by John Hunt
He palmed the tears out of his eyes. His body shook and he concentrated on taking deep breaths to gain control of himself. What to do now? Where to go? His watch read 11:20am. Had the chase clock started at midnight? If it did, then he was just over eleven hours in. So much more time to go. Taylor wanted to move, find a place to clean up and change some of his clothes. The unknown made him hesitate. If he started moving, would he inadvertently get closer to the Tracker? Right now, right where he sat, he knew safety. He couldn’t feel the Tracker and that meant the Tracker couldn’t feel him and that meant he was safe for now. It would be a gamble to leave this green, bushy cave.
He stood, stretched and making sure the mower person couldn’t see him, pissed against a tree. Looking down he remembered the old fat guy joke. Having a dick-do. That’s when a guy is so fat his belly sticks out farther than his dick-do. Hardy-har. He had heard that joke so much in high school, he stopped showering after gym class near the end of grade nine. And when he didn’t have to take gym anymore, he remembered feeling intense relief. He finished, zipped up and stuffed his garbage and his clothes in his backpack. He wanted to be ready to run if he had to.
He sat back against the tree and checked his cell phone. One missed call from Jill. Probably wondering why he hadn’t shown up for work. He put his phone back in his pocket. He wouldn’t be calling her back. What the hell would he say? Hey Jill, sorry about work. See, I got this thing, man, I don’t know, something chasing me and I just couldn’t make it in. If he catches me, he said he would eat me and if you had seen his teeth, you’d believe it. If I’m lucky, I’ll see you in two days or so and probably fifty pounds lighter because of all this forced exercise. Yeah, that wouldn’t go over too well. Better to say nothing and hope to survive.
Boom-boom-boom.
Goddamnit! Not now. It’s too soon.
He stood, peering about him, expecting the Tracker to emerge from behind a tree, his teeth a shiny drooling white under the stupid fedora he wore. He didn’t feel too close. Any kind of close was close enough wasn’t it? He slung the backpack on and crouched. He scanned the open fields through the leaves. Nothing. Only the stupid lawnmower.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.
Closer now. Where is he?
“Fancy seeing you here, Taylor.”
Behind him. The Tracker was behind him and Taylor pictured him reaching with those long fingers of his to grab Taylor and pull him into an embrace so he could feed. Taylor ran forward and burst out through the trees into the open field. His whole body hurt from the previous evening’s exertions and he felt sore and slow. Too slow. He would be caught for sure. Why did he think he could get away? A fat slob like him? If he had been a marathoner, this would have been easy but if he had been a runner, he doubted the Tracker would have chosen him. Over his shoulder, he saw his pursuer break through the trees and start running after him. He was so dark it seemed as though he were cut out of space in this world, a walking hole in this reality. Isn’t that what he was though? Something that shouldn’t be real?
The sun beat down on Taylor intensifying the smell of cut grass in the air. He thought the day was too beautiful for something like this to happen. This shit was supposed to happen at night when you expect the things in the shadows to pull you into a dark corner and teach you about terror. Not like this, not on a day like today. He stumbled to his knees and whimpered trying to get back up knowing it was gaining on him, knowing it was looking forward to its meal. He could see the concession stand in the distance and thought if he could just make it there, just that far and then thought what then?
His stride slowed, his muscles mutinying against him. Unable to sustain this pace, his breath a wheezing, desperate gasp, he sucked air as though through a straw. The Tracker was closing the distance and Taylor had nothing left in the tank to keep going and then the mower was in front of him and he saw the driver, a woman wearing a ball cap, orange ear muffs and sunglasses, her tanned arms cranking the wheel away from him. Taylor dodged to the side and his ankle rolled and he screamed as the mower’s greedy grill bore down on him. The mower’s wheel touched Taylor’s foot and then stopped.
She stood in her seat and said, “What the hell, man? What do you think you’re doing?”
Taylor waved towards the Tracker as he scrambled to his feet, his ankle a bright spot of pain.
“What? You stupid or something?”
Taylor pointing and squawking said, “Him! It…after me!”
Heavy steps approached. The woman looked where Taylor pointed and her hand went up to her face as she backed into her seat, tripped and fell off the mower. Her elbow hit the metal frame with a clang. She yelped and the Tracker grabbed her.
