Watchers in the Woods

by William W. Johnstone

  Using his sheath knife, a Gerber sawback with a nine-inch blade, he buried the paper that had held his rations and then stood up, picking up his rifle but not slinging it. He stretched and suddenly jumped out of his campsite. He ran for about fifty yards, then cut back in the direction he had just come, but north of where he had rested.

  He heard a shout. It did not sound human. It had more of a gutteral, animal-like quality to it. Matt dove into some thick underbrush and lay still, his ears picking up the sounds of faint movement some distance in front of him.

  Then he saw a small tree move.

  A tree—move?

  Yes. The tree had been there one second; the next it was gone—limbs, leaves, trunk, and all.

  He dared not lift his head nor move his arms or legs, for to a skilled hunter, movement attracts more attention than sound. He moved only his eyes and picked up on the very slight movement of a branch about a hundred yards away, slightly to his right. But the branch was out of place. It was sticking straight up instead growing out of the trunk.

  He estimated that he was probably twenty to twenty-five miles east of the lodge, and about five miles north of a nature trail. But in this country, that was about the same as being on the moon.

  Every instinct that had been trained and honed to its sharpest edge silently screamed for him to shoot. He had a target, but still he held his fire. There was no doubt in his mind that whoever was stalking him meant him no good. But until that was proved to his satisfaction he would not use lethal force. So far, his stalkers had shown no sign of hostility or aggression.

  So, Matt thought, what now?

  His adversaries answered that for him. A slender arrow with a stone tip embedded itself in a tree just inches above his head and to his left. Matt smiled, slipped the Mini-14 off safety with just a flick of one finger, and lay still. He always carried the weapon with a round chambered. Matt abruptly jumped to his feet, exposing himself for a heartbeat. He threw himself to one side and came to rest at the base of a thick tree.

  He heard a guttural noise pushed out of a throat—he still did not know what manner of throat it might be—but to Matt, it had a ring of command to it. He heard the rustle of brush as whoever it was stalking him began advancing. He jumped to his boots and ran toward the north, his weapon carried in combat position. He jumped over fallen logs and dodged around brush and trees, then suddenly cut to the west just as another slender arrow slammed into a tree, missing him by about a foot.

  He saw movement to his right, strange movement, like small, thick trees ducking through the woods. He slid to a panting halt, leveled his Mini-14, and triggered off half a dozen quick rounds. The rifle was equipped with a good sound suppressor, and he carried spares in his pack. The. 223 rounds made only a huffing sound as they left the muzzle; the working of the bolt made more noise than the muffled muzzle blast.

  He saw one treelike object stumble, recover, and lurch off into the timber, staggering. The stalker’s clothing—whatever it was; Matt suspected tree bark—blended in with the vegetation and the figure was gone.

  Matt quickly changed locations and hit the ground, lying as still as the earth beneath him. His clothing was camouflage, designed for this terrain, and as long as he remained still he would not be spotted.

  His stalkers were gone. The returning of the birds, singing and chirping, and the squirrels popping out of their dens told him he was alone, as did his own senses, still working overtime.

  Matt did not move. He lay still for five more minutes, until the birds and the small animals of the forest were once more at play or in search of food. Only then did he rise from the ground and begin his search for sign. He found blood on a leaf, and more blood a few feet away from that. A lot of blood. That told him he had made a righteous hit. He returned to his packhorse and retrieved a kit. He collected blood samples and carefully sealed the slides in plastic. He found bits of bloodied bark with what appeared to be very coarse human hair on them, and collected them. He searched for more evidence to be sent back to Washington and found where somebody or something had lain belly-down on the ground, leaving behind sweat or saliva. That was collected and sealed. He backtracked and found one of the arrows that had been fired at him. Just one. The other had been removed . . . by someone. Or something.

  He wanted to get what he had into a lab as quickly as possible, so after checking his bearings, he began the ride back to the lodge. He made his camp secure for the night—very secure, now that he knew his stalkers were dangerous—and was back at the lodge the next day. There had been no further incidents. Although he had not been as far from the lodge as he’d first thought, he was pleased when he came out only a few yards south of where he had gone in.

