Open Season

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Get back!” Father Leo warned, right before he tossed a match at the acetone-soaked artwork. It went up with a roar, sending a kaleidoscope of color into the flames, but thank God, the shrieking stopped. Images of the people from the painting writhed in the flames, burning and melting, and I wondered where their trapped souls would go. I grabbed a canister of salt from my bag and flung a thick spray of it into the fire. The colors vanished with a whoosh as the flames leapt high, nearly to the roof. The painting began to splinter its frame and crumble in on itself, cracking like bones as it drew up into a charred ball. The flames disappeared as quickly as they came, and in what must have been a trick of the light, a shadow engulfed the burned remains, blotting it out like a mini black hole and then suddenly, all traces of the painting were gone.

  “Run,” I said to Father Leo. We grabbed our tools and my bag and piled into my truck. A rough lane led away from the main highway. I’d scouted it earlier and knew it brought us out on a farm road that eventually connected to the back roads we could use to get home. I didn’t let go of my white-knuckled grip on the wheel until I pulled up behind Father Leo’s church in Geneva.

  “You know how to show a man of God a good time, Mark,” Father Leo said, clapping me on the shoulder.

  “I’m going to ignore how that sounded, Padre, and just say thanks for the back-up.”

  Father Leo’s eyes twinkled, and I think he actually enjoyed the evening. “Any time, Mark. Beats hell out of proofreading the parish newsletter.”

  I promised him I’d help with the next Bingo night and drove home. To my surprise, a black truck identical to mine sat in the drive. I parked in the garage and closed the door, then headed into the house. Demon met me at the door, smelling of popcorn. I went to the kitchen and grabbed a beer, then headed toward the living room.

  From the quick gasp and shuffle, I suspected I’d interrupted something, but by the time I got to the living room, Blair and Chiara sat upright on the couch, with the popcorn bowl on Chiara’s lap. They were too suspiciously posed, and Chiara’s hair looked hastily smoothed.

  “Whose truck?”

  Blair grinned. “One of Chiara’s brothers parked it right after you left and caught a ride back with another brother. So as far as anyone knows, you’ve been here all night.”

  “Tell him thanks, and I owe him a case of beer,” I said, plunking down in my recliner. I glanced at the TV. In the greenish glow of night-vision lighting, anxious-looking ghost hunters with perfect teeth and fashionably mussed hair debated whether or not they heard strange noises in oddly loud stage whispers.

  “It’s a marathon,” Chiara said, grinning. “And they’re going into a haunted hospital next.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I replied, cracking open the beer. “Anything but an art gallery. Pass the popcorn.”

  Chapter 5

  “Three hunters every year for six years?” I asked, pushing aside my empty coffee cup. My piece of apple pie sat untouched, a clear sign my thoughts were elsewhere. The Original Best Lakeview Diner lived up to its reputation for good pie.

  Father Leo nodded. “At least.”

  I ran a hand back through my hair. “Deer hunters?” I clarified. Not “our” kind, the ones who went looking for creatures the Fish and Wildlife Commission didn’t issue permits to kill.

  “Yep.”

  “Ever find the bodies?”

  Father Leo gave me the priestly stink eye. “No. That’s why they’re ‘missing’ and not ‘dead.’”

  Okay, I deserved that. “Do they have any connections to each other—family, friends, work buddies, neighbors?”

  Father Leo shrugged. “They came from small towns all over the area, so that’s hard to say, but nothing stood out to the cops.”

  I snorted. When it came to the supernatural sorts of things we hunted, even good cops tended to overlook the details that mattered. “Were they together when they disappeared?” I did my best not to think of my own hunt-gone-wrong, but I didn’t fool myself or Father Leo.

  “No. Each one, individually, over a period of weeks in December.”

  I frowned. “Weeks? There’s not that long a season—”

  “There is if you factor in archery as well as rifle and flintlock, and antler as well as antlerless,” Father Leo countered. I must have looked askance at his unexpected knowledge because he frowned. “I used to go with my brother. Before I went to seminary. Now, I’m much more comfortable blessing the meal than blessing the hunt.”

