The Hunting Tree

by Ike Hamill

  When he came back to the phone, Davey applied pressure. “You have to Paul. I wouldn’t ask unless it were life and death, you know that. Plus you owe me for that other thing.”

  “This is different,” said Paul. “My brother’s gonna know it was me, and he’s my brother.”

  “Paul, I’m scared,” said Davey. “I really think this is my only hope."

  He waited for yet another pause until Paul came back on the line. “Okay, but you have to take the lock all the way down the street and bash it and then bring it back. Then he won’t know it was opened with a key.”

  “I don’t have the time to do that,” said Davey.

  “Okay, but you have to push it all the way to the corner so he doesn’t hear it start,” said Paul.

  “Yeah,” agreed Davey. “I’ll do that.”

  “Meet me out back in five minutes,” said Paul.

  “Thanks, man,” said Davey, but the call had already ended.

  * * * * *

  BY DAVEY’S WATCH it was more like fifteen minutes before Paul arrived. Davey had slunk from yard to yard, avoiding the streetlights and triggering the occasional barking dog. His feet were muddy and his pants wet almost to the knee by the time he got to Paul’s yard. He crouched behind his friend’s backyard shed.

  “Davey?” Paul whispered.

  “Right here,” said Davey.

  “What’s going on with you?” asked Paul.

  “I can’t really explain,” said Davey. “It would take too much time. There’s a guy trying to kill me, and if I’m around here, he’ll kill my family too.”

  “Whoa,” said Paul, “that’s bad.” He shifted his slippered feet and looked out across his dark yard towards his house.

  “I know,” Davey nodded.

  “Well, here,” he held out the keys for Davey. “I gotta get back in before my Mom catches me.”

  “Which one is it?” asked Davey.

  “Little round one,” said Paul. “I’ll see you later, I guess.”

  “Wait,” said Davey. He wiggled the key until the lock popped open. “You better take these back.”

  “Oh yeah.” Paul turned back to get the keys.

  “Thanks again,” said Davey. “Have a great vacation.”

  “Sure,” said Paul. He shuffled back to his house and left Davey to his task.

  He could barely see inside the dark shed. Fortunately, the dirt bike was parked close to the entrance. It took most of his strength to wheel the heavy bike out into the moonlight. He wondered how he would ever keep his promise to get it to the corner. Ignoring the challenges soon to come his way, Davey focused on the easier prerequisites. He filled the bike’s empty tank with a can next to the lawn mower and hunted for a helmet. The only helmet hanging on the wall was way too big—meant for Paul’s brother.

  Paul wouldn’t be old enough for his own helmet until his next birthday, if at all. The last time Davey had been allowed to try the bike, he had worn his own bicycle helmet, but he hadn’t remembered to bring it during his escape from the house.

  Davey glanced around one more time, trying to think of what he had forgotten. He raised the kick stand and then put it back down, remembering to go back to the hiding place in the back of the cabinet, where Kris kept the key for his motorcycle. Before he left, Davey closed the doors to the shed and pocketed the lock. Even if there would be no sign of a break-in, at least the missing lock would point that direction, he figured. He grabbed the handlebars and set his sights on the back gate. Despite its weight, the bike rolled fairly well down the gently sloping yard.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Mike

  SHE ANSWERED THE PHONE and skipped all formality, wary of any more bad news. “Did you find something wrong?” she asked.

  “Pardon?” asked Mike. He glanced at the phone and confirmed the number on the display matched his vague memory of Melanie’s number.

  “From the blood this morning. Was there something wrong?” she asked again.

  “I’m sorry Ms. Hunter,” said Mike. “I’m a colleague of Ken Stuart’s. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “Oh Jesus,” she said. “What is it? What’s wrong with my son?”

  “Ken was attacked tonight in his home,” said Mike. “I’m afraid he didn’t make it.” Mike fought to keep his voice calm while delivering the news.

  “Oh my god,” said Melanie. Her voice was unmistakably lighter than it had been a moment before. Mike figured that was natural, she must have thought he was delivering bad news about her son. He heard her shuffle the phone and guessed she was taking a seat. “What happened?”