He lifted her off the ground by her neck. Her feet kicked at the air and she made choking noises in her throat. Her ear muffs had fallen off and the sunglasses clung to one ear so that they rested on one side of her face. Her tanned face filled with blood. She started punching his forearms and pulling at his hands. The Tracker chuckling in his gravel voice, turned to Taylor and said, “You can’t help yourself, can you? First you asked for help and a man dies. Then you tell this young lady about me, breaking another rule. And guess what? Now she dies. But at least it gives you a head start, right?”
Backing away, Taylor said, “Tell her? I didn’t tell her!”
“Taylor. C’mon now. Of course you did.”
The Tracker threw the woman to the ground and pinned her with a heavy boot.
He said, “I’d get running fat boy, if I were you. This won’t take but a moment.”
The Tracker raised his foot and stomped on her chest. Her arms shot up and grabbed his leg. Her mouth a large ‘O’ as all the air in her lungs left her in forced exhalation. Taylor heard the bones crack. Taylor’s face pinched together and fluctuated between terror and fear, a liquid movement of facial tics. The Tracker lifted his boot a second time and this time, it landed on her head. Her head sunk into the earth about a half inch and her one eye squeezed out of the socket. As the Tracker raised his foot again, Taylor turned and ran.
Running towards the concession stand, he saw a car pull in. He hurried to it, seeing an elderly woman with a dog exit the vehicle. The dog pulled on the leash, excited to be at the park and anxious to get on with exploring and marking the park with urine. It lifted its nose to the air and whipped its head to look at Taylor. All four paws splayed out, it growled and barked, spraying saliva collecting sunlight in the droplets. The dog nearly pulled the lady off her feet trying to get to him and Taylor kept running because he could escape in the car and to hell with the dog. The dog was nothing compared to the Tracker. The elderly lady yelled at her dog, “Biscuit! That’s enough!” She spotted Taylor, a giant, fat sweaty man covered in dirt, running at her and she backed away, cringing and looking over his shoulder past him, she started screaming.
Taylor stopped in front of her and said, “Give me your keys, lady!”
The dog bounced back and forth at Taylor, growling, the hairs running like a sail along its back. It nipped in for a bite and got Taylor on the shin.
“Hey!” He kicked at it and the dog danced away, growling.
“Lady, please! Give me your keys.”
Her wide eyes darted to the car as she pulled at the dog and backed away. She stopped screaming but she watched Taylor, waiting for him to swat her aside like a pesky bug. He noticed where her eyes went when he asked for the keys and opened the car door and saw the keys on the seat. Who does that?
He slid off his backpack and threw it onto the passenger seat and scooped up the keys and got in. He shoved the key in the ignition and turned it on. It started and he laughed. He half expected it to stall on him. He glanced up and the Tracker was running at him and closing the distance fast.
“Jesus!�
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The Tracker crossed to the passenger side. The door opened.
Taylor put the car in reverse and hoping the old lady and the dog weren’t behind him, stomped on the gas. He grimaced, his mouth a tight line expecting to feel the crunch of the car hitting the poor lady or the yelp of the dog and then they were in front of his car and a laugh, heavy with relief sputtered from his lips. The lady had fallen on her ass and the dog yanked her arm while barking and trying to get at Taylor. He looked to the side and saw the Tracker holding onto the door. His feet dragged along the gravel spraying up dust and rocks. To Taylor’s utter terror, he was pulling himself inside.
“Nooooo, no, no you don’t!”
He swung the wheel hard and it spun the Tracker off the door. An explosion of dust rose. Taylor stomped on the brake, shifted to drive and left the Tracker to stare after him.
Taylor, scared, exhilarated, a basket case of emotions, laughed out loud and said, “Fuck you, man! Fuck you and your little game and your stupid teeth! Ever hear of a dentist, jackass? Fuck you!”
Taylor caught sight of his eyes in the rearview mirror. He was crying. Tears cleaned trails through the dirt on his cheeks. It surprised him and he drove in mute silence, the image of the woman’s eyeball leaving her skull on replay. He vomited on his chest. The eclectic concoction of food he ate earlier became a sour, liquid bib.
He wiped the back of his hand across his lips and tried to push it all away. He wanted his brain to be still, an empty conscious void. Could there be consciousness in a void? Wouldn’t that be a paradox? Stop it! Stop thinking!
