The Hunted

by Mike Dellosso

  "Sure is," Joe said. "But you're smelling beautiful. A real dandy."

  Josiah blushed. "Darlene's a fine woman. A real sweet spirit." He looked Joe up and down. "You, on the other hand, look awful. Not a mornin' person, huh?"

  Joe shook his head. "Didn't sleep well last night. Too many things running through my head."

  Becky came by and asked Josiah if he'd like a menu. "No thanks. Cup of caffeine will do just fine." He looked at Joe. "You ready for more?"

  "More of what? Information? Yes. Mystery? No."

  Josiah reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. "Check out these editions of the Gazette." He slid the paper across the table to Joe.

  Joe took the paper and read it. March 7, 1995. April 2, 1995.

  "What's this? More Gill family secret stuff? Look, I-"

  "Hold on, there," Josiah said, holding up a hand. "I know. I know. You don't know why I don't just come right out and tell you all about it. You don't know why I'm sending you on these goose chases. And you're tired of the mystery cloud hanging over this town. I have my reasons."

  "And they are?"

  Josiah stroked his rough face. "If I were to just come out and tell you what I know, you probably wouldn't believe me. As a matter of fact, if I was a bettin' man-which I ain't-but if I was, I'd bet the family farm, literally, that you wouldn't believe me. You'd think I was just some old coot who didn't know a rat's nose from his behind and was listening to too many stories or watching too many TV movies. I need you to see this stuff for yourself so you'll believe it. So you'll get a firsthand picture of what the Gills have been hiding and how it's affected this town."

  Joe wasn't in an arguing mood. Besides, the old coot, if that's what he wanted to call himself, had a point. "OK. So is this all? Just these two editions?"

  "No, it ain't all." Josiah fumbled around with his coat for a few seconds and finally revealed a small, brown leather-bound book. Its cover was worn and faded, and the edges of the pages were browned. He slid the book across the table to Joe. "Read this. I bookmarked the important pages."

  Joe picked up the book and opened its worn cover. There was a man's handwriting, neat and flowing, on every crisp page. The writing had faded over the years and in some places had almost vanished.

  "It's a journal," Josiah said, answering Joe's question before he could ask it. "Have you ever heard the story about how the Yates place burnt down? Not the one the newspaper told"-he leaned forward, resting on his elbows-"the real story. The one that says Chief Gill and a minister visited Yates, and he threatened them with a shotgun, and later that night the townsfolk burned the house to the ground?"

  Joe nodded. "Sure. But-"

  "Shh. Listen!" Josiah looked around Darlene's like he was sharing information he'd stolen from the CIA. "The minister was Reverend John Claybaugh, pastor of the Methodist church here in town, and he was a good friend of my father. Now listen. Claybaugh lost his wife when he was only fifty somethin', had no children, and spent the rest of his thirty years alone. On his deathbed, my father was the only true friend the man had. Right before he died, Claybaugh told my father everything that really happened back in'22. Guess he needed to'fess up and clear his conscience before meetin' the good Lord. And he told my father where his journal was. He had to hide it so Gill and his cronies never found it. If they did, they woulda destroyed it sure as bats are deaf, and probably arranged for some unfortunate accident to happen to the reverend. That book you hold is the reverend's journal. It speaks the truth about the real Gill family secret. If you want to know what happened and what it is Maggie Gill is hiding, spend some time readin' through that book."

  Joe set the book down and took a long sip of coffee, keeping his eyes on the faded cover. He tapped the leather with his index finger. "So this journal holds all the answers to my questions?"

  Josiah snorted. "You got a lot of questions, young man. I don't know if any book outside the Bible can answer all your questions. But this one here will give you some real insight. By the way, how's your nephew doing?"

  Joe snapped his head up and set his coffee down. "Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you. He had another writing or whatever you want to call it. Another message."

  Josiah leaned forward and widened his eyes.

  Joe tapped the table once with his palm. "Stev no."

  "Stev no? That's it?"

  "Stev no. I have no idea what it means, if it means anything at all."

  Josiah's face went gray and his mouth popped open. He leaned back in his seat and gripped the edge of the table. "Could it be Stevie knows?"

