The Hunted

by Mike Dellosso

  She heard the voice again. Coming from above her. It was closer now. Think. Whose voice?

  An image appeared in her mind. Gary. It was Gary's voice!

  She wasn't buried. Couldn't be.

  She tried to holler his name, but only a muted, hoarse "Mmmm" came out. She tried to move, but her body refused to obey.

  She would most certainly die here. It wasn't hell. No, but it was a grave.

  She was buried alive.

  Bauer hung limp in Gary's grip and began to quiver. "No-no sir, I ain't lyin'. You gonna kill me?"

  Gary released him with a shove, sending him back against the counter. "Don't give me a reason to. I'm going to look around." He pointed to a metal chair in the kitchen. "Sit."

  Hooking his thumbs in his belt, Gary walked to the middle of the living room and looked around. Something wasn't right, something was ... off. His police instincts were screaming, his senses acute. He scanned the room, letting his eyes rest momentarily on every corner of clutter, every piece of furniture, every empty glass, every inch of carpet, looking, searching for that one scrap of evidence, that one clue-a blonde hair, a spot of blood, a sign of struggle. He breathed in slowly, testing the air for any trace of Maggie's scent. But there was nothing. If it was there it had been long masked by the sharp odor of rotting meat and Bauer's body.

  But she was there; he knew it. His physical senses didn't pick it up, but his raw instinct couldn't miss it. He could feel her.

  He turned and glared at Bauer, warning him with a steady look that said don't try anything stupid, then headed into the short hallway leading to the only bedroom.

  Heavy footsteps-Gary's footsteps-closer to her, pausing almost directly above her.

  "Mmmm!" Gary!

  Gary froze. What was that sound? A moan. To his left, just inside the bedroom, was a closet. He opened it, unclipped the flashlight from his belt, clicked it on, and used it to push the clothes aside. No sign of Maggie.

  "Mmmmm!" Help!

  There it was again. He shut the closet door and turned around, listening, searching, studying the room. The sound didn't come from anywhere, but it was there. Just there. Odd. He lowered himself to his knees and looked under Bauer's bed. Two glowing yellow eyes stared back at him. He shined the light at the tabby's face, and it gave a low growl-a moan-then hissed.

  Idiot cat.

  Gary clicked the flashlight off and stood up.

  Bam!

  An explosion sent a numbing shockwave through his head and down his neck. He crumpled to the floor in darkness.

  Was he shot? He tried to scramble, but his arms and legs were in quicksand.

  He'd been shot.

  That demented lunatic shot him in the back of the head. Slowly the light came back, and he focused his eyes just in time to see Bauer charging him, ball-peen hammer high above his head, howling like some banshee outta hell. Gary slid to one side, his throbbing head screaming in protest, and kicked at Bauer. His boot connected with Bauer's knee. Letting out a primal cry, Bauer's leg collapsed under him. Gary reached for his sidearm, but Bauer was like a bobcat, pouncing, clawing, biting. Gary tried to free his right arm, get his hand around to his Glock, but the smaller man's sinewy strength was deceptive, his wiry muscles like steel cables.

  The two rolled on the floor, punching, grabbing, twisting, cursing, slamming into bedposts, knocking into walls, toppling a floor lamp, a chair, and a mirror. Hands groped, teeth grit, sweat sprayed. They were fighting for their lives.

  Boom!

  Both men stopped and slumped to the floor, panting heavily.

  Maggie flinched when she heard the gunshot. What was happening? She was fully aware now. Her head still throbbed, and her body still felt like lead, but she was alive and coherent.

  Somebody above her wasn't.

  Please don't be Gary. Please, please. She stayed motionless, held her breath, and listened, listened for those familiar footsteps. But they never came.

  Stevie rolled over and faced Warren. Blood spurted out of a gaping hole in the cop's abdomen, pooling on the floor beside him. His face had drained itself of color, and his lips quivered. He blinked and looked at Stevie with wide, frightened eyes. He reminded Stevie of the fish he used to catch in the pond. He'd hold their wriggling body, looking into their scared eyes, until their mouth stopped moving and gills stopped searching for water.

  Kneeling beside Warren, Stevie placed the barrel of the Glock against the cop's forehead and whispered, "This ain't what I wanted."