  “There’s a man,” said Mike. “He’s insane, and he murdered Ken and his girlfriend this evening. I’m afraid that your family will be his next target.”

  Mike waited for her reaction, but instead heard rustling from the phone as she walked rapidly.

  “I recognize your voice,” she said. “You’re that crazy guy who called yesterday, asking me if my son thinks someone is after him, aren’t you? Markley? Wasn’t that it?”

  “I’m Dr. Markey, Ms. Hunter, and I’m not crazy at all,” said Mike. “I’m talking on Ken’s phone and driving Ken’s truck because I just watched him die at the hands of someone who is crazy. And if you don’t listen to me, you’re next. He’s coming right for you and your son.”

  “I’m going to hang up now,” said Melanie. “I suggest that you… Oh fuck.” She let out a slow breath.

  “What is it?” asked Mike. “He can’t possibly be there yet. It should take him at least a half-hour to cover that much ground.”

  “I’ve got to go,” said Melanie. “I don’t know what you’ve been telling my son, but now he’s gone. Are you happy now? I’ve got to call the police.”

  “Wait!” yelled Mike. “Don’t hang up!” When he heard no response he looked down at Ken’s phone and saw that the call had ended. He tried to connect again, but received first a busy signal and then a set of rings that went to voicemail.

  Mike gunned the engine and picked up speed in Ken’s powerful truck. The headlights in his rearview mirror kept a constant vigil, tracking his pace. The realization dawned on him slowly—those same headlights had been behind him almost since the moment he left Ken’s house. At first he thought it must be the police. They had somehow spotted Ken’s license plate and thought that he was the killer. The timing didn’t make sense.

  And why wouldn’t they just pull me over? Mike asked himself.

  Unable to think of a reasonable explanation, Mike maintained his speed and covered the distance to Davey’s house in less than ten minutes. He pulled to the curb in front of her mailbox and slammed the SUV into park. He jumped out and rounded the vehicle without taking the keys or closing the door. Melanie sat on her front stoop—the front door stood open behind her and she held a telephone in her hand.

  “Ms. Hunter?” asked Mike as he crossed her yard.

  She stood and backed towards her door at the sight of the stranger.

  “Wait, hold on,” Mike stopped, still ten paces away. “Just hear me out.” Mike was so focused on trying to persuade Melanie from flight that he didn’t notice the truck that had pulled in behind him.

  “The police will be here any second,” said Melanie. “If you’ve done anything to hurt my son, I’ll make you pay.”

  “You’ve got me all wrong,” said Mike.

  Before he could begin a full defense, their conversation was interrupted by a tall man, crossing the yard quickly.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” said the man. “My name is Morris, I’m a tracker.”

  Melanie opened her mouth to protest the interruption, but Morris cut her off—“I know this all must be very confusing.” He spoke low—Melanie and Mike both had to strain to hear his words—but his sonorous voice reverberated with authority. “You’ll have to take my word that you’re in grave danger. We need to find your son and get moving. There’s a powerful, murderous man headed this way.”

  “The police…” Melanie began
.

  Morris cut her off—“If we wait for them to be convinced, you’ll be dead before dawn.”

  Melanie wiped away a tear with the side of her thumb as she stood. She opened the door to her house and called for Susan.

  Mike turned to Morris, ready to ask a thousand questions about how and why he had shown up at Melanie’s house. Morris shook his head, demanding silence. Glancing at the street, Mike realized that Morris owned the headlights that had followed him from Ken’s house.

  Susan appeared in the doorway with her shoulders squared for a face-off. She shrunk a little when she noticed the two men standing in the lawn.

  “Get your stuff, we have to go,” said Melanie.

  “I can’t,” said Susan. “I have stuff to do.”

  “Suze, no,” said Melanie. “Hand me my bag and get your butt in gear. No arguments.”