  “Did the families get any kind of benefit out of the disappearances?” I asked. The human heart is dark, often darker than the things we call “monsters.” I learned that a long time ago. “Insurance? Inheritance? Ending troublesome marriages?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing that set off the cops’ radar. Not saying there wasn’t, but it didn’t raise red flags.”

  Sandy, one of the owners of the diner, came by and filled our coffee cups. “I’m honored,” I joked. “Getting the boss herself.” I’d gone to high school with Sandy and her husband, Vince. We went way back.

  “One of the servers called in sick,” Sandy said with a shrug. “Something wrong with the pie?”

  I grinned. “Nah. We just got busy talking.”

  She cuffed me up the side of the head. “Eat first, talk later. You don’t disrespect a good piece of pie.”

  We both chuckled. “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, which just got me a playful slug to the shoulder.

  “I’m the same age you are. Don’t ma’am me,” she warned.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied with my best fake innocent smile.

  Father Leo motioned toward the pie when Sandy headed off. “Better eat that. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of bloodshed.”

  “You ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie,” I muttered, but I dug into the pie with gusto. Minutes later, when I pushed aside a scraped-clean plate, I sat back, sighed, and washed it down with coffee.

  “Now, speaking of bloodshed… These hunters in the Big Woods?”

  “The Occulatum wants someone to go check it out. That many years in a row sounds ritualistic.”

  “And I’m the poor SOB who drew the short straw?”

  Father Leo rolled his eyes. “You’re the poor SOB who handles the territory. Plus, it’s an excuse to see Sara.”

  I slid him a sideways glance. “Are you matchmaking? Because I’m past the ‘be fruitful and multiply’ age, just sayin’.”

  “You’re thirty-five, so that’s not true. And it wouldn’t hurt for you to socialize more, Mark,” Father Leo said. “And I’m saying that as a friend, not a priest. Whatever ‘multiplying’ you do is your business, but don’t quote me to the bishop.”

  As a rule, Father Leo didn’t stick his nose into other people’s business. And he wouldn’t be the first of my small circle of friends who tried to nudge me toward at least dipping a toe back in the dating pool. Lara and I divorced years ago, and she’d already remarried. I just hadn’t found the guts to try again, although I began to reconsider after meeting Sara during my last visit to the Big Woods to bag a were-squonk.

  “So…the missing hunters,” I said, trying to steer the conversation in a safer direction.

  “We’ve got no way of knowing where they were when they vanished, but here’s a map marked with where they said they were going to enter the woods,” Father Leo said, and slid the folded paper across to me. “From where their trucks were found, it’s a good bet they did what they said they were going to do.”

  “No break-ins on the trucks?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing missing except the men, their wallets, and their guns. The wallets and guns were recovered in the woods, but no sign of the men. No blood. Although in each case, the underbrush had been trampled.”

  “Footprints?”

  “Nope. But I also marked where the wallets and guns were found. There’s only one other thing—”

  My eyebrows rose, and I waited for the other shoe to fall. “Yeah?”

  “The
area they hunted in had been off-limits for a hundred years, and it just opened up six years ago.”

  “Sacred to the Native Americans?” I asked, trying to remember which tribes had been in that area.

  “No. Cursed.”

  I drove up to Kane with music blaring, first thing on Friday morning. For once it wasn’t snowing, but weather in December up in these parts can change in an hour, so I came ready for a blizzard. The truck already had snow tires, and I threw chains and sand in the back, plus all the requisite lock de-icer, anti-freeze windshield fluid, and a full tank of gas that promised to avoid fuel line freeze-up. I had heavy enough clothes and outerwear to storm the arctic. And I had a date with Sara that night.

  Even more importantly, Father Leo had finagled a hunting license for me, so I was somewhat less likely to get arrested.

  The steel gray sky threatened snow, and the wind just made the cold worse. I parked the truck, patted myself down to assure weapons were appropriately sheathed and holstered, double checked that I had my phone and the map, and headed for the trail.