  Warren's lips moved in one final silent plea, then his eyes blanked into an empty stare, a camera shutter capturing one last image.

  Stevie dropped the gun and began to cry.

  His wailing grew louder and louder, filling the tiny trailer.

  Maggie wept silently, tears spilling out of her eyes and running down the bridge of her nose, puddling on the floor. Her sobs were choked by whatever was stuffed in her mouth.

  She knew Gary was dead, shot by Stevie. It was over. He would kill her next. She was sure of it.

  CHAPTER 35

  AGGIE FADED IN and out of consciousness. The chills and shivers would melt into comfortable warmth, starting in the back of her head and spreading like liquid through the rest of her body. Then she would fade out. It was always the same, though. She was falling, falling, falling, through a black tunnel. The heat was intense and hands grabbed at her, trying to slow her descent. Then a familiar voice would call to her, gentle and calm, but sorrowful-Maggie, Maggie. Joe. He would call to her over and over.

  Then she would come to a sudden jolting stop. Hands held her fast, suspending her above the bottomless pit, groping at her, grabbing, pawing. Joe's voice would echo through the darkness in one painful questionWhy? She would try to answer, call out to him, explain, but no answer would come. Someone had stolen her voice, fused her lips, sutured them tight. Slowly, slowly, the chill would revisit, crawling over her body like tiny spiders, and she would begin to shiver. Consciousness would gradually return, and she would remember where she was.

  The best Maggie could tell, she was somewhere under Stevie's trailer. Her mouth was stuffed with a cloth, lips sealed, maybe taped. Wrists and ankles bound, she was lying prone on a blanket that reeked of body odor. She thought of her cell phone. If she could only reach it and make a... no, she'd left it on the passenger seat of her car.

  The blackness was oppressive, and with each passing minute, the temperature dropped, bringing a whole new wave of violent shivers.

  For the past half hour, she listened to Stevie's footsteps crisscrossing the trailer. She heard something heavy being dragged across the floor, then the storm door open and slam shut, a car door slam, then the rumble of the police cruiser's motor. Wheels rolled over dirt. Then, faintly, a splash. Stevie must have ditched Gary's cruiser in the pond. He probably ditched hers there as well.

  She assumed Stevie was disposing of Gary's body too. Maybe there was a chance he was still alive. After all, Stevie had apparently meant to kill her and failed.

  Some time later the door opened and shut again, and the footsteps returned. Water ran, the toilet flushed, lights clicked on and off. Then there was silence.

  Maggie was fading out again and fought to remain conscious.

  Focus, Maggie, focus.

  She thought of Joe, his voice calling her name, questioning her, always Why? Why couldn't she answer him? She knew what he was asking. Why had she turned on him? Why had she lied to him? Why had she betrayed his trust? Why, why, why? Why had she committed fraud, forgery, been so deceptive? Why had she chosen this path of corruption?

  She faded, enveloped in a shroud of guilt and remorse. Maybe she would just let herself fall through the endless darkness, plummet into nothingness for eternity. She was wretched, corrupt, evil.

  She deserved hell. She blacked out.

  Suddenly, she was snapped back into consciousness by the sound of Stevie's muffled voice. How much time had passed? Minutes? Hours? She had no way of telling.

 
Stevie lay flat on his back in the middle of the living room, legs straight, arms outstretched in a crucifix form. His breathing was heavy, his brow damp with sweat. He'd done it. He'd obeyed the voice, and now it owned him. It was the lone proprietor of his soul, digging its hands into his chest and wrapping its bony fingers around his heart. It was his master now; he was the slave.

  He'd done what was necessary. Chief Maggie was safe and her car was hidden. No sign she was ever there. Warren and his car were both taken care of, as if they never existed.

  Momma's voice was gone now, drowned out by the constant drone of the deep, throaty tone. And it had an urgent command-Do Sterner.

  Stevie shut his eyes and concentrated on slowing his breathing. In and out, nice and slow. Relax. In and out. Just like Momma had taught him. When he was little and the darkness would chase him, Momma would cradle him in her lap, stroke his hair, and repeat over and over, "In and out. In and out," until his breathing settled into a steady rhythm.

