Winslow- The Lost Hunters

by David Francis Curran

  With his chains on he headed up Deep Creek, a road so named for the small creek that ran its length. Somehow in the distant past, a very deep V had been carved between the mountains on either side of what was now a small stream.

  Just before two a.m., he pulled up into the dead-end lane that led up to the old mine he had discovered while his brother was in prison. Several inches of snow covered everything around the car. He shut the lights off and then the engine. The engine ticked as if adjusting to the cold. Darkness seemed to pour in around him and then freeze in a grey blur as his eyes adjusted. The snow outside now glowed faintly in the moonlight.

  He had turned off the door light, so no light came on as he opened the door. The first thing he did was grab the heavy-duty, adjustable-beam headlight from the passenger seat. He turned the headlight on to its lowest setting and set the beam as narrow as possible, even though it was very unlikely that anyone would be close enough to see it.

  He got out, then reached across the driver's seat again and grabbed the backpack he had packed. Lifting the backpack out, he shut the car door.

  He went to the back of the vehicle and took out the plastic toboggan he had bought, put the backpack in it, and then loaded the rest of the things he had bought for the girl.

  Pulling the sled to the front of his car, he examined the ground. Only his previous set of tracks could be seen under the snow. He felt relieved. He did not expect anyone else to be exploring the mine at this time of year, but you could never tell.

  He wasn't worried about hunters. Most of the hunters he knew were road hunters. They drove around until they saw an animal to shoot. His brother and Hanassey were just road hunters, drunken road hunters, queer drunken road hunters. But this time that had worked out well for him.

  At the top of his steep fifty yard climb he sucked in the ice-cold air as he caught his breath. After a brief rest, he peered around the last giant, canine-tooth-like boulder toward the grate that covered the mine entrance.

  The water bottles he had brought were heavy, and he was glad he'd thought of the sled. When he had brought the girl here, he had lucked out in finding a ratcheting farm jack in the Chevy. But he had to first walk up to the mine with the heavy, old-water-pump-shaped jack; break the rusting lock on the grate, and then prop open the grate with the jack. Once he had the mine open, he'd had to walk back down to the Chevy and drag the girl up to the mine. Even with the snow on the trail, that had not been easy.

  Putting the girl in the mine and getting rid of the truck had wiped him out in a way he’d never imagined. He had started drinking beer on the way back to Missoula with Bobby and Nate. Normally he didn’t drink much. But on the way back he drank can after can. Because of the beer he’d made a fool of himself with a woman at the game checkout. That had been bad enough that another guy had taken over checking out the deer Nate stole from the Chevy. At least Bobby and Nate had not asked questions.

  There were a number of possibilities he now had to consider: the girl could be awake beneath the grate; the girl could be asleep by the grate, or the girl could still be in the room where he left her asleep or awake. Then it occurred to him that she could also be dead. He cringed at that thought. She had been alive when he dropped her off, but he had no idea of the extent of her injuries.

  The cold seemed to bite into his bare cheeks. Then he realized it was very unlikely she was by the grate. It was too cold. He had taken her boots and socks, and her gloves had been left in the truck.

  Still, he shut his headlight off and crept as quietly as he could to the grate. He listened for almost five minutes until he began to shiver. Hearing nothing, he turned the headlight back on high and pointed the light down through the grate. The floor of the mine beneath the grate sloped away from him. But the floor at the closest edge was just over five feet below him. He played the light from corner to corner. She was not there.

  Fetching the jack, he raised the grate as high as the jack could lift it. Taking an improvised sling from the backpack, he lowered; first the heavy water bottles then the rest of the supplies into the mine. Then he eased himself down, and as carefully and quietly as he could, he proceeded into the mine.

  He turned his light off as he neared the corner to the main chamber and listened again. In a moment he heard snoring. She was alive and asleep! His nose caught the scent of excrement. Of course, she had to crap and pee. Toilet paper hadn't even occurred to him. Feeling around in his jacket pockets, he found the roll he always brought with him when he went hunting. There had to be at least half a roll left. He'd leave it.

