The Hunted Page 4

  Her body was then engulfed in a cloak of darkness.

  "Momma!" Stevie shouted from his trance. "I will, Momma. I'll get 'em all."

  Then Momma's limp body appeared alone. The shadowy figures were gone; the taunting had stopped. There was silence. Her bruised and broken body lay in a heap, like a pile of soiled laundry someone had neglected. Stevie approached and knelt beside her lifeless frame. He bent over and looked at Momma's disfigured face; she had suffered such a beating, such a violent, merciless attack. And he had done nothing to help. Stupid! Stupid! Coward!

  Suddenly, her eyes flipped open and fixed upon Stevie. "You still have a chance," Momma whispered, her voice strained and wheezy, her face a pasty white. "You can still help me." She reached up with a shaky hand, grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and pulled him within an inch of her face. Blood trickled out of the corner of her mouth, and a string of saliva stretched between her lips. "Stevie, help me!"

  Stevie remained prone on the floor, his body twitching uncontrollably with muscle spasms, his breathing fast and heavy. "I will, Momma. I will. I will help you."

  Then his body went limp and his breathing slowed. He eased his eyes open and rolled over to his back. His shirt was soaked with sweat; hair clung to his forehead. Every muscle in his body ached.

  He stared at the ceiling for a long time before a soft purr in his ear brought him out of his trance. "Hey, Kitty, where you been?" he said, sitting up and taking the tan cat into his arms. "Silly me. I know where you been. You been a good kitty."

  He stroked the cat's head and jaws and the purring increased. "Are you hungry? Can Stevie get you somethin' to eat? You gotta get your strength up; there's lots more work to be done."

  Forty minutes northeast of Dark Hills (on a good day, driving comfortably over the posted speed limit), the ICU room of Southcentral Regional Medical Center was dark except for the muted light that filtered in from the hallway and the soft glow of the myriad of machines that surrounded the bed.

  Caleb rested peacefully, his chest rising and falling in time with the rhythmic swish-swoosh of the ventilator. His left arm was heavily bandaged from shoulder to fingertips. Tubes snaked around his bed, entering his frail body at various sites. A bolt monitoring intracranial pressure was screwed tightly into his head. His legs were encapsulated with knee-high sequential pumps, keeping the blood from pooling. Machines blinked and beeped, ticked and whined as they kept close watch on Caleb's vitals-and kept him alive.

  The scene was so surreal that Joe half-expected a bug-eyed, hunchbacked male nurse named Igor to enter the room and start fiddling with the instruments, turning dials, flipping switches, and checking pressure gauges-Yes, Master, everything is going as planned, Master. But Igor must have been on breakfast break or out checking his text messages.

  Joe leaned forward in the gray upholstered chair next to Caleb's bed, his elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands. When he found his young nephew in the outhouse, Caleb barely had a pulse. Fortunately, Joe was able to put him in his truck and meet the helicopter from the hospital's shock trauma unit in the field behind the woods. Caleb was then airlifted to safety. Joe had watched as the chopper lifted off, stirring up a whirlwind of dust and debris, wondering if it would be the last time he would ever see Caleb alive.

  Joe met the chopper at the hospital and remained there overnight, waiting for a report from the doctors. They had spent most of the night stabilizing Caleb, replenishing his blood supply, and repairing the damage to his left arm.

  The first time Joe saw Caleb lying in the hospital bed, his small frail body looking more like a machine than a boy, he could not stop the flood of emotion and tears that poured out of him. He was angry-angry at himself for not being there to protect Caleb, angry at God for allowing this to happen, angry at the Dinsmore boys for not looking until they found him.

  Joe had tried to pray, but it seemed so futile, like God had shut the doors to heaven and hung out a Closed sign. Old emotions he thought he had buried now surfaced, numbing his nerves and twisting his gut. He had sat in a room very much like this one ten years ago, except that time the machine in the bed next to him was his brother, clinging to life by the gadgets that supported him.

