The Hunted

by Mike Dellosso

  "Good morning, Joe. Did I wake you?" It was Rosa.

  "Uh, yeah. I guess you did. But it's OK. I needed to get up anyway." He looked at the clock-9:43. "Wow. I overslept."

  "Are you OK?"

  He was still trying to climb out of his fog. "Um, yeah. Yes. I'm fine. I didn't sleep well, that's all. Had some bad dreams."

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "Uh, no. Not really. I'm fine... I am."

  "OK. I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you."

  "Sure. What is it?"

  "I need to run some errands and was wondering if you could come sit with Caleb for a little while. I think it would do him good to hear your voice."

  Joe didn't hesitate. He'd wanted to spend more time with Caleb anyway. "Sure. Just let me get showered and ready, and I'll be right over."

  "Thanks. I'm going to leave now, so when you get here, just come in and pull up a chair. OK?"

  "Got it."

  There was a short pause on Rosa's end, then, "Joe, are you sure you're OK?"

  "Yeah, I am. Really."

  Stevie Bauer looked like a new man. His hair was neatly parted to one side, his face cleanly shaven. He wore a pressed pair of khakis and a pale blue button-down shirt. His fingernails were clean and trimmed, and his eyes sparkled.

  Dress to impress, that's what Momma always told him. People judge a man by his clothes.

  Stevie had awakened early and spent the better part of the morning preparing himself and ironing his clothes. He had to figure out how to use the iron Josiah had given him a few years back-he'd never used it before. But when he had dressed and groomed himself, he looked in the mirror and liked what he saw. Dapper! That was another one of Momma's words.

  Stevie strolled up to the double glass doors of Hillside Hall, his shoulders back, chin up, sunglasses in place. It was a cool, sunny day, and he thought the shades would add nicely to his dapper outfit. A blue and tan canvas duffle bag dangled from his hand, swaying back and forth.

  He stopped in front of the doors and waited for them to slide open. He glanced at his watch-10:38. "Sticks and stones," he muttered. "Sticks and stones."

  Joe removed his sunglasses, leaned to his right, and looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. He brushed a few loose strands of hair off his forehead and smiled at himself, checking his teeth for leftover granola. The clock on the dash read 10:39. He had made good time.

  After hanging up from his conversation with Rosa, Joe had jumped in the shower and let the hot water run down over his head, face, and shoulders, slowly, gently, waking him up. The images of his dream, the sound of Maggie's laughter, the feeling of panic that had crept into his chest, eventually faded, becoming mere shadows, like figures in a fog.

  He had tried to pray again too. He remembered he used to pray in the shower a lot, and the feeling of last night's prayer was still vaguely familiar. But the words hadn't come so easily this time.

  As his mind cleared of the cobwebs from his restless sleep, it began to churn, like gears of an old car slowly creaking to life after years of sitting idle. Was the beast still at large? Would it attack again? And when? Where? Who? There had to be more Maggie could do. She was the police chief, for crying out loud. She had to have connections.

  He had decided there in the shower that he would talk to her soon, pick her brain a bit, apply some pressure if needed.

  Stevie waited until the glass doors slid open with a mechanical hum. He stepped inside the tile-floored breezeway, lifted the duffle bag, and patted it gently. Something inside moved and let out a low growl.

  "Soon enough, little one," he whispered.

  He walked across the lobby, trying to look confident and casual at the same time, his heels clicking on the tiled floor. Passing the receptionist's desk, he made eye contact with the young brunette behind the glass window, dipped his head slightly, smiled, and gave a little wave with his free hand.

  She smiled and nodded in return.

  Easy as pie. This was cool!

  Stevie shoved his free hand in his pocket, pulled his shoulders back, and headed down a corridor marked A Wing.

  As he clicked down the long hallway, he quickly read the names posted outside each door. Baublitz ... Linford ... Sanchez ... Dubbs. The names went on and on, but none of them were familiar. When he reached the end of the corridor, he turned right and walked down a narrow hall that came to a door marked B Wing. He swung the door open and proceeded down the long hallway, reading off each name in his head.

