The Hunted Page 7

  But Cujo continued his ranting, a frenzy of barks and growls.

  Probably some dumb kids messing around.

  "Hey, boy, it's OK," he yelled again. "Settle down."

  Still no break in Cujo's tantrum. The movie broke for a commercial. Cujo's barking increased.

  "I'm gonna kill that dog," Woody muttered, lifting himself out of the recliner and lowering himself into his wheelchair.

  Cujo growled, barked, let out a pitiful yelp. Then there was silence.

  "What now?"

  Woody wheeled over to the back door, winding his way back through the cluttered kitchen. He opened the door, leaned forward in his chair, and pushed the metal storm door open. "Cujo? Hey, boy, you all right?"

  No answer.

  Woody flipped the switch for the back floodlight and looked in the direction of Cujo's doghouse. "Oh, my-Cujo!"

  CHAPTER 9

  OE EXTENDED HIS legs and stretched his arms overhead, yawning like a bear. The Dew-Drop Motel was certainly no Hilton; it wasn't even a Howard Johnson during a Buck Rogers convention. The room was small, furnished in seventies-style decor, had one queen-size bed, a small TV-with limited cable-and a small bathroom. The green shag carpet was mashed and worn in some areas, and the ceiling was stained with water marks. But the bed was comfortable. He'd slept well enough last night.

  He reached for the TV remote and clicked on the morning news. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair.

  His cell phone rang.

  He hit the mute button on the remote and flipped open the phone. It was Maggie. "Hey."

  "Good morning. I wasn't sure if I'd get you or not. How'd you sleep last night?"

  "Can't complain."

  "Would you mind meeting me at Doc Adams's veterinary clinic? I want to show you something."

  "Uh, yeah sure. What's up?"

  "I'd rather you just see it for yourself. You remember where the clinic is?"

  "Yeah. I'll be right over."

  "Morning, Doc," Maggie hollered as she stepped into the small veterinary clinic.

  Doctor Wells Adams emerged from a back room and shuffled down the hallway leading to the reception area. He tilted his head forward and peered at Maggie through the upper half of his bifocals. "Morning, Maggie. Is your friend coming?"

  "Yes. He should be here shortly."

  "Well, come on back when he gets here." He turned, walked back down the hallway, and disappeared into the last examination room on the right.

  Doc Adams, part-time mayor and full-time veterinarian, treated everything from parakeets to horses, even performed a procedure on a python once. Seemed the snake had somehow swallowed a baseball and got itself one glory of an impacted bowel.

  His practice was run out of his home-a large farmhouse just outside of town. The farm was sold in the eighties and subdivided for some new housing development that didn't look so new anymore. But Doc Adams had kept the house and about ten acres of land, enough on which to build a large kennel with plenty of roaming room for the animals.

  When Joe entered the clinic, Maggie was seated in a chair waiting for him. She was dressed in her beige uniform, hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked up and smiled. Dark circles cast ominous shadows under her eyes. "Hey, Joe."

  "Hi, Mags. You look like you didn't sleep a wink last night."

  "I got a couple hours in." She stood and smoothed the front of her shirt. "Come on in the back. Doc's waiting for us."

  "So what's going on? Is this official business?"

  "Just come with me. I want you to take a look at something and tell me what you think."

  She led him down a narrow hallway lined with photos of Doc Adams and various dogs and cats-there was even one of him with a python-to a room in the rear of the house.

  "Morning, Joe," Doc Adams said, shaking Joe's hand. His voice was thin and raspy, his grip weak. Doc was ancient with a pronounced hump on his back and thinning snow-white hair. His skin was thin, translucent as wax paper, and his eyes were a dull gray. He wore black pants, a white shirt with no tie, and a gray cardigan. He'd not aged very gracefully. So this is what became of Igor, Joe thought.

  The room was small and painted white. The walls were decorated with framed certificates and more photos of Doc with his patients. In the middle of the room sat a stainless steel rolling table with a thick-bodied rottweiler lying on it. The dog's left shoulder had several deep gashes, and the back of its neck was badly mangled.

  "Is this what attacked Caleb?" Joe asked.

  Maggie crossed her arms and shook her head.

