The Hunted

by Mike Dellosso

  Seconds ticked by, and the something didn't move. Glen's mind reeled. He tried to think, form a coherent thought, but all he could think was bear. A black bear had found its way into his yard, rummaged through his garbage, and he'd startled it. All he could do was wait for the fatal blow, for the beast to sink its teeth into his scalp and be done with it. But the blow never came.

  He had to play dead. That's what they always said on TV. If a bear attacks, play dead. He let his body go limp beneath the beast and lay motionless.

  More seconds, an eternity passed, and nothing happened.

  Then the bear was off of him. He could hear its claws scraping along the concrete and the sound of its breathing. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't just lie there all night. What was the bear waiting for? Maybe it would get bored and leave.

  How long he lay there, he didn't know, but after some time the sound of the bear faded and Glen lifted his head and looked around. Nothing in sight.

  He rolled over and felt his chin again. It was still bleeding. The patio door was only fifteen feet away. He could make a run for it.

  Scrambling to his feet, he took three steps toward the door and froze. Something was behind him. The bear was back. Again, he could hear the click and scrape of claws on concrete.

  Instinctively, he turned to face the beast and was immediately met head-on by two large paws, driving him backward and to the ground.

  What stood over him was no bear. It was nothing he'd ever seen before.

  The beast lowered its head, arched its back, and let out a deafening roar, holding it at its loudest point, then trailing it off to a low growl.

  "Dear God," Glen muttered just before the mouth opened, and his face was swallowed in darkness.

  CHAPTER 36

  OE WAS BESIDE himself. He'd spent the evening and then most of the night and into the early morning scouring Dark Hills for any sign of Maggie or anyone who might have seen her or knew where she was. He talked to Darlene at the diner, Hank Finnigan at the hardware store, Wanda Mitchell, the hair stylist, some guy named Rocco with a tattoo of a Shih Tzu named Pinky on his arm at the pizza shop on White Street, even the clerk at the dry cleaners. Nobody had seen her.

  Andy hadn't answered the phone when he called, so he'd stopped by the station-no one was there; the building was dark and the doors locked.

  Joe continued to drive the streets of Dark Hills until well after midnight, but his search had turned up nothing. Finally, with nowhere else to look, he headed over to Josiah's.

  Josiah answered the door in his pajamas, sleep in his eyes, hair plastered to the right side of his head.

  "Sorry to wake you," Joe said. "I needed someone to talk to. Is it OK?"

  Josiah stepped aside. "Sure, sure. Come in. It's chilly tonight. You like coffee? Tea?"

  "Coffee'll be great," Joe said.

  "Then coffee it is."

  Joe shed his jacket. "Maggie's missing." The words sounded so final, so doom-and-gloom. They fell out of Joe's mouth like a ten-pound weight. But he really didn't know she was missing. He was working off an assumption. It was possible Maggie just left town for the night or just wanted an uninterrupted evening without calls, questions, or intrusions. She wasn't beholden to run her schedule and plans by Joe. But then why wasn't she answering her cell phone?

  Seeing the look of disbelief on Josiah's face, Joe explained himself. "Caleb had another... writing."

  Josiah held the coffee grounds above the percolator. "And?"

  "It said, Save Gill. Maggie left early from work, and nobody knows where she is. She isn't home, isn't answering her cell phone, and I can't get a hold of Andy or Gary." He paused, knowing his rationale rested heavily on the accuracy of a comatose boy's handwritten message. Not exactly rock-solid evidence. He might as well have been jumping out of an airplane with an untested parachute. "I'm worried. I think something's happened to her."

  Josiah rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He didn't quite fit the part of a scholar in his black and red plaid pajamas and slippers, but his wisdom was deep. It wasn't the wisdom obtained from years of higher learning and book studying, but rather the kind earned from a lifetime of hard living, of experiencing life as it happened, of making mistakes and learning from them, of loving and losing. Of really living. It was authentic wisdom that demanded respect. "All of Caleb's messages so far have been accurate, right?"

  Joe nodded. "Yes. There've only been two, but they both meant something."

  "Are you sure you're interpreting it correctly? It couldn't mean something else?"

