Hunter

by James Byron Huggins

  Cold and concentrated, Hunter ignored Taylor and glanced at the other men on the team. Hunter didn't know where the woman had gone. He didn't know which of them he could truly trust, but for the moment Takakura appeared the safest bet. There would be time to learn more about them later. He squatted by the trail, staring at the last track and trying to imagine the route that he himself would have taken from this ridge in the dark. After a moment he found it and stood.

  "We are ready to begin?" Takakura inquired, already seeming to understand a little of Hunter's style of tracking.

  "We need to get some things straight," Hunter said, turning to face Takakura, who nodded curtly. "I lead," Hunter continued, "and your people stay back about a hundred yards. Simple as that."

  "I have no objection." Takakura frowned. "But we have someone who might be able to aid you. Each of us, as you know, possesses specialized skills which you may, at your convenience, utilize to complete this mission."

  Hunter considered it. "All right. Which one?"

  Without hesitation—a man comfortable with authority—Takakura raised a hand. "Bobbi Jo!"

  Hunter turned his head to see the team's female member trotting instantly and effortlessly up the ridge. She reached them in a few seconds, only slightly winded. Standing at port arms with the gigantic sniper rifle, she regarded Hunter without expression.

  She was about five-eight, and slim. Her hair was a dark blond and tied in a ponytail. Her eyes were a vivid blue and her face was sharply angled, indicating that she was in excellent shape. She had a bandoleer stretched across her chest filled with huge metal-jacketed cartridges. Hunter estimated they were at least .50-caliber rounds.

  Takakura began, "I have told Mr. Hunter that—"

  "Just call me Hunter."

  A pause, and the Japanese nodded. "Hai," he continued, staring back at Bobbi Jo. "I have told Mr. Hunter that you are also skilled at tracking. I informed him that you might be of some assistance."

  Patiently Hunter asked, "How much do you know?"

  Bobbi Jo's voice was young and confident. "I know who you are, Mr.—"

  "Just Hunter."

  "All right. I know who you are, Hunter. I've followed your work, and I'm not as good as you. I'll say that outright. But I've been through Tracker and Pathfinder. I've got five years in the program. And I grew up hunting. So, although I'm not as good, I can hold my own and I don't make stupid mistakes. And I'd like to take point with you." Her mouth made a firm line.

  He studied her. "Okay, how may claws on a bear?"

  "Five."

  "Wolf?"

  "Five."

  "How do you tell a coyote from a wolf?"

  "A wolf has a larger rear pad, and the digit claw doesn't print."

  "How does the movement of a bear differ from the movement of a mountain lion?"

  "A bear wanders. No path, just territory. A cougar follows a circuit. Usually about fifty miles in diameter."

  Hunter raised his eyes slightly. "Okay, but what difference does that make if you're hunting them?"

  "You can anticipate a cougar because it stays on a ridge, in general, and if you lose the track you just crisscross the ridge until you find prints. But if you lose a bear track, you'll have to circle, widening the circle each time to find it."

  Hunter nodded. Yeah, she was pretty good. He continued, "How can you tell if a man moves to the right or left?"

  "There are at least fifty different kinds of pressure release marks," she said firmly. "But, in general, if a man moves to the right, the print will be impressed deeper on the left side. He was pushing himself in the opposite direction, so the print will be higher. Same for the man moving left, just the opposite effect."

  "And if the track is on a ridge?"

  "If the ridge slopes down to the left and it moved to the right, then the track would be deeper on the right. And vice versa."

  Hunter was impressed but tried not to reveal it.

  "How do you crosshead?" he continued.

  "If you tell me to crosshead, I'll go ahead of you and crisscross for sign. If you were moving south, I would be moving east and west, trying to pick up anything that would indicate a change of direction."

  "And sideheading?"

  "Sideheading is when you move parallel to the track, keeping the sun on the other side so you can read faint indentations. You usually use it on hard ground or rock where the impressions are thin. The main thing is to keep the sun at an angle that pitches shadow just right." She paused, hefted the heavy rifle slightly. Hunter was again impressed by how easily she seemed to carry it. "It takes a lot of practice," she said. "I learned how to do it when I was a kid."

