The Hunted

by Mike Dellosso

  And again.

  And again.

  He looked around, eyes wide, chest burning, looking for the source of the abuse.

  The crushing blow came again, this time sending him into a full body spasm. His back arched off the floor, arms and legs rigid like wood. When it stopped, and his body relaxed, he scrambled to the side of the sofa and cowered like a wounded animal.

  Someone was there, in the room with him. They had come for him, come to finish what they started.

  First Momma, now him.

  Wham! It hit him again and pushed him back against the wall. His chest ached now, throbbed like a fresh bruise. Sweat poured down from his forehead and stung his eyes.

  "Get out!" Stevie screamed, a blood-chilling screech. "Leave me alone!"

  He crouched behind the sofa and peered over the arm, scanning the room. His lungs were working overtime; his pulse tapped like a woodpecker in his ears. He swung his head to the right. He heard footsteps ... in the trailer. Not just one pair, but two, maybe three. He heard them but saw nothing. His eyes darted around the room-back and forth, back and forth-searching every corner, probing every shadow. No one was there, but he heard them. Running now. Heavy footfalls thumping on the plywood, banging in his ears.

  Then, as if the invisible runners weren't enough, the trailer began to vibrate like a locomotive. Was it an earthquake? A bomb? A stack of magazines toppled over, sliding across the floor. The popcorn bounced on the carpet as though it were still in the popper. A glass spilled over, soda soaking the rug, leaving a dark stain. Like blood.

  Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped, and there was silence. No vibrating, no footfalls, no chest thumps. Silence ... except for the sporadic, tinny sounds of a cartoon.

  Stevie looked around the room trying to decide if it was safe to venture out of his crouched, defensive position. He listened for the footsteps, but all he heard was laughing, wild laughing. Deep, raspy hysterics filled the room, growing in volume.

  He turned his head toward the source of the laughter-the TV-and almost choked on his own saliva. Yosemite Sam was jumping up and down, turning in circles, kicking up dirt, firing his pistols into the air, laughing, laughing, laughing.

  Stevie narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. "Stop it!" he hollered at the TV.

  But Yosemite kept right on laughing, mocking Stevie.

  "Stop it!" he hollered again.

  Yosemite suddenly stopped laughing and holstered his twin sixshooters. His face grew larger on the screen until only his eyes, nose, and mouth, all framed by bright red hair, were visible. "Kill Gill," he said in his low, throaty voice. "Kill... Gill!"

  Stevie stepped back and stumbled over the arm of the sofa, landing on his back on the soft cushions. He lifted his head and looked at the TV.

  Yosemite was still there. "Kill Gill!"

  Stevie reached for the remote, grabbed it, fumbled it, dropped it, picked it up, and clicked the TV off. The screen went black. He sat up and swung his legs off the edge, planting his feet on the floor. He rested his elbows on his knees and took a long, deep breath. Sweat-soaked hair clung to his forehead. His heart was rapid-firing like a machine gun. He rubbed his chest and looked around the room. A flashing light on the microwave caught his eye. The LED blinked: KILL... GILL. KILL... GILL. Again and again the same message.

  "No!" Stevie shouted, "I won't! That ain't part a'the deal."

  KILL... KILL... KILL... KILL.

  Stevie grabbed two handfuls of hair and pulled hard. "No. No. No!"

  A voice then started in his head. Not Momma's voice, but a man's, deep and firm. It was Yosemite Sam again. Not on TV, but in his head. "Kill Gill. Kill Gill. KillGillKillGillKillGill."

  Stevie clapped his hands over his ears, batted at his head, ground his teeth. "NO!"

  There was a knock on the door.

  Rosa didn't go to church Sunday morning. She was right where she needed to be, right where God wanted her to be-with Caleb. She had arrived at Hillside at eight o'clock, chatted with Gloria, the morning nurse attending to Caleb, sang a few praise and worship choruses, and cracked her Bible. The building was quiet. Only the occasional squeak from a nurse's sneaker on the tile floor broke the silence.

  For most of the morning Rosa read from 1 Peter, sticking with her normal routine of intermingling prayer and meditation with the reading of God's Word-read, meditate, pray; read, meditate, pray. It was a slow process but well worth it. God's Word was a delicacy to be chewed slowly and thoughtfully, every flavor enjoyed, every taste savored. It was during those moments, moments of quietness before her Lord, with His words fresh in her mind and heart, that He spoke to her, illuminating His message and giving her understanding.

