The Hunted

by Mike Dellosso

  Mr. Bixby was an employee of Dark Hills Paper Company and has no known relatives. The funeral was held on Thursday.

  Chief Gill said this was the second mauling in as many weeks, and residents are being urged to practice caution while outdoors.

  So Yogi Bear had gone postal and was roaming the town mauling people to death. Interesting. Unfortunately, the accounts in Dark Hills's little newspaper didn't shed much light on the mystery.

  Joe flipped to the next week-September 24. No major headlines on the front page. He turned to page two and ran his eyes through the headlines. There it was. Two Killed in Animal Attacks. The subject matter was beginning to seem redundant.

  Mr. Max Gregory, 51, and Mr. Alvin Billet, 35, were victims of more animal attacks.

  Mr. Gregory was found dead in his home on Sunday, September 17. Chief Gill said it could not be determined if the incident was another bear attack or not. He would not comment on the condition of the body.

  Mr. Gregory was an employee of the Dark Hills Paper Company and has no living relatives. His funeral was held on Monday.

  Mr. Alvin Billet was reported missing on Monday, September 18, by his mother, Mrs. June Billet. Two days later his body was found, apparently mauled by an animal, in the field behind their Fulton Street home. The field is owned by the Rev. John Claybaugh.

  Chief Gill said an investigation is underway.

  Mr. Billet is survived by his mother only. His funeral was held on Friday.

  So now it's just an animal attack. What happened to Yogi? Why no comment on the condition of Gregory's body? Chief Gill is suddenly getting clammy.

  Joe turned to the next edition, fully expecting to see another headline announcing yet another animal attack. Instead he found only the same old mundane news. No attacks. No reports. No updates. Nothing. Everything, it seemed, was back to normal.

  Until the following week-October 8. The headline jumped out at him like a jack-in-the-box: Member of Hunting Party Mauled by Mystery Animal.

  An odd headline. He quickly read the article.

  Mr. Leonard Toomey, 44, was the fifth victim in a string of animal maulings resulting in death. Mr. Toomey was a member of Chief Gill's hunting party dispatched to investigate what nature of animal was responsible for the previous four attacks.

  On Saturday, October 7, the party was surveying Yates Woods when, according to a member of the party who wished to remain anonymous, a loud roar was heard, followed by screams from Mr. Toomey. When the other members of the party finally reached Mr. Toomey, he was dead and badly mauled.

  Chief Gill had no further comment on the tragedy.

  Mr. Toomey was an employee of the Dark Hills Paper Company and is survived by one daughter living out of state. His funeral is scheduled for Monday, October 9.

  There will be a town meeting held by Chief Gill in Adams Hall on Wednesday night, October 11, to discuss precautions residents should take.

  Why did the witness wish to remain anonymous? Why did Gill pull a no comment? A roar was heard? Joe's heart thumped louder now, and he was certain Library Lady could hear it. No, she was upstairs. He could hear her heavy footsteps pounding on the floor above him, threatening to fall into his lap.

  He turned to the next edition. There were no mauling stories, but one headline did stand out among the other humdrum ones: Gazette Reporter Dies in Tragic Accident. He couldn't help but read on.

  Mr. Luke Gibbs, reporter for the Gazette who had been investigating the animal maulings, died October 12 as a result of injuries he suffered from a fall down a flight of stairs the previous day. According to Chief Gill, Mr. Gibbs was alone in his home on Poplar Street when he slipped and fell headlong down a flight of stairs, suffering a broken neck and multiple other broken bones.

  Mr. Gibbs was 25 and served Dark Hills as a Gazette reporter for two years. He is survived by his mother and father. The funeral was held on Saturday.

  Gill was singing like a songbird after that one. How did he know Gibbs was home alone? How did he know he slipped and fell headlong? There was something very fishy about the article, and Joe was starting to get some idea about the Gill family secret.

  He turned to the next edition, but again, nothing was out of the ordinary, just small town life as usual. It was in the October 29 edition that his heart nearly stopped. Buried at the bottom of page two was a short article bearing the headline, House Fire Claims One Life. Things were getting ugly now.

