Tucker’s Mill, Tennessee. She got up and went to the detailed map of North America that took up one entire wall of her office. She found the little town after a few minutes of searching. It was in the Tennessee Appalachians, twenty or so miles southeast of Knoxville. Somewhere in that rural community, there was a nine-year-old boy who waited anxiously for a written reply to his strange and frightening experience.
Looking at the photographs again, Alice McCray knew that she would end up giving Dale Tucker his reply in person…and asking him to show her exactly where he had taken those impossible photographs.
She buzzed her secretary, thinking of Nobel Prizes and her face on the cover of Time. “Joanne, make me plane reservations for Knoxville, Tennessee, please. And have a rental car waiting for me when I get there. I’m going to take a little trip to the mountains.”
Rowdy Hawkens stepped off his tour bus and stretched his lanky frame. “Good God Almighty! It’s great to be back home again!”
He breathed in the Nashville air and walked into his Music Row office. Rowdy always stopped by when he came off a promotional tour, to check his phone messages and sort through his mail. He flashed a big smile at the cute blonde receptionist and then walked down the hall to his private office. He hung his white Stetson on the antlers of a mounted deer head and, grabbing the mail off his desk, stretched out on a long sofa upholstered in black cowhide and shiny brass tacks.
He was halfway through the stack of letters when Stu Hayden, his record producer, came strolling down the hall from the direction of Rowdy’s personal recording studio. “Howdy there, boss. How did the junket in Memphis go? Did you impress all those highfalutin yuppies with your sophisticated charm and debonair, worldly ways?”
“Hell, naw, Stu! I just told them a few outhouse jokes and sang them a tear jerking song or two about whores and alcoholics, and they thought I was the best thing since sliced bread.” Rowdy opened an envelope and let out a rebel yell. “Well, I’ll be a mangy hound dog! A letter from old Gartrell Mayo himself!”
“Who the hell is Gartrell Mayo?” asked Stu with a frown.
“My grandfather,” informed Rowdy. “He’s the sheriff in a little town called Tucker’s Mill.”
“So what’s he writing you for? Is he a big fan of your hillbilly music, or is he just trying to leech some money off you now that your albums are racking up the royalties?”
“He wants me to come up to the mountains and do a little fishing with him. Lordy, Stu, you’ve never seen bigmouth bass like the ones in the Little River. They’ve got gullets so wide that you can nearly stick your whole hand down in there and tickle their innards.”
“Sounds like fun,” said the unimpressed Stu.
“Why don’t you go up there with me? It’s a pretty dull town compared to Music City, but they do have a classic honky tonk called Rebel’s Roost where you can always find a hand of poker, a barroom brawl, or a piece of drunken tail at closing time.”
“No thanks,” replied the producer. “I’d rather take my chances in Printer’s Alley.” He got himself a drink at the water fountain and then returned to the studio to finish mixing the tracks on Rowdy’s newest album, Heartache Highway.
“Your loss and my gain, Stu,” smiled Rowdy, sticking the letter in the pocket of his Western shirt. “Yeah, I do believe that a week or two in pure paradise is exactly what I need.”
Jennifer Brice returned from her New York trip dead tired but happy. The showing in the Big Apple had been a smashing success. The elite loved her disturbing paintings of albino creatures and she had sold several originals, netting some impressive sums of money in the process. Of course, the wonderful response shown by the New Yorkers was mostly due to Erica’s well-orchestrated hype, but Jenny couldn’t deny that she had enjoyed the attention. And Erica already had a West Coast tour in the works for the following month: Beverly Hills, San Francisco, and Palm Beach.
She unlocked the deadbolt of her apartment door, set down her suitcase in the foyer, and stooped to pick up the mail that had been deposited through the mail slot over the last couple of days. She was sifting through letters and catalogs when a bulky manila envelope caught her attention.