  "I guess. Makes as much sense as anything. Why? What's the matter? Who's Steve?"

  Joe waited for Josiah to continue, but no further information came. "Well, are you going to tell me?"

  Josiah's Adam's apple bobbed, and he cleared his throat. He paused as his eyes shot back and forth over the table as if he were looking for the answer to be hidden somewhere in the stains on the Formica. Finally, he swallowed again, looked at Joe, and spoke. "Stevie Bauer is a boy my wife and I cared for after his momma died. He's part of the Gill secret, and so is his momma's death. Now, what he actually knows and what he thinks he knows are two different things. Stevie is schizophrenic. He sees things that ain't there, hears voices that ain't there, and imagines whole events that never happened. But he'll swear it's all true. He witnessed his momma's murder thirteen years ago, when he was eight. He was the only witness. And that's true."

  Josiah paused and took a sip of coffee, and Joe wondered if he was finished. Then he shook a finger as if debating with himself whether to divulge any more information. With the matter settled, he continued. "I might as well tell you now, and then you can read their version in the newspaper dates I gave you. Stevie used to get teased somethin' awful when he was in school. He wasn't diagnosed with schizophrenia until he was ten, but he was always a little ... odd."

  He paused and raked his fingers through his thin hair. "The other kids used to torment him terrible. When he was eight, he was outside playing in his yard when some high school kids passing by decided to have some fun with him. They beat up on him some, but when Stevie started fighting back, they really took it out on him. Whipped him with a rope over and over until the poor boy's back and shoulders was raw. His mother heard the commotion and came runnin', but the three punks shoved her inside and locked the door. Stevie watched from outside as they beat her and had their way with her... if you know what I mean.

  "She died that night in the hospital. Of course, Stevie was the only witness and pointed the finger at the punks that did it. At first, Elston Gill made the arrests, routine stuff, but later dropped all charges against 'em. Said Stevie's testimony was no good because the boy was crazy. After that, my wife and I took him in and raised him the best we could. Ginny's been gone just three years now, and I've had an awful time keepin' up with him on my own. He's twenty-one now, and I've set up a trailer on my land for him to have a place of his own. He does OK, I guess. Still hears voices, though, and thinks people are out to get him all the time."

  Joe shifted in his seat and kept his eyes on Josiah. "So that's what Stevie knows? The truth about his mother's death? What does that have to do with Caleb or the beast that's out there? For that matter, what does the whole Gill thing have to do with the beast?"

  Josiah shook his head. "So many questions. Don't you see what the Lord's doin' here? He's opening the blinds a little bit at a time. Slowly letting the light in, revealing the truth. Just be patient and pay attention. Nothing is secret that will not be revealed."

  Joe shuddered. Goose bumps freckled his arms. "What did you say?"

  "Nothing is secret that will not be revealed. It's in Luke. I've taken it out of context, but it's one of those sayings I like to quote. My point is, be patient. In time-God's time-He will reveal what we're supposed to know."

  "God said that to me."

  Josiah continued nursing his coffee. "Said what?"

  "A couple nights ago. I was praying-t
rying to, anyway-and God spoke those words to me. `Nothing is secret that will not be revealed."'

  A smile curled Josiah's lips. "So there you have it. God is speaking to you too. Do you see what I mean now? He's slowly bringing everything into focus. We just need to be patient."

  "Meanwhile that thing's out there," Joe said, suddenly feeling a wave of anxiety fall over him. "My nephew is in a coma, and Cummings is dead. And who knows when or who it will attack next."

  Josiah tapped the table with his finger. The thump seemed to echo in Joe's ears. "Young man, you got a lot to learn about God's sovereignty. Don't you think He knows what's going on here in Dark Hills? He's got it under control, and I see Him workin' things out. Sure, it's not all at once like we want it, but it's happening. And what are you planning to do about it? Go hunt the beast? Put yourself out there in the middle of those woods, some John Wayne attitude, and shoot at the first thing that moves? I don't think the answer is in guns and bullets."

  "Well, what do you think it is, then?"

