“This is not just a theory of yours, is it?” Matt asked. “You’ve got proof that these... whatever the hell they are, really exist, don’t you?”
“Hard proof that would stand up in a court of law, under intense scrutiny? No. Nearly everybody has a hobby, Husky, whether they will call it that or not. Mine always has been collecting data on the disappearances in that area where Jimmy bought it.”
“Bought it? You think he’s dead?”
“Yes, I think he’s dead. And I think he was eaten.”
“Eaten?”
“Yes. I think the Unseen are cannibals.”
“Jesus Christ, man!”
“I told you I believed them to be subhuman. What’s so strange about flesh-eaters? The animal kingdom is filled with carnivores. These carnivores just happen to have some ability to think, that’s all. Wait here. I brought this from home to give to you.”
Matt waited for a moment, trying to digest what Swallow had told him. It was tough going.
The old agent came back into the room with a large box. “Some of these clippings go back over a hundred years. They’re copies of the originals. I found them in old trunks in basements and attics. I told you: this is my hobby. These are newspaper clippings, old personal letters, personal accounts from individuals. Read them, then draw your own conclusions. Husky, not one body has ever been found. No bones, either. And no sign of any of those who disappeared. Does that tell you anything? Does that raise the short hairs on the back of your neck? It damn sure does mine, and it has for a long, long time.”
Matt expelled breath and shook his head. “Jesus, man. Have you told anybody about your suspicions?”
“Only my wife. She’s from that part of the country, too. Her brother was a professional guide. A good, solid man who wasn’t easily spooked and could live off the land for weeks if he had it to do. Back in the late fifties he went into an area that was mostly uncharted to check out the game. He never came back. It was like he’d dropped off the face of the earth. His horses were never found. This time there was a very extensive search. Nothing, not a clue. Not one track or hoofprint was found. Does that tell you anything? Finally the searchers called it off and a memorial service was held. End of story.”
“Somebody went back and erased the tracks.”
“You got it.”
“Are you trying to spook me, old son?” Matt asked, meeting the older man’s eyes.
“No, Husky. What I am trying to do is warn you to be on your toes when you go into that area. Whatever it is in there knows the land—every blade of grass, every tree, every rock, every trail. You don’t. I don’t have to tell you not to take anything for granted. That Idaho state trooper was more on the mark than he realized when he code-named this operation the Unseen. You watch your ass, Husky.”
Matt shook hands with the man, picked up the box, and said he’d be back for his equipment. He left the store and hailed a cab back to the motel. He had a lot of reading to do.
* * *
Matt stared at the box he’d placed on the dresser in his motel room. Eaten. Subhuman cannibals roaming the Great Primitive Area. Jimmy dead. Eaten.
What was that line? Curiouser and couriouser.
He took off his jacket and tie, kicked off his loafers, and opened the box. It was so tightly packed with documents that the contents spilled over the side when he cut the twine that held it closed. He picked up a double handful of letters and clippings and sat down.
Several hours later, he leaned back and rubbed his face, closing his weary eyes. Tomorrow he would start putting all of it into some sort of chronological order. But for now, he had to conclude that much of what he’d been told by Swallow carried some weight. Something—correction, some things—were working the woods and valleys of the wilderness area. Whatever they were—and Matt now believed they were human, perhaps a subspecies of human—they possessed at least some degree of intelligence and a remarkably high propensity for savagery and cunning.
And for human flesh.
The jangling of the phone woke him at seven the next morning. He had slept deeply and dreamlessly and felt good. He picked up the receiver.
“Simmons wants to see you, like right now,” Swallow’s voice came into his ear.
“Does he want me to come to his office in my drawers?” Matt asked, stretching between the sheets.
The man chuckled. “You’d better go see him ASAP, Husky. He’s bouncing off the walls.”
“I am beginning to develop a profound dislike for this individual.”
“I can assure you the feeling is mutual.”
* * *
“Let’s set the record straight, Mister Matt Jordan, or whatever your name is,” Agent-in-Charge Simmons said. “I just don’t like you people.”
“Any particular reason?” Matt asked. He took a sip of very bad coffee and set the cup on Simmons’ desk. “When did you make this coffee, last year?”
“Which question do you want answered?”
“I don’t give a damn if you choose not to answer either of them. What’s with you, Simmons? I got along fine with the Bureau people who work the overseas desk. I come back stateside and find all sorts of hostility. What’s your problem?”
Simmons glared at him. He was so angry his nostrils flared like a charging boar’s. “Are you telling me you don’t know about all the damned politicking that went on?”
Matt sat up straight in his chair and leaned forward, placing one hand on the desk. “Simmons, the only thing I know for sure is that I pulled the pin and was making plans to enjoy my still somewhat youthful retirement. Then I am asked by the Agency to take one more job. We agree to money. The reasoning behind why they wanted me, I presume, is because I went to high school with some of the people who are planning a couple of weeks camping in the area in question. I’m assuming that you know we lost a man in there.”
Simmons nodded his big, graying head curtly.
