The Mountain King

by Rick Hautala

  That someone was staying close by the house, keeping an eye on her, watching her every move and waiting to strike.

  After three cups of coffee that morning, her nerves were even more jangled. Her first customer this morning, Mrs. Alvord, was going to be damned lucky to get out of the hairdresser’s shop without a Mohawk.

  As she locked the house door and went down the steps to the garage, Polly was still unable to get rid of the feeling that she was being watched. She kept glancing around the yard as she walked over to the garage, turned the door handle, and ran up the door. The clatter of metal wheels and springs drilled her ears. When she looked over her shoulder, she was surprised not to see that a police car had pulled into the driveway. What she did see was a faint glint of metal in the grass beside the back steps.

  “What the hell—?” she muttered as she walked over to it, bent down, and picked it up.

  It was the spare house key, the one they kept underneath the steps.

  She wiped it clean with her fingers and inspected it closely.

  What was this doing out here on the lawn? she wondered as she turned it over several times in her hand.

  Maybe it had simply fallen from its hiding place, but what if someone had used it . . . last night . . . to get into the house?

  She knelt down and, leaning forward until her cheek pressed against the top step, felt around underneath the stairs for the nail to hang the key on. It was when the top step was level to her eye that she noticed something else—a small splotch of blood, no bigger than a quarter, on the edge of the landing.

  Her heart skipped a beat as she stared at the blood, glistening in the dull morning light with an oily freshness—dark red, almost black. She felt almost compelled to reach out and touch it, to see if it was still wet, but instead she squealed with surprise and pushed herself away from the steps so hard she fell backward onto the wet grass. She barely noticed that her clothes got wet as she scrambled to her feet. Her pulse was racing hard and fast in her throat, and she was unable to tear her gaze away from the blackish red smear.

  Was it Dennis’s blood . . . still there from that horrible night?

  She glanced fearfully to the spot beside the garage where she had found Dennis’s mutilated body. A cold, clutching fear filled her.

  Did Dennis’s killer come back last night for me?

  Did he break into the house and come right upstairs, but then decide to leave me alone, to let me live . . . for now?

  Is he stalking me right now, taunting me by showing that he can get me whenever he damn well pleases?

  She knew the sensible thing to do would be to notify the police immediately, but she decided not to do that. She didn’t trust the police any more than they apparently trusted her.

  Polly was so preoccupied with thinking about what she should do that she didn’t even notice the car that had pulled into the driveway until the driver’s door opened and slammed shut.

  “Something the matter?” Guy LaBrea asked. His voice sounded oddly close in the still air. He looked at her with flat, expressionless eyes as he walked up to her.

  Polly felt numb as she turned to the police chief, shook her head, and managed to say, “Uh .. . no.”

  As soon as she looked away from the spot of blood on the landing, it grew in size in her imagination until it was the size of a spilled gallon of bright red paint. She was surprised LaBrea didn’t notice it and comment on it right away.

  “No,” Polly said again after drawing a deep breath and bending down to wipe the dampness on the backs of her legs. “I was just—I slipped on the walkway and fell. I’m okay. God, sometimes I’m so clumsy!”

  LaBrea nodded, then glanced up at the house. “I stopped by the high school earlier this morning to speak with Sandy. Had a few things I wanted to talk over with her, but she wasn’t there. Is she home sick or something?”

  Biting her lower lip, Polly shook her head. “No. As far as I know, she spent last night over at Karen Bishop’s.”

  LaBrea narrowed his gaze.

  “We—umm, well, Sandy and I had kind of an argument last night,” Polly added feebly.

  “I see,” LaBrea said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I happened to bump into Karen Bishop at the school, and she told me that Sandy was over to her house last night, but she said she didn’t stay the whole night, that she must have left sometime around midnight and didn’t come back.” He nodded toward the house. “You sure she’s not up in her room?”

  “Positive,” Polly said, shrugging tightly.

  She had checked Sandy’s bedroom while searching the house to see if anything had been stolen last night. She had to fight the impulse to turn and look back at the house, afraid that she would scream the instant she saw the blood on the back steps. In her imagination, it had spread out into a glistening puddle that was dripping in thick, shimmering red globs from the steps and gushing out over the lawn. A wave of dizziness gripped her, and she felt as though a surging bloody tide was swirling at her ankles, tugging at her, trying to pull her down.

  “I know she and her father had picked a meeting point out at the base of the Round Top Trail,” LaBrea said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe she’s gone out there.”

  Polly thought his voice sounded steady, completely normal, as if he hadn’t even noticed the bloodstain on the steps.

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said, fighting the tremor in her voice.

  “Maybe I ought to take a drive on out there and have a look around.”

  “She—uh, she never told me anything about that,” Polly replied, her voice still flat and emotionless.

