He turned off the water and reached for a paper towel. It had all been so easy; Skip had believed everything. What a dumb ass. He could care less about Sheriff Harding’s precious reputation. The only reason he wanted to clamp a lid on the situation was to prevent someone else from shooting his election-winning killer bear. Once Lloyd nailed it, which he would, he’d keep it on ice for a few days--long enough to let Skip scream monster to the papers. Sheriff Harding would look like a fool when he pulled up in front of the courthouse with the bear in the back of his truck. It would be political suicide.
Tossing the paper towel in the trash, he pocketed his comb and left the restroom. Walking past the nurses station, he almost collided with Jay Little Hawk, who was coming around the corner from the opposite direction.
It was something of a rarity to see the game warden out of uniform; when he was off duty he rarely came into town. Little Hawk was dressed in faded blue jeans, scruffy brown cowboy boots and a gray flannel shirt. Around his neck he wore a five-strand choker of bone hair-pipes and red trade beads. Several of his fingers were adorned with turquoise rings. The Indian looked tired; deep shadows underlined his eyes. Maybe he had stayed out too late drinking.
“Hello, Lloyd,” Hawk nodded. “I was just on my way to see the sheriff. Is he up?”
“He was,” Lloyd said, “but he’s resting again.”
A troubled look crossed Hawk’s face.
“Is there something I can do for you?” Lloyd asked.
Hawk shook his head. “No, it’s something I need to see the sheriff about. I’ll wait.”
Lloyd didn’t like that answer. It made him feel he was being left out of something. Had the Indian found where the bear was hiding?
“Listen, if it’s something important, you can tell me. I’ll see that he gets the message. And if it’s something concerning the murders, then you should definitely tell me. I’m in charge.”
Hawk shifted restlessly back and forth on his feet, apparently debating the choices offered. “Okay, I’ll tell you, but not here.” He looked around. “Can we go someplace private?”
“I think I can accommodate you on that,” Lloyd replied, laughing.
They took the elevator down to the second floor, following the hallway to a small reading room operated by the ladies’ auxiliary. Few patients ever frequented the room, so there was little chance of their being disturbed.
Lloyd closed the door and motioned for Little Hawk to sit on one of the four white plastic chairs that circled an equally white table, and waited for Hawk to speak.
Gazing downward, Hawk nervously flipped through the pages of a medical magazine on the table before him. “I want you to know that I didn’t hear of the sheriff’s attack until only a little while ago. I’ve been...away for the past few days. When I found out what happened, I rushed to get here.”
“You know something we should?”
Hawk looked him square in the eyes. “I know the news reports are wrong. It wasn’t a bear that attacked Sheriff Harding and killed the others.”
Lloyd took a deep breath, trying to restrain a rising feeling of annoyance. “And how do you know that?”
“Let’s just say I got my information from a very reliable source.”
“Listen, mister,” Lloyd said suddenly. “I haven’t the time or patience to sit here and play games with you. Either you know something or you don’t.”
Hawk held up his hands. “I assure you, I am not playing games. What I have to tell you is difficult to put into words. If you will give me just ten minutes of your time, I’ll make it worth your while.”
Lloyd glanced at his watch, frowned, then fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “If you know something that might prevent another murder, then I want to hear it. Ten minutes? Hell, I’ll give you ten days.”
“Promise you’ll keep an open mind and won’t stop me until I’m finished?”
Little Hawk began reciting his story, a faraway look clouding his eyes.
“In the early eighteen hundreds, the white man was pushing westward across America like a swarm of angry locusts. Pushing the Indians back, settlers snapped up tribal hunting lands in Kentucky, Tennessee, Indiana and Alabama. Before they even realized what was going on, the Indians had their backs up against the Mississippi River, and still the cries could be heard for more land.
“There were some, however, who refused to give up their land without a fight. One that arose to stop the white man’s advance was a Shawnee prophet named Tenskwatawa. His name meant ‘the open door.’ The whites simply referred to him as the Prophet. His brother, even more recognized in history books, was the great leader Tecumseh.
“In an attempt to create a great confederacy the Prophet traveled the land, instructing the Indians to renounce the white man’s customs, thoughts and trappings. He urged them to return to traditional ways, never to touch whiskey, and not to intermarry with the whites. Their reward, he promised, would be the complete recovery of all Indian land.
“An Indian revival, naturally, was not in the best interest of the settlers. General William Henry Harrison--later President Harrison--hearing of the Prophet, challenged him to prove his powers. Tenskwatawa accepted the challenge, announcing that at noon on June 16, 1806, he would cause darkness to block out the sun as evidence of his supernatural powers. His prophecy came true.
“In 1807, another astonishing prophecy was sent to all the tribes by the Prophet. It warned that unless the tribes followed his example and turned away from the white man’s way, there would be a great disaster within four years.
“By 1811, the prophecy was being repeated by Tecumseh, who was in the south seeking the support of the Creeks. Angered by their refusal to join the fight, Tecumseh warned Chief Big Warrior that when he returned to Detroit he would stamp his stick on the ground and cause an earthquake, destroying the Creek villages. On December 16, at two o'clock in the morning, his warning came true.
