Hunters

by Chet Williamson

  But the man shook his head. "No friends," he managed to get out. "Alone...all alone..."

  Well now, Ricky thought, wasn't that a helluva way to hunt? And wearing camouflage too. A sudden rush of anger went through him at the man for being so goddam stupid as not to wear blaze orange. Served him right to get shot, he was that dumb.

  But Ricky had been the shooter. He should have made sure before he shot, and he hadn't. Now it was his responsibility and maybe a lot worse. Maybe he'd go to jail.

  Shit. If he did, he did. He would see it through. After all, he knew what it took to be a man.

  That evening, the Wildlife Liberation Front found themselves once again reduced in number. Timothy Weems had not been at the pickup point in Potter County where he was supposed to meet Michael Brewster.

  Michael had waited an hour, his jeep turned so that no one could see its license plate, and watched the hunters walk out of the forest. He listened to the radio, but heard nothing about any shootings, and wondered when they would find the body he had left. When darkness came, he waited another half hour, then drove back alone to St. Mary's.

  Jean Catlett, Chuck Marriner, and Sam Rogers were in Jean's room with the television on when Michael came in. He began to say I lost him, but Chuck Marriner, smirking as broadly as ever, held up a hand.

  "Yeah, we know," Chuck said. "No Timmy."

  "Is he here?" Michael asked, thinking that maybe Weems got back some other way.

  "Nope. He's there." Chuck pointed to the TV screen. "Local news had him on at six. Now it's seven, they'll repeat it."

  "Christ," muttered Michael. "Is he dead?"

  "No," Jean said coldly. "But he got himself shot."

  "Who did it?"

  "Some hunter. Thought he was a deer."

  Michael's mind raced. "Does that...they know who he is?" If that was the case, it was all over.

  "No," Chuck said. His feet were propped on Jean's bed, and he held a longneck beer bottle in his hand. "Timmy's being a good little soldier."

  "They don't know who the fuck he is," Sam said. "He ain't tellin'."

  "That doesn't mean he won't," Michael said. "Or that they won't find out. What if somebody recognizes him, links him with us? The guy at the front desk, for example."

  Chuck snorted in derision. "Hell, I barely recognized the photo they took. You think some dumb desk clerk seen a couple hundred other hunters this week gonna remember one?"

  "Timothy had no I.D. on him," Jean said. "He's feigning amnesia. But they found him in camouflage, and they probably suspect—"

  She stopped talking when a black and white, full face photo of Timothy Weems came up on the TV screen behind the newscaster. The story filled in the rest of the details for Michael, and the newscaster ended, "Authorities have not yet said whether they suspect any connection between this man and the murder of an Elk County hunter yesterday, as well as several other shooting deaths and one probable homicide reported today in north central Pennsylvania."

  "Mine, I bet!" Sam said, bouncing up and down on the bed.

  "Shh!" Jean frowned. "This is new."

  The newscaster went on to say that details were sketchy, but that three more bodies had been found, two dead from gunshot wounds, and one from stab wounds. "Police will not speculate on whether or not these deaths are linked. The names of the victims are being withheld until families have been notified."

  Michael shook his head. "They got Timothy. That's just perfect. We're in it deep now."

  Chuck Marriner swung his feet off the bed and stood up. The move startled Michael. "We're already in it, buddy! Or did you forget what we went out for today?" He pointed his finger like a gun and stuck it against Michael's head. "A little bangeroo, remember? You get yours? Or was that third one a real accident?"

  "I got mine. And I cut the ear too. They'll put two and two together. How about you?"

  "Dropped him this morning. And Sam carved hers."

  The TV news hadn't said anything about Ned Craig, and Michael looked at Jean. "You didn't find Craig?"

  She shook her head quickly and viciously. "Not yet. But I will. After tomorrow. So he knows what's coming for him."

  "They're going to be looking for us soon," Michael said.

  "Let 'em," said Chuck. "All we need is two days—one if we're lucky—and we're outta here. Tomorrow morning we cruise down to the camp, wait for the jolly huntsmen to come back in one at a time, and do the work."