  Just as a patrol car pulled in next to me. I took a deep breath and tried to relax. I recognized the guy behind the mirrored sunglasses. Sheriff J. Kranmer, aka Sheriff Sumbitch.

  “Wojcik,” he hailed, slaughtering the pronunciation. “What brings you here?”

  I forced a reasonably believable smile. “Nice day for a walk in the woods.”

  We’d already established a mutual dislike when I came up to hunt the were-squonk. Sheriff Sumbitch was the kind of guy who needed to mark his territory, scrape antlers on trees, and whip out a ruler to measure who was bigger. I didn’t have a lot of patience for that kind of thing, but I had to put up with it—and let him win—in order to not end up in handcuffs.

  “The last time you came through these parts, a park bathroom blew up.”

  “Huh. Go figure.” I happened to know that Father Leo arranged for the Occulatum to provide an anonymous grant to the state park service to replace the facility.

  “You’re carrying a weapon. Got a license?”

  I smiled. “Hunting or concealed carry?”

  “Both.”

  “The carry license is in the glove compartment. And the hunting license is on my hat on the front seat.”

  Sumbitch took his time confirming both, just because he could. “Looks in order,” he muttered, sounding mighty disappointed.

  “Like I said, just came up for a walk in the woods. Not even sure I’d shoot if I saw a deer,” I replied. “Hate to get blood on my truck hauling it home. Just washed it.”

  Sumbitch gave me a condescending look, as if I’d just confessed to being a hipster, and snorted. If he made a crack about “city types,” I might not be able to contain my laughter. Even Kane was more urban than Atlantic. “Stay out of trouble,” he warned.

  “Planning on it,” I replied.

  I watched him drive away and sighed, then snagged a six-pack and headed into the woods. The snow crunched beneath my boots, four inches deep where the wind scoured it, deeper in drifts. Despite my run-in with Sumbitch, I still felt a sense of peace descend as I moved away from the noise of the road and deeper into the silence of the forest. Still, I carried a rifle, handgun, and big knife for a reason, and I couldn’t afford to forget that hunters had gone missing. I didn’t want to be one of them.

  After I’d walked about a mile, I got my bearings and headed over to a tree I’d notched on my last trip, so I would know I’d found the right one. I set the six-pack down at the base. “Hey, Gus,” I called to thin air. “Thanks again for having my back. Brought you some beer. Hope you can find a way to drink it.”

  “Gus” haunted the forest where he had fallen from a tree stand and died half a century or so ago. Sara knew his real name, but I’d nicknamed him Gus. He’d done me a solid in the epic battle against the were-squonk, and one good turn deserves another.

  Even as bitter as the day was, I felt it grow colder still as a figure took form a little ways off. Gus looked to be in his sixties, with a fringe of gray hair beneath his gimme cap and a graying beard. He smiled when he saw me, and I imagine that it got lonely up here. From the way Gus helped me hunt the were-squonk, I figured he had spent his afterlife helping other hunters get in a good shot.

  “You know anything about hunters going missing?” I asked.

  He turned and walked away. I followed. He could obviously hear me, although I couldn’t hear him. I wasn’t a ghost whisperer, but I certainly ran into enough of them in my line of work, although usually my job was to stop restless spirits that were causing problems. Gus didn’t seem to be bothering anyone, and he wasn’t in a hurry to move on, so we had left things status quo.

  We tramped through the underbrush for a little ways, and then Gus paused and pointed toward a massive old oak. I frowned, trying to figure out what he meant me to see, until I realized a man’s body lay beneath the tree.

  I approached slowly, afraid the hunter had fallen asleep, and unwilling to get shot for surprising him. Then I grimaced, both from the smell and the details that became clearer as I got closer. The man sprawled against the trunk, missing half of his skull. The rifle in his frozen fingers took the mystery out of what happened. Nothing supernatural, which made it all the more tragic. He’d been dead long enough for the body to freeze, but still pretty recent.

  “Shit,” I muttered. I pulled out my phone, hoped I could get a signal, and dialed Steve Louden, a local cop who’d helped me out a couple of times. I figured out the coordinates and gave the location, then hung up. No sense hanging around. It was too damn cold, and Steve knew where to find me if he needed to.