  "Come here and take a look at this, Joe," Doc Adams said, pointing at the dog's neck. "Cujo here was brought in last night by Woody Owen and Maggie. Woody said the dog was attacked in his backyard."

  Joe stood beside the large dog and bent over for a better look. It looked like bite marks on the back of the dog's neck.

  "Tell him, Doc," Maggie said, nodding at Doc Adams.

  Doc motioned toward the dog's neck. "You see those bite marks there?"

  Joe looked again. "Yes. I'm taking it this wasn't the work of a maniacal Chihuahua."

  "Not even close. See those claw marks on the front quarter?"

  Joe looked at the deep gashes; the flesh was peeled back, curled at the edges like torn wallpaper, exposing the dog's thick shoulder muscles. So they were claw marks. "Yes."

  "They're from something big," Doc said matter-of-factly, shoving his hands in his pockets and peering through the upper half of his glasses at Joe.

  "Bigger than a Chihuahua."

  "Much."

  "Bigger than Killer here?"

  "Cujo. And yes, much. The bite to the back of the neck here severed the spinal cord." He pointed to the deep puncture wounds on the nape of the dog's neck. "Whatever did this has powerful jaws. It cut clean through the vertebrae. And the claw marks"-he ran his finger along the gashes on the dog's front shoulder-"they measure ten inches in diameter." He looked at Joe, then at Maggie. "Now, Cujo's a big dog, but whatever attacked him was much bigger. And much more powerful. Its blow was quick and deadly. Cujo here probably didn't even have a chance to fight back."

  "So what are we looking at?" Joe asked. "A bear?"

  Doc rubbed his chin and shook his head. "No. This isn't typical of a bear attack. Bears usually take their time and gnaw a lot. This was quick and decisive. But I honestly don't know what else around these parts would be big enough to do this kind of damage."

  Maggie cleared her throat. "Do-do you think it could be a lion?" She looked at Doc Adams, then at Joe, a tinge of red shading her cheeks.

  Doc laughed. "I suppose so. But... this is Dark Hills, and I don't have to tell you the likelihood of a cougar roaming these parts is pretty slim."

  "I mean a-an African lion. You know, king of the jungle."

  Doc stopped smiling. "You're serious."

  "What are you getting at, Mags?" Joe asked. He could tell by the dip of Maggie's mouth that she was serious-serious as a Russian playing roulette. "Why a lion of all things?"

  Maggie shifted her weight uncomfortably and ran a finger over her eyebrow. "Yesterday, Mary Chronister called us swearing she saw a lion in her backyard. The Moyers next door to her said they saw it too. Andy responded to the call and said they were pretty worked up about it. There was no sign of anything. Ground's too hard and dry for tracks... but just the same, it makes you wonder."

  Joe crossed his arms. "Doc? What do you think? Could this be a lion attack?"

  Doc looked at the mauled body of Cujo again. He couldn't have looked more perplexed if Joe had asked him if he believed tiny green men from Jupiter were inhabiting the dog's colon. "Well, if I didn't know better, and if we were sitting in the middle of Africa, I'd say that's exactly what it was. Lions are actually pretty lazy animals. They don't want a fight, so they usually go for the spinal cord, paralyze the victim, then kill it. Quick and decisive. No fight." He looked from Maggie to Joe then back at Maggie. "Bu
t since I do know better and, last time I checked, there were no savannas-are we serious here? You're suggesting there's really a lion out there?"

  Maggie held up both hands in mock surrender. "I'm not suggesting anything. If word got out that the police chief said there was a lion on the loose, there would be an all-out panic. Or they'd run me outta town. Either way, I don't want to be responsible for inciting trouble."

  Doc removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger. He shook his head and silently moved his lips as if arguing himself into playing along. "So what do you want to do?"

  "I'm not sure," Maggie said. "But I'll start with calling around to the local zoos-Philly, Baltimore, Washington-and see if any of them have lost a lion or any big cats. I'll contact any circuses that have been in the area too." She nodded to Doc. "Thanks, Doc. I guess that'll be it."

  Outside the clinic, standing by Maggie's cruiser, Joe had an idea. "Are there any big game hunters around here?"

  "Only one I know of is Bob Cummings. He goes to Canada to hunt grizzlies every year and has been to Africa a few times. Why? You want to go after this thing?"

