The Hunted

by Mike Dellosso

  He took the pot off the heat and poured a mug full of steaming water, steeped his tea bag, and tossed it in the trash can. Holding the mug to his lips, he shuffled down the hall and back into the living room. After putting a match to the oil lamp, he found his favorite wingback chair. He was still trembling from the dream and couldn't shake the images of the dead bodies. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the gray, bloated, faceless corpses. What did it mean? Somehow, he knew exactly what it meant.

  Gotta call Joe. The clock on the mantel read 1:25. Better use his cell phone. He reached for his cordless and dialed in the number Joe had given him. The phone rang four times before a recorded message-Joe's voicecame on instructing the caller to leave a message.

  That won't work. He retrieved the phone book, found the number for the Dew-Drop, and called the front desk. He was then connected to Joe's room.

  Five rings later the phone picked up and a groggy voice on the other end mumbled something incoherent.

  "Joe?"

  "Yeah-yeah. Who's this?"

  "It's Jo. Josiah... Walker."

  There was a pause and Josiah could hear a click on the other end of the phone, then some rustling. "Josiah. What are you calling me at one thirty for? Is everything OK?" Joe sounded a little irritated. Understandable, though. After all, it was the middle of the night, and Josiah had obviously roused him out of a sound sleep.

  "You awake, Joe?"

  "I'm talking, aren't I? Yes. I'm awake. What's going on?"

  "I had a dream." Josiah waited for a response, but when none came he continued. "I dreamed I saw two mauled corpses. Faceless corpses."

  "OK. And?" Things didn't seem to be registering for Joe.

  "And I know who they were."

  "I thought you said they were faceless?"

  "They were." No response again. "But I just knew. God, He told me."

  There was a breath of static on the other end. "Maybe it was just a bad dream. People have them, you know."

  "No. It was more than that. Remember our talk? God is showing us little by little. This is another clue."

  "A clue?"

  "Yes. A piece of the puzzle. When we put all the pieces together, we'll have the total picture. It's like we're putting the puzzle together, and God is handing us one piece at a time. You know, like you do a child."

  There was a pause again, and Josiah imagined Joe thinking hard about what he'd just said.

  "So who were they?" Joe asked.

  "Eddie Hopkins and Woody Owen. I think they're dead."

  Another pause. More thinking. "They were two of the guys involved in the murder of that woman... Gail-"

  "Bauer. Stevie's mother. Right. I think they're dead."

  "Owen is dead. I heard some guys talking the other day that his house exploded and he died in the fire."

  Josiah scratched at his chin and rubbed an eye. "True. But that fire ain't what killed him."

  "How do you know?"

  "Joe, wake up. Jumpin' George, son, shake the dust outta your head. Are you awake? I just told you. God told me. I believe Owen's death was the same as Hopkins's. If we find out how Hopkins died, we'll find the truth about Owen's death."

  "You really think Hopkins is dead? I mean, you're sure about it."

  "Sure as a bloodhound's nose."

  "Um..." Another pause. "OK. I have an idea. Meet me along Route 20 tomorrow morning. I want to check something out, and it'd be nice to have someone else there."

  Josiah took a sip of his tea. The heat brought some warmth to his body as it settled in his stomach. "What's on 20?"

  "Last night I was having dinner with Maggie, and she got a call that there was an accident on Route 20. I offered to go with her to check it out, but she got real weird and acted like she didn't want me anywhere near the place. I got the feeling it was more than just a routine accident. There was something there she didn't want me to see. So tomorrow morning I was going to check it out for myself. I'm not sure where along 20, but I'm hoping it will be obvious enough."

  "I'm game. How's seven?"

  "Sounds good. And Josiah, no more one-thirty calls, OK?"

  Josiah laughed. "No problem."

  It was a beautiful Sunday morning. The air was cold and sharp, the sun was just peering over the eastern ridge of the Dark Hills, coloring the sky with long ribbons of pastel pink and orange. A thin layer of dew had settled on the grass, glistening like crystal.