His brain on pause, he drove across town responding only to the traffic lights and cars around him enough to not cause an accident. He made sure he didn’t leave the city but when he stopped, he knew the border was close. He parked behind an abandoned industrial building and turned the car off. He wondered if the cops were looking for this car or him by now. A trill of panic pulsed through him. He’d never been in trouble with the police before. What would his mother think? He shook his head and a tremulous smile attempted to gather on his lips. It didn’t take.
God he stank. He unbuckled the belt and reached over to the glove compartment. He popped it open and found some wet-wipes. Of course there were wet-wipes. Old ladies, man, always had wet-wipes. He opened the hard plastic top and yanked out a few of them. Looking in the mirror, he methodically wiped the dirt and sweat off his face. He then worked on his hands, forearms and his neck. He ran a few wipes through his hair and when he was done, he immediately felt a little better and then thought he could feel a lot better with a little more work. He stepped out of the car and peeled the vomit covered, sweat drenched, dirt ridden shirt he’d been wearing. He tossed it on the ground and using more wipes, cleaned his chest, scrubbed it red and while he did this thought, Moobs, can’t forget fat men don’t have chests, they have breasts. Hey look, I’m a poet. Hilarious. The thing about being fat was that after awhile you didn’t need people to make fun of you to feel bad. You ended up doing that all by yourself.
He reached over the front seat and pick up his backpack. He emptied it onto the seat, put on a clean T-shirt and couldn’t believe how it made him feel. The stickiness of his skin was gone. He looked in the backseat of the car and saw a box of small garbage bags. He tossed all of his garbage, including his shirt, into the bag, tied it closed and put it in the trunk. Wouldn’t do to leave a mess in the car. He had already done enough to the poor old lady and her dog. No need to leave a bunch of crap in her car for when the police found it. He stretched his sore legs and tested his ankle with more weight. He had been favouring it when moving around but didn’t think it was all that bad. He could still run if he needed to. And Taylor knew he would be running sooner or later.
-14-
Taylor takes a break…
“Can I have another water? I’ve been talking for so long, my mouth is really dry here.”
Owen said, “Sure. You have been at it for awhile now. You hungry at all? You want a break?”
Taylor lifted a hand to swipe the sweat off his forehead. Clink. He sighed and used his shoulder instead. Awkward, but it worked. He said, “I could go for some food. If you haven’t noticed yet or haven’t been paying attention, I’m always hungry.”
“I’m hungry too. And this way, the police service will pay for mine too. In the spirit of getting a free meal, what were you thinking? The Keg?”
“Truthfully? I have a bad craving for McDonald’s.”
“McDonald’s over the Keg? Really?”
“I’m more of a quantity guy. Quality is good and all, but quantity is where it’s at for me.”
“Sounds good. Give me your order and someone will get it for us.”
Taylor told him and when he finished he said with a frown, “You didn’t write it down.”
Owen hooked a thumb at the camera. “They got it and they know what I want from McDonald’s. At least they should by now. You need to use the washroom or anything?”
“No. I’m fine.”
Taylor shivered, a full body shake that rattled the cuffs on the eyebolt.
“You cold?”
“Scared. Just scared. I can’t stop shaking.”
“You’re safe in here.”
A high tittering laugh escaped him and he tucked his chin into his chest to stop it. When he got it under control he said, “That’s funny you said that.”
Owen said, “Why?”
“Cause you’re the one I’m afraid of.”
“Me?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve already said enough haven’t I? And none of it is believable. I lived through it and sitting in this room with you, away from the Tracker, the last few days seem a nightmare. Or like it happened to someone else. Only it didn’t. It happened to me and here I am giving you the dirt to throw on my coffin. I’m not helping myself here and you know it. And worst of all, I know it. The Tracker had two days to catch me and somehow I survived. Strangely, I believed him when he said I’d be free if he didn’t catch me. But now you have me and although the two days were a long enough sentence, you guys are gonna give me one I can never escape from. And I’m helping you to do it.”
“I can appreciate you feel that way, Taylor, I really can. And from the very start I said your statement was voluntary. No one is forcing you to talk to me. If you said you wanted to stop right now, we would. I don’t badger anyone. All I can promise you is this: everything you told us, we will look into it. We are obligated to investigate everything and that includes alternative theories that counter our investigation. It’s to prevent us from getting tunnel vision. We need to present all the evidence to the court. They decide the value of it. And your story? That’s evidence.”