  Joe got out of his truck and squinted in the sunlight. There was a nasty glare reflecting off the gold-lettered Hillside Hall emblazoned across the stucco facade of the building. He shielded his eyes with his hand as he crossed the parking lot.

  The dream he'd had about Maggie was the second such dream. The first was the one about Caleb tumbling over the cliff. And Caleb had been in trouble, hadn't he? So, was this most recent dream some kind of premonition? Joe tried to shove the thought aside. Ridiculous. Coincidence, that's all. But what if there was something to it? Did that mean Maggie was in trouble now too? And if it meant she was in trouble, did it also mean he was in trouble? He now wished the dream had contained Rattlesnake, the pint-sized self-cloaking outlaw. He would certainly be easier to handle than the mysterious beast.

  The double glass doors hummed open and Joe entered, once again admiring the luxurious appearance of the lobby. It was not unlike a highend hotel lobby, complete with brass trim and mahogany woodwork. Someone had spared no expense. He passed the receptionist, gave a wave and a smile, and proceeded down the hallway to B Wing.

  Stevie stopped at the room with Saunders posted beside the door. He looked up and down the hallway. Nothing but rolling metal carts, an IV stand, and a plastic laundry bin. The coast was clear.

  Lowering his knees to the floor, he set the duffle bag down and unzipped it. The sound of the zipper echoed off the bare walls and startled him. He looked around again.

  The IV stand smiled back at him. A metal cart laughed.

  Stevie giggled and tilted the bag sideways. Kitty crawled out and looked around. Stevie gently nudged the cat toward the open door leading to Caleb's room. "In there," he whispered, restraining his voice. He was so excited his hands trembled. He wanted nothing more than to bolt down that long corridor hollering and whooping until his face was blue.

  Patience, Stevie, patience. That's what Momma would have said.

  The cat growled and slinked into the quiet room without making a sound, its ears folded back, tail hanging low.

  Seconds later, Joe rounded the corner and pushed through the doors leading to B Wing. A middle-aged nurse was just coming out of a room to his right; she nodded and gave a polite "hello," and he returned the pleasantry. He walked several feet farther and stopped in front of Caleb's room. The door was open, and the curtains across the large window were pulled back, allowing natural light to brighten the room.

  Joe felt the sudden urge to say a quick prayer. Ten years ago the words would have come easy, flowing out of his heart and landing on the ears of God. He prayed a lot then; it was his lifeline.

  While in the military, he had gotten involved with some guys that led him down the twisted path of alcohol abuse. Alcohol had become his god, his savior, the safe haven to which he ran when the pressures of life boiled up. But then, sitting in a jail cell for trying to rob a convenience store while he was intoxicated, he had found Jesus, or rather, Jesus had found him, broken, needy, and in dire need of a rescuer. That's when he fell in love with a new God, a new Savior. Life was different then; there was purpose and meaning. God was close, so close Joe had felt he could reach out and touch Him sometimes. Praying came easy.

  But then Rick died, and all that changed. A wall was erected, a moat dug. The words didn't come so easy anymore...

  He stood in the doorway for a full thirty seconds before deciding to enter without praying. Suddenly, from inside the room, he heard what sounded like silverware clinking on the floor. Was someone
in there? A nurse, maybe? Or the physical therapist, What's-his-name? He entered the room and looked around. Nobody was there except Caleb, resting quietly, looking the same as he did the last time Joe saw him. A metal clamp lay on the floor beside the bed.

  Joe looked in the bathroom. Nobody there either.

  He reached down to pick up the clamp. When he stood, he started, let out a shout, and jumped back against the wall. "Oh, man!"

  A tan tabby cat was crouched between Caleb's knees, ears laid back flat against its head. The cat hissed and eyed Joe, daring him to move.

  It looked like the same cat that had used his head as a scratching post at the Yates house. Couldn't be, though. Never a cat lover, preferring a dog's humble outlook on life to the high-and-mighty divalike arrogance of a cat, Joe took the dare. "Get out of here," he shouted, and, executing his best John McEnroe backhand, minus the headband but with all the attitude, swatted it off the bed. "Go on, get outta here!"