  "Any chance you can get to Craig tomorrow?" Michael asked Jean.

  "That would leave only three at the camp," she said. "We need all we have there. That's our major statement, and I'm not going to risk screwing it up for revenge. Ned Craig will just have to wait. We'll get to him eventually. But we'll get to him."

  Ned Craig at that moment was with Megan at Larry Moxon's place. Larry, long divorced, lived alone in a small log house a mile north of St. Mary's, and had told Ned when he called in at the end of the day to bring Megan over for dinner and what he called "a war council." Ned didn't know what he meant, but Larry said he would explain when he got there. "Just get Megan and come straight here," he told him. "Nowhere else. Understand?"

  Ned didn't, but did as Larry told him. When he drove home, he was surprised not to find Megan's car in the driveway, and when he saw what looked like dried blood on the porch, he nearly panicked. But when he found her note, he went down to the Banner office, and after they got through holding each other, she told him about the crazy stranger, and he told her about the wild shot that had nearly hit him. They drove out to Larry's then, agreeing that there might be some connection between the two events.

  Larry Moxon was talking on a cordless phone as he let them in. "You're kidding," he said, "the same thing on all three?" He raised his eyebrows at Ned, who stood uncomfortably with Megan, his hand on her shoulder. "Yeah...yeah...looks that way, doesn't it?" Larry listened for a while longer, then thanked the caller and hung up.

  "Ed Bradson up in McKean County," he told Ned and Megan. "Everybody's compared their notes—or their bodies—and it looks like either the same person, or a group. Whoever killed them notched their ears."

  "Killed who?" Ned asked, not at all liking the cold lump that refused to leave his throat. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "You didn't hear the news? Three more people died today," Larry said, leading them into the living room and beckoning them to sit. "A hunter in Jefferson County was stabbed to death. Another was shot dead in McKean County, and a third was shot in Clearfield County. All three of them had their ears notched. Sound like there might be a little connection there?"

  "I knew it," Megan said, putting her hand on Ned's. "That guy today...and you getting shot at, it all ties together...and what happened yesterday."

  "Sure as hell looks that way," Larry said.

  Ned stood and paced around Larry Moxon's small living room. "This is nuts," he said. "Whoever shot at me today could've got me if they'd really wanted to. I didn't have a gun."

  "But they didn't know that," Larry said. "You sure had one yesterday. When they missed, they were probably scared off, figured you'd pop up with guns blazing."

  As much as Ned hated the thought of anyone trying to kill him, what Larry said made sense. "Maybe you're right. Even so, it's still nuts. What are these killings for?"

  "They're terrorists," Megan said with so much certainty that both men looked at her in surprise. "It's all there. Yesterday, Ned, that man you shot? He had gutted his victim, hadn't he? Why? Probably to show what it was like hunting and gutting deer, that a deer's life was just the same as a man's. And today—three hunters dead in three different counties, all with notched ears, the same exact mark on their bodies? What other conclusion is there? Somebody doesn't like hunters. And they're probably animal rights activists."

  "Hold on, Megan," Ned said. "There's a big difference between something like protesting the Hegins pigeon shoot and cutting people apart."

  "You bet there is, honey, there's a chasm."

&
nbsp; "Think the police have figured that way?" Larry asked her.

  "Sure they have."

  "They say anything on the news about it?" Ned gestured to the softly playing TV.

  "Nothing," Larry answered. "Just that there were several deaths in several counties, and they're investigating the possibility of links."

  "They don't want people to panic," Megan said. "Can you imagine what would happen if people thought there were terrorists out stalking hunters?"

  Ned sat on the sofa. "Easy enough. The hunters would leave, and the economy of these little counties would suffer. Hunting season's when a lot of people make their bread and butter for the year around here."

  "That's right," Larry agreed. "Got a few days in already, but if everybody went home tomorrow, it'd hurt."

  "They can't keep it quiet for long," Megan said. "People have got to know."

  "Bet you dollars to donuts it'll be on the news by morning," said Larry, going to the refrigerator and pulling out three Straub's. "They won't keep that quiet. Too big a stink when people find out—and they do find out these days. Can't keep secrets for shit. The big question right now is, what are we going to do about you, Ned? Somebody tried to shoot you today."