  Melanie pawed through her bag and then yelled back to her daughter. “Have you seen my keys?" She turned to Morris. “My keys and wallet are gone. I couldn’t leave if I wanted to.” She buried her face back in her bag. “Where’s my cellphone?” she asked to nobody in particular.

  “We’re all riding with him,” Morris pointed at Mike.

  “Great.” Melanie rolled her eyes.

  Susan appeared in the doorway, holding her backpack.

  “Do you have your keys?” Melanie asked her.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Then please lock up,” Melanie said, pointing her daughter to the door. “Okay,” Melanie said to Mike, “we’ll ride with you. But give me Dr. Stuart’s phone.”

  “Done,” said Mike. He held out the cellphone.

  “Call me,” Morris said to Melanie when she had the phone. He gave her his number and waited for her to dial.

  “Why? Where are you going?” she asked.

  “I’m going to track your son,” he replied. He strode confidently around the house and out of sight, leaving Melanie, Mike, and Susan standing in the yard.

  Over the phone, Morris asked a question—“What’s your son’s name?”

  “Davey,” she said.

  “He called someone and then headed off north. Who does he know in that direction?” Morris asked.

  Melanie looked up at the stars as she pictured the town. The answer was obvious once she had her bearings. “Oh! Paul, his best friend,” she said.

  “Get in the car and go north on Walnut Court,” Morris instructed.

  Melanie waved Mike and her daughter to the doctor’s SUV while she listened to Morris breathe through the phone. She pictured him jogging up the street.

  “Where does Paul live?” he asked.

  “Two blocks in that direction. Um, north. And then two and a half east on Center. But Davey might not go that way. He’d probably take the…” she said.

  Morris cut her off—“Alley. Yeah, he did.”

  Melanie showed Susan to the back seat of the SUV and then climbed in after her. They sat in the back while Mike drove. She waved at him to turn the truck around so she could follow the directions from Morris.

  “Where are we going, anyway?” asked Susan.

  Melanie’s hand flew up, gesturing for Susan to be quiet. Morris hadn’t spoken in a while, but she didn’t want to miss any instructions.

  “Right on Hewey,” said Morris.

  “Back up,” Melanie demanded. Mike slammed on the brakes. “You just passed Hewey,” she said, “go back and take a right.” Mike obeyed and Melanie reached back to grab her seatbelt.

  “Slow down,” Morris instructed over the phone.

  “Slow,” she said. She yipped into the phone as a dark shape emerged from the space between two houses and jumped out at the car.

  Morris pulled open the passenger-side door and pointed. “Right there.”

  Mike squinted into the dark. Melanie hit a button on the doctor’s phone, ending the call, and handed it back between the seats up to Mike.

  “Just turn off the lights and drive,” said Morris, climbing into the vehicle.

  Mike flipped off the switch for the automatic headlights, but the running lights stayed illuminated. Morris reached between them and pulled up slightly on the emergency brake. The sensor on the brake doused the running lights and they rolled down the street in stealth.

  Melanie strained against her seatbelt so she could look between the seats in the direction Morris pointed.

  “Pull just past him and I’ll jump out,” said Morris.

  “Wait,” said Mike. “Don’t touch his skin. Not if he’s frightened.”

  “What?” asked Melanie. “What do you think is wrong with my son?”

  “Nothing,” said Mike. “It’s hard to explain. Can you get him in the car without frightening him?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  At that moment, when Mike had driven three quarters of the way down the block, Mike finally saw what Morris’s eyes had picked out of the darkness: at the unlit corner, with bushes between him and nearest house, Davey was frantically trying to kick-start the stolen dirt bike.

  Mike slowed as they approached the runaway. Melanie unbuckled and jumped out. Preoccupied with trying to start the motorcycle, Davey didn’t hear her until the door of the SUV fell shut.

  The boy stole a quick glance over his shoulder and abandoned the bike and started to run.

  “Wait!” yelled Melanie. “Davey, wait. You have to come with us.”

