"I am Lieutenant Colonel Maddox of the United States Army," said the man in uniform. "We would like to speak with Nathaniel Hunter, if that's possible."
"I'm Hunter," he said, his voice low.
"Well." The colonel stepped forward, an ingratiating smile on his lips.
"We'd just like to get your opinion on some photographs, if you don't mind. Of course, if there is a problem, we can arrange a more formal appointment."
Hunter took his time before turning toward the door, motioning vaguely. "Come into the cabin," he said.
It took only a few minutes for them to recount their story of blood and death in the snow. Then they displayed a series of photographs on the cabin's crude wooden table. They wanted his best guess as to what the killer was, they said, and they wanted to know if there was more than one of them. Hunter bent over the photographs and studied them for a moment. His eyes narrowed as he examined the tracks, as well as the terrain.
Maddox began, "We want to know why these tracks here are so far from the others."
"Wind," Hunter said simply.
Hunter heard the man introduced as Dixon step forward. But Maddox only stared as he said, "Excuse me, did you say 'wind'?"
"Yeah." Hunter had expected this confusion. "These tracks to the side were in a straight line with those others. But the wind moved them, inch by inch. The other tracks weren't moved because they were shielded from the northeastern breeze by this boulder."
Maddox seemed astounded. "Wind can do that?"
Hunter pointed to the tracks. "These to the side were originally over here, like the others. You can see the gap that was left when they were moved. The wind just edged them to where they are here." He shrugged, gave the picture to Maddox. "It's a common phenomenon on sand like this. Is that what you wanted to know?"
"Uh." Maddox started. "Uh, actually, no. We wanted you to—"
A sudden, silent atmospheric change in the cabin stopped him short. It was as if the room had been instantly charged with a primal force, something utterly savage. Hunter watched as Maddox slowly turned his head. He almost smiled at the nervous expression on Dixon's face as he began to sense what was behind him. Slowly, moving only his head, Dixon managed to look down stiffly. Hunter saw sweat glisten suddenly on his forehead.
Massive and menacing, Ghost stood less than a foot behind Dixon and Maddox, slightly to the side. The gigantic wolf was almost entirely black, touched with gray only on his flanks.
Ghost's jet-black eyes seemed to possess a primal and predatory glow. Black claws clicked on the wooden floor as he took a single pace forward, head low, again unmoving. Ghost's uncanny silence seemed more terrifying than a roar.
Hunter made them suffer for only a moment. With a slight smile he snapped his fingers.
"Ghost," he said.
The wolf glided innocently through the men and sat beside Hunter.
Hunter spoke politely. "You were saying, Colonel?"
Maddox had trouble speaking. "I, uh, I was saying that...uh, we wanted you to help us with ... with ... something."
Hunter smiled at the trembling tone and noticed that Major Prescott's fists were clenched. All of them were sweating, and Maddox's face was pasty, whitening by the moment. He knew this would take all day with Ghost in the room. He looked down, speaking so low that none of the others could catch a word.
"Outside," he said.
Treading with an air of shocking animal might, the wolf moved fearlessly through the three of them. Then it reached the door and angled away, disappearing with haunting silence and grace. The air silently trembled with the wildness, the power, the very scent of it as it was gone. But Hunter knew Ghost would remain close, just as he knew they wouldn't see the wolf again—not ever—unless it wanted them to.
"Good Lord," whispered Maddox as he took out a handkerchief, wiping his face. "Is that ... is that your dog?"
"He's a wolf."
"Yes ... yes, of course." The colonel cast a nervous eye to the doorway and involuntarily backed up. "But ... but what does it do?"
Hunter stared, almost laughed, but suppressed it; there was no need to mock them, even incidentally. They weren't at home in his world, though he had managed to become both prosperous and respected in theirs. He added, "He does whatever he wants to do, I guess. He comes, he goes."
"I mean, do you own him?" Maddox added. "Is he trained? Does he always come and go like that?" All three of the men had repositioned themselves so they could keep an eye on the door.