  Joe shrugged. "What else could save Gill mean? My gut says she's in danger."

  Josiah crossed his arms. "Your gut. You mean that still, small voice in your heart? God's voice?"

  "You could call it that."

  Josiah leaned forward. "OK. If the other messages were on, why would this one be any different?"

  "You really think it's God speaking through Caleb, don't you?" Joe had seen the writing, even witnessed one taking place, and figured out what they meant. But he still wasn't convinced it was God doing it. That was a mental leap that was a little too far for him to take. It went against everything he'd been taught and believed. God didn't speak like that anymore. Maybe in the old days He did, to men with long white beards and flowing robes. Men who did miracles and fought battles. But not these days.

  Josiah eyed Joe steadily. He seemed to look right past that outer wall Joe had erected and find the real Joseph Alan Saunders hidden somewhere behind it. "Joe, you gotta let God work. Yes, I really think it's God speakin'. Why not? You tell me that."

  "Because God just doesn't do that anymore." Joe said it like he meant it, though as soon as the words left his mouth he questioned whether he really did.

  "Who says?" Josiah paused as if waiting for an answer. Joe didn't have one. "Who says God can't use a dream, or a vision, or a comatose boy to reveal His plan? Is He limited by what we believe about Him? He used a donkey, didn't He? Is it that far of a stretch for you to believe He could use a boy?"

  Again, he waited, and again, Joe had no answer. "I sure hope not," he said, leaning back and unfolding his arms like a lawyer resting his case.

  Joe thought that over for a moment. Josiah did make a good point. Who was he to tell God how He could and couldn't communicate with His children? He was God, for crying out loud. He didn't have to bow to our beliefs or limit Himself because of our theology. Maybe Josiah was right. Why couldn't it be God speaking? Why not?

  Joe suddenly felt very small. He had seen something most people never even dream of witnessing and dismissed it as bad theology. How foolish! How ignorant. How small was his faith. He had hardened his heart so much toward God that he didn't even want to listen when God was speaking.

  It finally hit him with all the force of a battering ram: it wasn't God's fault that Rick was dead. Joe had wasted so many precious years-too many-blaming God and pointing an accusing finger toward heaven. He had walked out on God, not the other way around. God had always been there. The patient, loving Father waiting for His wayward son to return. Waiting to lavish him with love and welcome him back into the fellowship of His family. His heart suddenly felt very heavy in his chest, and a lump rose in his throat. His hands began to tremble. His flesh tightened with goose bumps. His mouth went dry. He knew what he needed to do. He'd always known. And tonight, right here, he'd do it. "Jo, will you pray with me?"

  Josiah smiled. "It would be an honor."

  Right there in the kitchen, Joe bowed his head and opened his heart. Emotions that had been bottled for ten long years, fueled by the events of the past several days, suddenly burst out, and the tears flowed freely. Great sobs shook his muscles, choking his words. For a full five minutes, Joe didn't speak, didn't say a single word. He couldn't. He just cried. He fell into the arms of his Father and cried.

  Then Josiah was beside him, the older man's hand heavy on his shoulder. "Heavenly Father," Josiah prayed, "I come to You on behalf of my brother. He loves You, I know he do
es. Wrap Your arms around him, pull him close, and let him experience Your forgiveness and restoration. Your son has come back, Lord, and we all welcome him."

  Joe sniffed and wiped his tears with his sleeve. His throat felt dry and tight as he began to pray. "Father, I owe You an apology. I know it's not enough and never will be, and I know I don't deserve Your love, but, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. Please forgive me for being so bitter and angry. My faith has been so frail. If You'll have me, I'd like to come back to You. Thank You for teaching me so many things." He sniffed again and wiped at the tears on his cheeks with the back of his hand. "I'm ready to be used of You, Lord. Amen."

  By the time Joe was done praying, Josiah had a smile on his face that stretched from one ear to the other. "Welcome back, brother," he said, patting Joe's shoulder. "Welcome back. Now we've got work to do."

  "Maggie," Joe said, his voice still a little shaky.