“Women screamed, children cried and old men prayed for the Great Spirit to save them. The sky glowed with a strange orange light as the ground began to shake. Lightning flashed and trees swayed like dancing warriors. Thousands of birds took to the air as the earth rolled like waves upon the ocean. Hills sank and disappeared, only to reappear elsewhere. Hundreds died as the great Mississippi, father of all rivers, reversed its course and flowed north for several hours, sending great waves of water charging into the villages. Upon the higher ground, great fissures split the earth’s surface, releasing hissing clouds of sulphurous gas.
“Crowded upon a hill, the tribe of one of the smaller Creek villages looked on in despair as their homes were washed away. The nightmare had only begun, however, for as they watched something crawled from one of the giant cracks, freed from its subterranean home. The Chief knew what the creature was as soon as he saw it, though he had always believed it to be merely a legend, a story to tell noisy children. It was a creature from the dawn of time, known to the Indians as the Ancient One, the Sleeping Evil--the Crota.
“Knowing that they could not defeat the monster, the villagers fled in terror. They traveled westward, vanishing into the heavily forested hills of central Missouri. But the Crota, angered at being awakened from its sleep, followed and found them again. Night after night it stalked their village, leaving behind a freshly mutilated corpse each time. Finally, in sheer desperation, the tribal elders and medicine man held a great council. It was to be their last council ever, because in order to save the women and children, the men determined to sacrifice their lives.
“When darkness fell the following evening a lone warrior stood waiting for the Crota’s arrival. Shouting words of power taught to him by the medicine man, the warrior threw his spear at the monster and fled. He did not run because he was afraid; he ran in order to lead the Crota away from the village. He ran as far and as fast as he could until, his legs no longer able to continue, he fell beneath the murderous claws and fangs of the creature. No sooner had the first warrior fallen than
a second appeared to challenge the monster.
“On through the night the chase continued, eventually leading to a cave...a cave that was connected to a series of ancient underground tunnels. Warrior after warrior, the Crota was led deeper into the tunnels, while behind him the only exit to the outside world was walled up by the tribal elders. The young warriors knew they too would be trapped once the wall was complete, but they did not despair, for the sacrifice they made was for their people.
“The tribal elders also made a great sacrifice that night. Once the wall was in place, the medicine man made a magical bond upon the stones, sealing the exit forever. It was a bond written in blood--the blood of the medicine man and elders, who committed suicide before that great wall. They died so their tribe would live.”
Little Hawk stopped talking. There was a silence. Then Lloyd shifted in his chair.
“Well, I appreciate you telling me all this--”
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Should I? What you just told me is only a story...a legend.”
The Indian leaned forward. “The murders started Saturday. The earthquake was Friday. The wall sealing the tunnels must have fallen.”
Lloyd snorted. “Your story has a hole in it: the people who’ve been killed aren’t Creek Indians.”
“The Crota was originally after the Creeks, because it believed they were responsible for disturbing its rest. But the monster blames all men for its imprisonment. The Crota is not a good sport; it won’t rest until it avenges itself in blood. The creature will kill anything or anyone that crosses its path.”
Lloyd started to stand up, but Little Hawk grabbed him by the wrist. “Listen to me; I’m not kidding. The Crota is a relic, a living fossil. It’s been around since the age of the dinosaurs, perhaps even before then. It is a creature that lives for the hunt, the challenge of battle...to inflict pain and suffering on others.”
Lloyd pulled his arm away. “I can’t believe two grown men are sitting here discussing monsters and Indian legends. If what you’re saying is true, then how come no one has ever heard of this thing until now?”
“But they have,” Hawk answered. “The early white settlers knew the story of the Crota, that’s why they named this area Hobbs County. Hob means goblin, devil. Even the name of this town relates to the story. A logan is a large balanced stone--the stones balanced in the wall sealing the tunnels.”
“How do you come to know all this, anyway?” Lloyd asked.
“I was brought up in the traditional Indian ways. As a child I learned all the legends and stories of the southeastern tribes.”
Lloyd stared directly at Little Hawk. “You don’t expect me to believe any of this, do you?”
“Everything I said can be easily proven.”
“How?”
“I know where the Crota is hiding. I’ve found the entrance to the tunnels.”
Lloyd was suddenly interested. He sat up straight in his chair. “Where?”
“The Devil’s Boot,” Hawk said matter-of-factly. “But I warn you, you must stay away from there.”
The undersheriff frowned. “Why’s that?”
“Because it would be suicide to challenge the Crota unprepared.”
That did it. Bear, monster, whatever, no civilian was going to tell Lloyd what to do. “Listen, pal, I’ll decide what’s suicide and what isn’t.”
“You don’t understand,” Hawk protested. “You’re not dealing with an animal. The Crota is a creature of darkness.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what it is,” Lloyd said. “Several people have been killed. More could die. I’m telling you--”
“And I’m telling you, if you go down after it you’re a dead man.” Hawk’s voice grew calm. “Please, promise me you’ll tell Sheriff Harding what I’ve told you. Then if you feel you must go down into the tunnels, wait a day or two first.”
“Why?” asked Lloyd.