  "I'll bet. So what have you tracked before?"

  "Bear, cougar, coyote, wolf, elk – just about everything."

  "And lately?"

  "Lately," she said, looking into his eyes without discernible emotion, "I've tracked and killed men, Mr. Hunter."

  Hunter studied her a moment. He knew he wouldn't really be able to tell anything until he saw what she could do in the field; whether she could read the age of a track, how delicately she observed everything else as they moved, how alert she was to the forest itself. But she obviously knew the basics.

  "Okay," he said. "One last question. How can you tell if you're close to a snake when you can't see it?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "You ... you can ..."

  He waited patiently. From the corner of his eye he saw Takakura's hard gaze trade between the two of them. Then Bobbi Jo replied, un-intimidated, "I don't know, Mr. Hunter."

  A nod, and Hunter tightened the strap on the rifle. "You can lead with me." He turned to Takakura. "Just keep your men far enough back not to mar tracks before I can study them. Is that good enough for you?"

  Takakura nodded. "Most acceptable. But we shall remain close, in case of a confrontation."

  "Let's go," Hunter said to Bobbi Jo, and moved down the slope. She was close behind him, placing her steps carefully. They were halfway to the base when she spoke again.

  "So how can I tell if I'm close to a snake?"

  Hunter lifted his head to the forest.

  "It tells you."

  *

  Chapter 5

  As they descended the slope it seemed unseasonably hot—a blinding sun blazing in a sky beyond blue—and Hunter felt his blood whitening with adrenaline as he tracked claw marks on stone.

  By the time he and Ghost reached the base of the ravine he had already regressed to a pure and primal state of being. He was only dimly aware of Bobbi Jo moving quietly a few steps behind him.

  He knew the others were farther back, letting him do his job, holding him with a measure of contempt because they believed no one could do this job as well as the military. But it was enough that they moved without speaking because animals—including their prey—would instantly pick up the alien sounds. And in this terrestrial environment the sound of a soft human voice would have the same effect as a shotgun blast.

  No, they had to move as silently as possible if he was going to pick up anything from the forest itself. But he felt slight reassurance because of Takakura s presence. The team leader seemed ready to give unqualified cooperation. For now.

  At the base of the slope, Hunter raised a hand and Bobbi Jo stopped, crouching quietly. Then Hunter himself crouched, studying the muddy ground, measuring its solidity, its composition, water-grade level—a dozen elements that would reveal to him a great deal more when he found this things prints.

  Overall there was little growth in the area, only scattered vegetation. Scanning, he found a slight pool of water as large as his foot. But only one: a single depression. He placed a hand down to feel the slight ridges concealed by the muddy water.

  It was the right age for a track; maybe a day. But the water had already eroded what was important so he would have to go without a direction. Bobbi Jo was moving so silently behind him, despite her boots, that he had almost forgotten she was there. He turned, motioned for her to move to the lef
t, and he moved to the right. Together, twenty feet apart, they entered a long, wide glade covered with tall grass.

  It took Hunter five minutes to find the second track angling on slightly higher ground. But it, too, was in poor condition from drainage. It was covered with leaves and he almost missed it but for the deep slicing of claw marks left in the harder soil. Those had not been eradicated by the storm and remained readable.

  He turned, looking still and straight at Bobbi Jo, waiting to see if she would peripherally catch his sudden lack of movement, and she did. Slowly, she turned her head and he nodded once.

  Not having sight or scent of prey, Ghost roved close behind him, sniffing, searching unsuccessfully.

  Hunter moved up the slope and bent to study the old track. He was feeling a slight frustration. There was one long row of a forward pad with claws digging deep for traction, and what resembled the impression of a human heel. The next track on the slope—the left foot—was more than twenty feet away.

  This thing had leaped twenty feet with a stride.

  No way ...

  No way that it could have done that ...

  Even a tiger would have had trouble covering more than five feet on this slope. And it gave Hunter pause, forcing him to recheck, to make sure he hadn't missed anything. But after careful study he was certain. No, the forest doesn't care what you want or what you want to believe ...

