The Hunted

by Mike Dellosso

  "Now hold on," Dick said. He stood up and ran his palm over his head. "Let's not go rushing into this. There's a few things we need to understand. First, we'll be breaking the law. Chief said no one was to hunt this thing, not to mention the fact that we'll be trespassing on Walker's land. We all need to make sure we're ready for the consequences if we get caught. Second, remember what it is we're hunting. This is a lion we're talking about, not some Bambi hopping around in the woods. This is a killer in its own right. A hunter. And third, by my count and expectation"-he looked around at each man-"we're a little short-manned. I think all of us were expecting a few more guns. Now, I'm ready and willing to go with what we have, but I want to make sure we all understand we go in as a team, we stick together, we cover for each other. No solo jobs out there. No heroes."

  Clark looked at Mike Little as Dick finished. If anyone was prone to play hero and go it alone, it would be Mike. Fortunately, the younger man nodded in agreement.

  Clark cleared his throat and rubbed the stock of his gun. "Dick's right. We gotta stick together. There's only four of us and"-he looked at Dick and Gerald-"three of us are past our prime. You guys up to this?"

  Gerald nodded. "I know what I saw. I don't care what Maggie tries to make it seem like. I saw a lion, plain as day."

  Dick nodded once without saying another word.

  "Well, then," Clark said, a smile stretching across his face. "What are we waitin' for? Let's move out."

  Minutes later Clark eased his dual-cab Ford pickup off Pheasant Run Road and ground it to a halt in the loose gravel along the shoulder. To his right was an open field that had lain fallow for the season and rose in a gradual slope for about four hundred yards before bumping up against Yates Woods. It was the same field that bordered the Chronisters' and Moyers' backyards a quarter mile away.

  All four men swung open their doors and stepped out. They all met in front of the truck, weapons in hand, and Clark looked up at the gray sky. Some clouds were starting to part, and it looked as though the sun would peek through any minute. It might turn out to be a nice day, after all.

  A nice day for a kill.

  "OK, gents," Clark said. He turned his head and spit a wad of black juice on the gravel. "This is it. We'll head through the field here and enter the woods over yonder. That beast has got to be in there somewheres."

  He studied the tree line for several seconds before looking at the three other men. "Keep your eyes peeled, you hear? And we stick together."

  A palpable tension had settled on the small group. The others firmed their jaws and silently nodded in agreement.

  "Men," Clark said, "remember, we're doin' this for the good of our town, our people. It's kill or be killed. That simple."

  They hadn't walked twenty yards when a wooup-wooup pierced the morning stillness. The men froze, then turned in time to see Maggie's cruiser skidding to a stop behind Clark's truck.

  Clark slumped his shoulders and cursed. To his left, Mike kicked a wad of dirt and cursed loudly, and to his right, Gerald and Dick leaned on their guns, wagging their heads.

  Maggie climbed out of her car and stood along the side of the road, hands on her hips. She tilted her head to the left. "Morning, fellas. What brings you out here on this fine day?"

  "You know what we're doin'," Clark yelled. "We're doin' your job."

  Maggie smiled, not that she was humored at all by the four's brazen disregard for her orders, but simply to hide the anger that had boiled up inside her. "I'm doing my job too, Clark. I'm protecting you. You go in there"-she nodded toward the woods-"and chances are, not all of you will be going home tonight."

  "We all know the chance we're taking," Mike said. "It's for the good a'the whole town. Maybe you should think about that."

  "Well, unfortunately for you, I'm the one who calls the shots around here. So let's go. Party's over. Everyone go home."

  The four didn't budge. They stood their ground and eyed Maggie like a pocket of outlaws from some old western movie.

  Maggie waved them in. "I said let's go. Come on, guys. Go home and cool off."

  Still nothing. Only firmed jaws, clenched fists, and stares of defiance.

  Maggie was growing impatient. "Guys, I really don't want to have to arrest anyone over this. Now come on. Dick, Gerald, what would your wives say if they knew you were doing this? Or if they had to come down to the station to bail you out? It's not worth it. Gerald, think about it; is this what you want? For June to have to deal with? Come on. Let's go."