  "Don't know. But I betcha God's gonna show us," Josiah said, winking at Joe. "Just wait and see. Meanwhile, read that journal there, and you'll get yourself an education."

  Eddie Hopkins cruised down Route 20 in his late-model, maroon Buick LeSabre. It was raining steadily, and the water blurred his windshield. Time for new wipers. But it didn't matter; he knew this stretch of road like he knew his own living room. From here to the next stop sign where 20 intersected with Route 117 was a straight shot. Asphalt cut through cornfield like a scalpel making a precise incision.

  His foot slowly depressed the accelerator, and the car's engine moaned a little louder.

  Eddie was running late for work... again. His boss at the paint shop in Rhoads told him the next time he was late it would be his last. He'd be looking for another job. So Eddie was determined to cover the eight-mile stretch from Dark Hills to Rhoads in record time.

  As long as no cops pulled him over, he might make it just in time.

  Gripping the steering wheel tighter, Eddie pictured his boss's angry face, beet red, bulging eyes, yellow teeth peeking from behind fat lips as he yelled obscenities. What a jerk. Making him work on a Saturday. Eddie should be late on purpose just so he could be fired and have a reason to give that porker a piece of his mind. He'd been working for the paintmixing shop ever since his wife left him five years ago. The only time he was ever late was when his old Buick clunker wouldn't start. Maybe if Porker would pay him more, he could afford a new car.

  His foot fell a little heavier on the accelerator. The clunker pressed on, slicing through the rain. Dried, beige cornstalks whizzed by like fence posts, blurred in the rain.

  Suddenly, something lunged at the car from the field on the right side of the road. Eddie caught it in the corner of his eye.

  He yanked the steering wheel to the left and stomped on the brake. The car's wheels locked, sending the vehicle into a tailspin. Eddie pumped the brake and tried to turn the wheel back to the right, but the car was out of control, sliding toward the shallow gully that separated asphalt from cornfield.

  The car lurched off the road, jumped the gully, and slammed into the field, bowling over stalks as if they were toothpicks. Whap! Whap! Whap! The wet stalks slapped against the car's windshield and side panels.

  The car bounced along the rutted field, rattling everything inside it, including its driver. Eddie held the steering wheel in a vice grip and leaned heavy on the brake, pressing his body into the seat. The car finally slid to a stop in the mud twenty yards into the field.

  Dazed and shaking, Eddie opened the car door and stumbled out. His forehead burned. He lifted a hand to feel it. Ouch! He must've hit it against the window or maybe the steering wheel. He couldn't remember. His legs felt like rubber, and his vision blurred. He shut the door and leaned against it, letting the cold rain spatter his face. It felt good on his forehead.

  Eddie rubbed the water from his eyes and blinked-still blurry, and his head now throbbed. He looked behind the car but could barely make out the swath of flattened cornstalks that cut through the field from the vehicle to the road. He made a fist and pounded the roof of the car. "Stupid deer!"

  His stomach contracted and a wave of sudden nausea overcame him. Leaning on the car, bent at the waist, he retched violently.

  A rustling in the corn to his right caught his attention. He righted himself, wiped his mouth and shivered, then rubbed his eyes again. Maybe he hit the deer and it was wounded, flopping around on the ground somewhere in the corn.

  He began making his way through the corn toward the sound of the rustling but stopped dead when he saw a blurry shape moving amongst the stalks a couple of rows ahead of him. Water ran off his head and into his eyes. He ran his hand across his face, top to bottom, but it was useless. It was raining too hard and the jolt in the car had done something to his vision. He looked closer at the object in the corn. He couldn't make out what it was, but it was big and blended in with the color of the dried stalks. It was no deer. He knew that much.

  "Hey!" he hollered, waving his arms, hoping to scare away whatever it was. He wiped the water from his eyes again, squinted, and peered into the rows, looking past and between the stalks. Maybe it was a dog. No, too big. Maybe a horse. That made sense. Someone's horse had gotten loose and was roaming the fields.

  It moved again. He could now make out the size of the beast. It was at least five feet in height and eight feet in length. Had to be a horse.

