The Hunted Page 9

  The voice came again. Seeping through his mind like warm molasses.

  I am the light. Follow Me.

  The light hovered and swayed in midair, then it shined right in his eyes and he realized it was a flashlight.

  "HEY!" he yelled, though he was so breathless and his lungs so paralyzed by the cold air filling them in huge gulps any call for help must have sounded feeble. He raced ahead, thickets and branches trying their hardest to pull him back into the beast's world where its knifelike claws could tear him limb from limb. The muscles in his legs screamed, begging for rest, but the adrenaline pushing through his arteries threw him forward, faster and faster, until the light was less than fifty yards away.

  "Joe! What's wrong? I heard the shots." It was Maggie. Sweet Maggie. Joe was never so glad to hear her voice.

  He burst from the woods, took the dirt alley in two giant leaps, and fell into Maggie's arms. He was frantic, panicked, soaked with sweat, and shivering uncontrollably. Maggie caught him, but his weight pushed her backward and they both hit the ground. The revolver slid across the grass.

  Joe's mind was reeling. The beast was still there, had to be, just on the other side of the tree line, ready to pounce. He climbed to his feet, legs shaking, eyes wide and searching the darkened woods. "C'mon," he said, pulling at Maggie's arm. "We gotta get inside."

  She must have seen the fear in his eyes and quickly figured out what he was running from. They both scrambled into Rosa's house. Joe shut the door, locked it, flipped the deadbolt. He then lunged for the trash can and emptied the contents of his stomach in it. He stood there awhile, leaning over the open mouth of the can, sucking air, wiping at his mouth. When he stood, his stomach was in a knot, still contracting. Walking to the back door, he peered out the window, watching the tree line. "It's out there," he said, his voice unsteady, eyes glued to the woods. "Get your gun."

  Maggie's hand touched his shoulder. He jumped, looked at her, their eyes locking for only a second before he returned his gaze to the woods, panning the tree line for even the slightest movement.

  "What-what happened?" Maggie asked. Her voice was low and calm, but Joe didn't miss the slight tremble in it. "Where's Bob?"

  Bob. In his panic, Joe had forgotten about Cummings. The feel of sticky blood and mangled flesh was still on his fingertips, and his stomach turned. "Cummings is dead," he said evenly, his eyes still fixed on the woods. He was too fatigued to show any kind of emotion.

  "Dead? You mean-"

  "Dead, Maggie. He's dead. It got to him."

  Maggie didn't say anything. Joe felt her hand slip off his shoulder and heard her footsteps retreat to the living room. He remained at the window, watching the darkness, waiting for those familiar glowing eyes to appear. But they didn't. He had no idea how long he stood there; it could have been hours or minutes or only seconds. It seemed like years. Finally, he turned and faced the living room. Maggie was slumped on the sofa, head in her hands.

  "It's gone," he said.

  She looked up, eyes wide. "Gone? How do you know?"

  Joe walked to the sofa and lowered himself beside her. His back ached, and his legs felt like rubber. And for the first time, he noticed the tremor that had taken to both his hands. He clenched his fists, but it didn't stop.

  "Joe, how do you know?"

  He stared at a spot on the rug, a stain of some sort, maybe coffee. Rosa drank a cup every morning.

  Maggie was saying something.

  Cream and sugar. She liked cream and sugar in her coffee.

  -Joe."

  He looked at Maggie. Her hand was covering his, but he didn't feel it. Her eyes were heavy. She looked concerned.

  "Joe. Did you get a look at it?"

  He shook his head slowly. "No. It all happened too fast. It-it was on me. Knocked me down from behind. I fired my gun. Must have frightened it." He remembered the weight of the beast on his back, its hot, putrid breath on his neck. "It's big."

  "So you didn't see it at all? You didn't see what kind of animal it was?"

  He blinked, irritation rising in his chest. "I said no," he snapped. "It hit me from behind. It was dark, and it happened fast."

  "I'm sorry, Joe. It must have been terrible. It's just-I mean, you couldn't tell if it was a, you know, lion or not?"

  Joe pulled his hand away from Maggie's. Anger flared inside him. "Maggie. I wasn't concerned with identifying it. I was lucky to get out of there with my life."