  A few days ago, she had started reading aloud. If Caleb could hear, he might as well be hearing God's Word.

  Now, Caleb lay quietly as Rosa read. She hoped her voice would have a soothing effect on her son. It filled the small room with the poetic rhythm of Peter's exhortations.

  She finished reading several verses in chapter 4, closed her eyes, and let the words soak into her mind, whispering them as they settled. "Do not think it strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you ... but rejoice... when His glory is revealed... exceeding joy...If anyone suffers as a Christian... glorify God."

  She then fell into prayer, communing with her God, standing before Him, open and bare, her heart and soul exposed. "Father, thank You for the trials we are now enduring." The words came easily. She was thankful, thankful for His arms enveloping her in His love, protecting her, whispering comfort to her heart. "Thank You for the assurance that Your glory will be revealed in Caleb's life. I glorify You. I glorify You."

  The glow was there again, bringing comfort and warmth.

  The darkness had grown colder, and Caleb found himself longing for the soft light of the orange glow and the baritone rumble of the voice that accompanied it.

  Occasionally, he would hear familiar voices somewhere on the other side of the darkness, but they were always muffled and garbled, unintelligible. But they brought some comfort nonetheless-like a salve on an open wound. In the black hole where he hid, anything even slightly familiar carried with it a sense of hope.

  He reached for the light again, accepting it, welcoming it, ready to be used by it, deliver its message. He didn't understand what the messages were or what they meant; they were just letters to him, symbols, lines, shapes. But someone was receiving them; of that he was sure.

  The light hovered above his right hand, and he could feel the intense heat radiating from it.

  "Write, My child."

  I'm ready. Use me.

  Rosa opened her eyes and noticed Caleb's body twitching, not violently, but gently, like some unseen hand was trying to nudge him awake. His right hand began to move, slowly at first, then increasing in speed. She knew what to do. Though she'd seen it two times before, she still could barely believe it. Her pulse increased, and her own hand began to tremble.

  She rounded the bed, took the pencil off the bedside table, and slipped it between Caleb's thumb and index finger, holding the clipboard under his hand.

  His hand began to move frantically, writing and tracing the same letters over and over. The writing was clear this time-no scribbles, no errant lines, just letters, dark and bold.

  When Caleb's hand finally relaxed, Rosa turned the clipboard around and stared at it.

  Her blood ran cold.

  The words hit her like a shotgun blast-SAVE GILL.

  The knock came again, this time louder.

  Stevie slunk away, shaking, sweating, panting. Then a familiar voice: "Stevie? You OK?" Josiah.

  Stevie approached the door, trembling. What if it was a trick? They could make their voices sound like anyone they wanted.

  Cautiously, he slipped his index finger behind the curtain on the door and pulled it aside just enough to catch a glimpse of the knocker, the owner of Josiah's voice.

  A familiar face stared at the door.

  "S
tevie. Open up, son."

  Stevie turned away from the door. "Uh, j-just a minute." He reached for a dishtowel and wiped the sweat from his brow, took two deep breaths, and held out his hand, palm down-it was still shaking.

  He looked around the trailer and found Kitty hiding under the TV stand, resting with all four paws tucked under its body. "Go hide, Kitty. Go."

  The cat jumped up and ran into Stevie's bedroom. Good Kitty.

  Stevie turned the doorknob and opened the door.

  Josiah had heard the commotion coming from inside the trailer as soon as he and Joe climbed out of his truck. But that was not odd in itself. Stevie often talked to himself. Even hollered at himself. Sometimes the voices in his head could be very demanding.

  Over the years, Josiah had learned to deal with Stevie in a very patient, gentle manner. The boy was easily agitated, and stirring him up never accomplished anything.

  When Stevie opened the door, Josiah could tell right away that the voices were again getting the better of him. His hair matted against his forehead. His sweat-stained shirt clung to his chest. His cheeks were blushed, his eyes wide. He was no match against his own paranoia.

  "Hi, Stevie. Are you OK?" Josiah said. "I heard hollering."