  The sleepy town of Dark Hills was just beginning to climb out of its slumber at 6:50 in the morning. Rusty pickups and late-model sedans flowed in and out of the paper mill, signaling the changing of the guard from third to first shift. And Darlene's was slowly filling with bleary-eyed patrons, filing in like caffeine-starved zombies drawn by the aroma of sizzling grease and the lullaby of hardening arteries.

  Joe parked his truck in the small Mobil lot and walked into the empty mini-mart. After filling a 16-ounce Styrofoam cup with coffee, he muttered "Morning" and "Thanks" to the cashier and headed down Route 20.

  He had hardly slept after Josiah's call. He'd spent the rest of the night tossing and rolling in bed, wrestling with unanswerable questions that, nonetheless, begged for answers, or at least something that made sense. But nothing did. Maybe it was because he was tired and not thinking clearly. Or maybe it was because he was just tired of chasing the unknown. There were too many questions and no answers.

  But there were answers, weren't there? Josiah was right; answers were coming slowly, one at a time. It was as though God was feeding them morsels of information, testing their faith, their patience, their resolve. Compared to what he knew when he had first arrived in Dark Hills after hearing of Caleb's mauling, he had gained a ton of knowledge. But where was it all leading? How did it all fit together? Only time would tell. Hopefully.

  About two hundred yards up the road, Joe saw Josiah's beat-up blue and beige Dodge pickup sitting on the gravel shoulder, and Josiah leaning against it. He steered his truck off the road, gravel grinding under its tires, and stopped behind the Dodge.

  Josiah met him at his door, a stainless steel travel mug in his hand. "Mornin' to ya."

  "Cold one, huh?" Joe said, stepping out of his truck.

  "Sure is. Beautiful, though."

  Josiah motioned toward the car-wide corridor of crushed cornstalks cutting a straight path through the field. There were deep tire tracks in the soft ground, either the work of a tow truck or Maggie and her deputies had spent the evening joyriding a John Deere. "I assume this is where the accident happened."

  Joe eyed the path. It cut about twenty yards into the corn, then stopped. "Sure looks like it. Let's go have a look."

  They headed down the trail of fallen stalks, stepping over and around the debris. When they came to the end, Joe looked around and shrugged. "Nothing seems out of the ordinary. Looks like someone just ran off the road."

  Josiah shook his head. "No. There's somethin' here. I can feel it. Like a tickle in my bones. This place has somethin' to do with my dream last night."

  "The dead guys?"

  "The dead guys. Let's split up and walk around a bit. You go that way"he motioned to the rows of corn on Joe's left-"and I'll go this way." He motioned to the corn on his right. "We'll circle around and meet back here. If you find anything unusual, give a holler."

  Joe nodded. "Will do."

  Joe entered the corn to his left and immediately found a trampled path that led farther into the field at an angle. He followed the trail to where it stopped and looked around, studying the ground and the stalks. It was a small clearing of broken stalks, no more than six feet by six feet. Some lay flat on the ground, and some leaned at odd angles, twisted and fractured. The ground was disturbed, and some of the stalks were streaked with a dark brown color. Something had definitely happened here.

  Joe squatted for a closer look. He examined a stalk and realized it wasn't dark brown at all; it was deep red-dried blood. He looked around the small clearing and now noticed the blood smeared on almost every sta
lk. It was smudged in places and diluted by the dew in other places, but it was on everything. Pushing one of the fallen stalks aside, he examined a large indentation in the ground.

  His heart beat out a staccato rhythm. "Josiah! Jo!"

  "Yeah. Over here." Josiah's voice was muffled by the corn.

  "I got something. You better take a look."

  It took almost a minute for Josiah to work his way through the corn to where Joe was kneeling on the ground. "What is it?"

  Joe ran his finger in a circle around them. "Look around. Blood all over the place." Then he pointed at the ground in front of him where he had moved the stalk. "And look at this."

  Josiah crouched next to him and ran his hand over the indentation. "Looks like a paw print."

  The print was only a partial one, but the pads and three toes were visible.

  Joe placed his hand over the print. The large paw extended at least two inches past the tips of his fingers. "It's about eleven, twelve inches long." He looked at Josiah, who only bit his lower lip and stared at the indentation.

  "What do you think?" Joe asked.

