The Hunters Series Box Set

by Glenn Trust

  The blood trail on the ground showed the way. Young Clay must have given a good account of himself before he went down. George moved towards the woods but stopped at Price’s next words.

  “She’s alive.”

  “What?” George spoke the word softly as a prayer and looked at Sharon who was now kneeling beside the girl.

  Sharon placed her hand on the girl’s bare, bloody back. There was an unmistakable shudder, followed by a low, soft sob and then a whispered question, too low to be understood.

  “What’s that, baby? What did you say?” Sharon Price knelt with her mouth near the girl’s ear, hand still softly resting on her back.

  “Is – he – gone?” The words were spoken so softly and with evident terror of the possible response that they were barely audible, even with Sharon so close.

  “He’s gone baby. He’s gone. He won’t hurt you now. We won’t let him.” Price whispered the words into the girl’s ear, putting an arm around her on the ground and stroking her hair as if she were a child having a bad dream.

  “He came for me.”

  “Who baby. Who came for you?”

  “The boy. His name is Clay. I left him a message, and he came for me.”

  “I know. I know.” Sharon’s words were whispered softly as she looked at the young man in the bloody shirt and brushed away her own tears.

  “He came for me. He saved me. Where is he?”

  Sharon had already shifted on her knees to the young man’s body. Gently, she felt for the carotid artery, and then more firmly pressed into his neck with two fingers, a look of surprise and urgency on her face. Pulling the portable radio from her belt, Price looked up at George Mackey and nodded. Her eyes burned into his taking only a second to say, “Go! Do what you have to do. Find him. End this.” And then she raised the radio and spoke.

  As he disappeared into the tree line, George heard Price’s call for EMT’s. “…person shot…vital signs weak…”

  The blood trail was clear at first. In the low foliage and brush at the edge of the woods, it was easily visible. It did not appear to be arterial bleeding. Not enough blood and not spread far enough to be from a spurting artery. It was likely that he would not bleed out before George found him. That was good, George thought. Very good.

  As he moved deeper into the gloom of the woods, the trail became harder to follow. The blood blended in with the leaves and pine straw on the ground and was not as visible as when spattered across the green foliage in the daylight.

  George lifted his head from his inspection of the ground to peer into the thick foliage around him. He was keenly aware that the danger here was watching the blood trail on the ground too closely and not his surroundings, becoming an easy, unaware target.

  There was a loud popping bang not fifty yards away, followed by the sounds of rustling leaves and snapping twigs, and ending with an almost simultaneous dull thud as the bullet plowed into a tree to his right. Okay. I’m in the general vicinity, at least.

  George moved around a tree to his front, advanced a few yards, staying low, and then found cover behind a large hickory. His efforts drew a quick bang followed by the buzz of the round flying by into the ground.

  Closer, but still no immediate threat. The shooter was not much of a shot, he thought. Still he had a gun, and it only took one round to make him a great shot, and George a very dead deputy.

  George took stock and thought. Looked like three rounds into the boy, Clay. One fired at them as they pulled up in the pickup. Two here in the woods. That made six. Unless he had reloads, he was out of ammo, for the revolver at least. And George doubted that he had any reloads. He knew that the pistol must be the one he took from Harold Sims, and it was not likely that Sims was carrying any extra rounds.

  That left the long weapon, rifle or shotgun. George suspected it was the deputy’s shotgun loaned to the boy to watch the back door while he checked things out. It was just a guess, but it made sense. He had no idea how young Clay had found them and showed up at the Creek Side Cabins, but having done so, he was clearly not the kind to let the deputy go to the door of the cabin without some backup. As George pondered it, he was sure the weapon must be the deputy’s shotgun.

  His thoughts were confirmed a second later when a loud roar slammed through the woods sending numerous pellets ricocheting through the trees. Shotgun it was.