  Stevie looked around as if the answer was to be found somewhere in the cluttered trailer. "I, uh, was just yellin' at the TV."

  "Oh, well, can we come in?"

  Stevie's eyes looked past Josiah's shoulder and fell on Joe. He shot a questioning glance at Josiah.

  "It's OK, Stevie," Josiah said, reading the confusion and fear on Stevie's face. He gestured toward Joe. "This is Joe Saunders, a friend of mine."

  Stevie eyed Joe carefully, looking him up and down.

  Josiah nodded at Joe, and Joe smiled at Stevie. "Hi, Stevie."

  Stevie pushed a sweaty lock of hair off his forehead. "O-OK. Come on in."

  He went into the living room and sat in his recliner. Stepping carefully over the popcorn that littered the floor, Josiah and Joe followed. They both sat on the sofa.

  "I-you startled me when you knocked, and I dropped my popcorn." Stevie smiled and gave a little chuckle. "Sorry."

  Josiah forced a laugh. He could tell something else was going on, something more than just the routine battle with the voices. Something more sinister. He could feel it. There was a weight in the room, a dark weight. "That's OK. Happens to all of us."

  Stevie sat on the edge of the chair. "Would-would either of you like a drink?"

  "No, thanks," Joe said.

  "No," Josiah added. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, though, if that's OK with you."

  Stevie glanced at Joe, then back at Josiah. His knee bounced like a silent jackhammer. "I guess."

  Josiah could tell Stevie was uncomfortable with their intrusion. His paranoia was in high gear. His behavior was more erratic than Josiah had seen in years. But why? What had triggered it? He knew Stevie hated strangers in his home. And he knew Stevie hated questions. But it was more than that, wasn't it? It was the weight, the oppression. Stevie could no doubt feel it too, and it was spinning his brain in circles.

  "Stevie," Josiah said, his voice calm but firm. He maintained eye contact while he was talking. "I need you to tell me the truth now. Can you do that?"

  Stevie glanced at Joe again, then nodded. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and upper lip.

  Josiah smiled. He'd have to tread lightly. After Joe's debacle with Maggie earlier, Stevie may be their only source of information. Their only chance at finding out the truth. "Good. I know you like to go walking in the woods-"

  Stevie tensed.

  "-and that's OK," Josiah said quickly. "It's OK to walk in the woods. Have you ever seen any big animals in there?"

  Stevie gripped the arms of the chair. "Why are you askin' me? I ain't never seen nothin'. I just go walkin'. I like lookin' at the trees and watchin' the squirrels."

  Josiah held up both hands. "I know, I know. And that's great, Stevie, really it is. But I need to know if you ever saw anything in there that scared you."

  "The devil."

  The answer came so quickly and so matter-of-factly that Josiah almost missed it. God, give me wisdom. "The devil. What do you mean by that? An animal that looked like the devil?"

  Stevie didn't answer. His face went blank as if he was listening to some faraway voice.

  "Stevie. Stevie."

  Stevie started and looked at Josiah, eyes glazed.

  "What did you see, son?"

  "I-I can't say. They won't let me."

  Josiah kept his eyes on Stevie. "OK. That's OK. Stevie, I don't know if you know it or not, but there have been several attacks around here lately. A large animal, maybe a lion, is roaming Dark Hills." He watched for Stevie's reaction.

  The young man's body tensed, and he glanced quickly at the bedroom doorway.

  Josiah caught the look, noted it, and continued. "A little boy, Caleb Saunders, was one of the victims."

  Stevie now stole a fleeting look at Joe as if making the connection.

  "Stevie," Josiah said, leaning forward. "This is very important that you tell me the truth. Tell me whatever you know. I won't be mad at you. I won't tell them about it. Three people are dead. Did you know Bob Cummings?"

  Stevie shook his head and pressed himself back into the chair like he was trying to melt into it.

  "He was mauled to death. The others were"-Josiah paused for effect"Woody Owen and Eddie Hopkins."

  Stevie twisted his face as if in pain and dug his fingers into the arms of the recliner. "Ohhhh! It's the devil... the devil. He's out there. He's in here. He's here. Momma! Momma!" He hit his palms against his forehead, both at once, then alternating, rapid-fire. "I have to help Momma. I hafta!"