  The home of Mr. Philip Yates, 76, was destroyed by fire Friday, October 28. Chief Gill said the blaze started in the chimney of the home around 10:30 Friday night. The alarm was sounded, and eight members of the Dark Hills Volunteer Fire Company responded.

  According to Chief Gill, the fire quickly raged out of control, and the volunteers were unable to extinguish it.

  Mr. Yates, owner of the woods surrounding the home, was presumed dead. He was trapped inside the house while it burned. Yates is survived by one daughter and a grandson.

  Old Man Yates. So the tales about an angry mob and a devil worshiper weren't true after all. It was just a chimney fire, and poor Yates was stuck inside. So much for all the ghost stories.

  Joe turned to the next edition, but there was no mention of any animal attacks. He flipped through the rest of 1922 and found no headlines declaring bear attacks or any other kind of attacks. No deaths of any kind. It seemed the incidents stopped after the Yates fire. He quickly flipped through 1923. Nothing. 1924. Nothing.

  Joe closed the binder and sat back in the chair, rubbing his eyes. Library Lady clunked down the stairs behind him, holding a stack of old papers. "Find everything you were looking for?" she asked.

  Joe pushed away from the table and stood. "Yeah. Yes. I did. This town has some interesting history, doesn't it?"

  Library Lady smiled. "It sure does. Did you know Teddy Roosevelt stopped here once?"

  Joe shook his head. "No, I didn't."

  "Sure did. Took a tour of the paper company. From what I understand, he was real impressed too." She set the papers down on the desk with a thud. A cloud of dust floated into the air.

  "Well, that is interesting," Joe said. He handed the binder back to Library Lady. "Thanks again for all the help. It was a real eye-opener." Then he turned and got out of the old library before the woman could bend his ear anymore.

  Maggie steered her cruiser into a parking space alongside the Dark Hills Library and Historical Society and shut off the engine. When she had passed by the library on her way back from her confrontation with Clark Martin and friends and noticed Joe's truck parked in the gravel lot, questions immediately started floating through her mind. Whether because of some underlying nagging guilt that occasionally saw fit to knock on her conscience or mere police intuition, a flash of panic had hit her when she saw his truck, and she'd decided then and there to do a little snooping of her own.

  Now, sitting in her cruiser, the same questions resurfaced. Why was Joe visiting the local library? Was he snooping around in Dark Hills's closet? Looking for long-lost skeletons? She brushed the questions aside. He was probably just checking out some books to pass the time. There was no way he could know about Maggie's family history. No one knew, outside the family, that is.

  She thought again of Joe and hoped he had indeed just picked up some light reading. He was never a heavy reader. At least the Joe Saunders she used to know wasn't. This new Joe was different, not all that different, but enough so to be intriguing-and possibly threatening.

  She had finally admitted to herself that she still had feelings for him. How could she not? She had never stopped loving him. She had waited for him for almost five full years before facing the awful fact he wasn't coming back. And what a bitter pill it was. Everything reminded her of him. His image was everywhere. At the park, near the lake where had they shared dreams of what their future held. At the Dark Hills Treat, where too many times to count they had shared a booth and a milkshake. At the elementary school playground, far corner behind the swings, where they had shar
ed their first kiss one hot spring day. And at her house, which was then her parents' house, on the front porch, where they had shared a pledge to love each other forever. That was right before he left for the army. So much for promises.

  So much for forgetting about him.

  But she had tried. For several years, she had dated a few guys, nothing serious, mere platonic relationships that never materialized into anything more than cordial short-lived friendships. But they were no match for Joe. Even while she was with the other guys, memories of Joe constantly bobbed to the surface of her mind, bringing with them a flurry of emotions. She simply could not escape his mark on her life.

  Now he was back, and there was a part of her that wanted to fall into his arms, tell him how much she loved him and missed him and wanted him. But another part of her, the rational part, told her that emotions were dangerous. She had to send her feelings to the rear of the line, ignore the palpitations that fluttered her heart every time she saw him, even thought about him, and listen to reason. She had a job to do now, a big job, bigger than her or Joe-protect the family legacy. If the Secret was exposed, if Joe ever found those skeletons placed so carefully in the darkest corner of the Dark Hills closet and she took a fall, the family legacy would be flushed right along with her.