Hunter half-shrugged. "No, he's not trained, Colonel. And nobody owns him. He comes when he wants. Goes when he wants."
"But ... but how much does the thing weigh?" Maddox asked. "I didn't think wolves got so ... so huge."
"That depends on bloodline," Hunter answered, continuing to unpack. "Most male wolves go a hundred or so. Ghost is about a hundred and fifty, more or less. He won't get much bigger."
Maddox began to recover degree by degree and Hunter tried to move it along. He knew they were still dancing around the central issue. He continued quietly. "Now, gentlemen, if you're ready to talk, maybe we can get down to why you wanted to see me. What do you want?"
Fortifying himself, Maddox stepped forward. He pointed at the photographs of slaughtered soldiers.
"We want to know," Maddox said in a stronger tone, "what kind of creature could have done this? What kind of creature could have walked through an entire platoon like this, killing such heavily armed men?"
Frowning slightly, Hunter shifted the photos and finally shook his head. "Maybe a grizzly," he muttered, but with obvious uncertainty. "But I doubt it."
"Why do you doubt it?"
"Because a grizzly will usually maul its victim," Hunter answered, more certain. "It'll hit over and over, tear off your scalp, your face. And whatever did this struck once, maybe twice, with each kill." He pointed at a photo. "This man was killed with one blow. So whatever did this didn't attack out of fear or rage." He paused, eyes narrowing. "Whatever did this ...had a reason."
"But what animal would ... I mean, what animal could do something like this for a reason?"
Hunter shook his head. "I don't know."
"But aren't you supposed to be an expert on—"
"Colonel," Hunter cut him off, "I don't consider myself an expert in anything at all. I just do what I do, the best way I can do it. And I don't think I can help you. I can't tell you what killed your men." He waited; they were stoically silent. "I can say, however, that whatever killed these men didn't kill for food. It didn't kill out of defense. And it didn't kill to defend territory."
"Like a tiger might have done?"
"It's not a tiger."
"But how can you be certain?" Maddox was openly disturbed. "You just said that you're not certain what did this."
"Because these men were attacked on level ground with open field all around them." Hunter was relaxed and certain. "Tigers don't do that. They'll attack from an elevated position or from ambush. A tiger will never put itself in a position where it might have to chase prey. They don't chase."
"Tigers won't chase prey? Why?"
Hunter shrugged, went back to removing equipment from his pack. "No one knows. Instinct, maybe. Maybe because they're so heavy. But if a tiger doesn't catch you within three or four bounds, you're probably a free man."
Struck by a stray thought, he pointed vaguely to a grainy photo. "See these tracks?" he continued. "This ... thing ... was moving fast, and in a straight line. It's as if ... I don't know ... as if it was trying to reach something." Drawn to direction of his own words, Hunter studied several photos, quickly arranging them in a new order. "Do you see this? All of these men went down in sequence. It moved through them, killing quick and moving to the next, always headed in the same direction." For a long time he paused. When he spoke again, his voice was flat. "I'm not sure that this is an animal."
Slowly Dixon stepped forward, almost indulgent. "Mr. Hunter, this has got to be an animal. Certainly, and this should go with
out saying, no human being could have done this."
"Believe what you want." Hunter was unaffected. "But I've never seen an animal that killed like this. Animals have reasons, like fear or rage or defense, when they kill. And there's no evidence of that here. Not that I can see. It didn't maul, which would indicate anger. It didn't eat. It just killed and moved on to the next victim." With a faintly fatigued sign, he stood back. "You wanted my best guess, gentlemen. That's it."
"What about the tracks?" Dixon pressed. "You're certain they're not bear tracks?"
"No, they're not bear tracks. They're not even close. Your own people can tell you that." Hunter stared at him. "In fact, if I had to make a determination, I'd say they were human."
Dixon blinked. "Have you ever seen an animal leave tracks like this?"
"No."
"Never?"
"No."