  Clearly this thing had leaped twenty feet.

  Hunter tried to convince himself that it was only a temporary strength induced from the overflow of adrenaline that had been coursing through its system at the time. And when Bobbi Jo came up close, he moved forward again. He still couldn't identify the print, but knew it wasn't anything he had seen before.

  Maybe something he never wanted to see.

  At the Tipler Institute of Crypto-zoology and Paleontology, Rebecca Tanus and Gina Gilbert stared side by side, hands resting on chins, at the plaster cast that had been couriered to them by a military official. The cast, almost sixteen inches long, rested on the table. Their faces only barely concealed the fact that they were profoundly confused.

  Rebecca, laboratory director until the return of Dr. Tipler, sighed. "I have a doctorate from Cambridge in ecosystems, a master's in paleontology. I graduated first in my class in historical geology and molecular theory of fossilization. I've spent a year at the most prestigious institute on earth under the tutelage of the greatest paleontologist of our age." She paused, her face only inches from the cast. "And I don't have the foggiest idea what this is."

  Gina said nothing; silence lengthened.

  With a quick breath that blew a lock of auburn hair out of her eyes, Rebecca continued, "Good grief, Gina. I don't even know where to start." She pondered it, tapping a foot. "Well, it looks human. But it has five non-retractable claws. So, it has claws, ergo—it's not human."

  "No," Gina mumbled. "It's not human. But, then, it's not an animal. Because it looks human."

  "Uh-huh," Rebecca murmured. She began tapping the table. "So ...it's not human. And it's not animal." Her smile had no humor. "I guess that doesn't really leave us a lot to consider, does it?"

  Again, silence.

  "Okay." Rebecca roused herself. "Let's try and think like the doc. When he can't identify a fossil, he categorizes it according to the number and shape of appendages, size, location, and age. He places it in a category or phylum and begins to find its family. Then he works down from there. Usually it's a related species of some determined genus we're only vaguely familiar with."

  Gina joined in. "Okay. Let's do that. Species: Homo sapiens. Age: One week old."

  Silence.

  "Well, that didn't really get us very far," the older woman mused. "Look at these." She pointed with a pencil. "Those are five single claws. Big ones, too. Five clawed appendages on what appears to be the foot of a species related to Homo sapiens. Not too likely. So what other species has five appendages?"

  Gina didn't really need to think. "Well, there's Homo-habilis, Homo erectus. Then there's apes and big cats and bears—grizzly, Kodiak, brown and black—and, oh, most of the lower terrestrial mammals like wolverine, raccoon, chipmunk, squirrel, porcupine—" Her voice assumed a droning tone. "Then there's beaver, mink, skunk, badgers—"

  "Okay, okay." Rebecca cut her a glance. "I got it already."

  Neither spoke for a while.

  "This is what we'll do," Rebecca started. "We know what it isn't, right? So we'll begin at zero and assume it's an unknown species."

  "Like the old man does."

  "Yeah, like Doc does. We'll take this and run a phosphorescent scan on it for any tracings that might have been picked up by the plaster. The plaster is already contaminated, so unless we find an actual hair or trace of hemoglobin, we'll never get a DNA trace. But let's look for it anyway. We'll start at the top of the list and work down. Then we'll worry about classifying it."

  "Just go by procedure," Gina chimed in.

  "Right. Just go by procedure. Like the doc says. But this is a rush job so put everything else on hold." Rebecca stood as she spoke, staring down at the mystery. "If we find a piece of this thing no bigger than a grain of sand, we own him."

  "Chaney!"

  Asleep at his desk at the U.S. Marshals Service in Washington, Chaney raised bloodshot eyes. He saw the haggard face of Marshal Hank Vincent, or "Skull" as they called him for his merciless expression, approaching. He could see that Skull held an expense voucher in his hand, crumbling it into a tight wad.

  Chaney muttered, "Oh, shit."

  Suddenly finding themselves needed elsewhere, a dozen Deputy U.S. Marshals surrounding Chaney's desk began wandering in separate directions. With a remarkable air of calm, Chaney said, "Hey, Chief, I was just about to talk to you about that little—"

  Skull held the voucher before Chaney's face. "Explain to me," he said carefully, "how you can spend five thousand dollars on gas in a single month when you never left the city? I want to hear this one. It's got to be a classic."