  "Somebody was after Megan too," Ned said.

  "What?"

  Megan told Larry about the stranger on her doorstep that afternoon. It gave Ned the creeps all over again, and he knew that he had to get her away from St. Mary's.

  "He was after Ned," Megan finished. "He said as much."

  "Then we gotta get you two out of town on the first banana boat," Larry said. "Come on, help me toss dinner together, and we can do some thinking."

  The three of them made a dinner of spaghetti with some homemade sauce that Larry always kept in his refrigerator. Megan whipped together lettuce, tomatoes, and carrots for a salad while Larry made a Caesar dressing with fresh eggs and garlic cloves. "Just breathe this on those sonsabitches," he said as he poured the concoction over the greens, "and that'll suck their bullets right back down the gun barrels."

  Ned chuckled. Larry was right. He was a great guy to be with, but he used too damn much garlic in everything, and usually reeked of it. Mondays were the worst. Larry smelled as though he immersed himself in the stuff all weekend. Ned and the other WCO's and deputies kidded him about it, but he only laughed and told them that he'd outlive them all because of it. Scares the germs away, he'd say, and laugh.

  But tonight his mood was far less jovial, although he talked about the other, more pleasant events of the day readily enough. He drank his wine and ate his meal thoughtfully, and it wasn't until he had twirled his last strand of spaghetti that he raised the subject. "So where are we going to put you two?"

  "I hate to leave at the busiest time of the year," Ned said. "We're all overworked this week, and it just makes more for the guys who are left." His expression tightened. "And if what went on so far keeps up, they're going to be even more pressed."

  "You haven't even mentioned the likelihood of snow," Larry said with a thin smile. "Ned, the hell with all that. We'll get along somehow, always have. But people are looking for you, my friend, and I don't think it's to tell you you've won the state lottery. They're trying to kill your ass. Now what you guys should do is this. Stay right here at my place tonight and tomorrow. First thing in the morning I'll call Harrisburg and see if we can get you quietly transferred somewhere else for a few days until they catch these assholes—someplace far away and remote." He smiled at Megan. "Won't that be romantic?"

  "I don't feel very romantic, Larry. If you'd seen that guy today...jeez, he was weird."

  "Then the thing to do is put a lot of miles between the two of you. Agreed?"

  Ned thought about it. He hated to run, but Larry was right. Even if the shot at him had been accidental, the visit to Megan hadn't. The killings showed a pattern, and that pattern tied in sure enough to the crazy Ned had shot Monday morning. If all the killers were friends, it only made sense that they would want to get back at Ned for killing one of them. And he doubted if they would stop short of getting back at him through Megan. It was to protect her as much as himself that he nodded in agreement.

  "Okay," he said. "Call in the morning and we'll see what happens."

  Larry slapped a stubby-fingered hand on the table. "That's my man. You wait and see, a couple days they'll have these nuts and you can come back home again. Now who wants some homemade pecan pie?"

  "Depends," Ned said. "How much garlic's in it?"

  THE THIRD DAY

  Ned Craig awoke long before dawn. He had slept poorly, even though Larry had let them use the double bed in his own bedroom and retired to the single bed in the guest room.

  Ned's sleep had been full of nightmares. He had fallen from the helicopter again, but instead of landing in the river, he had landed in what felt like snow, and when he looked at what he was lying on, he saw that it was not snow, but a vast blanket of softness the color of blood. He sank into its sponginess with every move, and wherever he touched it with knees, hands, or feet, his limbs grew red and wet. It was a thick sea of human tissue, as though a giant had been skinned, and Ned was an ant crawling on the surface of exposed, sodden muscle.

  He had awakened with only a slight start that did not disturb Megan. He tried to push the dream from his mind, but instead remembered other dreams of that night, just as terrible. If he went back to sleep, he knew he would dream again.