  "Do you have a better idea? Those claw marks, they looked like the same ones that were on Caleb's arm when I found him. I'm betting whatever did that to Killer-"

  "Cujo."

  -is the same animal that mauled Caleb. And if that's the case, then I know where it hunts. With a little bait, I'm sure I can lure it in. And when it shows, I'll be waiting. But first, I'd like to pay this Cummings a visit."

  Stevie Bauer popped a can of cat food, squatted, and emptied the contents into a small bowl in the middle of the kitchen floor. "Here ya go, little buddy. You done real good. You earned it."

  The tan tabby cat cautiously approached the bowl, sniffed, and crouched next to it, carefully biting off chunks of food.

  Stevie held his hand over the cat's back for a few seconds, then gently placed his palm on its head and stroked down to the tail. Its fur was so soft. The cat began to purr.

  "That's a good kitty," Stevie said, stroking the cat lightly. "You just be patient. Ole Woody ain't goin' nowhere. Momma always says good things come to them that wait."

  The cat continued eating and purring, oblivious to the knife Stevie held in his other hand.

  Stevie stopped stroking the cat and pushed up the sleeve of his right arm, exposing the tender, white skin of his forearm. With his left hand, he placed the tip of the knife on the skin and pressed. The tip dug in, and Stevie dragged it along the skin making an inch-long laceration. The sharp blade felt like it had been sitting in red-hot coals. Stevie grimaced under the burning pain. Bright red blood oozed out of the gash and ran down his forearm in one long scarlet ribbon. He held his arm over the cat's bowl and let the blood drip onto the food.

  The tabby paused, startled at first by the intrusion of its bowl, then began devouring the food like a ravenous beast.

  "Good, ain't it," Stevie said, smiling. "Soon you'll have all you want."

  Bob Cummings lived in a large cathedral log house situated on twenty acres of meadow and woods just outside the town of Dark Hills. He'd been the town's only lawyer for years-handling everything from wills to mortgages to petty criminal cases-before calling it quits to take up a life of hunting and travel and seclude himself away in his wooden mansion. He was an impressive man-six three, barrel-chested, long gray hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, thick, mutton chop sideburns down to his jaw, a mustache that covered his entire upper lip, and steady, dark brown eyes. His voice was deep and gruff and his handshake like iron.

  But Joe was more impressed by Cummings's choice of decor. The cathedral ceiling great room was stuffed full of mounts and souvenirs from his many hunting expeditions. The wall to the right, at least fifteen feet high, was decorated with several deer mounts, an elk, a bison, a mountain goat, and a caribou. And hanging above the massive stone fireplace was a huge moose head, keeping watch over the entire room. The opposite wall was adorned by a gazelle, a wildebeest, an antelope, an impala, and a kudu-trophies of Cummings's African adventures. In one corner of the room stood a nine-foot polar bear, arms outstretched, paws ready to take a swipe at anyone brave enough to wander within its reach. In another corner was a grinning cougar, crouched as if ready to pounce. But regardless of how impressive Cummings's purse was, the room held an eerie quality, as if it were a celebration of death, captured and frozen in the glass eyes of each victim. It was a shrine to make even Dr. Moreau mad with jealousy.

  "This is my pride and joy," Cummings said, walking over to a fairly large leopard, sunning on a tree branch. He stroked its head as if it were alive. "Shot this pretty lady in Zambia. Hunted her for seven hours before she finally decided to take a nap." He laughed. "She never woke up."

  Cummings walked across the room to a hyena, lips snarled, fur bristled. "I didn't want to shoot this guy," he said, patting the hyena's hind quarters. "But he charged me. I didn't have a choice. Got him in Zimbabwe."

  Joe could envision Cummings, holed up in his big house all by himself, carrying on entire conversations with his dead companions, bidding them good night and good morning, and leaving the lights on at night lest they give in to their nocturnal instincts and start hunting each other while he slept. To rid his mind of the image, Joe eyed the mahogany gun case on the far wall of the room.

  "You like what you see?" Cummings asked, not even trying to hide his glowing pride.