  "Travel expenses, boss."

  "Travel expenses?" Skull stared, as if he'd never heard the term. "Travel expenses? Is that the best you can do?" He pointed. "I want to see you in my office." Without waiting for a reply he turned away.

  Chaney rose slowly, making a vague attempt to straighten his tie. Then to a chorus of murmured "good lucks" he walked slowly into Marshal Vincent's office, quietly closing the door. He stood with hands clasped, all dignity, and Skull stared back. Slowly, after a moment, the marshal shook his head. A thin smile creased his lips. It was a rare moment. He tossed the voucher on the desk and leaned back, shaking his head.

  "So, travel expenses," he said finally. "But then you busted that cartel last week didn't you, Chaney? Arrested Lau Tai when he was cutting one of his better deals."

  Chaney nodded, then looked away slightly as Skull lifted another invoice. "Says here that you maxed out your snitch allotment almost six weeks ago. How long you been working that case?"

  "Six months, sir."

  "So how did you buy off your snitches in the last month to find the location of the deal?"

  After a pause, Chaney said, "Well, boss, I relied upon creativity and resourcefulness. Like we're supposed to."

  At that, Skull actually smiled. "Yeah, Chaney, I'll bet you did." He waited a moment, barked a short laugh. "That," he motioned to the door, "is called 'street theater.' I did it because everyone knows what you did and I don't want them following your example.

  "You took a big chance, Chaney, and you pulled it off. But you pulled it off only because of your street contacts, and there's not too many that have that. It's a forgotten art. So someone like you could take a chance and win. But the rest shouldn't even try." He frowned a little. "Some of them would, you know. They'd go for broke, spend the money, and still not get their puke. Then they'd burn for it. Even worse, I'd have to burn them for it. 'Cause I wouldn't be able to protect them."

  Skull waited; Chaney was silent.

  "You kn
ow." Skull contemplated a pen. "I caught some heat over that Lau arrest."

  "Heat over it? Why? It was a good snag."

  " 'Cause Lau was the responsibility of the DEA." Skull gestured with the pen as if, in truth, he really didn't give a damn. "Jurisdictional disputes ...that sort of thing."

  "He was a known fugitive from justice, boss."

  "Then he fell under our people in the Fugitive Program," Skull said, suddenly more serious. "Hell, Chaney, you're in intelligence and counter-intelligence. You were supposed to be investigating whether there was a current covert American intelligence operative working with the Golden Triangle heroin bands, not chasing rucking Lau. If you hadn't used your own special brand of creative writing in your weekly reports, I would have been on you a lot sooner. And to make it worse, the FBI is saying that you violated Lau's rights because you interrogated him pretty rough, trying to make him spit out his contacts. Then, cherry on the cake, he claims you didn't even read him his rights." He paused. "They're saying that you blew the entire arrest and that we can't charge him at all. They want a formal investigation."

  Chaney revealed nothing but strolled forward to gently touch the desk nameplate. It was dark maple with "Marshal Hank Vincent" stamped squarely in the gold plate.

  "Well, you know, boss," he began, "we don't need to charge Lau for this crime. He's a fugitive from justice with three other federal convictions. If he hadn't escaped from Lompoc, he was gonna do another fifty years without possibility of parole. Which he will, as soon as I escort him back. I admit, uh, that I interviewed him alone, and I may have even forgotten to read him all his rights, but now we have the names of all his American contacts." Chaney hesitated, shrugged. "We can make a dent with this information, boss. It was a good snag."

  Skull crossed his arms. "And he wound up at the ER because ...?"

  Raising hands to the sides, Chaney responded, "Well, hell, he resisted arrest. Simple as that."

  "Uh-huh." Skull let the moment hang. "I'll take care of the college boys, Chaney. I'll tell them we're not initiating any Article 31 investigation, and if they don't like it, they can kiss my freckled butt." He shuffled papers. "All right, I've got another assignment for you. I want you on it right away."