  That couldn't happen. She'd have to make sure it didn't happen, regardless of her feelings for Joe Saunders.

  CHAPTER 23

  OE WAS SEATED on the edge of his bed in the Dew-Drop Motel trying to piece together what he'd read earlier in the day. It was bizarre at best, downright sinister at worst. First, a string of animal attacks resulting in deaths. Gill tries to pass them off as the handiwork of a black bear. Then more attacks, and deaths, and the attacker is suddenly no longer a bear but an animal, a mystery animal, and the good Chief Gill suddenly clams up. The reporter covering the cases finds an anonymous witness willing to tell at least some semblance of the truth, and less than a week later the reporter falls down a flight of stairs and dies. Odd coincidence. Guess that's what happens when a reporter does his job in Dark Hills. Joe could hear old Gill now: Poor fellow. Oh, well, accidents happen. Then, strangest of all things, Old Man Yates's house burns with Yates in it, and the attacks suddenly stop. What gives? Obviously Yates was somehow tied to the attacks-maybe it was witchcraft-and Gill knew something he wasn't sharing with the rest of Dark Hills. Fire? Again, odd coincidence. And wasn't there a house fire in Dark Hills just the other day? Wednesday, was it? He'd heard some guys at the gas station talking about it, said Woody Owen-the guy with the dog, Cujo-died in the fire. A gas leak or something. Was there any connection? He'd have to ask Maggie about it next time he saw her.

  Hopefully, Josiah would be able to shed some light on the mystery, put the pieces together.

  He reached into his pocket and retrieved the napkin on which Josiah had jotted his phone number. He picked up the phone and punched in the numbers.

  "Hello?"

  "Josiah?"

  "Yes."

  "This is Joe... Saunders." He couldn't remember if he had even told Josiah his last name.

  "Oh, hi, Joe. I take it you done your homework. Did you find anything interesting?" Josiah asked.

  "Puzzling would be more like it."

  Josiah snorted. "Puzzling don't even begin to cover it. There're more pieces to uncover, though. Can you do breakfast again tomorrow?"

  More to uncover? The plot thickens? "Uh, yeah, sure. Darlene's again?"

  "That'll do. How's seven sound?"

  "Works for me."

  "OK. See you then."

  "Wait a minute..." Joe pressed the receiver closer to his ear. "Josiah? Are you there?"

  "What is it?"

  "You can't just leave me hanging like this. What does it all mean?"

  Josiah sighed, filling the receiver with static. "Patience, Joe, patience. We'll talk more over breakfast."

  "But-"

  "Breakfast, Joe. Tomorrow. Darlene's. Seven o'clock. I'll see you then."

  The phone went dead.

  "Afternoon, Ruth," Maggie said, shutting the door behind her.

  Ruth Stoltzfus, the Dark Hills librarian, poked her head out from behind a stack of books. "Oh, hi, Chief."

  Maggie left her hand on the doorknob and jiggled it. "This could use some attention, and so could that porch."

  Ruth laughed and looked over her glasses, raising her eyebrows at Maggie. "There's a lot around here that could use attention, including my knees. But the library isn't exactly at the top of the town budget, and one little old lady can hardly keep up with everything."

  "No, I suppose you can't. I'll see what I can do about getting someone out here to help you."

  Ruth stepped out from behind the books. "Well, what can I do for you? I know you didn't stop by to inspect the doorknob, and I'm fairly certain you've not come for small talk." She narrowed her eyes and studied Maggie. "And you didn't come for a book either, did you?"

  Maggie removed her cap and held it with both hands. A slight smile parted her lips. This old bird was intuitive. No use beating around the bush. "No, I didn't. Did Joe Saunders come by here this morning?" She knew full well he had but didn't want to appear like she was snoopingeven if she was.

  Ruth smiled as though she had known the reason for Maggie's unexpected visit all along. "Well, I don't know about his name, but there was a man here this morning, young fellow, dark hair and handsome." She tilted her head to one side. "Is he in some kind of trouble?"