  The cat launched off the bedcovers and landed on its feet, tail puffed out like cotton candy, and bolted for the doorway. It turned left as it exited the room, slid along the newly waxed floor, and scrambled down the corridor.

  Joe followed the now-humbled cat out and looked up and down the hall for a nurse. There was nobody but a duffle bag-toting man in a blue shirt hurrying the other way. The man pushed through the doors on the far end of the hall, and the cat slipped past him.

  Joe shook his head and went back into the room. His pulse had spiked during the encounter but quickly resumed its normal rhythm. He pulled the maroon chair next to Caleb's bed and eased himself into it.

  After a moment of silence, he said, "Well, buddy, it's just you and me here." It felt awkward talking to a sleeping boy.

  A familiar voice, deep, masculine, filtered through the darkness. It was muffled and distorted... but familiar.

  Along with the voice came warmth and comfort. Memories tried to surface. Images smeared in Caleb's mind and fluttered past like pictures on a Rolodex. None of it made sense, none of it was recognizable... except the voice, now echoing in his ears, stirring up emotions, some familiar, some strangely foreign-joy, contentment, love, confusion, anger, hate.

  And hope-he was not alone in the hole. Someone was there with him. But there was no face, only a voice from the past-a man's voice.

  Caleb tried to call to him, but his mouth seemed to be fused shut, his jaw locked, tongue plastered to the roof of his mouth. He tried to move, but he was stuck fast in his hole. He had to warn the man about the beast. Surely he hadn't encountered it yet. Oh, please, please, let the words come.

  Joe looked Caleb over. He looked like the same Caleb with the exception of the gauze bandage wrapped around his left arm from the shoulder to the hand. Only the fingers protruded, swollen and red like five little sausages. The doctor had told Rosa that the infection was gone and the skin grafts were healing nicely. Progress was slow, so any good news was always welcomed with wide smiles all around.

  Joe felt Caleb's index finger. It was warm and smooth. He again regretted not spending more time with his nephew. The poor boy didn't have a father, and Joe was the next closest thing. He knew he was nothing like Rick, never would be, but was certainly better than nothing.

  "Caleb, I promise you, when you get better, we'll do more things together. I'll take you camping and to baseball games. Maybe even take you hunting, if your mom agrees."

  He swallowed hard. A lump had swelled in his throat, and he fought back tears. "I know your mom tells you about your dad all the time, but I never have." He paused. Memories of Rick swarmed into his mind, and a sudden rush of guilt and sorrow and remorse brought the tears to his eyes. "He was a great guy, you know. Much better person than me. He loved you and your mom and God. Those were the three most important things in his life. I was the big brother, but so many times I felt like he was. He was the responsible one, always looking out for me, trying to keep me on the straight and narrow."

  He paused again and wiped the tears that were now falling from his eyes, blurring Caleb's form. "Boy, did I make it hard on him. I was useless, Caleb, an irresponsible wart that depended on his little brother for everything."

  Joe wiped at the tears with both hands now. "Buddy, I never told you how sorry I am for your dad's death. He was looking out for me, as usual, and it got him killed."

  The memory of that day rushed into Joe's mind. He had been out late trying his best to impress Kristy Rinaldi and totally forgot about the delivery he'd told his boss he would make. When he got home, well past midnight, he had checked his answering machine and found a message from Rosa saying Rick had been in an accident and was flown to the nearest shock trauma unit. He died three days following that message. Only later did Joe find out what had happened. His boss had called Rick and Rosa's house looking for him. He said if Joe didn't show up and make the delivery he would be fired. Rick had no idea where Joe was, so he volunteered to make the run for him. Twenty miles down the road the front axle snapped, and the twenty-year-old truck spun out of control. The vehicle veered off the road and tumbled down a steep embankment, rolling over and over. The driver of a car behind Rick had seen the whole thing unfold and went for help. With a crushed pelvis and fractured skull, Rick clung to life for three days before it all came to an end.

  Joe laid his hand on Caleb's leg and wept. Years of grief and guilt poured out of him, spilling down his cheeks. "It should have been me. It should have been me. You'd still have your daddy. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." His voice trailed off, and he sat there next to Caleb, holding the boy's leg, weeping until there were no more tears to shed.