  Maggie looked away for a second, then back at Joe. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. It's the cop in me." After a moment she said, "Are-are you sure Bob's dead?"

  Joe looked at her. Was he sure? It all happened so fast and it was so dark. His hands had found Cummings's face, he was sure of that, but there was no face. No breathing either. No movement. He was sure Cummings was dead. "Yes." His voice trembled, and he wished he could take the answer back, make it a lie. "I'm sure."

  Maggie's hand went to her mouth. She closed her eyes tight and bit her finger. "Listen," she finally said, "why don't you go take a shower, and I'll make some phone calls."

  "We need to go after it. We need-"

  "Joe. Listen to me. Nobody's going back in those woods tonight. I'll take care of it. Go take a shower. Clear your head. I'll handle it from here."

  Joe stood and removed his coat. His shoulders felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to them. "You'll tell me when you're going after it, right?"

  Maggie stood and rubbed her forehead. "Joe, please, let me handle it. I'll keep you informed."

  "Promise?"

  She hesitated and bit her lower lip. Joe knew what that meant; she always bit her lip when she lied. "Promise."

  He turned and headed for the bathroom. Five minutes later he was standing under the shower head, letting the hot water wash away the throbbing ache in his muscles.

  Maggie waited for the sound of running water, then sat back on the sofa, dropping her head in her hands. Bob was dead, or so Joe claimed. But how could he know for sure? Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe Bob survived the attack and was lying in the woods now clinging to life. The simple truth suddenly hit her like a charging Mack truck, and her hands began to shake. If he wasn't dead, he might very well be by sunup, and it would be on her watch. She had arranged for Joe to meet Bob; she had approved the hunt. If Bob was dead and if word got out about this, it would be all over town in no time. She would be held responsible, of course.

  She flipped open her cell phone and punched in the number to Andy Wilt's cell.

  Andy answered on the first ring. "Is everything OK?"

  "Andy, I need you to do something. When Gary gets there in the morning, the two of you go down to the old Yates place-"

  "But it's my day off. Tuesday."

  "Not anymore. Go down there and check things out. Something went wrong, and Joe thinks Bob didn't make it out."

  There was a long pause, so long that Maggie thought she had lost her signal. Then, "Cummings is dead?"

  "Joe thinks so."

  "So they didn't get it?"

  "No. And listen, if Joe's right, I'll call Larry. I'll tell him Bob was hunting and got mauled. That's what happened." She stopped and bit her lip. Larry Bowman, the county coroner, would be a hard sell, but she was pretty sure she could pull it off. She couldn't believe what she was doing. "And no one hears about this, OK? We don't need to get everyone riled up and scared to leave their homes. We're going to take care of this ourselves."

  "OK, Maggie, whatever you say." Another pause. "Is Saunders OK?"

  "He's all right. Shaken up, but all right."

  "Maggie?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Is it safe to go down there? I mean, don't you think-"

  "It's fine. There'll be plenty of daylight. Take your shotguns, though. Just in case. But be careful, OK? If anything looks or even feels off, you and Gary get out of there. OK?"

  "Yeah, sure, Magi"

  Maggie closed her phone and drew in a deep, slow breath. What was in those woods? A thought
-theory, really-that was conceived after seeing the damage to Cujo and hearing Doc Adams confirm the big cat possibility now painfully birthed itself. Great-Grandpa. Philip Yates. The stories were real.

  CHAPTER 12

  OFFEE AT HER side, Maggie sat at her desk trying to concentrate on the morning's paperwork. First Caleb, then Bob. What in the world was happening? If it was what she thought it was...

  She heard the double glass doors of the Dark Hills Borough Police Department slam open and footsteps on the ceramic tile floor. "Maggie. Mag!"

  She ran out of her office, still holding her pen.

  "He's gone," Andy said, coming around the counter. Gary hung back. "Cummings is gone."

  "What do you mean, gone?"

  Andy shook his head. "He's gone. We looked all around the Yates place and there was no body. No Cummings. Isn't that right, Gary?"

  Gary stiffened, tightened his lips. "We circled the area twice. Nothing there but their guns and backpacks. If Saunders is right and Cummings was dead when he left him-if-he's guano by now. His truck was still parked at Harrison's. We swung by his place on the way over here, just to be sure, and it was a strike."