  Maggie shook her head. "No, no. He's an old friend, and I've been trying to track him down, you know, catch up on old times." She forced a smile hoping Ruth wouldn't see past her veneer. "If I may ask, just out of curiosity, what was he looking for?"

  Ruth raised those thin gray eyebrows again. "He asked to see the 1922 issues of the Gazette. Said he was researching the town's history."

  Maggie felt her face flush and warmth radiate down her neck. Nineteen twenty-two. The Secret. The legacy. The skeletons. Joe was on to something. She suddenly realized her mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut. She donned her cap and smiled politely at Ruth, who had no doubt noticed her strange reaction.

  "Thanks, Ruth. Have a good day, now, OK?" She turned, jiggled the doorknob, pushed the door open, and nearly fell onto the porch. Collecting herself, she turned back toward Ruth. "Uh, make me a list of everything that needs to be done around here. I'll be back tomorrow to pick it up."

  With that, she turned on her heels and, leaving the door hanging open, bolted off the porch. When she reached her cruiser, she placed both hands on the roof, dipped her head, and drew in a long, deep breath of cool air.

  Relax, Maggie. Think.

  The rules of the game had suddenly changed. Which meant it was no longer a game, was it?

  Which meant she had to come up with a new strategy. But first she needed to know the truth, and that meant another visit to see her dad.

  It was time for some honest talk.

  Stevie sat on a fallen tree in the woods. His jeans were dirty, his flannel jacket torn, hair disheveled, face unshaven. He was back, and it felt good. He liked the woods. The trees understood him; they accepted him. Never did a tree laugh at him or hit him. Never did they mock him or treat him like some kind of retard. They respected him. And he respected them.

  He ran a dirty hand through his hair and inhaled deeply, letting his eyes roll back in their sockets. Sounds of bullets hitting the metal exterior of his trailer banged in his mind. Again and again. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bangbangbangbang. He was under fire. They had come back for him, come back to finish the job. He had been the only witness. He hid in a closet, under the closet, in a hole, holding his ears shut with his hands, until the shooting stopped. Then there was laughing. The sound of children's voices laughing and calling his name.

  Calling him a retard.

  Stevie snapped out of his trance and breathed. He was trembling. Not to worry, though. Things were going as planned; justice would soon be served. What goes around comes around. He
'd heard Momma say that once and it sounded cool. The taste of revenge sat on his tongue like a piece of candy. And he liked it.

  Through the trees he could see the Dinsmore boys playing in their backyard. After-school fun. There were four of them, throwing a football, calling plays, running patterns, hollering and laughing.

  That laughing.

  Stevie hated that laughing. But they wouldn't be laughing for long.

  "Enjoy it while you can, boyssss," he said, letting the final syllable drag on like a hiss. He laughed at himself, thinking how cunning he was, just like a snake. A snake, yeah. Hiding in the tall grass.

  Kitty sat on the ground next to him and watched with interest as a couple of sparrows played a game of tag. Stevie stroked the cat's head. "We'll have to take this one day at a time. Lure them in, real cunnin'-like. Sneak up on 'em like a snake in high grass and then... strike!"

  He gave Kitty a little pinch on the back of the neck, gripping the loose skin between his fingers. The cat growled. "Go make friends now, Kitty. But be nice. Nice is how you be, see?" He laughed again.

  The cat slinked off toward the yard, weaving gracefully in and out of the thick undergrowth. Stevie watched as it navigated the leafy terrain, crossed the dirt alley, and pranced into the backyard right up to the tallest Dinsmore.

  Tall One stopped his arm midthrow. "Hey, guys. Look at this." He bent down and extended a hand, open-palmed, to Kitty. "Here, kitty, kitty. Come here."

  Their voices carried over the dry leaves like a stone skipping across water. Stevie held perfectly still, slowing his breathing, so he could hear every word.

  The other three brothers gathered around Tall One, and Kitty lowered its haunches to the grass.

  "Cool!" one of them said.

  "A cat!" exclaimed another.

  Tall One laid his hand on top of Kitty's head and gently stroked down its back. "It likes me. Friendly, huh?"

  The shortest Dinsmore ran his hand over Kitty's smooth, silky fur. "So soft. You think we ca-ca-can k-keep it?"