  He listened to the snoring a bit longer, then, encouraged, he turned the corner. To his shock, a tiny red light seemed to glow in the chamber. He paused and soon realized he could smell smoke. Somehow she had made a fire. There was another deep snore, and, reassured, he turned the headlight back on, and leaving it on low, moved cautiously into the chamber.

  The red glow came from a pile of ashes near the girl, where she lay sleeping on her side.

  Pointing the headlight at the floor near her head so that the beam did not directly point at her face, Billy looked down at her.

  He had barely looked at her when he had hauled her up and in here. Dragging her up the hill and lowering her into the mine, even though she barely weighed 100 pounds, had been tiring. Especially, after what he had to do to get the mine open. Plus, she had been covered in blood, and that had made it difficult for him to look at her. He imagined she might be badly injured, and at the time he did not want to deal with that.

  Billy had actually thought the girl was dead when he'd told his brother and Nate that, after he looked into the Chevy that first time. But later, as he was driving the Chevy, the girl moaned, and he'd almost driven off the road. She was alive. He knew then that if he told Bobby and Nate, Nate Hanassey would want to kill her. If they found out, she was alive, and he didn't tell them they would be very angry. To give himself time to think, he tried to think of a place she would not be able to escape from where he could keep her while he figured out what to do. This mine he'd discovered and explored the year before while Bobby was still in prison came to mind right away.

  But now as he looked at the sleeping girl, he could see that she was really pretty. She was the kind of girl he drooled over in high school who never paid any attention to him.

  He knew he could take her now. Wake her up. Strip her. Take her by force.

  He thought about it for a long time. He would have to kill her afterward. Wouldn't he have to kill her eventually?

  He shook his head. He didn't even want to think about that right now.

  He started ferrying the supplies he had brought her in from where he left them by the grate. Each item was as quietly as possible laid down next to her. When he was done, he moved the light toward her face again. She turned slightly, and he jumped. But another snore reassured him she had not awakened.

  She is actually beautiful, he thought.

  As quietly as he could, he began to move away.

  When he reached the grate, his headlight was still on low. Shadows loomed, and for a moment it looked like the heavy grate had somehow closed. A sense of panic filled him—a feeling of being trapped. And then as he swung his light toward the grate, he saw the Chevy's jack in place and the gap he had climbed in through wide open.

  As he climbed out of the mine, the idea hit him. What if he was trapped with her?

  It would take some preparation, but he might be able to pull it off.

  Checking His History

  October 26th: 9 a.m.

  “This is Colonel Waterson, Sheriff Goldstone, what can I do for you?”

  “I understand that Winslow Doyle was assigned to you in the Gulf War.”

  “Yes, he was. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “No. As a matter of fact, right now, he is a temporary deputy in my department, and I cannot say that I am in any way displeased with his work. In fact, I'm thinking of offering him a permanent position. Before that happens, I thought it
might be a good idea to check him out.”

  “Understood. Do you have specific questions or would you like a general rundown.”

  There was a pause on the Sheriff’s end of the line. “So you knew him personally?”

  “Yes, as his Captain. He was one of the military policemen under my command.”

  “How was he as an MP?”

  “I would not be exaggerating to say he showed exceptional promise. He had a real instinct for unraveling complicated situations.”

  There was silence as the Sheriff thought for a moment. “But something happened?”

  “Sheriff, nothing happened in the sense that Doyle did anything wrong. He had talent, and because of that he was taken away from his activities as an investigator.”

  The Colonel paused and then spoke again.

  “There was a sniper incident. An Iraqi sniper started firing on our MP headquarters one morning and was doing heavy damage. Doyle obtained a Barrett M107 and took the Iraqi sniper out with one shot. The sniper was dug in one thousand yards from our position. Doyle did not have a spotter.