  He thought of Rosa. She had lost her husband, her soul mate, and had found hope again, thanks to her strong faith in God and resolute belief in His goodness. Now she was faced with the reality that she may lose the only thing she had left in this world-her son, her Caleb. Why, God? Why do this twice to the same family? How much pain and heartache could one woman endure?

  Joe sat back in the chair, closed his eyes, and was about to doze off when he heard a gentle knock. He opened his eyes and saw Maggie standing in the doorway, dressed in faded jeans and a black, fitted button-down shirt-her off-duty clothes.

  "Hey, Mags," Joe said, forcing a smile. "C'mon in."

  Maggie entered the room and approached Caleb's bed. She swallowed hard, trying not to let the lump in her throat rise any higher. It was always hard seeing someone like this, especially a child. Caleb looked so frail and small, so ... lifeless.

  She pulled the other chair over and sat down across from Joe, placing a hand on his. His hand was warm, and it made her smile. Memories of their past flooded her mind. She'd spent a lot of time holding that hand and used to think she would never let go. She'd spent her whole adolescence hoping she'd never let go. Funny how nothing had turned out the way she'd expected.

  She met Joe's fatigue-clouded eyes and couldn't help but notice how he'd aged. His once rich brown hair had dulled some and appeared to be lightly powdered with moondust. The angles of his face had sharpened with time and, no doubt, the fatigue and stress of the past twelve hours. He looked sad and worn, like someone had reached right into his chest and ripped out his heart. She suppressed the urge to reach out and take him in her arms, stroke his hair, and promise him everything would be OK.

  "So how's he doing?"

  "Not good," Joe said, a frown replacing his smile. "He lost a lot of blood. His right lung collapsed. He suffered some head trauma, and the neurologist said his brain is swollen. They have him in an induced coma now, hoping the swelling will go down."

  "And what about his arm?"

  Joe sighed and shrugged. "Don't know. The orthopedic surgeon was just in and said they were able to reattach everything, but they won't know how much use he'll have with it until he wakes up and it heals. They had to do skin grafts on the whole arm. The doctor said it looked like the arm went through a farming combine." Joe looked at Caleb, and Maggie could see the glisten of tears in his eyes. "Something really tore him up. When I found him, his whole arm..." He paused and lifted a hand to his mouth. "I'm sorry."

  Maggie squeezed Joe's hand. Tears burned behind her eyes, and her voice cracked. "It's OK, Joe. You don't have to tell me anymore." She knew the damage that was done. She'd spoken to one of the Dark Hills paramedics last night and was filled in on Caleb's condition when Joe found him. The boy's left forearm had been stripped of skin, exposing muscle, tendons, and blood vessels. His shoulder had been dislocated and almost completely severed.

  Maggie removed a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. "What are they saying about any lasting effects of the brain injury?"

  "That's up in the air too. He's got youth on his side, but the neurologist said he had a pretty good-sized contusion on his brain and with all the blood he lost... it's kinda just wait and see."

  "And how's Rosa doing?"

  Joe sniffed. "Better than me. Her faith has always been strong. Even when Rick died, it never wavered. At least not that she let anyone see. She's down in the cafeteria now getting some breakfast."

  "Do you want anything?"

  "No. I'm fine. Don't have much of an appetite."

  Maggie paused, unsure if she wanted to ask the next question, knowing it was tender ground to be walking on so soon. But she was a cop, and whatever it was that did this to Caleb was still out there. She had to find it before it attacked again. The next
person may not be as lucky as Caleb. Looking at Caleb now, though, luck didn't seem an appropriate choice of words. She sat back in her chair. "What do you think did this to him?"

  Joe ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "I don't know. A coyote, some stray dog, maybe a black bear." He paused, looked at Caleb, and placed a hand on the boy's head. "Whatever it was must have been big... and Caleb must have put up a real fight."

  "Was there anything in the cellar that might give us a clue as to what did it?"

  Joe shook his head slowly. "Just some blood. There was an awful stench, though, like dead animal smell, but there was no carcass or anything. There was also a stray cat. Scared me half to death and scratched me up pretty good. Poor thing must have been down there during the attack and was scared witless. You might want to look for some fur samples, though. That would at least give us an idea of what kind of animal we're looking for."