  “I have to get away,” he yelled, slowing so he could turn towards his mom. With the combination of moves, Davey’s feet tangled and he spilled to the ground. His teeth slammed together and he yelped in pain when his head hit the ground.

  “We’re all going,” she ran to him. “We’re going to run. We’ll get away.”

  Relief spread across his face in the starlight. “Really?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, putting out her hand to help him up. “Let’s get going.”

  As she pulled him to his feet, Davey asked his mom a question—“Who are those guys?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “But I think they’re here to help. They’re telling me the same things you are.” She helped her son climb into the SUV.

  “You’re the guy who tried to help Dr. Stuart.” Davey said, pointing to Mike.

  “Yeah,” said Mike. “He was my friend. How did you know?”

  “I saw it,” said Davey. “Before.”

  Mike reached out towards Davey’s face and then pulled his hand back. “You have a little spot of something on your cheek,” Mike said.

  Melanie pulled out a tissue and wiped Davey’s face.

  “Does that happen a lot?” asked Mike.

  “What?” asked Melanie.

  “Those marks,” said Mike.

  “Yes. Since he was a baby,” said Melanie. “The doctors say it’s nothing to worry about.”

  “It’s true then,” said Mike. “The ancient stories say that those with the poisoned blood will bear the mark.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Melanie.

  Morris had his head out the window, looking back down the street. He pulled his head back inside. “Drive,” he said to Mike.

  “Where?” asked Mike.

  “Where does that go?” Morris asked, pointing south.

  The men in the front seat looked around at Melanie.

  “All the way to the river,” she answered. “It ends at route 196.”

  “Then go,” said Morris, pointing to be perfectly clear. “Fast.”

  “Okay,” said Mike. “We’re going to have to get some gas soon though, I didn’t start with a full…”

  His statement was cut off by an enormous bang from the rear of the vehicle. Susan’s hands flew to her face as she screamed; the SUV rocked with the impact.

  Mike’s foot slammed on the brake pedal instinctively. His first thought was that they had somehow hit a deer. The doctor’s truck rocked up onto its left wheels and hung there before starting its descent back to the pavement.

  “Go!” Morris yelled. His deep voice fill
ed the cabin of the truck and everyone shrunk in their seats. Mike moved his foot from the brake and stabbed down at the accelerator. He pulled back and thrust again when the truck didn’t move. The engine whined and revved, but seemed disconnected—the truck didn’t accelerate. Suddenly, when the wheels regained their place on the pavement, the SUV lurched into action.

  “Where is it?” asked Melanie. She spun around in her seat, looking out the tinted back windows. The big window on the right, on the passenger’s side of the cargo area, had a small hole near the top. Spidering cracks traced away from the hole.

  “He’s at the end of the block,” said Davey.

  “What?” said Mike. “What the hell hit us then?”

  “A rock,” said Morris.

  “Fuck,” said Mike. “A rock did that?” The vehicle swerved as Mike spun around in his seat and looked the hole in the window.

  “Just drive,” Melanie yelled. “And watch your language, please. Honey, we’re going to be okay,” Melanie said to her daughter. Susan’s hands still clutched either side of her face in fear.

  Morris thrust his head outside the window while Mike accelerated. He pulled back in and spoke—“He’s still chasing. We’re pulling away, but just barely. Don’t slow down too much for the stop.”

  “What?” asked Melanie. She spun in her seat to look out the back. “How could he possibly keeping up with us? We must be going forty-five. I don’t see anything.”

  “There,” said Morris. He pointed as the creature passed under a streetlight. Its huge strides made it almost appear to be moving in slow motion. It was only a hundred yards back.

  “What is it?” Melanie whispered. She spun back around to address the men in the front seat—“You said a man was after us. That’s no man. The rock that thing threw nearly knocked us over, and now it’s running as fast as we’re driving?”

  “Hold on,” said Mike. He let the truck drift to the right side of the street, near the curb so he could get a better angle on the turn. Leaning forward over the wheel, he tried in vain to get a look at the cross street, to spot any oncoming traffic.

  “We’re fine,” said Morris. “Just do it.”