  I looked to Gus, who stood to one side, a sorrowful expression on his face. “Thanks for making sure he gets home,” I said. Given that Gus had haunted these woods for half a century, I guessed that no one had ever found his body.

  “Have you seen anything else spooky?” I asked. “Because hunters are going missing about the same time each year, and I need to figure out why.”

  Gus’s eyes went wide, and he shook his head, raising his hands in a gesture that warned: “back off.”

  I frowned. “So you know what I mean, but you’re telling me it’s dangerous?”

  He nodded, still looking like he’d seen, well, a ghost.

  “I know it’s dangerous. That’s what I do. I don’t think it happened this close to other people. Maybe in the backcountry, that area that didn’t use to be open for hunting.”

  Gus looked torn. He knew I hunted bad things, creatures that weren’t supposed to exist. But if he knew what took the other men, then he had a sense for the risk that I didn’t understand. Gus looked like he was debating something with himself, and then he finally turned and started walking again.

  I followed. The sun hung high overhead, though with the clouds, that did nothing to brighten the cold, gray light. We walked for a while, and I marked the coordinates as we went so I could find my way without Gus if I needed to. After an hour, we came to what remained of an old fence, the now-obsolete demarcation that showed where the once-forbidden section of forest began.

  “Out there?” I pointed.

  Gus nodded. Any tracks or physical evidence left behind by whatever took the hunters last year was long gone, but at least Gus had led me to the hotspot, ground zero for the manifestation.

  “Can you tell me anything else?” I asked.

  Gus looked perplexed, and I knew he was probably trying to figure out how to say something complicated without using words. He began making swoopy gestures, and I found myself playing charades with a ghost.

  “Something that flies?”

  Gus nodded. He held up both hands, fingers splayed.

  “Ten of them?”

  Gus shook his head. “A lot?” I guessed. This time, he nodded. So the hunters got carried off by a flock of flying monsters. So not good.

  “Wings?” No. “Eaten?” He shrugged. Taken away, but not killed immediately. Did the creatures have a nest? I didn’t like
what Gus managed to communicate, but then no news about a monster is good news.

  I needed to do some thinking before I tried to confront whatever-it-was, and I also had to get back to civilization and get cleaned up for my date with Sara. I thanked Gus, and then we walked back to the spot where I’d left the beer.

  “Hope you’ve got a way to enjoy that,” I said, nodding toward the cans. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Gus stayed behind as I made my way back to the truck. The cops had arrived, and I saw them bringing the dead man’s body out to an ambulance that was far too late to make any difference. Steve spotted me and moved to catch me.

  “Thanks for calling that in,” he said. “Guy’s been missing for a couple of days.”

  “Like the others?” I asked.

  He looked at me sharply, then shook his head. “No. We never found bodies for those. That why you’re here?”

  “Yeah, that and other things.”

  He smiled. “Oh, really?”

  “Just dinner,” I said, but I could feel my cheeks flush.

  “Good,” Steve said. “Sara’s been alone too long. Don’t fuck it up.”

  I’d been telling myself that same thing, so Steve’s comment didn’t boost my confidence. Then he clapped me on the shoulder. “Go have dinner. I’ll need you to stop by the station and answer a few questions, but it can wait until tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, already trying to figure out a convincing story about happening upon the body since I could hardly say I’d been led there by a ghost. “I’ll be in first thing.”

  I’d get the cops out of the way in the morning, so I could hunt a pack of flying monsters come afternoon. My kind of day.

  Since Bell’s Retreat, the bed and breakfast where I stayed in Kane, belonged to Sara, picking her up to go to dinner wasn’t a challenge. The white clapboard Victorian home didn’t fit my usual Motel 6 digs while on a job, but I could forego my aversion to doilies and chintz on account of its owner.

  “You clean up well,” Sara said with a grin when I offered her my arm as we went out to the truck. I’d brought decent slacks and a shirt with a collar—no tie—and a blazer, and my quick run through the bathroom got me a shower and shave.