“But do you believe me? How could a fat guy like me do all this stuff? I mean, you must have examined the bodies, right? Look at me! I don’t have the strength for what was done. No one does.”
“I interview a lot of people Taylor. And after a time, you get a feel for the liars. Their mannerisms, the way they speak, you can tell and when you’ve done this job as long as I have, it becomes very easy to do it. You know why a lot of cops don’t have friends who aren’t cops?”
“No.”
“Well, there are a lot of reasons because you know, generally, we’re a bunch of Type-A personality jerks, but one reason I found, for me anyways, is I can’t stop being a cop. I can’t turn it off when I go off duty. So when a friend is telling me a story or giving me a reason why they can’t do something, I can tell they are lying. And when your friend lies to you for no other reason than it’s easier to lie, then you kind of stop liking them. And they pick up on that and you end up growing apart. And the sad part is, I can tell they are relieved to be rid of me. A part o
f them is happy I’m not going to be at their parties or invite them to mine. Who wants a cop at a party? How can they complain about us and bring out their small baggie of weekend weed if a cop is in the room? And it all stems from this job and learning how to spot a liar. And I am good at it. Point being, talking to you, I can tell you’re not lying. So that can only mean two things. One, it actually happened the way you say or two, you believe it happened. When you believe it happened, with every part of you, then in that way, you are telling the truth.”
“But do you believe it happened? The way I’m saying it happened?”
“Look. I’m a cop. We’re pretty simple people. And what has proven to be true time and again is that the simplest answer is usually the correct one. I said usually which doesn’t mean always. I try to keep a very open mind because I know I am human and far from perfect. I have never experienced a supernatural event. Does it mean I don’t believe they happen? No. Because I keep an open mind.”
“Why am I talking to you then?”
“Because I am listening. And I will look into everything you’re telling me here. Look, we’ll have a bite to eat, and you can think it over and we’ll go from there. Okay?”
Taylor nodded and then busied himself with staring into his lap. Sweat dripped from his forehead and plinked onto the paper suit he was wearing. It was supposed to be a one size fits all but Taylor wasn’t one size. He was all of them. Owen could tell the silence didn’t bother Taylor. A lonely guy like him lived with it. It was a familiar companion to him. Owen by contrast, liked to talk. It made him a good interviewer. He was personable and genuine when he spoke and people sensed that and wanted to be liked and believed by him. Especially since the vast majority of the time the people sitting in Taylor’s chair were lying to him. Owen didn’t understand it himself. Why would they care if he liked them or thought they were good people? What did it matter? Maybe they wanted to feel validated or just listened to. Most people didn’t really listen, not in the way it mattered. Most people were just waiting for their turn to speak. And Owen listened and most of the time, liked people. Even the criminals. In his experience, people weren’t bad all the time. The same person who broke into your car last night and went on a spending spree with your tap debit card might open the door for you at the mall or pick up a bag you had dropped. Owen knew this one guy, a real fucking asshole who liked to start fights in bars because he liked hurting people. Had a real thirst for violence and got off on cracking someone, anyone, in the mouth. It didn’t matter if you were his best friend or a stranger, if he got in the mood, you were getting your face rearranged courtesy of his fists. Over time he had hurt one too many people and the courts had enough of seeing him and the mess of his victims. He got sentenced to eight years in jail. When he got sentenced, he called Owen from prison. Owen had interviewed the guy plenty of times and wasn’t afraid to call him out on his crap. For that reason, he respected Owen. He was crying on the phone, the kind of crying where you can barely form a sentence, the type of crying children do before the years conditioned them to see crying as weak. This big goon, Darryl Cobb, who put more than one person in the hospital in his time, wanted Owen to look after his dog. His lawyer wouldn’t do it. And he knew if the animal shelter couldn’t find a home for it, they’d put it down. Darryl begged Owen over the phone. The dog was older, wouldn’t live very long anyway but it didn’t deserve to die because Darryl was in jail. Owen, being a softy for dogs, agreed to adopt it on the condition that if by some miracle the dog was still alive when Darryl got out, he wouldn’t be getting the dog back. Darryl agreed to the condition and the gratitude and the happiness in his voice made it hard for Owen to believe it was the same person who broke a pool cue over a guy’s head and then stabbed him in the chest with the broken end for beating him in a game of nine ball. Owen guessed, in the end, it must be damn near impossible to be an asshole all the time. It would be absolutely draining.
