Primal Fear

by Boucher, Brad

  He’d been unable to settle upon a strategy he could use once he reached his destination, realizing there was no point in even trying to devise a course of action. He didn’t know the name of the officer he’d glimpsed in the vision. How could he ask to meet with the man if he couldn’t address him by name? A town this size would probably employ a dozen policemen; how could he hope to run into the one he was looking for?

  He read the small plastic name-plate on the front of the receptionist’s desk. Dana Tilton. He stored the information away for later use, hoping a touch of familiarity might help his case.

  The receptionist finished with her call, hanging up and meeting his gaze with a friendly grin. “Sorry about that. What can I do for you?”

  John smiled back, suddenly at a loss for words.

  “I’m looking for a police officer,” he said.

  Her grin widened. “Well, you came to the right place.” She reached for the phone. “What is this regarding?”

  “No, I mean . . . I’m looking for a particular officer.”

  “Even better. What’s his name? If he’s on duty, I’ll page him for you.”

  “Well, that’s the problem. See, I . . . I don’t know him by name. I just know what he looks like.”

  Dana nodded and hung up the phone.

  “I know how that must sound,” John stammered, trying to salvage at least a shred of his dignity. He could feel his own smile widening and was grateful for her playful sense of humor.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you a reporter?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that.”

  “Good. Now, can you describe the officer you’re looking for?”

  “Yes. Let me see . . . About six feet tall, average build, kind of broad shouldered, I think. Maybe . . . late thirties? Early forties? Brown hair . . .”

  He shrugged, held his hands out in defeat. “Sorry. Not much to go on, is it?”

  “No, it might be enough. That sounds an awful lot like Sheriff Cronin.”

  “Sheriff Cronin,” John repeated, as if speaking the name aloud might spark some hidden memory from the dream. But the name meant nothing to him; it was only a possible identification, one he could only hope was correct. “Is he here? Could I see him?”

  “He’s here. In fact, you just missed him. But I’m afraid he’s in a very important meeting right now. He told me he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Any idea how long he’ll be?”

  Dana shook her head. “There’s no way to tell. If you’d care to leave your name and a number where you can be reached, I’ll be sure to give him the message.”

  John considered that, but still couldn’t be positive he even had the right man to begin with. “Do you mind if I wait?”

  “No, that’s fine, too. I just can’t promise he’ll be free any time soon.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll take my chances.”

  He turned toward a wooden bench set up along the wall to his left, lifting his cell phone from his pocket and peering at it closely. There was no signal here, no bars at all showing on the tiny screen. He held the phone up in one outstretched arm, as if that might make a difference, and he was on the verge of stepping out into the parking lot to try again when the receptionist spoke up behind him.

  “I wouldn’t bother,” she said. “We have no cell towers around here, and the mountains cut off everything else. Most people around here don’t even own a cell phone.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Around here, owning a cell phone is about as useful as owning a deep sea fishing boat.” She smiled again. “We’re about the deadest dead zone in the state.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The meeting broke up shortly before noon, an event that—to Harry, at least—seemed too long in coming. He stood up behind his desk and stretched as the others moved towards the door.

  Brochu paused there, his hat in his hands, and Harry caught his troubled expression.

  “What’s up, Dick?”

  “I’m just hoping we’ll get lucky today, that’s all. If not, with all this snow maybe headed our way . . .”

  Harry nodded. “We’ll do everything we can, for as long as the weather holds out. It’s a big area, that’s true, but at least we have a handle on it. I wouldn’t want to be going into this without some kind of plan.”

  The group had spent the better part of an hour going over a series of survey maps of the quarry and its surrounding gravel yards, pointing out the most likely areas—other than the deep gullet of the granite pit itself—in which Slater might have hidden the children. Working as quickly as they could, they planned a walking search of each area, finally deciding on a pattern that would cover the most ground in the least amount of time.

  Brochu had only been able to round up sixteen more men on such short notice, but they were already on their way, scheduled to meet at the quarry gates within the next hour. Harry, for his part, had called in the rest of his deputies, setting up a double shift in the hope of achieving as much as possible before nightfall.

  The following morning, they would be able to recruit a much larger search party, drawing more men from Brochu’s resources and probably rounding up a sizable number of volunteers. But if the storm the weather service was tracking did pay them a visit, all bets could be off until it passed over them completely. Searching the quarry would be dangerous enough; to do so in driving wind and poor visibility would be positively treacherous. Worse still was the difficulty that a snow-covered ground would present. If the snowfall was heavy, the accumulation severe, any potential clues could stay buried until the spring thaw.

  “Let’s just take her as she comes. That’s the best we can do,” Harry said, and left his office to join them in the hall.

  Dana looked up as he approached, already raising a hand in the direction of the waiting area. “There’s someone here to see you, Harry. He says it’s very important.”

  John watched the small group of officers in the doorway, hoping he might recognize one of them, when he heard the receptionist address someone just out of his line of vision. He shifted his gaze, saw her pointing towards him.