Dixon seemed slightly agitated, but cast a quick glance to the door. "Look, Mr. Hunter," he began, "we were told that you're an expert at tracking. And please don't tell me you're not. We've checked you out."
Hunter laughed soundlessly.
"Yeah, we do that with everyone," Dixon continued, as if he'd seen the expression a thousand times. "Nathaniel Hunter. Grew up in the wilds of Wyoming. Your father died before you were born and an old trapper and a Sioux Indian woman raised you. The trapper taught you to track when you were just a kid, and you're supposed to be the best in the world. Some kind of legend. They say you can track a ghost through fog, and you've been used by police departments to find kids lost in wilderness areas when everyone else has failed. And that you've located animals so on the brink of extermination that there were only a handful left. Then, when you were twenty, you found a tree in the Amazon that provided a better treatment for spinal meningitis. You sold it to a pharmaceutical company for about twenty million. And since then you've discovered a dozen plants that provide antibodies against various bacterial infections. Yeah, and I know this old shack isn't your only place. You have a penthouse in New York filled with about twenty million in art and rare books, a place in Paris that rivals the Smithsonian for rare artifacts. You go wherever you want, do whatever you want. Got a private jet on standby at JFK Airport and high friends in high places in both government and private business. You're the money behind the Tipler Institute." Dixon shook his head.
"You're a kick in the head, Hunter. You've got all that damn money and you hardly spend a dime on yourself. All those luxury spots of yours sit empty while you spend most of your time at this old shack." He grunted. "You're an interesting guy, all right, but the one thing everybody agrees about is that you're some kind of wilderness guru. So surely you have some clue of what this might be. Even if it's just a suspicion."
Hunter held Dixon's stare, not bothering to look friendly. "I've already studied them, Dixon," he said. "They're vaguely like a bear but the tracks are badly marred and melted, so it's hard to tell. And then this thing is bipedal, so it doesn't move like a bear when it's either running or loping or walking. This thing, whatever it is, probably weighs about three hundred, and it's right-handed. It looks to the right a lot and pauses about every fifty feet. It's hunched when it moves, as if it's stalking. And when it turns it pivots both feet at the same time. When it kills it tends to strike from right to left, placing its weight on its left front leg, like a boxer."
A stunned silence.
Maddox was the first to speak. "You can tell all that from those photographs?"
Hunter nodded.
"But ... how?"
Hunter waved a hand at the photos. "Sideheading, dulling and compression, pressure release marks, wave and pitch, curving. Simple things, Colonel."
"But our pathfinders, our trackers ...they couldn't tell us all that."
Hunter sighed. "Well, I'm sure that your people are good, Colonel. But that's what I see. You can take it or leave it."
Maddox said nothing for a moment, turning and strolling across the room, cupping his chin. He seemed to be pondering. After a moment he looked at Dixon. "Mr. Dixon, I'd like a word with you," he said. "In private."
Dixon, black glasses concealing his eyes even here, held Hunter's stare for a long moment before he turned away, walking across the room. Hunter leaned against the table and watched them whisper. He didn't know what they were discussing but he had an idea. He had no plans to cooperate.
"Mr. Hunter." Maddox walked back slowly. Clearly, he was attempting to phrase his words carefully. "I would like to make a request, and I would like for you to genuinely consider it before you reply." He lifted his face, honest for all Hunter could tell.
He nodded. "Go ahead."
"This, uh, this situation," Maddox continued, "is not exactly what it seems. I'm sure you consider it to be a tragedy that our soldiers were killed. And remember, these were all good men. Men with families. But there is more to it than that."
Hunter said nothing.
"In truth, Mr. Hunter, this creature, whatever it is, has killed many times in the past three days—mostly military personnel, bodies that we can conceal, in a sense. But it seems to be headed south. And soon, if it continues on its current course, it will reach a populated civilian area."
"Why can't you find this creature by triangulating infrared signatures from satellite?" Hunter asked. "The technology exists for a hunt like this through the global imaging system. Seems like you could isolate its heat signature."