  Inside the case were enough firearms to make any hunter envious. There were several.22s, a shotgun, a walnut-stock.30-06, and a.375 Remington 700 XCR. Joe recognized the .375 because he had just read about it in a hunting magazine. It boasted the latest technology in recoil padding and a hefty price tag that was well out of the reach of his bank book.

  Cummings turned the key and opened the glass door. He reached in and removed the .30-06, handling it like it was a newborn. "This is what I used on that leopard and Snowball over there," he said, motioning toward the towering polar bear. So he even gave them pet names. He replaced the .30-06 and pulled out the .375, held it up to his shoulder, pointed it at the polar bear, and looked down the long barrel. "And this fella," he said, "well, I've been itching to use him. Next year I'm going to go to Zambia again and get me a giraffe. Maybe even an elephant." He looked around the cavernous room. "You think I could fit an elephant in here?"

  Maggie, who had gone to Cummings with Joe to make the introductions, looked at Joe and raised her eyebrows.

  "Well, anyway," Cummings said, placing the rifle back in the gun case and closing the door carefully, turning the lock, "what can I do for the two of you?"

  "Do you mind if we sit?" Joe said.

  "Of course. Have a seat and we'll talk. Would either of you like a drink?"

  "I'm fine."

  "No thanks."

  Joe and Maggie sat on a comfortable taupe sofa, and Cummings eased his large frame into a black leather wingback facing them. The leather stretched and moaned under his weight. "Now," he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, "let's hear it."

  Maggie started, "Do you know Woody Owen?"

  Cummings thought for a moment, then nodded. "I know Woody. A drunk and a pervert. What'd he go and get himself into trouble again? Drinking his sorrows away?"

  "No. He's not in any kind of trouble with me, anyway," Maggie said. "Last night his rottweiler, Cujo, was attacked and killed. And I'm sure you know about Caleb Saunders being mauled-"

  "How's he doing? Last I heard he was in a coma," Cummings said, looking from Maggie to Joe.

  "He's still in a coma," Joe said. "He was pretty bad off when I found him. He's got a long road ahead of him."

  Cummings wrinkled his brow and tightened his lips. "Hmmm, that's too bad. He's a good kid."

  Maggie scooted to the edge of the sofa. "Bob, we think the same animal is responsible for both attacks. Doc Adams looked Cujo over and said that by the size of the bite mark and claw marks it's a big animal. Much bigger than the dog."


  "And?" Cummings asked, eyebrows arched. Joe could tell his interest was aroused by the way he leaned into his question.

  "And what?"

  "Well, I'm bettin' Doc didn't just leave it at that. He's an opinionated man. What kind of big animal? The biggest predator around here is an occasional black bear."

  Maggie looked at Joe, then took a deep breath. "Doc says there's a good chance it's a big cat."

  "You mean a bobcat, 'cause that's the biggest cat in these parts, besides some old lady's fat housecat."

  Joe wrung his hands and forced a smile. This was going to go over real well. He might as well be telling him his ninety-year-old osteoporotic grandmother went nose-to-nose with the dog. "No. Actually, more like a lion."

  "A mountain lion? Around here? Naw, I doubt it."

  Joe cleared his throat. "Well, uh, actually, we're thinking more African lion."

  Cummings smiled and almost laughed. He sat back and looked between Maggie and Joe as if expecting a punch line at any moment. Interest lost. "Is this a joke? You know this is Pennsylvania, right? We don't usually have lions roaming our woods. Maybe it was a bobcat; they can get pretty big and ornery. They usually don't show their faces, and I doubt one would be brave enough to-"

  "Bobcats don't get this big," Joe said, hoping he didn't insult the larger man. "Doc said this beast has to be big. It bit clean through the dog's spine, and the claw markings were ten inches in diameter."

  Cummings's eyes widened and his Adam's apple rose and fell behind the loose skin of his neck. They had the old hunter's attention again. "Well, now. That's different... and interesting. Definitely rules out bobcat. Rules out mountain lion too."

  Joe leaned forward. Cummings had taken the bait; now it was time to reel him in. "Bob, I don't know if there's a lion out there or not, but whatever it is, we need to get it before it attacks again. I'm going to hunt it, and I need your help."

  Cummings looked at Joe and grinned like the stuffed cougar in the corner. "Count me in. When do we go?"

  "Tomorrow morning OK?"