Hunters

by Chet Williamson

  "Ned Craig is an unpaid debt," Jean said, sitting in the desk chair and hunching forward, her hands on her knees. "I don't care if I have to do it alone, but I'm going to find him, and he's going to die."

  "I'm with Jeannie," Chuck said lazily. "I'm not done up here yet. Besides, it doesn't make any difference if they link Andrew or Tim with us today or two weeks from now, they'll do it sooner or later, so what the fuck, I'm not even going back to L.A."

  "I second that notion," Sam said without a smile.

  "Well, I'm going back," Michael said, "and Jean, you know you are too. We may be able to—"

  "To what, Michael? To go back and pretend that none of this ever happened? We killed people, Michael. In the eyes of the law we're all murderers—worse than that because of what we did afterwards. We didn't set out to perform a suicide mission, but we knew it could all come to that. And with Andrew dead and Timothy captured, maybe that's the way it's going to be. And if it is, then so be it. We can use that as well." Jean stood up and started to pace in the confines of the small room. "This case will get national attention, and so will our cause. We'll be martyrs."

  "Excuse me, Jeannie," said Chuck, "but you can be the martyr. I'd rather be one of the escaped killers."

  Jean's eyes narrowed. "I thought you said you'd help me kill Craig."

  "I will. I'm just not gonna hang around afterwards and wait to make speeches to the cops."

  "Neither am I," said Jean. "That's not what I'm saying. I don't want to get caught, don't want to go to jail. But if it happens, I'll make it work for me...for the cause."

  "Spoken like a true fanatic," Chuck said, grinning. "Personally, I'd prefer to go down in a hail of bullets during a final shootout—"

  "Like Bonnie and Clyde!" Sam said.

  Chuck nodded. "A short life and a bloody one."

  "But you're still with me," Jean said.

  "Yep. And so is Mikey, whether he wants to be or not. Three to one, democracy rules. You got no choice, pal."

  Jean looked at Michael intently. "Are you with us? Craig dies, and it's over."

  He knew it was stupid and childish. This was revenge on one man, not a statement in support of animals. But at the same time, he thought, what was one more life when they had taken so many? Maybe when it was over, he could see what remained of his own life. Besides, he was used to taking orders from Jean, and was also bound to her by what he thought of as love. Andrew was dead, and if Michael helped her execute his killer, maybe he could step into both his and Andrew's former place as her lover.

  So he nodded. "All right. I'm with you."

  "Ooo boy," said Sam dryly. "I'm sure relieved."

  "Yeah, me too," Chuck said. "I didn't want to have to kill you, Mikey."

  Michael ignored the comment. "All right," Jean said. "First we have to find out where the man is."

  "No," said Michael. "First we have to check out of this motel. The police aren't stupid. Even if the F.B.I. can't get into the area today, it won't be long before somebody remembers seeing something—one of our vehicles, a license plate, Timothy or Andrew's face—something that can lead them to us. And remember, we've been paying in cash the whole time, including the motel bill last night, and that draws attention. We've been here for four days now. It's time to go."

  "Got a point, Mikey," Chuck said. "We're packed already, so let's haul it. Let's store everything we got in the jeep, it's got chains. I'll drive the van. Let's go to that truck stop east of town. We can dump the van there and figure out how to find Craigo." He gave them all a broad smile. "And we can even talk about what we wanta do with him when we do."

  It was shortly past noon when the jeep and the van arrived at the truck stop. The snow was still coming down, and the weather reports on the radio said that there would be a lull toward evening, but that a far larger storm would hit sometime during the night.

  "Hope Craig isn't too far away," Michael said. "We might have trouble getting to him."

  "Don't worry, we'll get to him," said Jean as she pulled the jeep into a parking place at the side of the truck stop. She was surprised to find only a few large trucks in the parking lot, but then realized that with the hiatus in the snowfall, truckers were probably trying to make up time they had lost and would lose tomorrow, if the weather predictions were accurate.

  Although there were few big rigs parked, there were over a dozen pickup trucks, sedans, and vans. Hunters, she thought bitterly, and found her assumption correct when she noticed two deer carcasses, the fur caked with snow, in the open bed of one of the pickups.

