eyes. “I told him to stay clear of her. I threatened to turn him in if he did. I never dreamed ... I—oh, Lord ...” He shook his head ruefully, his gaze fell on Lois. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Paxton.”

  Lois laid a comforting hand on the caretaker’s arm. “Hanley, please, what is it?”

  Robbi felt a scream rising from deep inside. With it she felt fury, frustration, ineptness.

  “Who is this guy?” Jake asked.

  “He’s my grandson.”

  The room became deathly quiet.

  Robbi, disbelieving, recovered enough to turn back to the phone.

  “No, please,” Hanley pleaded. “First let me tell you about him—about us.”

  “Why should we believe you? You’re a liar. You told me you had no idea where your grandson was.” She punched buttons on the phone.

  Jake stepped up to her. He took her by the shoulders and said, “Robbi, let’s listen to him.”

  “There’s no time,” she said.

  “We can’t afford to go off half-cocked. Hanley knows him. We have to trust him.”

  She clenched the receiver, wanting to smash it down, wanting to scream and pound her fists against the caretaker’s chest. Instead, she inhaled deeply and slowly hung it up.

  Jake put an arm around her. “Let’s all go into the other room and sit down.”

  They started out of the kitchen to the front of the house. Hanley moved ahead. “No, not in there. This way. I can talk while I get ready.”

  Lois, Jake, and Roberta followed him into the large open room that was her father’s den and gun room.

  Hanley went to an oak case, removed a key ring from his belt loop, unlocked the drawer. After a moment’s deliberation, he choose a snubnose .38.

  “Joe—that’s his name, Joseph Eckker—is my daughter’s . .. son. Jennifer was fast and wild. She ran off in her teens, went to San Francisco. We lost track of her then. It wasn’t till we learned she’d been killed by some crazy, outta-his-head junkie that we even knew we had a grandson. There was nothin’ to do but take him in ... him being kin.

  “He was eight. Emma and me thought we had another chance to raise one right. Guess God didn’t agree. Joe was already too tainted. Stealin’, fightin’, and the likes.” Hanley went to a drawer in the tall rifle cabinet, unlocked it, and removed a box of shells. “And he was having these fits, epilepsy, I guess. Any fool could see the boy’d been mistreated.”

  As he talked he carefully slipped a cartridge into each hole of the cylinder. “Emma took him to church every Sunday and I showed him how to live off the land. For a city kid, he sure took to the woods.” He popped open the snaps on his western shirt, slipped the gun inside, under his belt, then closed the shirt. The gun was undetectable.

  “Then he got into a little scrap with the law and . ..” The words trailed off.

  “He was arrested,” Jake said. “For what?”

  Hanley looked as if he would not answer.

  “I can find out, Mr. Gates.” Jake made a move to reach for the phone. “A few phone calls.”

  “When he was sixteen he took a fancy to a little neighbor gal and ... when she wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with him, he ... well, he forced himself on her.”

  “He went to prison for rape?”

  Hanley looked away. “Attempted rape and assault.”

  “What aren’t you telling us?” Jake said.

  “This ain’t easy for me, Doctor.” Hanley cleared his throat. “Joe spent eighteen months in what they used to call a reform school. A month after he come home, that little gal just disappeared. Some said she run off, some said Joe got even. They never could pin anything on him, though they sure as hell tried.”

  “What’s your opinion?” Jake asked.

  “He’s my grandson. Dr. Reynolds. I hafta give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “What landed him in prison?”

  “Same thing. Another gal. He don’t mean to hurt them. It’s just that he gets disheartened when they don’t take to him like he does to them. He don’t know his own strength. And he’s got a real short fuse.”

  “So for years you’ve hidden him somewhere in these mountains?” Jake asked, incredulous.

  “He gets around. Has his own truck. Earns his own money cutting trees and selling cords of firewood. He loves the woods. He’s a loner. Never liked being around a lot of people. I figured it wouldn’t hurt nothing.” He looked at Robbi and her mother.

  “Where is he?” Jake asked.

  “I can’t tell you—for Tobie’s own good,” Hanley said. “You go marching in on him and he’s gonna get mad. I know him, I know what he can do.”

  “So do I,” Robbi whispered.

  “I gotta be the one to go. He trusts me. I can find out what he’s done with Tobie, and then I can talk to him, reason with him. He respects me. And he knows I can turn him in to the law. But the important thing is finding out where she is. If he gets killed first, we may never find her.”

  “A church,” Robbi interjected, “does he have anything to do with a church?”

  “That’s enough questions,” Hanley said, picking up a skinning knife in a leather sheath, then discarding it.

  Robbi stopped him. “Hanley, Tobie’s so young and trusting ... if it comes to blood relation over—”

  Anger flashed in his eyes, then disappeared. “I’ve known Tobie since she was just a pup. She’s like one of my own. She’s closer than my own. Don’t insult me, Roberta.”

  Insult him? Robbi wanted to strike out at the man who’d allowed this evil monster to practically live with them. But hysterics wouldn’t do anyone any good. She bit her lip, looked away, nodded.