  Matt had stowed the Mini-14, but had his .380 holstered on his web belt when he rode in. The lodge owner noticed it, but said nothing. If he had any thoughts about Matt, he kept them to himself. He had already put one call through to Washington—or more precisely, Langley, Virginia—and one did not need to be a student of government agencies to know that something was going on. He put another call through to the same place, five minutes after Mr. Jordan entered his room.

  Matt drove away that afternoon and met the single-engine plane at an airstrip west of the lodge.

  “We have a fighter waiting at an air force base south of us,” the pilot told him. “This will be in the lab this evening.”

  “Thanks.”

  The pilot nodded and was gone.

  * * *

  Frank and Cathy Nichols looked at the mound of supplies in their den and together shook their heads, both of them wondering how in the world they were going to pack all this stuff over to the campsite . . . wherever that was.

  “Do you suppose Nancy has arranged for horses?” Cathy asked.

  “God, I hope so!”

  “When is the last time you rode a horse, Frank?”

  He shook his head. “I think it was about thirty years ago.”

  Then they both started laughing.

  * * *

  Dennis Feldman looked at his youngest, fourteen-year-old Walter, and sighed with a sigh that only a parent can bring forth. “You’re going to like it out there, Walter. I promise you. You’ll love it.”

  The boy looked at his father, a dubious expression on his face. “Sleeping on the ground and swatting bugs? God, I bet we won’t even be able to pick up a decent radio station way out there in the jungle.”

  “Lack of what currently passes for music would be worth the trip by itself,” Milli muttered.

  “It isn’t jungle, Walter,” Dennis told him. “It’s forests and mountains and rivers and lakes. I think.”

  “See, you don’t even know,” the boy pointed out.

  “You got two choices, boy,” the father said. “Go with us, or go to your grandparents’.”

  “Some choice,” Walter said. “Spend two weeks at Geriatric City or go stomping around in the hinterlands.”

  Dennis pointed a finger at him. “There is a third choice, boy, and it’s called the back of my hand.”

  “So, awright, awready!” the boy said, smiling; he had his father’s good sense of humor. Besides, he knew his dad would give him a smack in the mouth if he offered up anymore lip. “It’ll be worth it to see you fall off your horse. ”

  * * *

  Norman and Polly Hunt had taken a different tack with their two kids, and both Judy and Johnny were looking forward to the camping trip. The four of them had gone over their supplies twice and were now packing them up. Polly had walked out to the garage in time to see her husband slip an automatic pistol and two boxes of cartridges into a knapsack. They were shipping their gear straight to the lodge.

  “Norm?”

  He turned to face her.

  “Why are you taking a gun?”

  “Because I’ll feel better with it, that’s why.”

  “I thought your friend Matt was coming along.”

  “Just to the reunion and dance, I think. I’d love for him to come campi
ng with us. Hey, I think I’ll call Nance and get his number; give him a call and invite him.” He buckled a strap on the knapsack and turned to his wife. “Why did you make some correlation between Matt and a gun?”

  “He works for the CIA, doesn’t he?”

  “Last I heard, yes.”

  “So he’ll have a gun, won’t he? Why do you have to take one? They scare me, Norm.”

  He grinned at her. “Matt have a gun, baby? Naw, he won’t have a gun.”

  “He won’t?” she asked, puzzled.

  Norm laughed. “Not Matt. He’ll probably have half a dozen of them!”

  * * *

  Frank, alarmed at the mound of supplies they had accumulated, got on the phone to Nancy. He could not remember the name of the lodge and had lost the phone number. “Nance, what is the name of that lodge where we jump off to the woods?”

  She gave it to him. “Why, Frank? I’ve already made our reservations.”

  “Nance, we can’t carry all this stuff in. Cathy and me alone have about a ton between us.”