  Maggie noticed Joe said we but let it go. As soon as she found out what kind of animal it was, she would have it taken care of and Joe would be out of the loop. But she knew better than to try to dissuade him from getting involved. She knew him, and once he got his mind set on something, there was no changing it. Besides, it was his nephew who was attacked. Could she blame him for wanting to be involved?

  "It's been too dark to do a good search. When the sun comes up, I'll head over to the Yates place and see what I can find." She made a mental note to look for fur, saliva, get some blood samples, anything that might shed some light on what kind of animal attacked Caleb. "You have a cell number where I can reach you?"

  "Yeah." He gave her the number. "But I can't promise I'll answer. I don't like gadgets. Only have one because of work, and I have a habit of forgetting to turn it on when I'm not working. If I don't answer, just leave a message. I'll find it."

  There was a long silence as Maggie watched Joe gently stroke Caleb's head. She marveled at how boyish Joe still looked, not much older than the teenager who left Dark Hills-and her-over a decade ago. "He's a good kid, huh?" she said.

  Joe didn't take his eyes off Caleb. "The best."

  CHAPTER 6

  ARY CHRONISTER WAS up early, milling around the kitchen in her orange housecoat and blue slippers, her silver, permed hair tucked carefully under a hairnet. She poured some coffee grounds into a filter, placed the filter in the coffee maker, and flipped the switch. "Coffee'll be ready in a few minutes, hon," she called to her husband, John, who, last time she'd checked, was comfortably seated in his recliner in the living room, scanning the Sunday paper while he dozed in and out of sleep. "Would you like some eggs?"

  She waited, standing in front of the open refrigerator. "John!"

  His voice, thick and husky, came from the living room. "Huh? What?"

  "Do you want some eggs?"

  "Uh...yeah ...sure."

  She shook her head and pulled the egg carton from the top shelf. As she turned toward the sink, something outside caught her eye-a movement in the field behind their home. The Chronisters had both lived in Dark Hills all their lives and had resided on Fulton Street for the past thirty years. Deer in the field was a common occurrence, especially this time of year, but Mary never grew tired of watching the gracefulness of a white-tailed deer as it nibbled on dried corn or bounded across the open ground, its white tail bobbing like a sailboat in rough water.

  It was dawn and the sky was tinged with pastel orange, but the sun had yet to peek over the horizon. A light haze had settled over the field, washing everything in a subtle shade of gray.

  She paused in front of the window and watched the field, waiting for the familiar outline of a deer to appear.

  A movement snapped her eyes to the right. There. Something was in the field, by a line of maples running along the property line. But it was no deer.

  John had just slipped into a deep snore.

  Mary's eyes widened and her jaw dropped open. Her mouth silently formed her husband's name. Then again. Then, "John!"

  John snorted and huffed. "For Pete's sake, woman, I said yes."

  She lowered her voice. "Get in here."

  The newspaper rustled and John grunted. "What in blazes are you hollering about?" he said, his slippers scuffing along the linoleum. "You can't make-"

  Mary pointed out the window. "Look."

  John peered through the glass, his eyes darting back and forth. "What? What am I looking at?"

  "That," Mary said, pointing to the right in the general direction of the stand of trees.

  John looked harder, squinting his eyes and leaning over the counter. "I can't see a blasted thing. It's too dark. What's gotten into you?"

  "John, you old goat." Mary grabbed his chin with her left hand and yanked his head to the right. "There, by the trees."

  John was quiet for only a second, then, "Jiminy Christmas! Is that-" He cursed, then apologized. Cursed again, then apologized again.

  Mary kept her eyes fixed on the trees and elbowed John in the ribs. "Call Betty and Dick. See if they see it too."

  "It's too early."

  Mary elbowed him again. "Call them!"

  "OK, OK." He grabbed the cordless from its cradle and punched in the number.

  Betty and Dick Moyer had lived next door to the Chronisters for over two decades, and both couples would have agreed they were best friends. Dick and John golfed together every Friday morning during the summer while Betty and Mary canned vegetables. They regularly went out to eat together, went to church together, and played cards together every Thursday night-had for the past twenty-three years.