  Lois Paxton stepped in front of him and spoke for the first time since the scene in the kitchen. “Hanley, what if you don’t come back? How will we find him?”

  He picked up the Browning semi-automatic. 12 shotgun and a full box of shells. “I’ll be back.”

  “Wait a minute,” Jake said. “You’ve got two hours, then we’re calling the police.”

  Hanley paused, nodded. Then he was gone.

  On the flat rock he squatted on his haunches, brushed the hair from her face, and looked at her curiously.

  Her skin was smooth, flawless, the color of a ripe apricot. Beneath the damp shirt he could make out her thin form. The calves of her long legs were covered with a fine fuzz.

  So unspoiled, he thought, quelling the excitement building inside him. She was young enough to mold to his way. The others had been too set in their ways—too worldly.

  He lifted her, carried her to the horse and draped her forward across the saddle. Swatches of bright blood stood out on her throat and on the back of her T-shirt. He looked at his left hand and saw his own blood saturating the edge of the gauze bandage. Thinking about the missing digits turned his mood ugly again. Roberta Paxton would pay for that.

  He led the horse in the direction of his sanctuary.

/>   FORTY-EIGHT

  Hanley pulled off the logging road and parked his pickup behind a thicket of manzanita. He shut off the engine, grabbed the Browning, got out, and headed up the mountain on foot. Storm clouds were amassing to the south. A slight breeze rustled the collar of his shirt.

  Thirty minutes later, only slightly winded from the long climb, he reached the pond, skirted around the west end, found the trail, and followed it. Another half hour and he neared the clearing. He quieted his steps.

  From the tree line Hanley squinted and stared off in the direction of the wooden structure. Tethered to a quaking aspen was Tobie’s black horse. Hanley felt a twisting in his gut.

  Staying within the cover of the trees, he made his way to the horse. Prince whinnied, tossed his head at the man’s furtive approach. Hanley patted his neck, spoke softly to quiet him. The horse recognized him, nuzzled his shoulder affectionately. “Good fella, good fella,” he whispered, stroking Prince’s coarse mane. The mane was wet and sticky with drying blood.

  Hanley stared at the dilapidated church, the only remaining structure of a tiny logging settlement abandoned at the turn of the century. In a full chokeberry bush at the base of the tree he hid the shotgun. He patted the horse, spit a stream of tobacco juice into the bushes, then started for the ruins, his hand touching the metal bulge at his waist. A scraping sound reached him as he neared the building. Surreptitiously, Hanley circled until he found the source. At the rear of the church the massive, sweaty back of his grandson, bent to his task of digging, presented itself to him. Shovelfuls of dirt formed at his knees. The hole was five feet long and, at this point, no more than a foot deep. Sweat trickled down Hanley’s sides. He carefully drew back, then continued to the far end of the building. He lifted the trapdoor and quickly went down the steps, closing the door behind him.

  The basement smelled of loamy earth, mildew, and burned coffee. The main room held an assortment of discarded furniture that, years ago, Hanley had supplied.

  No one was in the room.

  The scrape of the shovel moving through the dirt drifted down to him.

  Hanley moved along the walls, tapping, listening for any variation in the sound. Next he moved the larger pieces of furniture and the mattress, looking for a door that meant access to a subcellar.

  He was sweating profusely now, his heart banging like a bell clapper in his chest. He listened. The steady scraping went on.

  He turned back to the stairs, started up. He paused, stared curiously at the riser. Stepping back down, he moved along the staircase. The space beneath the stairs had been closed in with planks of scrap wood. At the narrow end, almost invisible, a door blended with the planks. Hanley dug his fingernails in a crack and pulled. The door opened.

  He bent over and poked his head in. The space was dark. He looked around the main room, saw a book of matches on the table, retrieved them, then went back to the opening. He lit one and held it inside. In the flickering glow of the match, depth was deceptive, but it was plain to see the space didn’t run the full length of the stairway. Another closed-off area stood under the high point of the stairwell.

  The match went out. Hanley bent down to enter the stairwell. He crab-walked until he felt another door. This one with a dead bolt, its key in the lock. He turned the key; the tumblers clanked softly. The door drifted open.

  The dark crowded around him. Hanley’s fingers fumbled out another match, struck it. The flame flared so bright he instinctively blinked, lowering his head. When it settled into a steady, soft glow, he looked up.

  Just inside the room and to the left, she lay on a small army cot. She still wore the white T-shirt and shorts he’d seen her in that morning when she’d galloped off on Prince. Her feet were bare.

  It took him a moment before he could gather enough spit in his mouth to speak.

  “Tobie,” he whispered.

  Her head lolled sluggishly and she moaned. “Hanley?”

  The match burned out.

  He fumbled with the matches, tore one off.

  The vise that clamped over his shoulder nearly paralyzed him. He cried out, sank to his knees.

  “Joe ... it’s me, your gra—grandpa,” he managed to say through the pain.

  “What are you doing here?” Joe said, his tone hard.

  “I’ve come to—”

  He was cut off. “Did you bring anyone?”

  “‘Course not.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Let’s talk, son.”