  Her laugh was delightful over the phone, and Frank grinned. “Relax, Frankie. I’ve arranged for packhorses to be there.”

  Frank sighed with relief. “You’re a sweetheart, Nance. See you in a couple of weeks.”

  “You think we can still dance to ‘Louie, Louie,’ Frankie?”

  He groaned across the miles. “I don’t know. But we’ll give it our best shot . . . provided there is a doctor in attendance!”

  Laughing, she hung up.

  She still had her hand on the phone when it rang. Norman. “Nance, do you have a number where Matt can be reached?”

  “No, I don’t, Norm. Sorry. Just an address. Why don’t you write to him and ask him to come along on our camping trip? You’re the only one he’s kept in contact with over the years.”

  “You’re reading my mind, Nance. But as far as Matt keeping in touch, I haven’t heard from him in three or four years. I used to get Christmas cards from him, all from South America. Always with a different address, or no address at all.”

  “Matt Jordan, man of mystery. Oh, by the way, your room number at the lodge is three. I was about to call everyone and advise them to telephone the lodge and confirm when Frank called, all in a sweat.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  They shared a laugh over Frank’s call and both of them groaned over the prospect of riding horses. Neither of them had ridden in years.

  “OK, Nance. I’ll call the lodge today. See you.”

  At the lodge, Matt was sitting in the small registration area talking with the owner.

  “You’re real lucky you got your room when you did,” he told Matt. “It was the only one I had left open. Got a group coming in to go camping in a couple of weeks. They have all the other rooms booked.”

  Matt kept his expression bland. Could it be? If it was, that would solve the problem of wrangling an invitation to go camping. “Oh? From back East?”

  “From all over.” He flipped open the registration book. “L.A. San Jose. New York State. Denver, and San Francisco. Some of them bringing their kids, too.”

  Damn! Matt had to hide his frown. He had not expected any of his old classmates to bring their children. This cast everything in a new light. He wondered if Richard had known the kids would be along when he set up the operation.

  “Yeah,” the owner was saying. “The woman who made the reservations was all excited. Said this was going to be a part of a class reunion. All of them graduated from a high school in Denver back in ’67. Mrs. Nancy Lavelle, she was.”

  There it was. “How about that? So did I. Nancy is an old friend of mine.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Nope. Class of ’67. Denver. We’re having a big dance in Denver to celebrate. I knew some of the old gang was planning a camping trip; I didn’t know where.”

  “Talk about coincidence! I’ll be darned.”

  Matt went outside to take a walk. As he was walking, Norman Hunt called the lodge.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Hunt. Your room will be ready and waiting for you. I’ve arranged for horses to ride and pack animals to carry your gear in. Oh, no problem, sir. I’ll show you all how to saddle up and pack the gear. A guide will take you in and then come get you in two weeks. Oh, by the way—an old classmate of yours is here. He has a room booked for six weeks. Yes, that’s right. Real nice fellow, name of Matt Jordan. That’s right. Sure is a coincidence, isn’t it? Hang on, let me buzz his room.” He let the phone ring ten times. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hunt. I guess he’s out for a walk. You want me to tell him you called?”

  “No,” Norman said after a short pause. “No. Let’s keep it a surprise.”

  “Right. I understand.” But he really didn’t. Odd bunch of people, he thought. What surprise? Matt knew they were coming in, now they knew he was here. Weird.

  Norm called Nancy. “He’s there, Nance.”

  “Who is where, Norman?”

  “Matt. He’s at the lodge in Idaho right now. Out walking around. I just talked to the desk clerk. Matt booked a room for six weeks.”

  “Six weeks! I don’t understand, Norm.”

  “That makes at least two of us. Matt must have found out about the camping trip and plans to surprise us.”

  “From whom? I certainly didn’t mention anything about it in my invitation to the reunion; we didn’t know we were going then. And I’m the only one who knew how to get in touch with him.”

  “I don’t know, Nance. All I know is, he’s there.”

  “Maybe it’s another Matt Jordan?”