  Maggie's mind churned quickly, digesting the events as they unfolded and formulating a new game plan. "OK. OK."

  Andy sat at his desk, eyes fixed on Maggie. Gary leaned his elbows on the countertop.

  "Look, you two remember the story that went around when we were kids? About Great-Grandpa?"

  The two officers looked at each other and blinked, then at Maggie.

  "Sure," Gary said. "The monster story. The one starring Crazy Yates."

  Andy nodded. "I think so. I was pretty little when that was going around, but I remember something about some animal attacking people in town and weird voodoo stuff happening and Great-Grandpa taking care of it."

  "Something like that, yeah," Maggie said. "No one hears about this, OK? Bob Cummings just went missing. We're looking for him. That's it. Understand?"

  Andy looked at Gary, then back at Maggie.

  "Understand?"

  "Yeah, sure, Maggie," Andy said.

  Gary gave a slight shrug. "As far as I'm concerned, that's what went down. How do we know Saunders didn't just go loco out there and imagine the whole thing? Heck, he coulda went Charles Manson on Cummings himself. We might have a homicide on our hands."

  Maggie smoothed her hair with the palm of her hand. Her forehead was damp with a cool perspiration. Her mouth was like cotton. "Something's out there. Joe was terrified when he got out of those woods. Something was there. I believe him."

  "Wait a minute," Andy said. "Are you saying you think that story was real? And it's happening again? The animal attacks? The monster thing?"

  Maggie paused. She knew it sounded presumptuous, even ridiculous, but in her gut she also believed it to be true. "Yeah, I am."

  "How can you be sure? It may just be-"

  "Andy!" Maggie snapped. She paused and took a deep breath. Her world was starting to unravel. Heat rose beneath her collar. "Look, just go along with me on this, OK? Don't fight me."

  "This is nuts," Gary said. "That was just a dumb story concocted to scare dumb kids. And we were dumb enough to fall for it."

  "And Cujo? What do you make of that, Gary? And what about the Saunders boy and Mary Chronister?"

  "Chronister?" Gary said. "You're honestly putting stock in what some old blue-hair thought she saw in her backyard? And whatever attacked the kid and the dog could be anything. For crying out loud, Maggie, next we'll be saying Bigfoot is roaming around crapping in people's yards and using their cats for toothpicks. Or maybe a horde of saber-toothed ferrets, that'd make a good-"

  "Enough, Gary." Maggie held up her hand, silencing him. "That's enough. For now, we're going to assume the worst and figure out a way to deal with it. We just need to buy some time. That's it."

  Gary held up both hands in surrender. "OK. Let's just say for argument's sake that the story was real and that there really is some thing roaming the woods looking to suck someone's blood. How are we gonna get rid of it? We don't even know what it is."

  Maggie furrowed her brow and smoothed her hair with both hands. Her head was starting to hurt. "I don't know yet. I need some time to think this through, formulate a plan. But I think I need to have a talk with my dad first."

  "Are you gonna tell Joe?" Andy asked.

  Maggie drilled him with a cold stare. "No. He doesn't need to know all the details. And no one else does either. You two just stick to the story. Bob Cummings is missing. We don't know where he is. The last time any of us saw him was yesterday afternoon. Let me handle the rest. I'll file a missing person's report so it's all official and everything. And no talking about this over the radio. We use our cells."

  Gary pushed away and headed for the glass door. "My money's still on Saunders," he said over his shoulder. "He's the one we should be investi gating. Bigfoot's innocent."

  Ignoring him, Maggie returned to her office, shut the door, sank into her padded desk chair, and rested her head in her hands. Joe. Dear Joe. I'm sorry for getting you involved in this. This isn't your battle. It's mine.

  Suddenly, she was eighteen again, young and in love. Joe was there, his face youthful and handsome, his dark brown hair cut close to his scalp. He was facing her, holding both her hands, telling her he had joined the army and was leaving in a week, telling her he loved her, telling her he'd come back for her.

  Oh, Joe. Why did you leave? Why didn't you come back? I've missed you so much. I'm sorry.