  Hanley was being pulled back, out of the room, through the angled space. He toppled over, cringed as his foot caught sharply under him, scrambled back on his feet to continue troll-like to the door of the stairwell. He was pitched roughly out into the center of the room.

  Hanley stared up at the man towering over him. He was filthy with dirt, dust, and sweat. One hand was covered in a tattered, grimy bandage, black with dried blood. The brown T-shirt stuck to his skin at his waist with another spot of dark blood.

  “You were looking for her, weren’t you?” Eckker said, pushing him back down.

  “Damn right I was. Have you gone crazy? We had an agreement. I let you stay up here, you keep away from the Paxtons—especially that young one in there. Lord, boy, she’s just a baby.”

  “She’s mine. I’m not giving her up.”

  “Don’t be a fool. I never took you for a fool, Joe.”

  “I’m leaving this mountain. She’s coming with me.”

  “You can’t hide, son. Tobie’s sister knows you got Tobie.”

  “How’s she know?”

  “She says she saw you.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I swear.

  His grandson seemed to ponder a moment, then, “It don’t matter. I’m gonna kill her. I’ll kill anybody who tries to stop me.”

  “What’s happened to your hand, boy?” Hanley asked.

  As Eckker looked down at the bloody bandage, Hanley reached inside his shirt, grabbed hold of the gun, and pulled it from his waistband. Eckker looked up. With a wounded growl the big man charged him, grabbing at the gun. Both men had a hand on it. The gun discharged.

  Hanley dropped to his knees. Blood saturated the faded plaid shirt. He struggled for air, clawing at the other man’s pant leg. A moment later he collapsed.

  FORTY-NINE

  Tobie tried hard to control the wild beating of her heart. She fought the nausea and lightheadedness. Her throat felt bruised, restricted. Everything was black, airless.

  Only a few minutes before she’d heard Hanley call her name. Then a commotion, raised voices, and finally a loud bang. Someone had cried out in pain.

  “Hanley?” Tobie whispered in a shaky voice.

  Eckker carried the body up the stairs and out into the yard. The sky was overcast now. Patterns of cloud shadows darkened the mountains. The horse, tethered to the aspen, flared his nostrils and snorted.

  Eckker lowered the old man into the freshly dug hole. He lifted the shovel and began to toss dirt over the top of him. A sudden burst of excitement charged through his body, fueling his actions. He raced against time, knowing what was coming.

  Clumps of earth flew as first the odor, then the images, assaulted him. He gripped the shovel’s handle, his hands sliding down the shaft as he dropped to his knees, the seizure now fully upon him.

  Hanley opened his eyes, squinting upward into the gray afternoon light. He tasted fresh dirt, gagged. Searing pain, like a branding iron against his lungs, burned in his chest as he staggered to his feet, pushing dirt away. Sprawled inches from him was the unconscious form of his grandson. Hanley crawled from the shallow grave.

  He struggled to stay upright, his steps slow yet urgent as he crossed the yard to the horse. Sweat stung his eyes, blood soaked his clothes. Reaching the tree, he leaned against the rough bark, forcing himself to take shallow breaths. Through a haze of pain he stared at the bloody path behind him.

  Prince whinnied softly. With great effort Hanley retrieved the shotgun
from the bushes and untied the tether. Then, glancing over his shoulder, he took hold of the saddle horn, and, after several agonizing attempts, managed to mount the jittery horse. Leaning forward, the shotgun across the front of the saddle, Hanley gently urged the horse on.

  Eckker fought his way back to consciousness. Disoriented, he looked around the yard, wondering what he’d been doing before the fit came over him. In front of him was the hole. He’d been digging. He had to get back to work.

  Sluggishly he rose to his knees, reached for the shovel. Thoughts of his grandfather flashed in his head. His grandfather? He’d been up here to the church. He’d been in the cellar—snooping. A gun.

  Eckker struggled to stand. He’d killed his grandfather and put him in the grave. Now the space was empty.

  He looked around, saw no sign of him. A trail of blood led him to the aspen tree where the horse had been tethered. Gone, both of them. Gone to warn the Paxtons.

  He cursed. Now he’d have to go after him.

  Tobie heard a key in a lock. A moment later, through she was unable to see anything, she felt another’s presence.

  “Hanley?” her voice a mere whisper. “Hanley, is that you?”

  A callused hand stroked her thigh. She jerked, pulled her legs in tightly.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Tobie—” a bottomless voice began.

  She said nothing.

  “Tobie ...” As though he simply wanted to hear her name spoken aloud.

  “Where’s Hanley. I want Hanley.”

  “Gone.”

  She began to cry. Deep, hopeless sobs.

  The hand grazed a path down the front of her T- shirt, between her small breasts. She shuddered. Who was he? What did he want with her? Where was she?

  “We’ll leave soon,” he said.

  She heard the door close and the lock engage.

  They gathered in the gun room. Jake had selected a pump action .12-gauge shotgun. He stood at the desk pushing shells into the loading gate. For herself, Robbi decided on a lightweight .20-gauge single action.