  Chuck had parked the van near the back of the lot, and now joined them next to the jeep. "Let's go in as couples," he said. "You and me, Jeannie, and Mikey and Sam. Now act friendly, okay? Get that superior sneer off your face. You're just another hunter, one of them, got it?"

  Jean nodded, but she could not bring herself to smile. "Why?" she asked. "Why do we have to be friendly?"

  "Because, Jeannie, I'm gonna be my natural charming and witty self and talk about what's been goin' on around here, and 'Ain't it a damn shame about all these murders and all, and wasn't that Ned Craig lucky to get that cocksucker'—hey, I'm just actin' here, like Andrew, okay?—'and, man, you know the guy? No, I've heard of him but never met him. Naw, not from around here, over toward Williamsport...' And then I'm gonna find out a whole lot about Ned Craig, because he's a hero, see, and everybody wants to show what good friends they are with the hero. Oh, don't worry, I may not find out where the hell he is, but believe me, I'll find out who knows."

  "I don't want to go in," she said. "I can't listen to that. I'd get too angry."

  "Fine, then wait in the fuckin' jeep," said Sam, heading for the double doors of the truck stop, "but I ain't had shit to eat yet today."

  "I'll wait with you if you like," Michael said.

  Jean shook her head. "No. Go in and sit with her. Chuck, you go in alone. It'll be easier to strike up a conversation that way."

  "Good thinkin', Jeannie. With luck, we'll be back before you freeze."

  Jean wasn't taking a chance on that. She started the jeep's engine several times in the half hour that Chuck, Michael, and Sam were inside the diner. As she sat alone in the cold, she knew that Michael was probably right, that the longer they remained in the snow-covered woods of northern Pennsylvania, the greater their chances of being caught.

  Still, she could not help herself. The need to know that Ned Craig was dead had become the greatest need in her life, far greater than her need to protect animals by stopping the killing. The Wildlife Liberation Front, along with the foul weather, had done what it had set out to do.

  But her hatred for Craig still burned as brightly as ever, more so, she thought, since her unsuccessful attempts to shoot his woman, run him down, and, most recently, to catch the pair as they fled. She had to see him dead. She didn't care that much about the woman, and had only tried to kill her in order to hurt Craig. But if she got in the way, she would die too. A bullet to the head. Hanging was for Craig alone, and she hoped they could corner him in a remote place where she could carry out her plans for his execution.

  Those pleasant thoughts ran through her head until the three returned and climbed into the jeep. "What did you learn?" she asked impatiently.

  "Oh, not much," Chuck said, handing her a paper bag. "Learned that Darlene in there makes one helluva good BLT—brought one out for you. Learned that boy, this snow just keeps coming, doesn't it?" He held up a hand and grinned. "And the name of one of the only people who probably knows where the hell Craig is. The guy's Larry Moxon, and he's the Law Enforcement Supervisor for this neck of the woods. Craig used to be his deputy before they both got promoted. They're like best buds. Anybody knows where he's at, it's Moxon."

  "Did you also happen to find out where this Moxon lives?"

  Chuck beamed proudly. "A mile or so north of town. Little log cabin all on its lonesome. Think we oughta visit him?"

  "Let's go," she said, but Chuck had already started the
jeep.

  It was 1:30 when they got to Larry Moxon's house, which they identified by the name on the mailbox. The driveway, which ran a hundred yards from the road to the house, was covered with snow. Tire tracks were nearly covered over, and there was no vehicle visible near the house.

  "Think he went out for the day?" Michael asked.

  "Looks that way," Chuck said.

  "Maybe," Sam suggested, "he just went out to stock up for the next storm. Y'know, bread, toilet paper, all that stuff."

  "Maybe." Chuck looked at Jean. "Way I see it, we got three choices. Sit out here and wait for him, maybe hours. Go and try to find him, though I don't have any idea where. Or pull the jeep around behind the house and wait for him inside."

  "What if he has somebody with him when he comes back?" Michael asked.

  "Oh yeah, like forest rangers with those dinky little revolvers," Sam said with her usual sneer.

  "One of those 'dinky little revolvers' killed Andrew," Michael reminded her.