  So, the shooter had taken one round from Clay and was bleeding. He had fired one wild round into the trees, either to draw George out or to see what he might hit. That left three to five rounds or so, depending on the shotgun’s magazine, the make of the shotgun, whether there was a round in the chamber with a full magazine or whether Clay had had to pump a round in before firing. In short, George had no way of knowing exactly how many rounds the shooter had left.

  He took a breath and decided he wasn’t going to wait to find out. Slowly, he moved his head to the side of the hickory and studied the woods ahead, showing just enough of his face to allow his right eye to see forward.

  The light in the woods was dim and dusky in the waning autumn afternoon. The sun set early in the mountain valleys where the horizon was a thousand feet above your head.

  It occurred to George that he did not want to be out here in the dark, looking for a wounded man with a shotgun. He studied the woods ahead, hunting and searching one small area at a time, eliminating an area with his eyes and then moving to the next, looking for any movement. There was none, except for the rustling of squirrels in the trees overhead.

  George wanted very much to pull his head back behind the safety of the large tree trunk, but he knew that he couldn’t. He had to spot the shooter before he was spotted.

  So far, the shooting had been erratic and not aimed. It was suppression fire, hoping to discourage the pursuer. At other times, it might have suppressed the hell out of George. But not this time. George Mackey would see this through. He may have been too late to prevent much of anything, but he would not be late for the ending.

  Staring through the dim light, George’s eyes were drawn to something that didn’t look right. A large tree lay on the ground not fifty feet away, probably knocked over by one of the springtime thunderstorms. Protruding up from the fallen trunk was something not quite…normal. It was straight…too straight to be a natural limb or branch.

  Peering intently, George saw that it looked to be long and cylindrical. And then it moved.

  It didn’t move greatly. The end just waivered and swung slightly, making a small arc in the air as if someone was holding it and was moving. George waited.

  When the crown of a head slowly pulled itself above the fallen tree trunk, it was all George could do to keep from pulling his head back behind the hickory. But he remained motionless, knowing that the man holding the shotgun would have a hard time spotting him.

  Hurt, bleeding, and in pain, the man with the shotgun would want to hide behind the fallen tree and lick his wounds, like any animal. George knew that as long as he remained immobile, it was unlikely that the man would spot him. In the dim light, he would just appear to be a lump on the side of a tree.

  George watched, still and quiet. After two long minutes of searching, the man slowly withdrew his head down and out of sight. The barrel of the shotgun, still visible above the tree, wavered and then settled into a position pointing off to George’s left. The Glock in George’s hand felt light and insubstantial up against the shotgun, but considering the situation, it was the right weapon.

  Distant sounds of sirens filtered into the woods, muffled and dispersed by the trees and foliage, but audible. The EMT’s and backup units from Rye County and the state patrol would be arriving at any minute.

  It took roughly ten seconds for George to consider the odds. The man was injured, hurt, and bleeding. He was armed with a shotgun but did not know where George was.

  On the other hand, George knew exactly where he was and knew that he was a killer, and that he enjoyed killing in painful, terrible ways. He would kill again if gi
ven the chance because that was what he loved doing. It was what he needed to do.

  During those ten seconds taking stock of the situation and considering the odds, the images floated in front of him. Old Mr. Sims lying in a pool of blood in the church parking lot, his kidneys and liver turned to jelly by the savage thrusts of the knife. The girl thrown into the weeds on the side of Ridley Road, a hundred cuts on her body and then strangled to death. The girl, Lyn, nude on the ground, covered in the same tortuous cuts and alive by the grace of…who? Young Clay with three bullets in his chest, turning his shirt bright red. The deputy from Rye County, not yet found and status unknown, who had decided to check things out, saving the life of a girl he did not know.

  As the last of those ten seconds ticked away, the images moved away and George sprang from behind the hickory. Moving to the right, he stayed out of the direct line of the shotgun barrel.