  Clark snarled his upper lip. His eyes were like flint behind those bushy eyebrows. "Chief, it's gonna take more than empty threats to stop me. You're gonna have to shoot me."

  He shouldered his gun and turned to head for the woods.

  "The same goes for me," Mike said, and followed on Clark's heels.

  Dick and Gerald stayed where they were, bolted to the ground. Dick made a quick glance at Clark, then back at Maggie.

  "Clark, Mike, stop right now." Maggie was doing her best to remain calm, but the situation was quickly spiraling out of control. She grabbed her radio and called for backup. Gary would be there in minutes. Then she quickly surveyed the situation. Gerald and Dick were caving; she could see the doubt in their eyes. They wouldn't be a problem. Clark and Mike were a different story. They were approximately twenty-five yards away now. Clark shouldered a pump-action 12-gauge shotgun. Mike cradled what looked like a .30-06 in the crook of his left elbow. She had to stand firm. For her safety and theirs.

  "Guys, stop now or I'm gonna shoot." Maggie heard herself say the words but didn't believe them herself. She could never shoot Clark Martin or Mike Little. Yes, they were armed and ignoring her order, but they were her people, the people she'd sworn to protect. But her anger had gotten the better of her, and their defiance had pushed her over the edge. And lately, that edge wasn't so far away. Whether she would actually shoot them or not, she didn't know.

  But she had an eerie feeling she was about to find out.

  When they ignored her threat, she slipped her Glock out of her holster and leveled it on Clark's back. Time seemed to stand still. A hawk screeched in the distance. "Clark Martin, stop where you are or I'll shoot."

  Stop, Clark. For heaven's sake, stop!

  In her peripheral vision, Maggie saw Dick nudge Gerald in the side. "I'm done," he said, and headed toward Maggie.

  Gerald looked back at Clark, then hustled to catch up with Dick.

  "Clark! Mike! Darn it, guys. Stop now!" Maggie said. Her arms were shaking, and her breathing was rapid. If they didn't stop she'd have to-

  Clark stopped and turned around. "Maggie Gill," he hollered. He and Mike now stood about thirty-five yards away from Maggie. "Are you really gonna shoot me? 'Cause if you are, do it now and shoot me in the chest. Don't shoot me in the back like some kinda yella coward. But either way, you're gonna have to shoot me 'cause I'm goin' in those woods, and I'm gonna kill that lion." He looked at Mike, who nodded in agreement. Both men faced Maggie and stood perfectly still, drilling her with narrowed eyes.

  It was a dare, Maggie knew. They were testing her, calling her bluff. This was a showdown, western style. She refused to back down. Not now. No way. She lowered her pistol a half inch, moved it a quarter inch to the left, and squeezed the trigger. A loud crack sliced through the air. The handgun kicked back against Maggie's arm, and a puff of dirt exploded not five inches from Clark's right foot.

  Clark flinched and took a quick step to the left. He looked at the ground where the bullet had hit, then at Maggie. His eyes were wide in obvious disbelief.

  Mike shifted his weight back and forth-right, left, right, left-and clenched his free fist. He glanced at the woods behind him.

  "Don't even think about it, Mike," Maggie hollered. A trail of sweat broke from under her cap and pooled in her left eyebrow.

  Mike looked at the woods again and motioned to his left.

  Maggie shifted the pistol an inch to the right and squeezed the trigger again. Another crac
k, another kick, another puff of dirt, this time within inches of Mike's left foot.

  Now Mike flinched and took one step to his right so he and Clark were now side by side, shoulders touching.

  "Now," Maggie said, keeping her pistol at an arm's length, pointed at the ground in front of Clark and Mike, "do as I say and get back here." Her voice was like hard, cold, edgy steel.

  Clark eyed Maggie for a long time before a smile parted his lips. "You won't shoot me. You ain't got it in you."

  Just then, Gary's cruiser appeared and skidded to a stop; the front tires jutted into the field. Gary swung the door open and jumped out. Andy climbed out of the passenger seat, dressed in street clothes. Both were double-clutching their Glocks at arm's length by the time they reached Maggie.