  The dim red numbers of the bedside clock read 4:30, and Ned got out of bed quietly, pulled on his clothes, and went down the short hall into the kitchen, where he made himself a cup of instant coffee that tasted as though it had been sitting on Larry's shelf for decades. Larry had ground beans the night before, but Ned didn't want to wake the others with the grinder.

  So he sat by the kitchen window and looked out at the darkness, imagining movement, wondering if the killers were creeping up on Larry's place even now. "Dumbass," he whispered to himself. "Nobody there..." Still, he sat and he watched until dawn started to lighten the sky.

  Ned began to feel hungry, and thought about breakfast. It would be nice if he could supply it rather than sponge another meal off Larry. He checked on Megan, and she was still sleeping soundly, so he went out to his Blazer and drove into town.

  It took only a few minutes to get to Sally's. The small parking lot was already full, so he parked across the street and scurried across into the diner's warmth. Ned could have sworn it was at least ten degrees colder than the morning before.

  The place was full of hunters filling themselves with hot food and coffee for the day ahead. There were a few women, one attractive enough to make Ned involuntarily glance at her as she left holding a bag. But his attention was distracted by the hunters who hailed him, looks of concern on their faces.

  "Hey, Ned!" One of the men, a hulking hunter named Bob Lecours, clapped a hammy hand on Ned's shoulder. "What's all this bullshit we been hearin'?"

  "Which bullshit?" Ned sat on the stool next to Lecours and waved a hand at Sue Ellen, one of the two waitresses. She nodded back and signaled she would be with him as soon as she emptied her tray of its orders.

  "Bullshit about there bein' a bunch of nuts out in the woods?"

  'Yeah," piped up a little man Ned did not recognize. "Radio this morning said that maybe those killings yesterday...and the fella you shot...were all part of this, watchacallit, this conspiracy or something, because of signs on the body."

  It was out then, Ned thought. What the hell, it would've been sooner or later. "What kind of signs?" he asked.

  "Didn't say," Lecours answered. "You know anything?"

  "No more than you." It was partly the truth anyway. "People scared to go out?"

  Lecours snorted. "Take more than a bunch of nuts to keep hunters out of the woods. We got guns too, y'know." He winked at Ned. "Just like you did."

  Ned didn't need or want the reminder. Sue Ellen walked up and he asked her for half a dozen mixed donuts, three blueberry muffins, and three la
rge coffees. "Just be careful out there today," he told Lecours and the little man. "You never know." He paid and tipped Sue Ellen, took his bag, and walked out.

  Ned was halfway across the street when he heard the roar of an engine. He snapped his head up and saw the blinding high beams of a jeep bearing down on him from his right. Clutching the bag of food and coffee, he stepped back to let it pass, but was startled to find that the jeep tracked him, following him as he moved back toward the center line. Now he was trapped. No matter which way he went, the jeep would be on him in another second.

  But in that second he realized that he was being hunted, and did what he hoped was the unexpected. He tossed the bag toward the jeep and ran straight into what had been the path of the vehicle before it swerved to follow him, dashing straight across the street.

  The jeep driver waited an instant too long to jerk the wheel back to follow him, overreacted, and threw the jeep into a skid which spun it around so that its right rear tire thudded against the curb. By then, Ned was safe among the cars parked on the other side of the street.

  In the semi-darkness, he could not tell if there were others in the jeep beside the driver. The engine ratcheted once more as it pulled away from the curb and quickly headed down the street. The lights winked off, and though Ned ran after it, it was too dark to make out the license plate number. He looked around, but apparently no one had seen what happened.

  One more, he thought. One more try at him. Larry was right. Somebody was sure enough after his ass, and the sooner he and Megan got the hell out of St. Mary's the better off they'd be.

  "God damn it," he muttered as he saw the crushed Styrofoam cups and the splattered pastry that the jeep had run over. "Shit!" He kicked at the shredded bag, and as the chunks of pastry flew skyward, he felt a certain satisfaction, as though it were the brains of his attackers instead. He stood in the street looking in the direction the jeep had disappeared, wishing that it would come back, that they could just have it out once and for all, or that he could sit and explain to the maniacs that it wasn't his fault what had happened, that he had never wanted to kill anybody.