“Fine. That makes it our business. Now Simmons, I know all about the Bureau throwing temper tantrums after Congress OK’d and legalized some domestic work by us a few years back. I don’t know why you people elected to do so much hanky stomping about it, but we can work domestic and we don’t have to have your goddamned permission to do so. Now you know as much about why I was elected to go in as I do.”
Some of the steam went out of the Bureau man. He relaxed just a little. “The problem is,” he said with a deepening frown (Matt had yet to see him smile), “I never can tell when you people are telling the truth.”
“You want me to take a PSE test?”
“Would you?”
“As long as the questions pertained to this job only, yes. If that would help you get over your anger.”
Simmons leaned back, relaxing more. “I believe you mean that, Matt.” He waved a hand. “OK, OK. So you’re on the level. A truce?”
“Fine with me.”
Simmons picked up a folder and held it so Matt could see. “Three weeks ago, the Justice Department officially jerked us off the operation that is code-named Unseen. I questioned that decision all the way up to the top and got chewed because of it. You know we lost a major informant in there?”
Matt nodded his head.
“That made it our business.”
“Yes. I can understand your anger over that. It’s certainly justified.”
“Thank you. What I’m about to tell you is between us and unprovable.”
“All right.”
“I think some people in Idaho government—and probably big guns outside of state government—pulled some political strings in order to keep this . . . situation quiet. It would be very bad for the tourist trade. It would be bad press if the network people picked up on the tourists disappearing in the wilderness area.”
“Yes. I can see that. But why pull you people off the case?” He knew, but decided to let the FBI man get it all out of his system.
Simmons allowed himself a measured smile. Matt was curious to see if his face would crack
and fall off with the unfamiliar movement. It didn’t. “Because we do things legally, Matt.”
“Yes,” Matt agreed. “And that by-the-book, legal crap is one of the many reasons this nation is wallowing in a crime wave unparalleled in its history.”
A grimace of disgust passed over Simmons’ face. “And your answer to that is lawlessness on the part of law enforcement personnel, I suppose?”
“Not necessarily,” Matt said, surprising the FBI man. “As much as I might feel sorry for a rabid dog, I don’t want to pet it. We are supposedly a nation of laws, Simmons. Most people obey them—or the major laws, anyway. There are those who don’t and never will. If you doubt that, check the recidivism rate of people leaving our prisons. I don’t advocate putting people who write hot checks in the gas chamber, Simmons. I believe in restitution and rehabilitation programs for people who commit nonviolent crimes. But there has to be a limit even there. There has to come a time when society says ‘enough!’ A criminal is given three or four or five chances to go straight and blows every one of them. Those who commit heinous crimes should be dealt with swiftly and harshly. That is when you either dispose of them in a humane manner—despite the fact that they didn’t treat their victims humanely—or else lock them up forever.”
Simmons exhaled slowly. “As much as it pains me to admit it, Matt, I agree with you. OK, so you profess not to be the ogre I expected.” He held up another file. “But this says you are. This report says that when an organized crime family out of New York City tried to move into a South American country where you were chief of station, you and your people dealt with them in a very savage and brutal fashion. Any comments?”
“Is this conversation being recorded?”
“No. And if you want to sweep this office, I’ll lend you the equipment to do it.”
“This is off the record?”
“Hell, yes!”
“The Mafia, or Costa Nostra, or family, or whatever the current fashionable name is for that puke, sent thirty-one men into my territory. At first I went through channels to get rid of them. Strictly legal. Your people came down there and mucked around, trying to build a case to get them kicked out of the country. Everything by the book. By this time the Mafia was interfering in my operations. They got one of my men killed and several wounded; another four were exposed. They began killing innocent people down there—good, solid citizens of that country who were fighting organized crime by writing about it in the newspapers and reporting about it on the television. Women with babies were blown up or machine-gunned by the Mafia and their hired goons. I got tired of you people jacking around so I set up a meet with the thugs and goons. We killed them all, cut off their heads with chainsaws, wrapped the heads in heavy plastic, and packed them in a crate. We sent the crate back to the capo in New York City. I got lead in both my legs on that operation. I’m retiring on disability.”
Simmons’ mouth dropped open. “Jesus Christ!”
Matt stood up and walked to the closed door. He turned and stared at Simmons. “We had no more trouble with that crime family. That’s the way you do it, Simmons. I don’t give a damn if a criminal likes me or hates me, just as long as he fears me. Go back and read history, Simmons. John Adams said it: fear is the foundation of government. And I’ll add to that: once the citizens lose that fear, a government cannot enforce its laws. If you doubt that, look at what’s happening in this country today.”
Matt turned and opened the door, stepping out into the hall. He closed the door behind him.
Simmons slowly closed the file folder on Matt Jordan, code-named Husky.
4
Once on the street, Matt allowed himself a satisfying chuckle. He and his people had ambushed the Mafia soldiers and killed them all. But they had not cut off their heads. They had talked about it and rejected it. Too messy.
He went back to the motel and started putting the clippings and letters into chronological order.
He spent all day doing that, and just before going to bed, he knew there was no way he was going to hang around Denver for two and a half weeks doing nothing. He called Swallow and told him to get his gear out to him so he could go in early. Then he called Stapleton Field and booked the 7 A.M. flight out to Boise. By noon the next day he was driving a rented pickup truck, heading north.