An electric bolt of alarm shot through her. It was a letter from her father. Or rather, a recorded message from him. She remembered that cheap cassette recorder she had bought him a few years ago, in hopes that he would use it to keep in contact with her. Jenny had wished that his staunch attitude would mellow as he grew older, but his reaction to her idea had been the same as usual. “Downright foolishness,” he had told her, gruffly stashing the recorder in a drawer of the china cabinet, along with the spare tapes and self-addressed envelopes she had provided.
But something had happened to change his mind. For some reason, Fletcher Brice had found it necessary to get in touch with her. The worried feeling she had awakened with a few nights ago came back to her. He’s in trouble, she thought. Or worse.
Reluctantly, Jenny opened the envelope and removed the cassette. She went to the stereo system in her living room, switched on the power, and slipped the tape into one of the player’s twin decks. Then, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, she adjusted the volume control and pushed the play button.
At first there was only tape hiss. Then a familiar voice rang through the three-way speakers.
“Jenny,” came the hesitant voice of Fletcher Brice. “This is your papa speaking. The reason I’m sending you this here tape is because I think there’s a few things that need clearing up. Things that might’ve caused you to feel hard toward me in the past. Hell, maybe you even hated me for them, and I reckon I couldn’t blame you for that. I admit I was a damned tyrant when you were growing up. I pushed way too many chores onto you and deprived you of things a young girl oughta have. But I wish you’d try to see things my way, if only whilst listening to this tape.”
Jenny sat on the carpet in front of the stereo, like a child listening to a parent’s heartfelt confession.
“I want you to know there was a reason for me acting in such a way. We Brices have always had a responsibility to Pale Dove Mountain. It’s been that way for a couple of centuries now, ever since my great-grandpa Efram fought the redskins for it. You see, there’s a strange situation on the mountain. A race of critters has lived there since before recorded history. Critters that need to be protected from the outside world. I reckon you know who I’m talking about—the albino critters that I always told you to leave alone. I never told you this, Jenny, but they ain’t natural. They have the power to change into things. Mostly into other critters, but sometimes they won’t stop at that. You saw evidence of that when you were up there on the flowery pathway that summer day. And when they change into such a state, they get dangerous…especially the black sheep of the bunch.”
Fletcher’s voice faltered, then resumed. “Lately, I’ve been having some trouble up here. Offers have been made for Pale Dove Mountain, offers from men who won’t take no for an answer. I’m gonna try my God honest best to keep refusing them, but I have a bad feeling they’re gonna win out on me sooner or later. If they do, then it won’t be by honorable means. And if I do lose, then you’ll be the only one left to take up the fight. That and make sure that the albino critters aren’t harmed in any way.
“And while we’re on the subject, let me tell you a little about the other one. The thing some call the Dark’Un. It ain’t a spook or a demon like folks think. It’s a critter, just like the white ones, except that it ain’t timid and scared of its own shadow. No, the Dark’Un is just the opposite. It has a mean streak a country mile long, and if someone lays a hand on one of them pale critters, it’ll go after the guy and it won’t stop until that fellow is dead. If you do come back to the mountain and happen to run across the Dark’Un, don’t worry. It won’t hurt you. It knows that you’re a Brice. I made sure of that when I saved you from it that day on the pathway. But I can’t rightly say what it might do to anyone else in Tucker’s Mill. It only has loyalty to the Brice fam
ily and to the critters it watches over.”
Jenny sat there and listened for more, but there was only silence for a stretch of thirty seconds. She was about to turn the stereo off when her father’s voice returned, if only for a few more seconds.
“I’m mighty sorry for all the heartache and misery I caused you over the years, daughter. I reckon I figured all them damned fool rules were necessary, but I was wrong. I had no call to put you and your ma through such hardship. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive your old papa.”
Jenny listened intently, hoping to hear more. Say it, Papa, her mind pleaded. For once in your life say that you love me! But this time the silence was constant. Numbly, Jenny got up and cut off the tape player. She stood there for a very long time, a cold dread creeping throughout her. He’s dead, she thought. Oh Lord, I know he’s dead.