  "Oh fuck it," she said, "we got assault weapons. Hell, I could use a good firefight right about now."

  "Nobody's gonna be with him, pussy," Chuck said to Michael. "And if anybody is, Sam's right, we'd have 'em outgunned ten to one."

  "We'll wait inside," Jean said, ending the argument. "Drive up."

  The jeep cut through the snow with unexpected ease. Jean was pleased to see an empty, slant-roofed carport behind the house. "Guess he could've been here all along," Chuck said as he pulled the jeep under the roof.

  "Guess he wasn't, though," Sam said.

  They each took a gun, then walked to the back door, which Chuck broke open in seconds. It led into an entryway off a small kitchen, and they stood in the doorway listening for a moment to the silence before they entered.

  "Wait here," Chuck said, and went through the house commando style, kicking open doors to the two bedrooms and the bathroom. "Okay," he said when he rejoined them, "it's empty all right."

  "Thanks for the tip, General," Sam said. She looked around at the well appointed kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and nodded approvingly. "Plenty to eat, so what else is there to do?"

  The living room held plenty of comfortable chairs, a TV, and a VCR with a stack of videos on top of it. "Ah shit, seen most of these." Sam flicked on the TV and flipped around the dial. "Doesn't even have cable out here. I want my MTV."

  "Yeah, well, you're not gonna get it," said Chuck. "Sit down and read a book or something." He gestured to a chess board on a small table by the fireplace. "Play a game of chess. Mikey probably knows how, don't you, Mikey?"

  Michael sat on the raised hearth of the fireplace, set his assault rifle on the carpeted floor, and picked up a magazine. "I don't want to play chess," he said softly.

  "Me neither," said Sam, and, with the barrel of her weapon, swept the wooden pieces off the board so that they rattled against the bricks of the fireplace, startling the others. "Chess sucks."

  Jean ignored the girl and looked at the papers on a desk in the corner of the living room. A sheaf of maps was pushed to one side, and she looked at the top one. It read Potter County, Sector 4 at the top, and was one of the most complex maps Jean had ever seen, detailing not only roads, but trails, streams, and hills, charting their steepness with a confusing multiplicity of curving, parallel lines. The tiny symbol of a tower was near a spot where the lines were most numerous, and was circled in red ink.

  Jean swept the other maps away, and found a red pen beneath them. She picked it up, scratched a few lines on the Potter County map, and saw that the inks matched. The circle around the tower had probably been made recently.

  "Look at this," she said, holding it out to the others. "What is this, a contour map?"

  "Topographical map," Chuck said. "Shows the shape of the land." He pointed to the circled tower. "That's one of those fire towers."

  "It's just been circled," Jean said. "The pen's right there."

  "Aren't gonna be any fires in the middle of this snow," Chuck said. Then his eyes narrowed. "Hey, that other tower I saw? They got cabins at the bottom. Where the lookout guy lives, I guess."

  "You think like Craig and his woman went to one of those?" Sam asked. "To what, like hide out or something?"

  "It's possible," Michael said. "I'll tell you one thing, though. I don't want to go running off to Potter County on a wild goose chase. I want to know that he's definitely there first."

  "This guy Moxon would know then, right?" Sam stroked the barrel of her weapon. "I mean if he's the one who circled the map, right?"

  "He knows why he circled it, that's for damn sure," Chuck said.

  Jean tapped the map. "I think we should go here. Now."

  "Jean, that's crazy." Michael shook his head. "Moxon could have circled it for any number of reasons. It doesn't mean Craig's headed there."

  "It does," Jean said, wondering if she sounded as irrational as she feared. "I've got a feeling about this."

  "Oh, a feelin'," Sam said, laughing. "Well shit, if Jean's got a feelin', then I think we oughta go off through the fuckin' snowstorm to someplace a hundred miles away that we probably won't even be able to fuckin' get to, to see if Craig's in this tower where we don't even know the hell where it is!"

  "Well put, Samantha," said Jean dryly. "Very eloquent."

  "Aw, fuck you," Sam said, throwing herself into an overstuffed armchair.

  "Sam's right, Jean." Michael wrinkled his face at the lounging girl. "Though it pains me to agree with her."

  "And you too, Mikey," Sam said, giving him the finger.