He spent the night in a small motel and was up early the next morning. By eight A.M. he was on the road. The end of the line was about seventy-five miles to the east.
On the way up from Boise, he had stopped at every store he found that carried sporting goods and bought two or three boxes of .223 ammo for his Ruger Mini-14—stainless steel with folding stock. He would cache small stockpiles of ammo along the way as he went into the wilderness area.
Getting the Mini-14 in had been easy. He just folded it up and stashed it in his luggage with his pistol. With his government identification, he could have easily checked weapons through legally; but he wanted to see how good American airport security was. As far as he was concerned it was a joke. Try getting weapons through in any Israeli-run airport terminal and you’d be flat on your back looking up at the muzzles of Uzis.
He drove to the end of the line: no more roads ran east from this point all the way over to the Montana state line. He paid for his room at the small lodge—they had only seven rooms—cash in advance, reserving it for six weeks, and told the man he’d be in and out, mostly out. The manager assured him that his vehicle and personal belongings would be safe there. And would Mr. Jordan like to arrange for a guide?
“No. Just a saddle horse and packhorse.”
“Ah ... sir, there are historic trails you can take that are well marked and safe. But the closest one is some miles south of here.”
“I’m not interested in historic trails. I also want to rent the horses for six weeks. You have a stable here for them?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Jordan, have you ever been in this area?”
“No.”
“It’s rugged country out there, sir. Lots of people get turned around and lost.”
Matt looked at the concerned manager and smiled. “You ever spent much time in the jungles around the Amazon River?”
“No, sir. Never been there.”
“I have.”
The man smiled. Message received.
Matt stuck out his hand and the man introduced himself as the owner of the lodge. Five minutes later, Matt was in his room and on the horn to Langley requesting a hurried-up check on the lodge owner.
It came back late that evening. “He’s clean, Husky. He’s a good solid type. Not a blemish on him anywhere, and we accessed the Idaho State Police files to get his social security number. He’s clean with the IRS, too.”
“Thanks, man.”
“No problem. Watch your ass going in.”
“Bright and early in the morning.”
“Did you notify the Bureau backup team?”
“No. I can take care of myself. I want the Bureau in place when I go in with the amateurs.”
“Understandable.” The man in Langley hung up.
Matt checked his equipment, then showered and went to bed. He was looking forward to entering the wilderness area.
He saddled up right after breakfast. The lodge owner watched him for a few minutes as Matt loaded the pack horse and tied the tarp-covered equipment down. Satisfied that Matt knew what he was doing, though still a little concerned about Matt going in alone, he nodded and walked back to the lodge.
Matt rode about a thousand meters from the lodge, dismounted, and took his compass from a plastic side pouch on his belt. He shot an azimuth, carefully marking the bearings. His watch was a Revue Thommen Landmark; in addition to being a fine timepiece, it was also a solar compass that located the cardinal points of direction in relation to the sun.
Now Matt knew to the precise degree where his entry point was. Getting back would be easy. It was doubtful he would lose both his watch and the other compass.
Out of sight of the lodge, Matt to
ok his Mini-14 from under the tarp, slipped a 30-round clip into its belly, and jacked in a round. He put the weapon on safety, slung it, and rode on.
He stayed off any trail as he headed east. His plan was to spend ten days in the area, first riding over to the Selway River—as close to it as time permitted—then cutting toward the Salmon River, known as the River of No Return. He would then work his way back to the lodge. Matt didn’t think he would be able to complete that schedule, but he was going to cover as much ground as possible. If nothing else was accomplished, he would at least get the lay of the land.
He crossed canyons and meadows and creeks, plunging deeper into the wilderness, stopping every now and then to check his bearings. He rode easy and slow, his eyes always moving as the wilderness closed in around him. The feeling of solitude struck him hard. This land was primitive, pristine in its beauty and silent in the danger it presented to any amateur who dared venture into it.
He chose his campsite for the evening carefully. If anybody out there was stalking him, they could approach his camp by only two directions, and he secured them with perimeter alerts, running the black wire at ankle, waist, and shoulder levels. If a wire was violated, a series of very loud pops and bangs would warn Matt that his camp was being penetrated and give him the necessary seconds to prepare.
He also knew that a good horse was just as good or better than a watchdog. It, too, would warn him if anyone approached the camp.
But that night no one did. Matt was up with the sun, making coffee and frying bacon. He carefully put out his fire and saddled up, moving toward the east.
Midmorning of the second day out, he stopped to let his horses water and to eat some rations. He had picketed his horses and loosened the cinches to let them blow and was finishing his snack when he suddenly got the feeling he was being watched.
He gave no indication that he had sensed whatever it was tracking him. But what bothered him even more was that the horses were not alarmed by the intruder or intruders. They continued to graze contentedly, pawing and munching. Was it just his imagination? He didn’t think so. He’d been in too many tight spots not to trust his intuition. He lifted his watch as if to check the time, and, using the black-faced timepiece as a mirror, scanned the area behind him. He could find nothing.
Watchers in the Woods Page 4