She was in tears by the time she reached the telephone. She switched on her answering machine and ran through the messages. The one she expected was third in line. “Jenny, this here’s Sheriff Mayo calling from Tucker’s Mill. I’d like to talk to you about something important as soon as you get home. Call me anytime at the jailhouse.” Then he gave the phone number and said good-bye. There was a somber tone in the lawman’s voice that was heavy with an underlying sorrow. It was the voice of a man who dreaded giving the grim news of tragedy.
Jenny wasted no time in dialing the number. Please, God, let Papa be okay, she prayed as the phone rang on the other end of the line. Let him be hurt or in the hospital. But don’t let him be…
“Hello? Peremont County Sheriff’s Department. May I help you?”
“Is that you, Sheriff Mayo?” Jenny’s voice squeaked like that of a small child lost in the dark.
“Yes, it is.” There was an awkward pause, then, “Is this Jenny? Thanks for calling me back, darling. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Jenny, but I have some bad news concerning your papa.”
Jenny Brice curled up on the couch and wept quietly as she listened to the words she had hoped she would never have to hear.
“Your mail, sir.”
“Thank you, Delores.” Jackson Dellhart took the stack of letters and waited until his secretary left the room. Then he searched through the bunch for the one he had been anticipating for the past two days.
Yes, there it was. The plain white envelope with no return address. He opened it and laid the contents on the surface of his desk. There were two copies of Fletcher Brice’s property deed, the original and a copy, both signed and notarized. There was also the company check he had made out to the old man for one hundred thousand. He wasn’t really surprised to see that it was spotted with what appeared to be dried blood.
Dellhart breathed a sigh of relief. He turned in his swivel chair and fed the bank draft to the paper shredder next to his business copier. He nodded in approval as thin streamers of dirty green paper curled into the wastebasket. Then he turned back to the paperwork on his desk.
He had been informed of the Stoogeones’ unfortunate disaster the morning after it had taken place. Unbeknownst to anyone, even his right-hand man Russ, Dellhart had spies planted in the little burg of Tucker’s Mill. They were all people who had been born and bred in the Tennessee community, people unlikely to be suspected of corporate espionage. Most were down-and-out mountain folk who welcomed money from any source, be it honest or otherwise. But there were a choice few who had prominent positions in the town’s daily activities.
Anthony Stoogeone was locked up in one of the two cells of the Peremont County jailhouse. As of yet, he had been faithfully silent, keeping his end of the guarantee. But Jackson Dellhart was not a very trusting man. He expected the worse from humanity, and usually he was not disappointed. Therefore, he had one of his moles keeping a close watch on what Anthony did and said. He even had the police station phones tapped, to listen in on Stoogeone’s private conversations with his lawyer. If the Italian decided to turn rat, Dellhart would know in a matter of minutes. And he was quite ready and willing to see that Anthony’s testimony was never heard in a court of law. There were dozens of professional goons out there just like the Stoogeones, ones who didn’t mind terminating their own kind if the price was right.
He picked up the copy of the deed. It would be no problem to spirit it back into the files of the county clerk; he could have one of his spies do that for him. Then, if the authorities did get suspicious, it would appear as though the Eco-Plenty Corporation had settled its business with Brice several days before his death, according to the official date of notarization.
Jackson Dellhart set the copy aside and examined the original. Finally, after months of careful preparation, he held in his hand the deed to Pale Dove Mountain. It was the first piece of an ever-expanding geometrical progression. There would be other mountains to be conquered along the Appalachian range—peaks rich in timber, coal, precious minerals, and perhaps even gold. Nature was ripe for exploitation in that rural region and Dellhart was just the man who could take advantage of the situation. All it required was unlimited funds and a complete lack of conscience. Both were strengths that the corporate millionaire used to the fullest extent.