  His heart picked up its pace, his mouth suddenly as dry as parchment. The receptionist was talking to the man she thought John had been trying to describe earlier. At any moment, he would receive confirmation of the vision he’d had on the plane.

  And if this isn’t the man, a small voice inside of him asked, what then? Where do you go from here?

  “Nowhere,” he whispered. Because he’d already decided that if this Sheriff Cronin wasn’t the right man, then he would have no alternative but to try his luck again in the evening. Maybe some other officer, assigned to second shift, would more closely resemble the man he’d described.

  The receptionist turned and John rose to his feet, his hands fumbling at the pockets of his jeans. He’d never felt such a distracting mix of emotions before. For every part of him that wanted to see the details of the dream fully confirmed, there was another part that wanted nothing to do with it, that privately hoped it would all turn out to be a dead end.

  That part of his mind tried to convince him that he’d heard the name of the town somewhere before, before ever seeing it on the map. Maybe again on the plane, someone might have said it while he was dozing and his dream had processed the information in the peculiar way that dreams have.

  He was about to buy into that logic, to believe he’d come all this way for nothing. But then the sheriff stepped out of the hall and into John’s full view and all the doubt slipped away.

  It was him. The man from the dream.

  He moved toward John, his pace hurried, a man under a great deal of pressure. John searched his face for a sign of the terrible fear he’d perceived in the dream, but it wasn’t there now. He could sense it, though, lurking just beneath the surface of Cronin’s demeanor, like a silent cancer waiting to spread.

  John extended his hand as the sheriff approached. Now, however, at this delicate moment, he suddenly ha
d no idea how to proceed. The dream had left the impression that it was vital for the two of them to meet, but now that they had, what course of action was he expected to follow?

  The sheriff spoke first, breaking the ice.

  “Hi,” he said, shaking John’s hand in a firm grip. “I’m Sheriff Cronin. Dana says you’re looking for me?”

  John was uncomfortably aware that the officers gathered by the door were watching him; they were obviously waiting for the sheriff to join them.

  “Hello, sheriff,” John stammered, his tongue suddenly thick and heavy in his mouth. “My name is John Artaqua. I’ve come a very long way to see you.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Artaqua. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s very important that I speak with you.”

  Harry grimaced and looked at his watch. “Tell you what, I’m kind of pressed for time at the moment. If you could leave a number where I can reach you, I promise to—”

  “Please. I’m not sure that it can wait until later.”

  “It may have to. We’ve got an awfully big mess on our hands. I’m afraid that has to come first.”

  John considered that, dropping the facts into place like the pieces of a puzzle. A lengthy meeting, attended by representatives from the State Police and another man he guessed was a detective. A sudden mass exodus out the door, armed with what appeared to be a series of rolled up maps. They were obviously prepared to mount a search for someone.

  Could it be, he wondered, that his search and their own were somehow intertwined? John decided they must be; fate or circumstance would not have steered him wrong. He gambled on that premise and tried once more to convince the sheriff to listen to him.

  “I might be able to help you,” he said, and then held his breath.

  The sheriff only stared back at him, his eyes narrowing. He seemed hesitant, but something in John’s eyes must have hit a nerve, because a moment later, Cronin was nodding slowly at him.

  “All right,” the sheriff said. “I can give you ten minutes. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can afford.” He turned to the men at the door. “I’ll take my own truck and catch up with you shortly. Ben, hang back and wait for me. Charlie, you lead these men out there, get them familiar with the landscape.” His eyes met John’s again. “Mr. Artaqua, if you’ll follow me . . .”

  He led John down a short hallway and into his office, closing the door behind him. Indicating one of the chairs in front of his desk, he made his way towards his own seat, folding his hands on the blotter once he’d settled into it.

  “Excuse me if I seem like I’m rushing things, but we’re up to our necks around here today. I don’t exactly have a lot of time to play with.”

  “That’s all right,” John said. “I understand. Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

  “Well, if you’re right and you can help me, I’d have to be some kind of a fool not to hear you out.” He paused, as if sizing John up for a moment before going on. “Now, before we get into this, I’m trying to understand something. You said you’d come a long way to talk to me. I know the news is already running stories on what happened here yesterday, but so far we’ve done a pretty decent job of keeping most of the details under wraps. So how are you aware of the case we’re currently investigating, and how can you have information that can be of service to us?”

  John chewed his lip thoughtfully, realizing it was already time to play his hand. The bluff had been effective enough to grant him an audience with the sheriff, but it was running out of steam now that he’d been challenged.

  “I’m not going to lie to you—”

  “Good.”

  “—but I am going to ask you to bear with me, just for a moment, until I can figure out the best way to go about this.”

  Harry shook his head. “Ten minutes, Mr. Artaqua. I told you, that’s all I can give you.”

  “Okay then. I’ll just come right to the point.” He leaned forward, letting his voice drop to a level he knew wouldn’t penetrate the office walls. “What I have to tell you isn’t necessarily tied into your investigation. It very well may be; my feeling is that it is definitely a part of it. But the possibility exists that one has nothing at all to do with the other. If that’s the case, well . . .”