  Josiah narrowed his eyes and looked at him. "You really want to know what I think?"

  "I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know. Let me have it."

  Josiah ran his fingers over the paw print again. "I'm no tracker, but this is definitely a cat print." He looked at Joe and caught his gaze. "A big cat. And I think someone died here last night. Hopkins. Which means Owen didn't die at the hand of any fire." He shifted his gaze to the corn around them, looking around as if watching for the unseen predator.

  Joe rubbed the back of his neck and twisted his face. "So Owen's death in the fire was a cover-up. Maggie intentionally..." He didn't finish his thought. It was absurd, he knew, but totally possible. Still, he felt like some conspiracy theory junkie looking for that next grand cover-up. What would be next? Lincoln's assassination? JFK? Elvis in leotards hugging it up with Darlene?

  Josiah ran his hand over the print again. "Whatever it is, it's hunting us.

  "Us? Or them?"

  "What do you mean?"

  Joe stood and looked around at the corn. "If your dream is right and Owen and Hopkins are dead as a result of animal attacks, that makes three dead total. And all three were involved in the murder of Gail Bauer. I know it sounds crazy, but if they're the only ones who have died so far, it seems the beast, or cat, or whatever it is, is only going after those involved in the case. It's only hunting them. Some kind of revenge thing. Like with Yates."

  Josiah stared at him for a few long seconds before speaking. "And Caleb? How does he play into this revenge theory?"

  Joe tightened his lips. "I don't know. Unless it was just a case of mistaken identity."

  "But... " Josiah frowned and shook his head as if debating with himself again. "It's possible, though. Yes. Very possible. Just as God is working through people, maybe Satan is working through an animal." He nodded slightly. "Good and evil playing a game of chess. Possible."

  Suddenly, Joe's heart quickened again, and he felt a tingle in his neck. He looked at Josiah. "Stevie knows."

  Josiah's head shot up. "Then I suggest we have a little sit-down with Stevie."

  "We will," Joe said, tunneling a hand through his hair. "But first I need to pay Maggie a visit. Seems she's been keeping secrets."

  CHAPTER 30

  OE PUSHED THROUGH the glass door of the Dark Hills Police Station and stood in the small lobby. There were some questions he needed answered. Questions that could not wait.

  The lobby wasn't very inviting. A few empty metal folding chairs lined the wall to his left; an information board littered with wanted posters and public notice announcements hung on the wall to the right. The counter in front of him was unmanned at the moment, and a small metal desk bell sat on it with a handwritten sign, Ring for Service. Beyond the counter was an open-doored office with Chief painted on the frosted glass-Maggie's office. A single black coat hung from a row of metal hooks on the wall to the left of the office door.

  Joe rang the bell twice and stepped back from the counter, halfexpecting a bug-eyed Barney Fife to materialize.

  In a matter of seconds, Maggie appeared from her office wearing her beige uniform, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Her eyes widened when she saw Joe, and she smiled. "Joe. This is a pleasant-"

  "Why didn't you tell me there were more attacks?" Joe was in no mood to be cordial. He tightened his jaw and gave Maggie a look that could burn a hole in steel, waiting for her response.

  Maggie froze, and the smile on her face disappeared. He had succeeded in catching her off guard. That was good. Joe had figured the Gills were well rehearsed in protecting the family skeletons. Maggie would have an answer for everything; he hadn't realized it at the time, but he'd already experienced that with the Cummings incident. His only hope was the element of surprise, catch her off guard and maybe, just maybe, she'd slip up and divulge some important information.

  Maggie glanced around as if looking for someone who obviously wasn't there, then peeked at her watch. "Come into my office." Her voice was low and authoritative.

  Joe followed her, and she shut the door behind them. He kept his eyes on her as she casually strolled behind the large wooden desk and sat in her swivel chair.

  Motioning toward a padded metal chair across from her, she said, "Have a seat, Joe."

  He knew she was stalling for time, and, with each second that passed, he was losing his advantage. "I'd rather stand." He paused and glared at her, waiting for an answer to his question. Finally, he said, "Maggie? Why didn't you tell me?"

  Maggie shrugged. "Tell you what?"