  “Well,” LaBrea said, looking squarely at Polly, “you also might want to know that we’re calling off the search for both Mark and Phil. The weather forecast is calling for some pretty rough weather later today and tonight. I can’t risk any more men than I have to up there. A skeleton crew of forest rangers is going to make one last sweep today, and that’ll be it, at least until the weather clears.”

  “I see,” Polly said numbly. She was surprised that apparently LaBrea still hadn’t noticed anything seriously wrong.

  “I don’t want to upset you,” he said, “but chances are something’s happened up there. We—well, you ought to know that one of the search parties located what we think was your husband’s campsite yesterday.” LaBrea took a deep breath and waited for her response, but Polly was still feeling too disoriented to react.

  “It looks as though something’s gone wrong up there. The tent and camping gear were all torn up, thrown all over the place. I’m not saying he’s hurt or anything, mind you, but . . . well, there’s been some fairly well substantiated reports of some kind of animal up there in the mountains, maybe a bear or something that’s on a rampage. You might have heard what happened out at Josh O’Connell’s barn several nights ago.”

  “No. No, I didn’t,” Polly said.

  “Well, I don’t want you to worry, but—” LaBrea shrugged as though he were helpless. “What with the weather turning bad and all, I just hope to hell Mark gets down off that mountain today.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Polly asked in a trembling voice. Her face felt numb, and her leg muscles were shaking so badly she thought she was going to lose control of them and collapse.

  Again, LaBrea shrugged.

  “I think all you can do is go to work, carry on as best you can, and hope for the best. I have the number at Marilyn’s Beauty Shop, so I can call if I hear from either Mark or Sandy.”

  “I—I’d appreciate that,” Polly said, not really feeling it.

  “Okay, then,” LaBrea said.

  Polly felt only a marginal sense of relief as she watched LaBrea turn and walk back to his cruiser, get in, start it up, and drive away. Even before the sound of his car had faded away, she ran up to the house, got a bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush, and washed away the last trace of blood from the landing. She wasn’t entirely convinced it was Dennis’s blood, but any speculation as to wh
ose it might be was blocked out of her mind by her single, most worrisome fear.

  What if the police and the whole town of Hilton blame me for what happened to Dennis? I’ll never get out of this mess!

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Three Down

  “Holy shit! The light hurts like a bitch!” Phil said, blinking his eyes rapidly.

  Mark grunted as he eased Phil down onto the ledge outside the cave mouth. The sky was overcast—a dull gray ripple of high clouds.

  “What do you expect, after being in total darkness for nearly a week?” Mark said softly.

  He glanced up at the overcast sky and guessed it was a little after noon. They had less than six hours of daylight to get down off the mountain. He was positive they wouldn’t make it back to town before dark, but he decided not to tell Phil just how bad things looked.

  Taking the rifle from his friend, he walked over to the edge of the cliff and looked down. More than eighty feet below, he could see the bright dots of color that were Phil’s torn jacket and backpack. He carefully scanned the area but couldn’t see any sign of the creatures. The body of the one he had killed had been removed. He knew from all too painful experience, though, how easily these things could hide themselves among the rocks—and how fast they could move to attack. He clicked the safety off his rifle and started pacing back and forth along the ledge like a soldier on guard duty as he considered the easiest way to get Phil down to the base of the cliff.

  Once his eyes had adjusted to the brightness, Phil, wincing with the pain and effort, dragged himself over to the edge of the cliff and looked down. Whistling softly under his breath, he said, “Christ on a cross! That rope’s not gonna be enough to get us down from here, is it, bud?”

  “I shinnied up that chimney in the rock over there,” Mark said, pointing to the shallow funnel that ran up the cliff side. “I don’t suppose you could slide down that steep an incline by yourself.”

  Phil considered for a moment, then shook his head. “No way. Not without the use of my legs.”

  “I didn’t think so. Okay, then, we’ll have to do it the hard way.”

  He took the coil of vines from his shoulder and shook it out. Altogether, there were more than twenty short pieces tied together. He tossed one end over the cliff edge, but the makeshift rope didn’t even reach halfway down.

  Mark groaned his dissatisfaction, then shrugged off his jacket. Taking his Swiss Army knife from his pocket, he began to slice the nylon shell into long, thin strips.

  “C’mon! Get busy tying those together,” he said as he handed the first few strips to Phil. “These with the vines should give us enough to reach the bottom. We can at least get you most of the way down.”

  For the next several minutes, both men worked in silence as Mark cut his jacket into strips and Phil knotted them together, end to end. By the time every useful piece of Mark’s jacket had been used up and they tied one end of it to the knotted vine rope, their makeshift rope still looked as if it wouldn’t reach all the way to the ground.

  “It’s gonna have to do. Should we risk it now?” Mark asked as he pulled the rope back up and tugged at each knot to make sure none of them would slip.

