by Ron Ripley
Cam nodded, and without any further questions, he walked along a small game trail. He followed it for half an hour before he stopped.
The smell of blood was heavy in the air, and the small hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
“Something is wrong,” he whispered.
“The hunter is dead,” Anne replied.
“Korzh?” Cam asked, shocked.
“No,” Anne said with a high, beautiful laugh. “The hunter. The one who Ivan Denisovich Korzh sent after his son. It seems young Stefan is far more adept than any had surmised. Go now, my protector. Take me to see the hunter’s corpse.”
Without any further questions, Cam moved forward again. He soon stepped out into the small clearing where the cameras had been kept. That equipment was gone, but the body of a man was there.
Cam walked up within several feet of the corpse and looked down. There was no recognizable face. It had been neatly removed. The chest was a mass of wounds, and those had been done in a frenzy. Blood had been sprayed across the grass and the nearest of the trees. The man’s shirt had been cut to ribbons, and blood soaked the shreds.
“It doesn’t look like he died quickly,” Cam said.
“No,” Anne agreed. “A shame. I had hoped to work with him to finish this. Then you and I could have gone to see Ivan Denisovich together. I would have sung your praises to him.”
Cam flushed with pride and was unable to respond.
Anne laughed and said, “Tell me, my protector, are you hungry?”
“Always,” Cam answered, and it was no lie. His time in the woods of Pennsylvania was marked by hunger.
“Well, my love,” she whispered, “it would be best to not let all of this fresh meat go to waste. Take your fill, and let us return to our safe haven.”
Cam nodded, squatted down next to the hunter’s corpse, and took out his knife, looking for the choicest cuts of meat.
***
Stefan sat in a triage room in the ER, fuming. After the battle with the hunter, Stefan had gone home to rest and to heal. Once he felt sufficiently better, he had every intention of removing the dead man’s body from his property.
But that plan hadn’t come to pass.
Instead, the empty eye socket had become infected, and he had been forced to seek medical assistance.
“Hello, Mr. Camp,” a doctor said, using the false name he had given upon admittance.
Stefan looked at the woman and nodded, wincing at the pain.
“That’s quite the injury you’ve sustained,” she said, pulling on a pair of dark blue, latex gloves. “How did you manage this?”
He had already answered the question several times, and he repeated the answer again in a bored tone. “Hunting accident.”
“Hunting,” the doctor said. She took a small light out of her pocket and said, “Close your eye, please.”
Stefan closed his remaining eye and listened as she spoke.
“You know, there’s nothing in season right now.”
“Yup,” he answered.
“Were you poaching?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“You can open your eye,” the doctor said.
Stefan did so.
“Then how is this a hunting accident?” she asked.
“I was getting rid of vermin,” Stefan answered. “Hunting them, to be precise.”
“And these vermin,” the doctor said. “They can use knives?”
“Not that I know of,” Stefan said.
“Hm,” the woman said, stepping back. “I read the injury report. You told the admitting nurse that you ran into a branch and it skewered your eye. Correct?”
“Correct,” Stefan said.
“Mr. Camp,” the doctor said, sighing, “you lost your eye to a knife. Or some other sharp piece of metal. If you don’t tell us how it happened or who did it to you, then you’re not going to get any justice for your suffering.”
Stefan stared at her until the woman looked away, plainly uncomfortable with him.
“Will how I lost my eye affect my treatment?” he asked her.
She shook her head.
“Then I lost my eye to a god damned branch. Get rid of my infection, and I will get out of here.” He leaned forward and read her nametag. “Unless, of course, you want me to hang around a little longer, Doctor Delk.”
Her face was pale as she answered.
“No, Mr. Camp,” she said in a rough whisper. “I don’t want that at all.”
Chapter 25: Homemade Goodies
Kate's head was pounding, and she felt drool slipping out of the corner of her mouth.
Oh man, she thought, how much did I drink? What time is it?
Then she remembered Daryl, and she jerked her head up.
She was still in her kitchen, the air filled with the pleasant aroma of brownies. The pan was on the stove top, and it was only ten in the morning. She struggled to stand up, but found herself bound to a chair. Her vision swam as she looked down and saw duct tape around her arms and legs.
Daryl sat on the same chair he had occupied before, but he was drinking some of Beck’s scotch instead of hot chocolate.
“There you are,” the boy said. “I was afraid I was going to have to wake you up. Welcome back. Now we can start having some fun.”
“Who are you?” Kate asked, struggling to keep her thoughts in order, her words slurring as they came out of her mouth.
“"Oh yes, I hit you a little harder than I had planned,” the boy said, snickering. “I think your jaw's broken. Or I scrambled your brains. It doesn't matter, not in the long run.”
Daryl emptied the rest of his glass and then freshened it up with a healthy dose of scotch. From the look of Beck’s bottle, the boy had been doing it for a while. Daryl took another drink, set the glass on the table and stood up. He stood up and walked across the kitchen with a feminine strut that struck Kate as odd.
When he reached the stove, Daryl cut himself a brownie and bit off a corner. After he finished it, he smiled and gave a mock bow.