  “At the time, the powers that be considered a sniper to be a better asset than a newly —he had less than nine months in as an MP— assigned military policemen, and he was, against my protests, transferred.”

  “How did he do as a sniper?”

  “I didn't any get any direct reports, but I heard though friends that he was highly effective.”

  “Would you recommend him as a law enforcement officer?”

  “Highly.”

  “Thank you, Colonel, for your time.”

  “You are welcome, Sheriff. Say hi to Winslow for me.”

  Hypnosis

  October 26: 10:45 a.m.

  The sheriff’s office was a small building that had once been a library. Jail cells had been added to the basement. The main office space was converted from the library reading room. As I came in through the door, a man in a deputy’s uniform was going out. He stopped and looked me over. “Doyle?”

  “Yes, Winslow.”

  The man was just short of six feet and had a high forehead and close-cropped brown hair and a handlebar mustache. He looked fit, and his blue eyes were piercing.

  “Tom Bedder,” he said, offering his hand.

  I took it, and we shook.

  “We can talk some other time. They're waiting for you,” he said, gesturing toward the reception desk.

  A petite woman in her mid-forties, with very straight blonde hair, dark glasses, and a serious look on her face sat staring into a computer screen and typing behind the main counter. She wore an unbuttoned charcoal cardigan over a pretty turquoise and black, batiked blouse.

  “Nadine?”

  “Yes?” her questioning tone was almost suspicious.

  “Hi, I’m Winslow Doyle. It’s nice to finally meet you.” I offered my hand.

  She gave me a forced smile but did not lift her fingers from the keyboard in front of her. “Everyone else is in the conference room,” Nadine said, nodding toward a glass-walled room where the sheriff sat with five others.

  “Just go right in?” I asked.

  “Just go right in,” Nadine said.

  “Mr. Doyle,” the sheriff said, standing as I entered the conference room. “Now we can start. Winslow, let me introduce you.” He turned to a taller blonde woman with her hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore steel-framed glasses and had pretty facial features but wore a serious expression. She looked to be in her fifties. But not a wrinkle showed on her pretty face, so I assumed Botox or surgery. “This is Doctor René Walters,” he said. “She’s a psychologist at the University of Montana in Missoula.”

  The woman took my extended hand. She had long fingers, and her hand felt dry to the touch. She wore a light blue blouse and a skirt that went with her eyes. A very pleasant lilac scent wafted over me.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “Sorry if I kept you.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Doyle. And that was not a problem. It gave me a chance to speak privately with Mr. Bobbins and make some notes about what he remembers about the day. It will help me with his hypnosis.”

  I nodded, and Dr. Walters smiled.

  “And next,” Goldstone said, “is Shawna Edwards.”

  Shawna was young, tall, perhaps just under six feet, and very pretty. She was wearing an FWP game warden uniform. She had brown hair that fell down to her shoulders and brilliant emerald green eyes. Her skin glowed despite the fact that she didn't seem to be wearing any makeup. She had an outdoors ruggedness to her and a strength that reminded me of a marathon runner. When Shawna looked at me, she smiled.

  I was standing too far away to offer her my hand. “Ms. Edwards,” I said.

  She laughed. “Call me Shawna, please.” Again she flashed that smile and this time she held my gaze for a moment as if taking my measure.

  The young man next to her stood. He walked over to me and offered his hand. He was thin, maybe in his late twenties, and had unruly black hair that poked out from his head. He wore dark plastic framed glasses and had brown eyes. “Tim Bobbins. I want to shake your hand, Mr. Doyle. I have heard of you.” He said it so gushingly that I felt a little embarrassed.

  “I’m mostly just a dog finder,” I said.

  “But you also found that boy a few years back,” he added.

  I nodded. “It was actually the father I found,” I said, correcting him. That was back before I lost Lomahongva. It seemed like an eternity ago.

  "May I ask you both a question before we begin?" I asked.

  "Fire away," Tim said. Shawna nodded.