As he stashed the deed in the safe beneath his desk, Dellhart thought of the fate of the two Stoogeone brothers. Reports had informed him that they had been killed by some sort of wild animal. That bothered him a little. In a week’s time, he would have men on Pale Dove Mountain—first the surveyors and then the lumber crews and coal miners, ready to strip the mountain of its natural resources. He wanted the plan to proceed smoothly and without conflict. He was determined that no one would thwart his project, especially not some animal with a serious attitude problem.
Therefore, he would be sending a professional marksman with the surveying team. The hunter was named Wainwright and he was considered one of the best big game hunters in the world. Wainwright had traveled the globe for nearly forty years in search of wild game. He had bagged everything from Antarctic polar bear to Indian tigers, to African rhinos and lions.
If there was a renegade bear or wildcat out there, ready to reek havoc on Dellhart’s operation, Wainwright would take care of it. He would dispatch it with a well-placed shot from his custom Weatherby .458 bolt-action and ship its ugly head back to Dellhart pronto, to be mounted and displayed on his office wall. There it would hang as evidence of his immortality in the world of cutthroat business.
In other words, no one crossed Jackson Dellhart and ended up in one piece—whether it be financially, spiritually, or physically.
Chapter Thirteen
“There you go,” said Homer Lee Peck, handing the prisoner a stack of reading material through the bars of his cell. “Maybe this will keep you from getting bored.”
“What is this stuff?” asked Anthony Stoogeone. He sorted through the stack, finding copies of Mad Magazine, Famous Monsters of Filmland, and a few issues of The X-Men and Amazing Spider-Man comic books.
“You asked for something to read. Well, these are from my private collection. Just be careful and don’t mess them up.”
“Don’t you have any girlie books?” asked Anthony in disgust. “Maybe some Playboy or Satyr magazines?”
The deputy looked offended. “This ain’t Sleaze City, Mr. Smith. This here’s a wholesome, God-fearing community. We don’t allow such filth in Tucker’s Mill.”
“Well, excuse me for asking, Reverend.” He took the magazines back to his bunk and sat down. “Oh, while you’re in such a generous mood, warden, how about doing something about that grub you’ve been feeding me. It tastes like dog crap!”
“You’re sure a picky bastard, ain’t you?” grumbled Homer. “Truth is, that’s my cooking you’ve been eating. It’s your own fault actually. Miss Mable usually fixes the vittles for the inmates, but you kinda got on her bad side the other night. So if I were you, I’d stop bitching and learn to like my cuisine. It’s better than eating a razor blade omelet, which is what Miss Mable would be serving you if she had her way.”
“All right already! Stop busting my chops and get out of here. It’s past my bedtime and I need my beauty sleep.”
“In that case, you’d best get plenty,” said Deputy Peck. He let out a guffaw as he left the cellblock and locked the security door behind him.
“Stupid dork,” growled Anthony. He went back to the bunk and lay there flipping through the magazines and comics. The only one he really found any interest in was the Famous Monsters mag. He had collected them when he was a teenager back in the mid-sixties, along with those neat Aurora monster models. He remembered this issue of the now-defunct publication. It had a picture of the Frankenstein monster on the cover. It was the classic scene where the monster was backed up against the catacomb wall while the hunchbacked Fritz taunted him with a flaming torch. Dracula, Wolfman, and the Creature of the Black Lagoon had all gained a special place in Anthony’s heart, but he had always been an extra big fan of Dr. Frankenstein’s patchwork creation, especially when portrayed by Boris Karloff. Whale’s original Frankenstein, The Bride of Frankenstein, and Son of Frankenstein…Anthony had watched them all on the late-night “Creature Feature” when he was growing up.
After a while, Anthony grew tired of reading and tossed the stack of magazines into the far corner of his cell. He lay there for a time, thinking about his options. Gart Mayo had charged him with the murder of Fletcher Brice, as well as assault with a deadly weapon and illegal possession of an automatic weapon. The weapon charges were small potatoes, but the murder rap was a toughie. His lawyer was vacationing in Acapulco that week, but the promise of a substantial fee had him packing that very moment and catching the first flight east.
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