  John held up fingers on his left hand, counting the number of unanswered rings. One, two, three, four. "I told you it was too-Betty it's John, look out your kitchen window. Are you looking?"

  There was a short pause, then John blurted, "Right in front of you!"

  Mary grabbed the phone from John. "Do you see it?"

  "Oh, hi, Mary. Do I see-Oh my stars! Dick!"

  "Gotta go, Betty," Mary said. "I'm calling the police." Mary clicked the phone off and handed it back to John. "Call 911."

  John took the phone. "That's for emergencies only."

  Mary shot a look at John that could have burned a hole in steel. "You don't think this is an emergency?"

  "Well-"

  "John!" She said it slow. "There's a lion in our yard."

  John paused for a moment, but only for a moment, then punched in 9-1-1.

  Sundays were always trying days. Most of the working world-at least in small towns across rural America-had the day off, making it very unpalatable to be spending the day in a police cruiser.

  Andy Wilt was on patrol when the dispatcher notified him of the Chronisters' odd call. He pulled up in front of their house, a small brick ranch house, shut off his cruiser's engine, and climbed out. Being a cop was something he'd always dreamed of. Now, at twenty-five, he was finally living his dream. Not many people could say that.

  He'd grown up in Dark Hills and never imagined serving any other community. Sure, Dark Hills didn't have the action and adventure that big cities offered, and most of his days were spent sitting idly behind the wheel of his cruiser watching the hours tick by, but there was an honor and respect that went with being a small-town cop that the big-city boys would never know anything about.

  But never in a million years did Andy think he would ever be responding to a call like this. Not in Dark Hills. Not in Pennsylvania. Not in America.

  He padded up the front walk, muttering about senile old geezers seeing things, and hopped up the three steps to the concrete porch. The front door swung open and Mary Chronister greeted him in her orange housecoat and blue slippers. "Come in. It was right out back."

  Andy stepped inside and was met by John Chronister. "Morning, Mr. Chronister," he said, dipping his chin. He removed a notepad from his coat pocket and clicked his pen. "So you say-"

  "In here," Mary said, leading him by the arm into the kitchen. She pointed out the window. "It was right over there, by the trees. It stood the
re maybe, what"-she looked at John-"fifteen minutes? Then disappeared into the woods over yonder."

  Andy looked out the window and saw nothing but an open field and a stand of old maples. "Uh-huh." He gave her a sideways glance. "And you say it was a lion?"

  Mary nodded like a bobblehead. "Yes. I'm certain of it." She pointed to John, who was now also standing in the kitchen. "We both saw it, didn't we?"

  John nodded. "I wasn't-"

  "He saw it," Mary said. "The Moyers next door saw it too. Both of them, that's Dick and Betty Moyer. Write it down. I tried to get them over here, but they were scared to come out of their house, what with that young boy being attacked yesterday and all. Lord help us if it was a lion that attacked that poor boy. How awful! You can call the Moyers right now if you want to."

  Andy started to write on his notepad, then stopped and looked at Mary. "Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary. You're sure it was a...lion? Big, furry, tan cat."

  "Yes!" She pointed to the line of maples again. "It was standing right over there. Call the Moyers; they'll tell you."

  "And did this lion have a mane?"

  Mary looked surprised he would ask such an incredulous question. "I ... well... yes, of course it did. Lions have manes, don't they?"

  "Not all of them. Females don't, and I don't think all males do either."

  "Well ... well, this one did!"

  Andy looked out the window again. "It's just that-" He paused. How do you tactfully tell someone she's off her rocker? "There're no lions in Dark Hills. I can assure you of that. Occasionally, there are black bears. And sometimes black bears are actually brown. You sure it wasn't a bear?"

  Mary crossed her arms and wrinkled her brow. "Yes. I know the difference between a bear and a lion."

  "Maybe it was a bobcat. They're tan. They're pretty shy and usually stay away from houses, but occasionally one will get brave."

  Mary frowned. "How big is a bobcat?"

  Andy held his hands about three feet apart. "About so big."