"We're not fools, Mr. Hunter. We've tried that. But there is an abundance—an overabundance—of large animal life in that area. There's moose, bear, elk, wolf, so many creatures that tracking by heat signature is futile. What we need is someone who can track this one, specific creature. Because if it reaches a populated civilian area, I am not certain how successful we will be in containing it. Tens, perhaps hundreds of people would die." Maddox raised his hands, almost plaintively. "Now, I realize that you're not under, nor have you ever submitted to, military command. Nor, should you decline, can I compel you against your will to assist. But I am asking you as a man—as an honorable man—to help us. I am asking you to help us track this thing down. I'm asking you ... to help us kill it."
Hunter absorbed it awhile in silence.
"Your people aren't sufficient?" he asked.
"No," Maddox replied flatly. They've already tried and they failed. In fact, they died. The results were ...discouraging, to say the least."
Hunter stared at nothing, said nothing for a long time.
"We have a killing team assembled," the colonel continued. "You need not be involved in that aspect. If you can only track this creature through those mountains, somehow give our people an opportunity to confront it, then your job will be done. You will be present as an observer. And the team that we have assembled is extremely proficient. You will be quite safe. In fact, it may be the safest action you've undertaken in some time. One other thing we learned was that you are a man prone to taking risks."
Hunter rose slowly, turned away.
He stared out the window and searched the surrounding tree-line, already dark. And he half-scanned for Ghost but knew the wolf would remain invisible unless he wanted to be seen. Yet he would be there, unmoving, waiting, listening to every word. And if Hunter were attacked, the great black image of pure animal fury would roar into the cabin like a storm with flashing fangs and claws, and God help anything mortal that got in his way. Somehow Hunter knew he had already made the decision but he waited, sensing something that troubled him.
"All right," he said finally. "But for this I'll need Ghost."
A pause.
"Whatever you want," Maddox said, nervousness entering his voice at the mere mention of the wolf.
"And I won't submit to military command or authority." Hunter turned back with the words. "If I lead the track, then I'm the one that leads. Nobody countermands my decisions or my methods. This is gonna be hard enough as it is. I don't want someone who doesn't understand what I do trying to give me orders."
"Of course not. I will
ensure your authority in certain areas. This ...this support team will be present only for the confrontation."
Hunter turned away again, staring into a slowly gathering dark. He could tell from the air that a cold front was coming, rain not far behind. But there was something else, something that continued to hover over him—a premonition.
He felt it, but couldn't identify it. Yet he had made his decision, realizing that, if innocent lives were truly compromised by a creature as obviously powerful as this, there was really no choice.
"Set it up," he said, low. "Let me know."
Maddox swayed. "Good. Just be aware this is going to happen soon. Perhaps as early as tomorrow."
"That's fine," Hunter said, glancing at Dixon one last time.
Utterly concealed, Dixon's eyes were reflectionless pools of black, revealing nothing. And Hunter sensed rather than read the faintest apparition of a smile on the haggard face. And he knew that whatever disturbed him was hidden in that darkness.
*
Chapter 3
It's where the map ends; an unforgiving, heavily forested frontier of permafrost, tundra, glacier and air that froze skin at the touch. Hunter had been here once before, and knew it was an easy place to die.
Countless hikers, adventurers, and even native Alaskans had lost their lives in the merciless terrain of the Brooks Range. And Hunter didn't underestimate its brutality. He knew that it was through respect and caution that a man stayed alive in these mountains. And a lack of either would have only one outcome; the land was littered with legends of those who failed to heed advice and went unprepared into the high country, never to be seen again.
Hunter knew what equipment was essential for the average trapper or camper: a large-caliber scoped rifle, a shotgun, plenty of ammunition for both, an oversupply of preserved food, an ax, hatchet, sheath knife and a smaller folding blade for skinning, a tent, topographical map of the areas with federal emergency stations marked, a compass, rope, rain slick, matches and flint for making fires, a ball of leather twine, emergency medical equipment, grain for two pack mules and a horse, and a radio.
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