  Momma would be proud of her son. No, she wouldn't. There were still two left. Sterner and L-stone. The names taunted him, mocked him, dangled just out of his reach. Sterner and L-stone would get away with what they'd done to Momma. They would walk free. No! The voice shouted. Sterner dies, then L-stone.

  But Stevie concentrated on a different name. He had a score to settle first. Momma would understand.

  But the voice only grew louder and more obstinate-Sterner. Sterner first!

  Stevie's breathing spiked again, his diaphragm working overtime to fully inflate his lungs.

  "Dinsmore first," he whispered.

  Then it hit him again, the blow to the chest, like an anvil dropped from the ceiling. The weight pressed down on him, suffocating. He gasped for air, tried to move his arms, but they were pinned to the floor; he tried to sit up, but the weight on his chest was just too much.

  Sterner. Sterner.

  "No!" His voice was strained, his breathing labored. The weight was unbearable, threatening to crush him. The room started to darken. Darker, darker, darker, only a tunnel of light.

  "OK. Sterner."

  The weight lifted, and Stevie swallowed a huge gulp of air. His lungs were working frantically, filling with precious, life-sustaining oxygen.

  "OK. Sterner first, then Dinsmore. Then L-stone. L-stone deserves to be the closin' ceremony."

  He sat up, taking long deep breaths. The stale air of the trailer never tasted so sweet.

  Kitty climbed out from under the sofa and sauntered over, climbed up on to his lap, and rubbed its head against his chest, purring like a Bentley.

  Stevie stroked Kitty's head. He ran his hand over the cat's ears and around its jowls. "Kitty, we got work to do." He pushed up the sleeve of his left arm, exposing the soft, white skin of his forearm, dug the nail of his index finger into the flesh, and dragged it to midway up the forearm. The trail of torn skin blanched, then filled with bright red blood.

  Stevie smiled, ran his finger across the line of blood, and put it to his lips. He then extended the arm in front of Kitty. "Here, Kitty. We hafta become one ... blood brothers, you know."

  Kitty looked at him curiously, its head cocked to one side, as if contemplating his strange behavior, sniffed at the blood, and ran its sandpaper tongue over the crimson scratch.

  Stevie laughed and let out a yelp. Kitty startled, scolded him with a low growl, then went back to lapping at the thickening blood.

  "Good Kitty," Stevie said, trying to restrain himself from letting loose with another yelp. "It's just you and me now. Just us two... brothers."

  Maggie heard the whole thing. The world above her had come crashing down. All she could do was listen. The sounds were everything to her, her only connection to the world.

  It was starting to make sense now. Like so many pieces to a puzzle floating in space, finding each other and joining themselves together to complete a picture. Bob, Woody, Eddie, and now Glen and Dad. All victims. Images rushed through Maggie's head, painful images. Nineteen twenty-two. The Secret. Great-Grandpa. Philip Yates. The attacks. Gail Bauer. Stevie. The pieces rushed together, crashing into one another, smashing the reality she knew, or at least thought she knew.

  The lion. Stevie.

  Stevie is... the lion! It's all an elaborate hoax. There never was a real lion. It was Stevie all along.

  No. He couldn't be. Could he? How could he pull that off? It didn't make sense. But it did make sense. Steve wrote the note-an eye for an eye. Stevie wanted revenge. That's why she had come here, to talk to him, probe his mind. He was behind all of it. But what about Caleb? Why-? The stones. The Dinsmore boys said they used to throw stones at Stevie's trailer. He's going after the Dinsmore boys! But what did he say? Sterner first, then Dinsmore. Glen Sterner is next. Then the boys. Then Dad.

  Oh, God, no. No. No. Please, God. NO!

  If Glen Sterner was a religious man he would have prayed, but since he wasn't, he wrote off the feeling he was having as just a bad case of nerves. He needed a beer.

  He went to his refrigerator, pulled out a Bud, cracked the top open, and indulged in a good long swig. Mmm. That was more like it.

  At thirty years old, Glen felt like he'd already lived three lifetimes. He'd been in the marines, married, divorced, had two kids he never saw, an ex-wife who hated him, no friends, and was plagued every day by guilt that followed him around like a shadow.