  "Clark Martin and Mike Little," Gary hollered, using his don't-messwith-me voice and pointing his pistol at Clark, "you are under arrest. Lay your weapons down and put your hands behind your head."

  Neither Clark nor Mike moved.

  "Do it now!" Gary barked, his voice deep and commanding.

  Finally, after a long, tense pause, Clark cursed and let his shotgun fall to the ground. Mike did the same. The showdown was over.

  Maggie took a deep breath and lowered her pistol. Her hands were trembling, and the emotional release brought tears to her eyes. She saw Gary and Andy rush Mike and Clark and handcuff them. She heard the hollers, the curses, the Miranda rights, but her body felt numb. The hawk screeched again in the distance. She had almost shot Clark Martin. And over what? She was losing control. She was losing her mind.

  "Chief?" It was Gerald Heller, standing next to her, his hand on her shoulder. She turned her head toward him.

  "Are you OK?"

  She blinked and swallowed hard, dashing a stray tear that had slipped from her eye. "Yeah, I'm fine." She sniffed and forced a smile. "Thanks, Gerald."

  Gerald patted her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Chief. I don't know what came over me. I shouldn't have been out here."

  Maggie drew in a deep breath, clearing her head. Gary and Andy were walking Clark and Mike back to the cruiser. Dick was sitting on the ground, his head in his hands. "It's OK. I know we've all been under a lot of stress lately. I'll give you and Dick a lift home."

  CHAPTER 22

  OE STEERED INTO one of the five parking spots next to the Dark Hills Public Library, shut off the engine, and got out of his truck. The building really wasn't much of a library. It was located in an old house, one of the oldest in town, and shared the building with the historical society. The century-old building was a two-story gray, stone colonial that sat atop a small green slope midway down West High Street and, like most of the homes in Dark Hills, was in desperate need of repair. The blue paint on the windows and front door was faded and peeling from baking in the sun for the past century. The shutters dangled from the window frames like autumn leaves ready to release their grip and blow away. Some clung to one hinge; others sagged and drooped, submitting to the forces of gravity. The roof was the worst, though. Decades ago, the old slate had been replaced with shingles, and now the shingles were at the end of their lifespan. Some flapped in the breeze, some curled like burnt paper, and some hung on by one nail, dangling precariously. Over the years, the foundation had shifted, giving the house an odd shape, almost as if the whole structure was frowning, begging to be renovated.

  The building looked the same as it did fifteen years ago. As a kid it had reminded Joe of a haunted house where ghouls and specters hid in every shadow, waiting for the unsuspecting bookworm to stumble upon them. Being no bookworm and therefore avoiding the library like an eight-foot ogre with an appetite for amphibians, he'd considered himself safe.

  Joe rounded the house on the narrow concrete walkway and stepped onto the wood-plank porch. The porch moaned under his weight, and more than one board sagged when he stepped on it. Rotted through and through. He jiggled the brass doorknob-which was loose-and pushed open the door, half expecting said giant ogre in platform boots to welcome him and offer a snack of newt's eyes and salamander toes.

  Thankful the library housed no super-sized fiend, he entered and looked around. The interior was not much better than the dilapidated exterior. The wide-planked, pine floorboards were rough and gray; the walls were an odd off-white, muted by years of dust and road dirt that had made its way through the front door and open windows in the summer; and the plaster ceiling was cracked in so many places it was beginning to look like a road map.

  The downstairs housed the library. There was a desk to the left, a small wooden table with three uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs to the right, and the rest of the main room was occupied by overstuffed, dusty bookcases arranged in narrow aisles.

  There were no smoke alarms, at least not any in sight, no emergency lights, no exit signs, no overhead sprinklers, and no visible fire extinguisher. A building inspector would find himself in dire need of a Valium within seconds of beginning his examination.

  The floor creaked as Joe walked across it, the pine boards alerting any other occupants that someone had entered the old wreck.

  An elderly woman with gray hair pulled back in a tight bun poked her head around the corner of one of the bookshelves and tucked her chin at Joe. "Morning."

  "Good morning," Joe said.

  "You need any help just let me know." She smiled and held Joe's gaze for a moment.

  "Thanks. I do need some help, actually."