  “Class of ’67, Denver, Colorado. That pretty well narrows it down.”

  Nancy laughed nervously. “Well, he does work for the CIA, right?”

  Norman got a good laugh out of that. “Nance, the CIA is not interested in our class reunion. But I can tell you this: I was around some of those Agency spooks in Nam.” Norman was the only one of the group besides Matt to have served in Vietnam. “And they can be pretty damned weird. I tried to stay away from them as much as possible.”

  “I’m not sure I like the idea of the CIA knowing every aspect of my life.”

  “Nance,” he said, and she could just see the smile on his face. “The CIA does not know every aspect of our lives. The IRS, maybe. But not the Agency. We’re just little, everyday people. They’re not interested in our rather mundane lives.”

  “Are you sure of that, Norm?”

  “I’m sure, Nance.”

  “I’m sounding paranoid. Hey, see you in a couple of weeks!”

  After he’d hung up, she sat and stared at the phone for a few minutes. She put out her hand and pulled it back from the receiver several times before making up her mind and punching out Susan’s number.

  Maybe all this business about Matt was just pure coincidence. She hoped it was.

  But she didn’t think so.

  5

  “Are you ready for this, Matt?” Richard asked over the phone.

  “After twenty-one years with the Company, I’m ready for anything.”

  “It’s human blood and saliva—sort of.”

  Matt sighed. He was in no mood for games. Sort of? “Now what the hell kind of statement is that, Richard? Sort of?”

  “Let me lead you into this, Matt. We all think it’s a very exciting find. You’ve seen a dog lick a cut on its paw, of course?”

  “Yes, Richard. They have an enzyme in their saliva that helps to clot the blood and promote healing . . . something like that.”

  “Yes. Something like that. These people who attacked you have basically the same type of saliva.”

  Matt tried to mentally digest that. “Scientists say we lost that ability thousands of years ago.”

  “These people didn’t. These . . . things you encountered in the wilderness, they’ve never been innoculated for anything. They’ve got more germs than a garbage dump. And that arrow is something out of the Stone Age.”

  “Are they rabid?” Matt asked sarcastica
lly. He still felt he was dealing with a group of excellent woodsmen who were a part of some wacko survivalist group.

  “Take this more seriously, Matt, please,” the number two man urged. “Our lab people are all excited about the samples you sent back.”

  “Tell them to calm down. The last time they got all excited they came up with an incendiary cigar that was supposed to set Castro’s beard on fire. It didn’t work.”

  “Matt!”

  “Okay, okay, Richard. So what are these people I’m up against?”

  “They’re not people.”

  That stopped Matt for a few seconds. “Would you like to elaborate on that?”

  “Certainly. They are of the species homo sapiens, that much we can be sure of. This bunch just didn’t evolve. That’s theory, Matt. We can’t be sure until you bring us one.”

  “Bring you one?”

  “I’m leveling with you, Matt. We want one alive.”

  Matt muttered something extremely profane under his breath. “Providing I can snare one, what the hell are you going to do with it? Sell it to a sideshow?”

  “We want to study it.”

  “Richard, I have good reason to believe that these... creatures not only seize people, but that they eat them as well . . .”

  “Ummm. Yes,” Richard broke in. “That might explain some inconsistencies our lab people found while doing the bloodwork. Please continue.”

  “Thank you. And that they’ve been practicing cannibalism for over a hundred years. Maybe forever. How the hell do I know? Look, I’m one man up against God only knows how many of these . . . things; I can do only so much. And while we’re on the subject, why didn’t you tell me my old classmates are bringing their kids along on this trip?”

  Richard was silent for a moment. “Damn! That is unfortunate. I didn’t know, Matt. I promise you, I wasn’t aware of that.”

  Matt believed him. He knew that during his years in the field Richard’s one weakness—if it could be called that—was his love of children. Several of his operations had been scrapped at the last minute because of the danger of kids getting hurt. Matt had done the same thing; he was just a little bit better at hiding his feelings.