“Because I’ll go with you.”
"If what you told me is true, then why would you want to go?”
“As I said, the Crota cannot be defeated by conventional ways, but maybe I can come up with an unconventional way to kill it. It’s going to take a little time.”
“Time is something we don’t have.”
“The Crota hasn’t been free for very long. It’s probably still weak. Until it regains all its strength it won’t travel far from its home.”
Lloyd started to question Little Hawk about how he knew such things, but decided against it. He’d already made up his mind about what he was going to do, and he needed to get rid of the Indian.
“Okay, listen,” he said. “I’ll pass the information along to the sheriff. If a decision is made to go after that thing, I promise I’ll contact you first.”
Hawk smiled. It was a weary smile. “Thank you.”
Sliding his chair back, Hawk stood up and shook hands. Lloyd watched the Indian leave, then leaned back and put his feet up on the table.
Of course, he had no intention of telling Skip what Jay Little Hawk had said. Nor was he going to wait as promised. Personally, he thought the whole story was preposterous--monsters, indeed--but all the better if it was true. Bagging a Crota might be just the thing to cinch next year’s election. He could see it now: Sheriff Lloyd Baxter, monster hunter.
“Crota, my ass!” he said aloud. Throwing his head back, he laughed.
PART III
Chapter 13
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 20
Lloyd watched as Professor Steven Fuller pulled at his white coveralls and adjusted the straps of his chest harness. The four uniformed men standing before him mimicked his moves as they prepared to enter the eternal darkness of the Devil’s Boot.
Each man wore one-piece coveralls and heavy duty clothing to prevent abrasions and provide warmth in the chilly temperatures of the cave. They also wore a caver’s pack small enough to fit through tight spaces, yet roomy enough to hold a moderate supply of high energy food, a first-aid kit, compass, a space blanket and a canteen of water. Along with the carbide helmet lights they wore, they were packing additional flashlights and enough climbing equipment to scale a mountain.
The members of the sheriff’s department would be carrying their personal side arms and Winchester 1200 riot guns. The shotguns had been adapted for the mission by replacing the wooden stocks with pistol grips and adding nylon rifle slings. In addition, each officer also carried a spool of thin cable wire that would link the party to the radio topside.
At first Steven Fuller had suspected Lloyd’s phone call the previous day to be a joke, a prank played on him by fellow faculty members. It was well known among students and staff at Washington University that Professor Fuller was one of the leading speleologists in the state. He was quick to point out that explorers of caves detested the name “spelunker,” which they considered old-fashioned, preferring instead to be called “cavers.”
Even after Lloyd had identified himself, the professor still had doubts. He’d read about the bizarre killings (who hadn’t?) but found a story about a possible labyrinth of underground tunnels hard to swallow. Still, the history teacher jumped at the chance to lead an expedition in search of them.
Lloyd had kept the rest of Little Hawk’s story to himself, explaining to his men that they were following up a lead about a killer bear. He doubted the possibility of a “Crota,” but if such a thing existed he wanted the credit for killing it. It was just the thing he needed to get elected. He also made certain the operation itself remained a secret by not telling his men what the plan was until they were actually at the cave. He explained that the tight-lipped secrecy was necessary to keep the press from dogging their trail, but the real reason was he didn’t want Skip to find out about what was going on.
“A few more minutes and we’ll be ready to go in,” Professor Fuller said, approaching the small folding table where Lloyd and a young deputy sat.
“Good, we’re all set here.” Lloyd adjusted the squelch knob of the radio be
fore him. David Hays, the newest member of the sheriff’s department, would remain behind to operate the base station, providing a secure link to the outside world in case the expedition ran into trouble.
Lloyd stood up. “I guess we’d better get started, Professor Fuller.”
“Call me Steven.”
“Okay, Steven. These are for you.” He slid a dirty cardboard box across the table to the professor.
“What’s this?”
“It’s some stuff left over from last year’s Halloween party.”
Steven opened the box and pulled out a couple of foil-wrapped cylinders.
“They’re lightsticks,” Lloyd said. “We handed them out to all the kids who came around the station, but we still ended up with a bunch left over. I figured they might come in handy.”
“Now this is what I call using your head.” Steven grinned, obviously delighted with the gift. “You know, you might turn out to be caver material after all.”
Picking up the box, Fuller headed toward the mouth of the cave. Lloyd smiled. He couldn’t help liking the professor. Underneath the slightly graying beard and a complexion whitened by too many years spent inside a classroom was one of the world’s last true adventurers. He watched with amusement as the wiry history teacher climbed spiderlike over a pile of loose rocks at the cave’s mouth. His teaching job may have robbed him of his suntan, but Professor Fuller was still as agile as most twenty-year-olds.
Deputy Hays spoke up. “The professor’s a card, isn’t he?”
“He sure is,” Lloyd nodded. He turned to the deputy. “Hays, I don’t want you wandering off or taking a nap while we’re down there. Understand? If you get bored, read a book. Whatever you do, make damn sure you stay within hearing range of this radio. If I have to call you more than twice to get your attention, I’ll have you mopping piss out of the drunk tank for a month of Sundays.”
Crota Page 11