  "Yes. There's not much we can do now. The whole town is asleep. Call the station first thing in the morning and see if you can get ahold of her. That's one thing. The other is Glen Sterner and Elston Gill. Owen, Hopkins, and Cummings are all gone. That leaves Sterner and Gill as the only ones left. I think we have good reason to believe one of them's next."

  "What do you think is killing them?"

  Josiah stroked at his chin some, then smoothed his bushy eyebrows. "Not sure about that yet. Maybe who is the question we should be asking."

  "You don't think it's an animal? A man-eating devil lion? Isn't that what Yates called it?"

  "Didn't say that. There's a beast involved, no question 'bout that. But my question is: Is someone controlling it? Like Yates claimed he could." He paused and nursed his eyebrows some more. "The only person all three of the victims had in common was Stevie. It'll be daybreak in a few hours. I'll pay him another visit. Alone this time."

  "Why can't you go now? Wake him up and talk to him."

  Shaking his head slowly, Josiah said, "Won't do no good. Stevie's not exactly a morning person. You saw how he reacted last time; it'd be worse."

  "You think he's capable of doing whatever's going on around here? Of murder?"

  Josiah wrinkled his brow and cupped his jaw in his hand. "Gut feeling? As much as I hate to admit it, yeah, I do. Last time I talked to him, when we were there, there was something dark in his eyes. Evil. I could feel it. Over the years, I've tried tellin' that boy about the Lord, God knows I have. But he just don't want to hear none of it. There's something dark there. Something real dark. There's other forces at work, you know. Powers and principalities. I'm sure of it."

  "Fueled by revenge. Like with Yates."

  "Revenge is a powerful force," Josiah said. "Why do you think God says vengeance is His? He's the only one holy and righteous enough to wield such power. In the hands of man, vengeance is evil. Wickedness."

  Joe straightened up and set his mug on the counter. "This stuff is creeping me out. I just want to make sure Maggie is OK. I'll let you battle the forces of darkness. I'm gonna go see if I can get at least a couple hours of sleep. Thanks for the coffee and... everything else."

  Josiah placed his hand on Joe's back. "A couple more hours of sleep sounds like a great idea. My mind's tired as a one-legged frog. Call me when you find something out about Maggie. And I think it would be a good idea to pay our friend Glen a visit. The senior Gill too. You know where he's bein' cared for?"

  "Maggie said St. Magdalene's over in Quinceburg."

  "You mind?"

  "Not at all. I'll call you as soon as I know something. And Josiah, thanks again."

  Josiah sandwiched Joe's hand in both of his. "Let's pray before we part." He then led them in prayer, asking God to protect them and give them wisdom, courage, and a humble spirit. Then he prayed for Caleb and Rosa and Maggie. When he was finished, he lifted his face and smiled at Joe, his tired eyes crinkling at the corners. "Go with God, son. He will guide us. He hasn't failed yet."

  CHAPTER 37

  OURS LATER, AFTER a bout of restless sleep, Joe was up, showered, shaved, and dressed before sunrise. Maggie was on his mind. He had tried calling her house and cell before attempting sleep, but both led to her recorded voice. He'd tried praying too, but the words came sporadically, more begging for help and pleading for answers than anything else. His mind was reeling with possibilities, scenarios, horrors. Where was Maggie? Where had she gone? What if she already...

  God, please no.

  He picked up the phone and dialed in her number. The phone rang four times with no answer before her machine clicked on. A familiar message: "Hi, this is Maggie. I'm not home now; you know what to do."

  Not home. But where? He left a message again, his fifth. "Maggie, it's me again. I'm worried about you. Call my cell when you get this message." Calling her cell again, he left the same message.

  He then punched in the number for the police station. Three rings and a recording: Gary's voice, instructing the caller to dial 911 for an emergency, leave a message for a non-emergency. Joe hung up, threw on his coat, and headed out the door.

  Outside, it was still dark and murky. A cold dampness had settled over the region, biting to the bone and bringing with it a thick fog. Joe shivered and climbed into his truck. He had to find Andy or Gary.

  He had to find Maggie.