  He lapsed into a sudden silence for a moment, choosing a different tact. “Look, the absolute truth of the matter is that I have no idea what you’re investigating. I haven’t seen the news and I haven’t spoken to anyone locally other than to get directions. But please, let me assure you that—”

  “Get to the bottom line, Mr. Artaqua. Otherwise, I’m going to have to ask you to be on your way, and I’ll be happy to talk to you tomorrow.”

  “The bottom line is, Sheriff Cronin, that something terrible is happening here, in your little town, but something far worse may be on the way. Whatever you are investigating, no matter how important it may seem to you, it’s nothing compared to what might happen. Believe me, I wouldn’t have come all this way if the implications of this matter weren’t so serious. But I was sent to—”

  “Where exactly is it that you came from, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Montreal, Canada. I’m a post-graduate student at the University of Montreal and currently—”

  “And who is it that sent you to see me?”

  “A very powerful . . .”

  John stammered, unnerved by the sheriff’s sudden barrage of questions. “A very powerful man. As I said, if you’ll just bear with me, I’ll—”

  “That’s it? No name? No title of office? Come on, now. If you expect me to sit here and listen to what you’re saying—”

  This time it was John who interrupted, feeling a flare of anger deep inside, one that forced him to the point where his earlier tact had failed. “Sheriff, have you ever heard of the legend of Wyh-heah Qui Waq?”

  “Now look—”

  “Or the history of the Eskimo/Indian wars along the borders of the Tesmacha Forest in what is now New Brunswick?”

  “Look, if you’re here to give me a history lesson, you’d better tell your story walking.” The sheriff came to his feet, angry now, and moved to the office door. “I can’t believe I let you waste my time with this shit.”

  John changed his tone, realizing he’d pushed too hard, desperation driving his words now rather than raw anger. “Sheriff, please, you don’t understand. You can’t just reject this thing out of hand. I’m trying to tell you that it’s far more serious than you’ll ever imagine.”

  Harry gripped the doorknob. “Good day, Mr. Artaqua.”

  “You have to believe me. I’ve seen the signs. I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Before I press formal charges, I’m asking you once more, sir . . . please leave.”

  John stood up, but he still had no intention of leaving. “Listen to me. What I’m talking about here is a very serious Aleut Eskimo belief. And, God help me, it’s real. It’s very real.”

  The sheriff had apparently heard all he was going to of this insanity. In one swift motion, he twisted the knob and pulled open the office door, his face burning red as he shouted down the hall. “Ben, come get this crazy son of a bitch out of here before I have him arrested.”

  “You’re making a very big mistake. By not listening to me, you’re blinding yourself, and I won’t allow the blood of your townsfolk to be on my hands when you see what I’ve told you is the truth. Only a fool ignores the truth—”

  Even as he spoke, John realized he was rambling, that he sounded a lot like some sort of zealot, trying to force his warped beliefs on someone else. He wondered for a second how things had gone so bad in so short a time. But it was too late to stop now; he’d tried every other approach and at this point it seemed only a warning would get his point across.

  A deputy came into the office at a jog, one hand resting on the butt of his revolver, his eyes wide and alert.

  “What is it, Harry?”

  “Show this man the front door, and make sure he knows
how to use it.”

  “But, sheriff,” John said, “you have to listen to me. I’m trying to—”

  “If he tries to get in here again, book him.”

  The deputy nodded, moving quickly to John’s side and grasping his arm firmly just above the elbow. “Please come with me, sir.” His manner was polite, almost cordial, but there was no mistaking the mettle in his voice. He started to lead John towards the door.

  John didn’t resist, at least not physically. But neither did he abandon his attempts to get through to Harry.

  “The legends are very clear,” he spat out as he was tugged past the sheriff. “They tell of a great coldness returning to the land, and a fall of darkness that no man will escape. And all of it is coming, all of it is—”

  “Jesus,” Harry muttered. “Just get the hell out of my station. Don’t let me see your face in here again.”

  “Very soon, you’ll be praying that you had listened to me, sheriff. Mark my words.” John was out in the hall now, being led steadily towards the lobby. The sheriff pushed the office door closed, and John raised his voice, still desperate to be heard. He hoped his voice reflected his conviction, and that his words were filled with the strength of belief.

  “Jhuk katta iti huttut!” he shouted. “It’s already begun, sheriff!”

  Harry froze. A frown twisted his mouth. He yanked back on the knob, pulling the door open so quickly that it slammed into the wall behind it. He stepped out into the hall, his gaze falling immediately on John.

  “Hold it!” he snapped. “What did you just say?”

  “That it’s already begun. And it’s true—”

  “Before that. It wasn’t in English. What the hell was it?”

  Ben had stopped, and now he watched in confusion as John repeated the words he’d spoken only a moment before. “Jhuk katta iti huttut.”

  “And what the hell does it mean?”