  Crashing through the foliage and fallen limbs covering the ground under the trees, he was heard instantly by the man with the shotgun. A roaring burst went crashing through the woods to his left. The killer’s head popped above the tree trunk searching for his target. It took him several seconds to acquire the man crouching and running towards him through the trees. George stumbled, then steadied himself and leapt the fallen tree trunk as the man was trying to bring the barrel of the shotgun around to bear.

  George slid in the leaves and debris as he landed, twisting his knee painfully. It didn’t matter.

  Looking into the barrel of the Glock from a distance of five feet, the man’s hand froze. The eyes staring back at him over the sights of the handgun were focused and hard. There would be no hesitation with this man. No moment of uncertainty. Slowly and deliberately, he laid the shotgun on the ground beside him.

  After the shotgun’s roar and the sounds of George’s rushing assault on the fallen tree trunk, an eerie silence had enveloped the woods. George looked into the eyes of his quarry and saw…nothing. They were empty.

  The animal spoke.

  “You got me, deputy.” Lylee lifted one hand in surrender while gingerly touching the bloody mess that was his left knee and leg with the other. “That was a hell of a thing, charging at me like that…hell of a thing.”

  He smiled boyishly up at the big deputy holding the pistol pointed at his face. It was the friendly grin of a boy bested by his friend in a wrestling match and giving up good-naturedly. It was disarming. It was one of Lylee’s best performances. Considering the pain in his leg and the pistol in his face, it was a great performance…and it was of no use.

  Looking into the deputy’s eyes, the uselessness of his masterful act dawned on him. Slowly, like the sun rising over the swamp chasing away the dark shadows, he understood. The realization filled his eyes, glaring back at the deputy.

  George waited, allowing the awareness to settle in until…the man…the animal…snarled.

  There were no words, just bared teeth between which the guttural, primal growl hissed and grunted out.

  The Glock bucked in his hand, filling the silent woods with a single sharp explosion. The echo faded slowly until there was silence again.

  Doubled over on his side, the man clutched his chest, snarling and thrashing in the dirt. The gray eyes flashed up at the deputy who had killed him until the light slowly faded from them. Narrowing to slits, they stared vacantly into the dirt as the man’s head slumped to the side. Then he was dead.

  84. Done

  Covered in a metallic looking thermal blanket Sharon Price had retrieved from the Pickham County pickup’s emergency kit, Lyn heard the final roar of thunder. It came distantly, filtering its way through the woods and out into the open yard of the cabin.

  Price, kneeling beside the young man with three holes in his body, looked up, and her hand moved to the pistol on her belt. Then all was quiet again, and she went back to her work trying to stop the blood that oozed from the boy into the red, Georgia clay.

  The roar and scream of racing engines and sirens filled the air. Vehicles began pulling into the drive along the creek, and as they came to a stop, one by one they cut their sirens until the air around the cabin was quiet again and hushed except for the rushing of the creek.

  The sound of tumbling water seemed to wash over everything, cleansing away what had happened there. It was reassuring. The creek would be there after the people had departed, gurgling and washing the evil memories away, until all that would remain were the trees and the hills and the water.

  An ambulance came roaring up the rise from the drive into the backyard of the cabin. The doors flung open, and two paramedics raced towards them.

  Sharon stood up and saw two troopers and a Rye County deputy run across the yard on foot towards the woods to be met by George Mackey making his way out of the tree line. He spoke to them briefly and then pointed into the woods. The deputy and troopers nodded and then fanned out, moving deliberately and carefully into the trees.

  One of the paramedics looked up from Clay. She and her partner were working quickly and efficiently to stop the bleeding and start an IV. She nodded at the girl huddled and shivering under the thin thermal blanket.

  “Injuries?” she queried Sharon.

  “A lot of cuts and bruises. Not lethal, but she bled out a bit. Bleeding seems pretty much stopped. Mostly shock and mental trauma.”

  The paramedic nodded, turning back to her work on Clay. “There’s a heavier blanket in the back of the ambulance in the equipment locker. Get it and wrap it around her. Warm her up good and put her on the cot in the back of the ambulance.”