“These are very good,” the boy said. “The little chocolate chips make the difference.”
He brushed his hands off on his pants before he picked up the box of kitchen matches on the counter by the sink. Kate’s stove was several years older than she would have liked, and on most days of the week, at least one of the pilot lights would go out. The matches were handy for keeping dinner on track.
Kate had a sickening feeling that Daryl wasn’t worried about the burners.
He carried the matches back to the table and sat down. Opening the box, he shook out some of the red-tipped matches onto the surface. A soft, whimsical smile graced the boy’s face, making him angelic in appearance. He lifted one of the matches up and stared at it. His smile broadened.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Daryl whispered. “So much power in this little bit of sulfur and potassium sulfate, a touch of glass, all of it combined to make a perfect little devil.”
Daryl shifted his gaze from the match to Kate. “Fire is a wonderful creature. Pure. You let it loose, and it runs free, wherever it wants. Try to control it, and it doesn't want to be. Firefighters try to, but that's only because they love it so much. That’s why all the best arsonists are firefighters. They know what to do. Pure. That’s what fire is. Just pure.”
Daryl lifted the matchbox and struck the head against it. The match flared into life, burning brightly and filling the kitchen with the familiar odor of sulfur. Kate watched the boy as he was enthralled with the flame. The fire devoured the wooden stick, raced toward the boy’s thumb and forefinger, and within less than a minute, Daryl dropped the match to the table.
The flame flickered and then went out.
Daryl grinned as he looked at her again.
“I’ve always loved fire,” he said. “Ever since I was a small child.”
The boy leaned forward and winked at her. “Have you ever seen a bird in a cage react when you set the cage on fire? Do you know what burning huma
n hair smells like?”
Kate was too horrified, too terrified to answer.
“Cat caught your tongue?” Daryl asked with a snicker.
Kate swallowed nervously and forced herself to speak.
“I don’t want to know,” she said in a husky voice, “what human hair smells like when it burns.”
“That’s a shame,” Daryl said, grinning. “You’re going to. You, Miss Kate, are going to learn what all sorts of bits and pieces smell like when you burn them. More importantly, you’re going to find out what you smell like when you’re burning.”
Kate opened her mouth and screamed, praying desperately that one of her neighbors might be walking by. She watched the boy take another match out. The child held it up, winked at Kate, and blew on the matchhead. As the air exhaled out of the boy’s mouth, the matchhead burst into flame. Grinning, the boy stood up and walked towards her, the flame flickering. Smiling, he nodded as she continued to call for help. She paused for breath, inhaled, and let out a wailing plea.
When she did, the boy threw the lit match into her mouth, laughing as her scream for help transformed into a shriek of desperation.
“Oh yes,” Daryl said, striking another match. “We’re going to have a lot of fun.”
And the pain in Kate’s mouth was eclipsed as the new match was brought ever closer to her eye.
Chapter 26: A Need for Help
Victor sat in a small restaurant in a town he couldn’t remember the name of. He had finished his hamburger and fries and found he didn't have any memory of how either had tasted. The beer in front of him, at least, was cold.
And that, he appreciated.
The waitress, a woman of about fifty and wearing a nametag that read, Flo, stopped at his table. “Want another one?”
For a second he thought she meant the finished hamburger, but then his senses partially returned.
“Yes,” he said, sighing. “I’ll take another.”
Victor picked up his beer and emptied the glass. When the waitress returned a minute later, she took the empty one away with her when she left the new glass of beer in its place.
He couldn’t even remember what he had ordered. His palate, in regards to beer, certainly wasn’t fine enough for him to distinguish between one domestic label or another. And he doubted they had any sort of imports on tap.
Victor’s phone chimed and buzzed on the Formica of the table, and he pulled the device closer, opening the screen to see who it was.
Coming home soon? The text from Tom read.
Another hour or two. Grabbing a bite to eat. Everything okay? He replied.
Yup. All good. See you then. Tom texted back.
Victor thought about sending another text, then he thought that Iris might be over at the house. Smiling, Victor sat back and picked up his drink.
“Drinking alone is never a good sign,” a woman said.
Victor glanced up and was only mildly surprised to see Ariana, Ivan Denisovich Korzh’s daughter slide into the seat across from him.
“No?” he asked, taking a sip.
“Not at all. Are you even drinking beer?” she asked, frowning. “Looks like beer flavored water.”
Victor chuckled and shook his head. “It’s being passed off as beer. What brings you here? I’d ask how you found me–”
“But I’d tell you we have our ways,” Ariana said, giving him a small smile. The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “The reason that I’m paying you another visit, and so close on the heels of the last one, is that it seems my father and I have run into a bit of a problem.”
Victor raised an eyebrow but waited politely for the woman to continue.
“You see,” Ariana said, “we had a gentleman who was assisting us with the locating and, we hoped, the removal of Stefan. This didn’t work out precisely as we had hoped.”
“Korzh killed him,” Victor said in a low voice.
Ariana nodded. “I found the man’s remains yesterday, and understand that when I say remains, I mean exactly that.”