  Michael ignored the gesture. "Suppose Craig went the opposite direction? Over to, say, Clarion County?"

  "He was driving northeast," Jean said coldly. "He was heading toward Potter County, damn it."

  "Yeah," Chuck said, "but he was also heading toward Cameron and Sullivan Counties...and New York State, for crissake. There's a whole lot of shit that you get included under northeast, Jeannie. Now I'm with Mike and Sam—all we gotta do is wait for this Moxon guy to come home, and we find out slam-bang if the tower's the place."

  "By that time," Jean said, "the storm might start again."

  "Hey, if it does, I swear to God I'll get us there anyhow. With those chains and that jeep the sonovabitch would have to hide at the North Pole to be safe. Now let's just wait for Moxon. Nobody's gonna find us here, and we know this guy knows what we want to know. Okay?"

  Jean didn't have to think about it. "No. I want him now. I know he's here."

  "Aw shit," Sam said, shaking her head. "You don't know nothin'."

  "Four hours," said Chuck. "We wait for Moxon that long. If he doesn't show, then we leave. Look, Jeannie, it's three against one. I know you're the big boss lady, but you can't do it without the rest of us. And we all think we should wait for Moxon, right?" He looked at the others, and both Sam and Michael nodded.

  Jean felt fury building up inside her, but she knew Chuck was right. It was just a feeling she had, nothing more. Still, she knew Ned Craig was at that tower, and that would be where they would find him. If they could get there.

  She controlled her temper, and didn't push it. With the chains on the jeep, she felt confident that they could eventually get to wherever they were going. Trying to be patient, she once again examined the topographical maps, while Samantha Rogers roughly jammed a cassette in the VCR and pushed play.

  It was a Jim Carrey movie, and for the next ninety minutes she tried to ignore Sam and Chuck's whoops of laughter, and moved between the maps and the front window, watching for Larry Moxon's vehicle, growing more impatient as the darkness fell.

  Larry didn't get home until 6:30. He had spent most of the morning at Camp Kessler with the state police, and the rest of the day in the St. Mary's police station, working with Chief Statler through a voluminous pile of paper and reports. He was also frequently on the phone with Harrisburg.

  When he had gotten back to St. Mary's with Statler, one of the deputies told them that Ned Craig had phoned in w
ith a suspicion that a jeep had followed him out of town. When the deputy drove out to Goetz's Summit, he had found nothing. "But Christ," he had said, "by then the wind was blowing the snow so much I couldn't have seen an eighteen-wheeler stuck."

  Larry Moxon wasn't a drinking man, but after what he had seen the night before and this morning, the only thing he could think of after leaving the station at 4:30 was going into the dark confines of Al's Bar and having a stiff one. And when people asked him what the hell was the real story behind the rumors they'd been hearing about what had happened out at some camp, he told them, as bluntly and explicitly as he could.

  He wanted them to be frightened, frightened enough to stay out of the woods. The killers were bad enough, and the snow was going to be worse. It had already started when he left the bar at 6:00. As he walked through the flakes to his car, he thought he left behind him a room full of scared people. At least he hoped so.

  Since he still didn't have much of an appetite, he had nothing to eat at Al's, and the three CC's he had imbibed in an hour and a half made him lightheaded. He thought he could drive home safely, however, and figured that he wouldn't be going fast enough to cause any real damage if he hit anything. Odds were he'd just wind up stuck in a drift. He took the drive slow and steady, angry with himself for having had too much to drink and for driving when he knew damn well that he shouldn't.

  Still, he felt much better now than he had when he walked into Al's, almost as though he had left behind his sickness over what had happened at Camp Kessler along with the vivid descriptions he had given. Or maybe, he thought, it was just the booze.

  It was a good thing that he knew this road so well. He just put himself on automatic pilot, which felt only natural, since the whirling snow made it seem as if he were flying rather than driving. This was a colder snow than yesterday. That one was wet and heavy, with the temperature hovering just below freezing. This snow, for all its delicate flakes, was a dry, serious snow, the kind that could last for days, an arctic snow that could turn the woods into an icebox, locking roads tight, and burying forest lanes so that not even the deer would know where they were.