  He swiped at his face, took another step forward, pushing cornstalks out of his way.

  Then he heard it. A low growl.

  Not a dog's growl. Deeper and more guttural, like the supercharged engine in the '69 Charger his dad used to have.

  He froze. He'd never heard a horse make a sound like that. Come to think of it, he'd never heard a sound like that, period. He tried to think, but his mind had been invaded by a thick fog. The only thing that stuck was a line his mind latched on to from a newspaper article he'd read a week ago:... young boy attacked by a mystery animal is in critical condition.

  Attacked by a mystery animal.

  Attacked. Mystery. Animal.

  Slowly, carefully, he took a calculated step backward, avoiding a stalk that was directly behind him and keeping his eyes on the large shape. It stood motionless for several seconds, then, in a sudden burst, quicker than a blink, it was gone.

  Eddie's pulse quickened. He scanned the thick maze of corn looking for anything that moved. The rain intensified, beating at his face like gravel. He heard the animal again, rustling the stalks as it moved, first behind him, then to the right, then in front, then behind. He spun around and around trying to get a bearing on the location of the sound. It was behind him, definitely behind him. He turned and realized the car was also in that direction. The thing had positioned itself between him and the car.

  It growled again, this time louder and more guttural. A low roar.

  Eddie panicked and turned to run. It was the only thing his clouded mind could register-Get out of here!

  He ran through the rows as fast as he could dodge the stalks. They slapped at him like long wet arms, and he shoved them out of his way. His ankles turned in the loose soil; his head pounded, pulse raced, stomach knotted. He could hear the beast hot on his heels, grunting in pursuit, bowling over stalks as if they weren't even there.

  Eddie scrambled through the field, not thinking, just running, left, then right, then left again. His heart throbbed, frantically trying to deliver oxygen to his screaming muscles. His lungs burned like fire, heaving for air, precious air.

  He was slowing down. His legs were turning to lead, his diaphragm spasming. Rain pelted his face harder, blurring his already fuzzy vision even more. When he could go no farther, he collapsed to the muddy ground, sucking in huge gulps of air.

  The thing was still there, just beyond his sight, pacing in the corn, waiting to attack. Its raspy panting was like gravel in a bucket.

  Eddie tried to scramble to his
feet again, but his legs wouldn't have it and collapsed under his weight. This was no way to go. If that thing was going to attack, get it over with.

  "Well, c'mon!" Eddie hollered. "Bring it on." He was easy prey, he knew, but he wouldn't go without a fight.

  Suddenly, faster than Eddie's sluggish mind could even record what had happened, the beast was on top of him, its huge paws digging their daggers into his chest, cutting through his coat, shirt, and flesh. He stared up at a huge mouth. Five-inch canines glistened with saliva, ready to rip him limb from limb. And that tongue...

  Fear paralyzed him, numbed every nerve in his body. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. The weight of the thing was almost enough to crush him.

  It snarled its lips, then growled again, definitely a roar. Hot, putrid breath surrounded his face.

  The beast curled its toes, digging its claws further into Eddie's flesh. The huge head reared back, the mouth opened, hideous tongue curled.

  Eddie closed his eyes and grimaced. He didn't want to see what would come next.

  CHAPTER 26

  OE HAD PROPPED up some pillows on his Dew-Drop bed, slipped off his shoes, and settled in for an afternoon of relaxation and perusing the journal of Reverend John Claybaugh.

  He had stopped by the library after his meeting with Josiah, and once again, Library Lady was very accommodating, retrieving the Gazette editions Josiah had suggested. She handed them to Joe with a smile and a wink and said, "I'll be in the back cataloging some new books. If there's anything else you'll be needing, just let me know."

  What Joe found did not surprise him. The article in the March 7, 1995, issue covering the murder of Gail Bauer was short and lacking any important details. The three boys who were charged were listed by name: Glen Sterner. Woody Owen. Eddie Hopkins.

  Nothing was said of the beating Stevie endured or the fact that he watched, helpless, as his mother was raped and murdered.

  Chief Elston Gill had no comment on the alleged murder.