  Until he entered the ICU room and saw Rosa sitting in the gray chair next to Caleb's bed reading her Bible, Joe had not decided how much of last night's happenings to tell her. But when she looked at him and their eyes met and he saw the fatigue on her face and the love for her son in her eyes, he quickly made up his mind-he would tell her nothing. At least not the truth. She didn't need to be burdened with that.

  Rosa closed her Bible and set it on the table next to the hospital bed. She stood and gave Joe a firm hug. "Thanks for coming, Joe," she said. She released him and stepped back, looking at his face.

  He knew he looked worn and tattered. His face was scratched, thin red lines crisscrossed his cheekbones and chin, and his eyes were bloodshot and ringed with dark circles. If she pressed for answers he'd just have to make something up, tell her he'd tangled with a gang of little people wielding miniature Swiss knives and sporting Matrix-like combat skills.

  "What happened last night?" she asked, her eyes probing his.

  Joe shrugged her question off and dropped his eyes to the floor. Better to keep it short and sweet and hope she didn't press. He wasn't sure she'd go for little people using miniature Swiss knives; they'd probably go for something a little higher on the intimidation scale, like a machete or scimitar. "Nothing really. It was uneventful." He absentmindedly lifted a hand to his tender cheek and ran his fingers lightly across the scratches. "We just got into some thick underbrush."

  He paused, collecting his thoughts and giving his jittery nerves a chance to settle. "We got caught up in some brambles is all."

  A twinge of guilt plucked at his heart, but he knew he wasn't hiding anything from Rosa anyway. She always could see right through him. He was a worse liar than Rick, and Rick never got away with anything.

  Without prying, without pressing, Rosa sighed and patted his arm. "Well, I'm just glad you are OK. I prayed for you, you know."

  Joe knew she had. He felt it. For the first time in ten years, he'd actually felt God's presence with him in the woods last night. "How's Caleb?" he asked, changing the subject to something other than himself.

  Rosa sat down in the chair and looked at her boy. "This morning they took him off the drug that was keeping him in the coma, but he has not awakened yet. Dr. Wilson was in about an hour ago and said all his reflexes are normal, which means there is a good chance there will not be any permanent brain injury. And his white blood cell count and fever are both coming down, which means the antibiotic
s are working on the infection. He is breathing normally on his own, and all other vitals are normal." She forced a feeble laugh. "Listen to me, talking like a doctor. I'm learning so much." She reached for Caleb's limp hand. "He is just asleep and does not want to or cannot wake up. The nurse just told me they are going to monitor him for one more day and then release him."

  "Which means?"

  Rosa grinned. It was the first time Joe saw a genuine smile cross her face since Caleb's mauling. "Which means we can transfer him to a long-term care facility close to home. They already called Hillside Hall, and they have a room reserved for him. He will be just a few miles from home."

  Joe touched Caleb's leg. Tears welled up in his eyes; one spilled over and ran down his cheek. His nephew in a nursing home-in a coma. He had to remind himself that it was progress, though, and any progress was good news. "That's great." It was all he could say.

  Free of the ventilator, Caleb looked more like himself, but he was still attached to several machines via tubes. And he wasn't out of the woods yet. He was still battling that monster, fighting it off, wrestling for his life. Joe now knew what Caleb faced in that cellar in the darkness. He knew the horror of it, and the very thought of his nephew, his little buddy, experiencing it put a lump in his throat he could not swallow. He didn't want to cry in front of Rosa. "That's great," he said again, then turned to leave the room.

  "Joe, wait." Rosa stopped him with her voice.

  He stood at the doorway, his back to her, hiding the tears that now traced tracks down both cheeks.

  He heard her stand and approach him, then felt the weight of her hand on his shoulder. "Don't leave yet. I need to tell you something."

  He wiped his eyes dry with the sleeve of his sweater and turned around. He looked past her at the far wall, at a painting of a gently winding brook flowing under an arched stone bridge. Flowers bloomed on the banks and the sky was clear and blue.

  Rosa sighed deeply. "I know you have been angry at God ever since Rick died, and I know you blame yourself for his death."

  Joe didn't want to hear this; he didn't need her telling him again that Rick's death wasn't his fault and she didn't hold it against him. He had heard it before, and it was all just words-meaningless words. He set his jaw and braced himself. He would listen, that was the least he could do for her, but listen is all he would do.