  The woman stepped out from the aisle. She was short and round and wore a white dress with little blue flowers, thick nylons, and black leather shoes. Round wire-rimmed glasses sat nicely on her nose and partially hid a pair of thin gray eyebrows. "What can I do?"

  "I need all the copies of the Dark Hills Gazette from 1922."

  The woman dipped her head and peered over the rims of her glasses at Joe. "They're upstairs in the historical society. I'll go fetch 'em." She turned and disappeared behind a wall that hid the staircase ascending upstairs.

  Joe looked around while Library Lady fetched the papers. He could hear her walking around on the second floor. Every footstep sounded like the floor would give way. He imagined her crashing through the floorboards and plaster, landing in his arms, toppling both of them to the floor.

  Moments later, the woman appeared toting a large green cardboard binder in both hands. "Here you go, 1920 to 1929," she said, deep creases forming around her eyes as she smiled. She handed Joe the binder as if it were the Gutenberg Bible and stood there staring at him for several seconds. "Are you a reporter?"

  "No, not exactly," Joe said. "Just doing some research on the history of the town."

  She raised her eyebrows. "Do you live here in town?"

  "Used to," Joe said. "I grew up here but moved away after high school." He didn't say any more, hoping she'd get the hint that he wasn't there for conversation. He just wanted the newspapers, thank you.

  Apparently, she got the hint. "Oh. Well, if you need anything else, just give a holler."

  He said he would.

  Joe seated himself in one of the wooden chairs-and yes, they were uncomfortable-placed the binder on the table in front of him, and cracked it open. The Dark Hills Gazette was hardly a newspaper. Each weekly edition was four eighteen-by-twelve pages. There were no photos, and the typeset was clumsy and unprofessional. Obviously, the paper was a homegrown tomato that didn't get much financial support from the town.

  Across the top of the front page of each edition, in large bold font, were the words Dark Hills Gazette: A Weekly Newspaper Serving the People of Dark Hills, Pa. In the upper left corner, in much smaller font, were the date, volume, and issue numbers, and in the upper right was the pricetwo cents. The paper was distributed on Sundays and contained the news of the previous week.

  Joe fanned through the crisp, brittle pages and turned back to the January 3, 1922 edition. It was volume 3, issue 1. He scanned the headlines but saw nothing of much interest. He flipped through week after week but headline after headline was nothing
more than the mundane news of a small hick town. So-and-so was marrying Nobody Special; what a wonderful wedding it will be. Harry Someone was awarded such and such award; how splendid. The spring ball will be held at the home of Joe You-Know-Who. A new building was built on this street; a new shop is going in on that street. Growing up, Joe had never thought Dark Hills a dull town; now he realized just how dull it was and always had been. Is this what Josiah wanted him to see? How ordinary and run-of-the-mill this tired little town was?

  He flipped the page to the September 10 edition, and the first headline caught his attention, tightening the skin behind his ears: Local Boy Killed in Bear Attack. He ran his fingers over the black, faded words as he read.

  Joseph Kline, 19, was found dead in Yates Woods as a result of a bear attack, Monday, September 4.

  His body, which had been terribly mauled by the bear, was found by Mr. Philip Yates. The funeral was held on Wednesday with family and friends in attendance.

  Chief Gill said there were no witnesses, but from the condition of the body, the culprit was most likely a large black bear.

  A hunting party of five men was dispatched to kill the beast, but it could not be located.

  The attack was the first of its kind in Dark Hills' history.

  So sleepytown finally woke up and found itself in a nightmare. An oddly brief account, though.

  Joe turned to the next edition-September 17. His heart banged against his ribs, and heat crept down the back of his neck. Local Man Mauled by Bear. He looked around. Library Lady was nowhere to be found. Probably had her nose in a book somewhere. He dropped his finger to the page and traced the words.

  Mr. Roger Bixby, 45, was mauled by a black bear Wednesday, September 13. The bear apparently attacked him while he was gardening in his yard on Jackson Street.

  Mr. Bixby's neighbor, Mrs. Audrey Martin, found his body late Wednesday night and reported the incident. There were no eyewitnesses to the attack.