  He tried running from it. Oh, had he tried. First there was the military. Then, after the divorce, he'd moved to West Virginia and got a job in a coal mine. Three years later, he moved back to Dark Hills to be closer to his kids. But his drinking had gotten the best of him, and when he drank, he became violent. A year ago a judge cut off his visitation rights, and his ex-wife took the kids and moved out west. Montana? No, North Dakota. Maybe Minnesota. He didn't even know.

  He'd let everyone down: his ex, his kids... his old man. His dad, the popular politician on his way up the political ladder, had put it all on the line for him. What a hypocrite. Covering up for him, making sure no one knew his dirty secret. Quite a dad.

  Every now and then the guilt would become especially unbearable, and that was when Glen would turn to the bottle and drown himself in a sixpack of Budweiser.

  He thought about praying sometimes. He was raised in the Methodist church in town and had been a good, Sunday school-going, Bible-believing kid until he got into high school. Amazing how getting in with the wrong crowd can ruin a life.

  He started drinking in the tenth grade. He and the other guys would go to the old cemetery and throw a few back, have some laughs, then go home. But in eleventh grade he started drinking heavier, and by twelfth grade he was a closet alcoholic.

  Somehow, he was able to maintain passing grades and even land a spot on the first string of the varsity football team. But as soon as school was out or practice was over, he'd hit the bottle, and hit it hard.

  Now he was thirty, lonely, out of shape, and depressed. His social life consisted of shooting pool at the bar almost every evening and... well, that was it. He was a loser. Plain and simple. No one could forgive him for what he did. Not even himself.

  What he did.

  Woody was the first to hit the kid, the retard. He swatted the back of his head, then shoved him in the chest hard, knocking the kid to the dirt. They were all drunk, coming home from the cemetery where they'd put down too many beers. When the kid stood up again, Eddie took a swing at him and knocked him back down. The kid landed solid, and Glen saw the anger flash across his face. It all happened so fast from there. Woody found the rope; Eddie held the kid. The sound of that rope beating against the kid's bony back and his muffled crying...

  After a while, the kid's mother appeared at the door, screaming something about calling the cops. For being so drunk, Woody had moved fast. He pushed her inside, followed by Eddie, and, farther back, after stealing a glance at the kid, Glen. She was hollering and crying and grabbing for something to throw when Woody struck her the first time, a solid blow right to the
jaw.

  Things after that were always a blur.

  He remembered Eddie standing up and telling him it was his turn. He refused at first, but the way they laughed at him and the anger in their eyes got him so mad. It must have been the alcohol, because he found himself blaming the whole thing on the woman; it was her fault. He hated her. So he did it.

  As they were leaving, Eddie shoved the kid against the outside wall of the house, told him he and his mom needed to learn some manners. The kid was crying and snot was running out of his nose. His back was red and welted and bloody.

  It wasn't until the next morning that the guilt hit him like a punch to the gut. And every morning after that.

  Glen walked into the bathroom, set his beer can on the counter, and eyed himself in the mirror. What a disgrace! His hair was too long and shaggy, his face partially hidden behind a scruffy beard, a spare tire bulged over his belt, and dark bags hung under his eyes like week-old shiners. He wasn't even a shadow of the high school quarterback that led Southern High to the county finals.

  Outside, a metal trash can tipped over and rattled over the patio, snapping Glen out of his self-loathing pity party. He went to the back door and flipped the switch for the patio light. A steady wind was blowing, and the trash can was still tumbling across the concrete slab, making quite a racket.

  Glen unlocked the door, slid it open, and stepped out onto the patio. A gust of wind blasted him from the side, filling his ear with static. He shut the door and hustled across the patio, chasing down the runaway trash can.

  Umph! Something hit him from behind and sent him sprawling across the concrete. He landed on his palms and struck his chin. A shock of numbing pain surged through his jaw. Lifting a hand, he gently felt his chin. It was wet. He'd busted it open. He quickly collected himself and tried to roll over, thinking the other trash can had clobbered him, but something pounced on his back and held him down. He tried to move, wriggle free, fight back, anything, but the something was like a car sitting on his back. Whatever it was, it was huge. He could hear its massive lungs drawing in air-long slow inhale, short quick exhale, long inhale, short exhale.