  Michael Dinsmore had gotten up early, padded downstairs to the family room, and turned on the video player for his daily dose of cartoons. His brother, Sean, with whom he shared a room, was right behind him. Their other brothers were still fast asleep, Dad was in the shower, and Mom was rummaging around in the kitchen. It was all part of their daily routine. Dad usually woke the boys up when he got out of the shower. Mom would have breakfast ready. They'd eat, get dressed, and be out the door by 7:15 to catch the school bus at 7:20.

  But catching the school bus seemed like hours away now. Scooby-Doo was on, and Michael was glued to the set. Scooby and Shaggy were being chased by a monster that looked like it had just climbed out of a garbage can. Of course, it wasn't a real monster, just some dork dressed up in a dumb costume. The monster had Shaggy cornered. Scooby was hiding under a box. The monster moaned. Shaggy pulled a box over his head and hollered "Jeepers!" Scooby whimpered. The sound of cartoon music and canned laughter filled the room.

  Michael only noticed the steady meowing after Scooby's moment of truth. He spun around and looked at the sliding glass door that led to the concrete patio in back of the house.

  Sean jumped off the sofa. "Hey, Mike, look, the c-c-cat!"

  Michael hushed him. "Quiet, dorko. You want Mom and Dad to hear you?"

  They both snuck over to the door and looked at the tan cat through the glass. The cat shook the cold water from its fur and meowed again, its big eyes pleading for just a minute's worth of warmth and affection.

  "It's the sa-same one from the other d-day. It looks so c-cold," Sean said, tapping the glass.

  The cat lifted its paw and touched the glass where Sean's finger was. Meow.

  Michael nudged his little brother. "Go check the steps."

  Sean smiled and nodded, stood up, and tip-toed away. "All clear," he whispered.

  Michael unlocked the door and slid it open just far enough for the cat to slip in. It went to him immediately and rubbed its head along his leg, purring loudly.

  Sean knelt beside Michael and extended his hand to the cat. "He li-lilikes us. I wish we c-could k-keep him."

  "Yeah, right. Mom and Dad would never go for that," Michael said. He stroked the cat's wet head and back.

  "He's so c-c-cold. What's he guh-gonna do when winter comes?"

  Michael kept on petting the cat as it purred louder. "Maybe we could hide him." He looked around the room.

  "Boys!"

  Uh-oh. Dad. Michael hadn't even heard him coming down the steps.

  "What is that?" Dad stood over Michael and Sean, hands stuck to his hips, eyes squinched up. It was the look he gave right before dishing out a couple of good whoopin's.

  "Uh, um." Micha
el looked at the tabby.

  Sean jumped up and pleaded with his dad. "D-dad, can we k-keep him? It's so c-cold outside, and loo-look at him; he really likes us."

  Fortunately, Dad wasn't in a whoopin' mood. His face softened, and he relaxed his arms. He knelt down next to Michael and ran his big hand over the cat's head. "I'm sorry, guys, we just don't have room or time for a pet." He looked at Michael, then at Sean. "You can't keep it."

  "Aw, c-come on, Dad," Sean pleaded.

  "We'll take care of it, and we can use our allowance money for food and stuff," Michael said, pulling the cat closer to him.

  Dad sighed. "Sorry, guys." He took the cat away from Michael and cradled it in his thick arm. "He might be someone else's, or he may have some kind of disease. You just don't know what you're gettin' with stray cats." He slid the door open and let the cat fall to the concrete patio. It shook its legs, looked around, then tore off, heading back into the woods.

  Michael stood next to Dad and watched as the cat bounded across the yard and disappeared into the darkness. Dad flipped the switch for the floodlight and leaned closer to the glass. His heavy hand fell on Michael's shoulder. "Mikey." His voice was hushed and serious. "You see that?"

  Michael followed Dad's eyes to a spot directly behind the house, across the dirt alley. The woods. Two yellow lights hovered in the fog, just out of the floodlight's reach. He looked closer and squinted, trying to see through the murky haze. They could be eyes. Or maybe just the light playing off some water. Then they moved... and blinked. They were definitely eyes. His hands were suddenly numb. The eyes were watching him, staring right through him. Just like the monster on Scooby-Doo. He opened his mouth and tried to say something, tell Dad he saw it too. But nothing came out. So he just nodded.