  Josiah got up and placed his hands on Stevie's shoulders and patted them gently. "Shhh. It's OK, son. Calm down. No one here is gonna hurt you. We're all friends here."

  Stevie lowered his hands and looked at Josiah. There were tears in his eyes, but beyond the tears there was something else, something dark. Josiah saw it and stepped back, startled.

  "I hafta help Momma, Mr. Walker," Stevie said, fear streaked across his face. "I hafta help her."

  CHAPTER 31

  RINE AND SWEAT.

  Maggie was back in Elston's room at St. Magdalene's, and the smell was almost nauseating. The stroke had robbed him of not only his badge and livelihood but his dignity as well. She'd have to talk to one of the nurses about keeping him cleaner, changing his bed linens more often.

  The room was dark save for the muted spasmodic light of the TV, the one-eyed monster keeping watch over its invalid prisoner. Elston was fast asleep, breathing heavy and even, whistling through his nose on every exhalation.

  After finding the note yesterday, Maggie had to talk to him again, find out what it meant. If anyone would know, it would be her dad.

  An eye for an eye.

  She approached his bed on light feet, stealing through the darkness like a phantom gliding on a cushion of air. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Dad. Dad."

  Elston stirred, snorted, wheezed, but did not wake.

  Maggie smoothed his hair and shook his skeletal shoulder. "Dad. Wake up. Hey, Dad."

  Elston's eyes fluttered open, then shut again. He pursed his lips and grunted.

  "C'mon, Dad. Wake up. I need to talk to you."

  With a stir and a moan, the former police chief's eyes slowly opened, and he looked at Maggie and half smiled. "Magpie."

  "Hi, Dad. I'm sorry to wake you, but I need to talk to you about something again."

  "How Gary?"

  "Gary's fine. He's a good cop."

  "Andy?"

  "He's a good cop too. You had your doubts about him, didn't you?"

  Elston smiled and nodded. "Good boy. Soft cop."

  "Not soft, Dad. He cares. Andy has a good heart. But that's not what I'm here about. Last night, Eddie Hopkins ran his car off the road and... um"-an
image of Eddie's curled and stiff hand, as white as paper, jumped through her mind-"all we found was his hand. There was a note in it that said an eye for an eye. Do you know what it means?"

  Fear widened Elston's left eye. "No."

  "Think, Dad. I need answers. Bad things are happening, and you're the only one I can turn to. You have to help me."

  "No," he said quietly, almost a whisper, and shook his head.

  Maggie placed the back of her hand on her dad's cheek. "Lay it all out, Dad. This has to be the end of all the secrets. Tell me everything, OK?"

  After a few seconds of silent contemplation, Elston finally nodded and blinked slowly.

  "Bauer. Mur-murder."

  If Maggie had swallowed an anvil, she couldn't have felt a heavier weight drop into her stomach. The Gail Bauer murder. She remembered hearing about it, reading about it. She was in the academy at the time, and Elston had filled her in on the details. Bauer was raped and murdered in her home, and Stevie, who was also beaten, was allegedly the only witness. Stevie pointed the finger at three Dark Hills High seniors. Charges were pressed and an investigation begun, but Stevie's testimony was so fragmented and full of holes that the charges were eventually dropped against the boys. The real murderer was never caught.

  She gripped her dad's hand-it was dry and cold and fragile-this the hand she reached for when she was a frightened child, the hand that promised protection and comfort, the hand that was always there, bigger and stronger than her fears. "The Gail Bauer case. I remember. What about it?"

  Tears puddled in Elston's eyes and spilled over. The left side of his mouth quivered. "Guilty." He clenched his jaw and his eyes darkened. "Boys guilty."

  "Owen, Hopkins, and Sterner?"

  Elston began to shake, whether with fear or anger, Maggie couldn't tell. "Guilty. Mur-murder."

  "They did it, didn't they?" Regret, anger, disappointment, and sorrow darkened Maggie's vision and constricted her throat. She suddenly found it difficult to breathe and longed for the fresh, clean air of the outdoors.

  Now the tears formed two rivulets from Elston's eyes. He made no attempt to wipe them away, as if allowing them to flow freely would somehow cleanse him of culpability. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed stuck in his throat. He tightened his grip on Maggie's hand. "Mi-Mickey... threat-threatened. Hurt you and Mom."