“What do you want from me?” Victor asked. “Your father was extremely specific on what would happen if I interfered with his discipline of Stefan. In fact, I am under the distinct impression that I might well be killed if I kill Korzh first.”
“No,” Ariana said, “you’re exactly correct. My father doesn’t want you touching a single hair on Stefan’s head.”
“Does your father even know you’re speaking with me?” Victor asked in surprise.
She shook her head. A tight smile flashed across her face, and she said, “That's not all. My father and I were hoping you would flush Stefan out. We dreamed that you might get him all worked up and force him to make an error. We believed his fatal mistake would be to retreat yet again, but this time we would have had a pair of hunters waiting.”
“And Stefan killed one of them,” Victor finished.
“Yes,” Ariana confirmed. “Stefan killed one of them.”
“Why don’t you take the hunter’s place?” Victor asked.
Her face paled as she said, “I’ve done that once, and I was fortunate to get away with my life. I doubt I would be so lucky a second time.”
“Do you want me to take his place?” Victor asked in a whisper.
“I do. But I don’t believe my father has changed his mind on that subject yet. He still wants Stefan alive. And besides, I don’t want you working with the other hunter,” Ariana stated. “You’d have to go after Stefan on your own.”
“Why’s that?” Victor asked, picking up his beer.
“Because,” Ariana said, “the other one is Anne Le Morte.”
Chapter 27: Special Delivery
Tom had taken off his prosthetic and was in the act of massaging the stump when the doorbell rang. He ignored it, but whoever was at the door pressed it twice more, and Tom, frowning, decided to answer it.
When he opened the door, he saw a delivery driver for DHL.
“Sorry about that,” the woman apologized. She tried to hand him an electronic signature pad and mumbled a second apology.
“No worries,” Tom said.
“Yeah,” she said, darting glances at the stump of his arm. “Special order on this one. We were to deliver it in person no matter what.”
“Sure,” Tom said. He signed the pad and accepted the small package she handed to him. The woman almost dropped it, her attention focused more on Tom’s absent limb than her job.
“A cat,” Tom said.
The woman blinked and looked at him with confusion. “What was that?”
“A cat,” he repeated. “My girlfriend, she had this big old calico cat. One day, the cat got mad at me and took a swipe. Scratched my forearm. Three days later, the whole thing was black and green. They chopped it off that night. The doctors let me keep the bones though. Want to see them?”
Stuttering a ‘no,’ the woman sprinted for her truck.
Tom kept a straight face until the woman had backed the vehicle out of the driveway and raced away down the street. Holding the package in one hand, he snorted with laughter and pushed the door closed with his foot. He went into the small study and set the package down on the table. Then he retrieved a pair of scissors and managed to cut the tape away. Tom sighed at the lengthy process, vividly remembering how easy it had been to do everyday tasks with two hands instead of one.
From within the package, Tom removed a letter, and a black, velvet lined jewelry case, about the size a ring might fit in.
Curious, Tom unfolded the letter and read the block-print handwriting that crowded the page.
Dear Tom,
You do, I hope, remember me. I am your friend Bontoc, whom you met in the gas station not far from your own home. You lost your arm in that encounter, and when I last left you, you were in the hospital, though I was later informed that you had left it, and against the orders of your rather irate physician.
I commend you for that action, for it is action such as that which informed me of your decision t
o risk your life for mine.
My life, it seems, has lasted far shorter than I would have preferred. I do not wish to sound melodramatic, but you are only receiving this letter upon my death. A rather interesting event, I am sure. I can picture you, one armed – perhaps wearing whatever prosthetic they have equipped you with – reading this, and wondering what it is I am babbling on about.
Well, my young protector, I am babbling about Stefan Korzh. I am quite certain he has been the death of me. A pity, for our last encounter, had definitely gone to him and I was hoping I might take the victory in our next.
It seems this was not to be.
So, let me cut to the chase. I hope that someday you will be able to obtain some small measure of revenge against Stefan Korzh. When that day comes – and here I am being an optimist, which is hardly par of the course – I have a favor to ask of you.
I would like and appreciate if you could, before the final blow, inform him who your friend was and that Bontoc will meet him in Hell.
Now, for the box that accompanied this letter. It is, as I am certain you have surmised, a jewelry box. And you would be correct. I took the liberty of measuring your index finger, the sole remainder of those two noble digits, and I have had a ring sized for you. This bit of jewelry is a simple affair. It is crafted from aluminum, and polished.
There are no engravings, no magical spells woven into it.
I will tell you this, though, that if all has gone well, then the ring will do exactly as I hope, and you, my friend, will be well-pleased.
Now, my young protector, I will bid you a fond adieu, as the French say. When we meet again, Tom Daniels, let it be over the cooling flesh that was once the corporal form of Stefan Korzh.
Your friend,
Bontoc Mamumugot
Tom let the information settle in, and then he read the letter a second time to be absolutely certain he hadn’t missed anything. When he felt sure he hadn’t, Tom put the letter down and opened the jewelry box.