  "How well do you check vehicles? I mean do you look to make sure they haven't hidden an extra animal or even a person somewhere?"

  Tim laughed. "We actually do. But we've never found a person. We do look for hidden compartments, in fact, we check every possible game hiding area in every vehicle that comes in. Shawna nodded, agreeing.

  "So normally nothing can be slipped by you guys?"

  Both shook their heads.

  The other person at the table was dressed in a deputy’s uniform. She had short brown hair, covered by a “Sheriff” cap, and a sharp angular nose and jaw. She had dark brown eyes that bore into mine. She looked so tough I imagined some people mistook her for a man.

  “Lois Renault,” she said. She did not offer her hand, so I just nodded at her.

  The woman next to her stood. She was a smaller woman with reddish-brown hair, pinned back in a bun, ruby-framed glasses, and a blue sweater. I guessed, by the large drawing pad in front of her, she was the artist.

  “Abby Bedoe,” she said. She pointed to the pad and pencils by her as if that explained everything. She had a friendly expression, and I liked her immediately.

  "Hello," I said, and I turned back to the sheriff. “How will this work?"

  The sheriff pointed to Dr. Walters indicating she should take over.

  Dr. Walters smiled. “After I conducted Mr. Bobbins’ preliminary interview, Ms. Edwards let me know that she has an appointment in two hours, so Mr. Bobbins has agreed to allow her to go first.

  "Deputy Renault, if you’ll take Mr. Bobbins out, and,” she turned to Bobbins, “we’ll call you in when we need you.”

  “You can’t do us together?” Bobbins asked.

  “No, actually, we can’t. If you listen to what Ms. Edwards says, it might influence what you remember. That is one trouble with hypnosis; images can be planted as well as unearthed, so we need to separate you for this to work. That's why we went to that private interview room even though I was just asking preliminary questions.”

  “Okay, I understand,” Tim said.

  When Deputy Renault and Tim had left, Dr. Walters addressed the sheriff, Abby, and I as she moved to a chair next to Shawna.

  “First, I have some simple preliminary questions for Ms. Edwards.”

  Shawna nodded. “But…”

  “But what?” Dr. Walters asked.

  “I’m a little nervous about this hypnosis
, and I have a few questions.”

  “Feel free to ask, anything,” Dr. Walters said, encouragingly.

  “Well, can this harm me in any way? I mean in my head, of course, but also legally.”

  Dr. Walters thought for a moment about how to answer that question.

  I glanced out the conference room window as a gust of wind blew snow off the snow-frosted trees around the parking lot.

  “Let me see if I can answer your question to your satisfaction,” Dr. Walters said. “First, you are not a witness to a crime. There is a potential complication that has occurred in using hypnosis for memory enhancement for trial in that ideas, images, and memories, may be placed that are not really what the hypnotized subject experienced. That has led to some legal battles. But no one will be charged based on what you say here. You are simply here to perhaps help identify someone who may, and I emphasize may according to what the Sheriff has told me, be a person of interest.

  “So legally you are good. Psychologically, there are at times dangers for some people with pre-existing disorders."

  Shawna seemed to tense up.

  Dr. Walters noticed this immediately and said, in a kidding way, "I have not done a psychological analysis of you, Ms. Edwards, but you look to me to be pretty normal.”

  Shawna laughed. “I hope," she said, noticeably relaxing. She looked to me as if gauging my reaction to her comment. I smiled. She returned my smile and seemed to hold my gaze for a moment.

  Chuckles filled the room.

  "Shawna," Goldstone said, speaking up. "You are under no obligation to do this."

  "I'm fine with it,” Shawna said, after a moment. She nodded to Dr. Walters to continue.

  “There are a few other possibilities,” Dr. Walters went on. “If you have ever had a very bad experience, for example,” her expression grew serious and she looked at Shawna intently. I’d seen that look. She wanted to read any reaction to what Shawna would say next. “Such as being raped. If the hypnosis recalled such an experience or the person who caused that experience, there could be repercussions.”