  Then he forced himself to pray... for Caleb's sake. God, heal this boy. Rosa needs him, and I need him.

  That was it. That was all he wanted to say, all he could say.

  CHAPTER 20

  OSIAH WALKER UNZIPPED his sleeping bag and sat on the edge of the sofa. The air in the living room was chilly. He had gotten into the routine of turning the thermostat down to sixty degrees at night. Three years ago, after his wife, Ginny, passed on, he began sleeping on the sofa, unable to cope with a bed empty of her warmth, her smell, her company. For months he wrestled with night sweats and had taken to turning the thermostat down to combat the waves of heat that rushed him during his restive nights. Both the sofa sleeping and the cool air were habits he now found hard to break. Besides, sleeping on the first floor saved his arthritic knees from climbing stairs.

  He looked at his watch-2:15. Slipping from the sofa, he slid his feet into the worn slippers that waited on the braided carpet. He had heard the voice again-His voice. For the past three nights at exactly 2:15 he had heard the same voice, clear as day, just after awakening from a sound sleep. But this night was different; an image had accompanied the voice, an image of a dark-haired man sitting in a booth at Darlene's. His face was drawn and sad, maybe confused; Josiah couldn't tell exactly. He looked like he had a question to ask but couldn't remember what it was.

  Josiah stood erect, feeling a pop in his lower back, and rubbed his arms. His knees were stiff, as usual, but that would diminish soon enough. He shuffled across the floor to the hallway and on into the kitchen. When he'd heard the voice before, he'd gotten up and fixed himself a nice cup of hot tea-Earl Grey was his favorite. Tonight would be no different.

  Following Ginny's death, he'd thought about selling the farm and the old farmhouse but never seemed to get around to it. Bottom line was, he just didn't want to leave. There were too many memories on the farm, memories he didn't know how much longer his mind could maintain without the prompting of being there. Besides that, no one would want to buy the property. No one was moving into Dark Hills; it seemed everyone was moving out. Now, three years later and older, he sometimes wished he could sell it. It was getting to be too much for one old man to keep up with.

  After pouring himself a steaming cup of Earl Grey, Josiah lit an oil lamp in the living room, lowered himself into a wingback chair, and propped his feet on a caned stool. In the quiet o
f the night, he preferred the soft glow of a flame over the harsh light of a bulb. This was his time to meditate, to focus on the voice and let its baritone echo resonate in his soul.

  Tonight, though, he would focus not only on the voice but on the face too. The face of a man he knew only as "Joe."

  Across town, Maggie was awake as well. She'd tossed and rolled and flipped and wrestled with sleep for three hours, trying to get comfortable. But comfort seemed like a distant memory tonight. She had lied to Joe, lied to the townsfolk, and lied to herself. So this was how it started, huh? This is what her great-grandpa wrestled with, her grandpa and her father as well. This was the Gill family lie, the Secret, as it had come to be known among those who knew.

  As a child, she'd heard the stories passed around schoolyards, slumber parties, and, occasionally, from the mouth of her own grandpa, but thought they were just that-stories, the ramblings of a small town's overactive imagination. Her father never spoke of the tales, never mentioned the Secret, and never answered her questions about either. Would it get worse for her as it did for her great-grandpa? Would she end up like him? Controlled by the Secret? Consumed by it until it determined her every move, her every decision? She shuddered at the thought, and then swept it out of her mind.

  No, it wouldn't.

  She was different from Great-Grandpa and Grandpa and Dad. She wouldn't lie as they had. But she already had, hadn't she? It was happening again, just as it did decades ago, and she had no idea how to stop it. She was scared. Bob Cummings may very well be missing, or his attacker, the thing in the woods Joe claimed to have seen, may have been a rogue black bear or coyote. But Woody Owen's death was obvious. If she had any doubt at all, it was quickly dispelled the moment she walked into Woody's house. No animal native to Dark Hills would, or even could, do what she saw. Fear crept over her like a million black spiders, filling every safe place she ever ran to.