  Joe's blood began to bubble in a hot boil. No way. He wasn't going to let her play ignorant. "You know what I'm talking about. There've been more attacks, more deaths. Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about." Maggie was trying to appear calm, but from the almost imperceptible quiver in her voice, Joe could tell he had rattled her. She may look like Audrey Hepburn playing a toughcop role (something unimaginable to Joe at that moment), but inside she was more Barney Fife than she'd like to admit. "The only attacks I'm aware of have been Caleb and Bob. And I haven't verified any deaths yet. And since there haven't been any attacks since Bob's, I'm assuming the animal has moved on. Heck, for all we know, maybe one of the shots you fired the other night hit it, and it just crawled away and died." She stole another glance at her watch.

  Joe clenched his fists and firmed his jaw. So that was the Gill way, deny everything. Well, he wasn't going to let her off the hook so easily. Time for plan B. He was taking a chance, he knew that, but if Josiah's dream was right, he'd really have her cornered. Then again, maybe it was just that-a dream-and he'd look like a fool. But it was all he had. He'd take his chances.

  Joe met Maggie's eyes and held her stare for what seemed minutes. "Eddie Hopkins and Woody Owen." He said it using his best Clint Eastwood voice, even and unwavering. He felt like an outlaw dropping a challenge on the local lawman. Eastwood versus Fife.

  By the way Maggie's jaw dropped and face turned an odd shade of offwhite, Joe knew he'd struck an artery.

  But Maggie's surprise was only brief. She quickly shut her mouth and regained her composure. "What about them? Do you know something I don't? Unfortunately, Woody died Thursday in a home fire. And that accident I told you about on Route 20? It was Eddie's car, but no Eddie. He was probably drunk, ran off the road, and staggered away somewhere to nurse his wounds." She shrugged. "It wouldn't be the first time. Now if you have any more information, I suggest you speak up, or you'll be the one keeping secrets."

  She was doing her best to put up a front of casual confidence and quell the tremble that shivered through each word. Henry Gill would be proud if he could see the effort his great-granddaughter was putting forth now.

  But Joe had had enough. He slapped the top of Maggie's desk with an open hand; the sound echoed in the small office. "C'mon, Mags! It's me, Joe. You
don't have to lie to me. I know about your family's secret, about the corruption and cover-ups. Just level with me. There's a man-eater out there roaming around, and we need to stop it. We need to kill it before it kills again."

  Just then the back door of the building shut. Seconds later there was a knock on the door of the office.

  Maggie kept her eyes on Joe. "Come in."

  The door opened, and Gary Warren stood in the doorway, his large frame filling the empty space. "What's going on? I heard yelling."

  Joe turned his head and followed Gary's arm down to where his hand rested on his belt just above his sidearm.

  Gary motioned with his head toward Joe. "Is everything OK, Chief?"

  Maggie shot a look at Joe, then back at Gary. "Uh, yeah. Everything's fine. Joe was just leaving." She looked at Joe and arched her eyebrows as if to admonish him and suggest he accept her gracious gift and leave before Gary tossed him out.

  Joe snapped up, straightened his spine, and threw his shoulders back. He kept his eyes on Maggie as he said, "Yeah, I was just leaving." Then he turned and left, walking out of Maggie's life-again.

  A twinge of regret poked at Maggie's heart, but she quickly brushed it aside. No place for silly emotions now. This was serious. She waited until she heard the front door shut, then looked at Gary, her lips tight. She had a headache. "He knows."

  "What do you want to do about it?"

  Maggie hesitated, staring at a blank spot on the wall. Her mind was wading through a pool of glue. Her hands were shaking, and a cool sweat beaded on her brow.

  Joe, please don't make me do this.

  Finally, she met Gary's eyes again. "Just keep an eye on him. Let me know who he talks to."

  Stevie was stretched out on his green vinyl sofa, a pillow pushed under his head, a bowl of popcorn balanced on his stomach, watching an old Bugs Bunny video, when something hit him like a wrecking ball in his chest. He flipped, turned, and rolled off the sofa, landing with a hollow thud on the plywood floor. Popcorn scattered across the carpet.

  Then it hit him again.