  Rye County Sheriff, John Siler, walked carefully up the steps of the cabin to the open front door. There was no movement from inside. Being from the old school, he carried a revolver, not an automatic, and the Smith and Wesson Model 60, .357 magnum was gripped snugly in his right hand.

  All of the activity was happening at the back of the cabin and in the woods to the rear. But his deputy was not in the backyard and had not been seen. He stepped to the side so as not to approach the doorway head on. Easing along the wall he called out softly, “Grover, you in there?”

  Hearing no response, the sheriff moved to the door and turned into it, the .357 extended in front of him in a two handed grip, pointed slightly down.

  “Grover, you in…” Sheriff Siler stopped mid-sentence as his worst fears were realized.

  Stepping over the young deputy’s feet, he squatted by his side trying to avoid the pooling blood on the floor and felt his neck for a carotid pulse. The quantity of blood on the floor told the experienced law enforcement officer that there was no point in checking, but he did so anyway, mostly because there was nothing else to do.

  A large hunting knife protruded in an ugly way from the boy’s side. Siler almost reached out to remove the offending blade, but refrained. Removing the knife could worsen the deputy’s injuries, but Grover was dead. His injuries could be no worse. The sheriff left the knife in place because it was evidence. It would be retrieved during the crime scene investigation or after the autopsy.

  Reaching for his portable radio, he started to call for the paramedics, but then put the radio back in its holder on his belt. Grover Parsons was gone. The others might make it. Grover would not. It was a matter of logic, reason, and best use of available resources, and it broke Siler’s heart.

  The sheriff stepped out onto the front porch, sat down on the top step, put his head in his hands, and cried for the boy, who less than an hour ago, he had tried to convince over the radio to wait for backup. Grover Parsons had done what he had to do. He did his duty, and the young girl would survive because of it.

  Sheriff Siler would now do his duty and try to explain to Gerald Parsons that his son, who just happened to be on duty, and who just happened to stop for lunch in Crichton, had had a friendly conversation with Gannet Carlson. And during that friendly chat, he discovered that a murderer and his next victim were holed up in a cabin at the Carlson’s. He would explain that the son, who was the pride and joy of hi
s daddy, was gone, never to return, a hunting knife protruding obscenely from his side while blood pooled thickly around his cold body.

  He would do his duty and tell Gerald Parsons all of this, but first Sheriff Siler sat on the top step while his tears dripped softly onto the boards of the porch steps, soaking into the weathered wood.

  More sirens and more units arrived on the drive beside the creek. The ambulance backed rapidly across the cabin’s yard guided by deputies and volunteer firefighters who had arrived at the scene. Sharon watched it bump down onto the drive and accelerate rapidly up the hill towards the highway.

  In the rear, the young girl, Lyn, lay on one side, wrapped in blankets, traumatized and nearly comatose from her ordeal. Clay lay across from her, carefully attended to by the paramedic and fighting for his life.

  On the winding roads, the ambulance would take twenty minutes at high-speed, to make the journey to the little league field in Crichton where there was space enough for the life flight helicopter to land and take the two patients aboard. From there they would be transported to the emergency trauma center in Athens.

  The girl would survive her physical injuries. The mental and emotional traumas were a different matter. Undoubtedly, those scars would leave far deeper marks on her, and their effect would be far more devastating in the coming years.

  The young man was a different story. His hold on life was tenuous. The bullets had managed to miss his heart and aorta. A hit to either would have surely resulted in his immediate death, and the round from the shotgun that slowed the killer and his execution of the girl might never have been fired.

  Fortunately for Clay, the rounds from the short-barreled .38 were underpowered, hardball ammunition. Had Harold Sims loaded the weapon with high-powered hollow points, Clay would not be unconscious in the rear of the ambulance. He would be lying in the cabin’s backyard waiting for the crime scene techs to take their pictures and gather evidence from around his corpse.