  Phil nodded. “I don’t think it’d be very smart to sit here the rest of the day just waiting for those bastards to come back, now, do you?”

  “They’re probably out hunting for more victims,” Mark said.

  He shivered as the memory of what had happened to his daughter stirred in his mind, but he forced those thoughts away, choosing instead to concentrate only on getting himself and Phil to safety. He’d have plenty of time to deal with his grief later.

  Mark handed Phil his knife, then quickly looped the nylon end of the rope around his friend’s waist and tied it off securely in a sling. He dragged Phil over to the rock chimney and then, bracing his feet wide, gripped the rope and started lowering him after Phil pushed himself away from the ledge.

  The first jolt of Phil’s weight almost yanked Mark off balance, but then Phil scrambled around into the right position and braced himself against the rock with his arms and his useless legs in the narrow indentation. After that, the going was a little easier.

  While he was lowering Phil, Mark kept a wary eye out for the return of any of the creatures. If one showed up now, Phil would be in deep shit. Mark would have to drop him so he could use the rifle to fend it off.

  Rivulets of sweat dripped from Mark’s face and ran down his neck. His back and shoulder muscles were hurting so bad he wondered how he would ever find the strength to get himself down the steep incline.

  I will because I have to, he vowed silently to himself.

  He grunted softly as he fed out the rope, knot by knot. The transition from the thin nylon to the thicker vine made his hands and arms ache all the more, but he gritted his teeth and kept feeding out the rope, inch by inch. When he reached the end of the rope, he twisted a few loops around his wrist and held on tightly.

  “That’s all I’ve got!” he called down to Phil. His voice echoed from the rocks below. “How much further have you got to go?”

  The vine was slippery in his hands, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to hold on much longer.

  “Not far,” Phil answered, his voice sounding faint and thin. “Can’t be more than ten or fifteen feet.”

  “Can I let you drop?”

  “Just a second—Yeah, okay. I think I’m—”

  The tension on the rope suddenly released.

  With a startled cry, Mark rushed to the edge of the cliff and looked down. He expected to see Phil lying crushed and broken at the base of the cliff—or else being torn to shreds by one of the creatures, so he laughed out loud when he realized that Phil had cut the nylon and was leaning back hard against the rock, bracing himself with his arms. Phil’s face was bright red from the effort, but—unbelievably—he was able to control the rest of his descent.

  As soon as Phil was safely on the ground, Mark slung his rifle over his shoulder, crawled out over the edge, braced himself against the rock, and started down in a fast, barely controlled slide. It was a lot easier with gravity working with him, and before long he was standing next to his friend, brushing himself off. Both men were panting heavily from the exertion as Phil wiggled his way free of the nylon rope.

  “That was the hardest part, right?” Phil said, smiling grimly.

  “Yeah . .. right,” Mark replied just as grimly.

  He wasted no time in getting Phil up onto his back again and starting down the slope. They had several miles to cover, and by the looks of the sky, the weather was going to get nasty before long. The only consolation was that, if it started raining, it might hamper their pursuers as much as it hampered them.

  The descent from the mountaintop was arduous— a nightmare of physical endurance. Under normal conditions, the hike down to the tree line would take no more than an hour, but it consumed better than three hours because Mark had to stop so frequently to rest. Almost every step of the way, he regretted leaving his canteen behind with Jack as thirst and fatigue rose to nearly unbearable levels.

  The Wheaton Trail was the shortest trail off the mountain, but it was also the steepest, so Mark decided to stick with the longer Round Top Trail, which crossed the west branch of Sawyer River a little more than halfway to the trail head. They could get fresh water at the river, but he also chose this route because it was in the same general direction as his base camp. What with both a police search party and the creatures after him, he doubted that his camp had remained undetected, but he hoped there would still be some ammunition and possibly some food still there.

  It was late afternoon by the time they reached the tree line. Every muscle in Mark’s body was crying for relief as he eased Phil onto the ground. It was a relief to have soft, springy soil beneath his feet instead of the hard, unyielding stone. Mark stood up straight, rotated his shoulders, and knuckled the small of his back, but that didn’t come close to relieving the bone-deep pain.


  “Sure am thirsty,” he said, licking his dried lips as he stared down the trail into the cool, green forest. He had been expecting the creatures to attack before now, while they were still high up on the rocks, exposed and defenseless. Now that they were down into the trees, he was discouraged by the prospect of carrying Phil down a steep trail that was hemmed in on both sides by dense brush. The creatures could easily wait in ambush for them and attack before either one of them could blink an eye. If these creatures were intelligent, they no doubt would hunt him in unison. Mark started wondering if maybe he should have waited up above the tree line and tried to finish them off up there before starting down. Then again, maybe the remaining creatures were too smart to be lured into a trap like that.

  “Make sure you keep that rifle cocked and ready,” Mark said once he was rested and was helping Phil climb up onto his back again.