The Hunted

by Mike Dellosso

Mary shook her head. "No way. This was a lion. It was as big as a small horse." She looked at John. "Wasn't it?"

  He nodded.

  Andy sighed and studied the lines on his blank notepad. "It's just that-"

  "Young man, look at me." Mary's tone caught Andy by surprise, and he jerked his head up. "I'm an old lady. I have arthritis in both my knees and shoulders and most of my spine. My hair is thinning, my hearing's going, and my skin is wrinkling, but do you see any glasses on this nose?"

  Andy stared at her spectacle-less nose.

  "Well, do you?"

  "Uh, no, ma'am."

  "No, because my eyesight is the only thing that hasn't failed me yet. It's still twenty-twenty." She leaned in and poked his notepad with her index finger. "Write it down. Mary Chronister saw a lion outside her window by a stand of maple trees. And now it's somewhere in those woods over there. Now what you do about it after you leave this house is your business. But I'm doing my civic duty by reporting it. Now don't second-guess me in my own house."

  Andy smiled and double-clicked his pen. He liked the old woman's feistiness. "Yes, ma'am."

  Maggie steered her cruiser off the rutted dirt road and stopped in front of the Yates house. It was a crisp, sunny, autumn day. A light breeze rustled what leaves were left on the trees. Beams of light reached through the porous canopy with thick fingers and mottled the leafy floor.

  Maggie sat in her cruiser surveying the site. With the exception of her brief visit yesterday, she hadn't been to the old ruin in ages.

  The clearing where the house sat was no more than fifty feet by fifty feet and, over the decades, was slowly being encroached by saplings and thickets. The house, what was left of it, was overgrown with moss. Vines had worked their way between the rocks in the walls, separating them and causing some areas to crumble. Around the right side and toward the back was the outhouse, leaning unsteadily to one side, the door still ajar from the previous night.

  Maggie turned off the engine, grabbed her flashlight from the seat, and got out of the car. She slowly entered the house through the empty doorway and stomped on the rotting floorboards, testing their stability. Satisfied with their strength, she approached the concrete staircase that descended into the cellar and pointed her flashlight down the steps. There was a trail of blood going down the stairs and a spattering of blood on the wall at the bottom-just as Joe had described it. She then swept the light along the dirt floor as far as she could. She'd have to go down there sooner or later. With one hand resting on her Glock and the other sweeping the light back and forth, she descended the steps.

  When she reached the bottom of the stairs she panned the whole room-ceiling, walls, floor-leaving no corner untouched by the light.

  Empty, except for a stack of old, rotted planks. But no sign of life.

  Good. She could breathe a little easier now.

  She turned toward the stairwell, squatted, and carefully inspected the dirt floor, looking for anything the beast may have left behind. Something glistened in the light. It was a clump of tan fur. Maggie picked it up and held it under the flashlight's beam. Looked like cat fur. She set the flashlight down, beam pointing at the ceiling, reached into her coat pocket, and pulled out a plastic bag. Shaking it open with one hand, she carefully placed the clump of fur in the bag, sealed it, and returned it to her pocket. Then, opening another bag, she held it against the wall and chipped some dried blood off the rock and into the bag. She sealed that bag as well and placed it in her pocket.

  She then picked up the flashlight and continued scanning the dusty floor, running the light along the ground at the base of the wall. The dirt was obviously disturbed and clumped from dried blood, but there was no lingering sign of any animal being in the vicinity.

  Then, as if a cold breeze had blown down the steps, Maggie's skin quivered and broke out in goose bumps. She had the overwhelming sense she was not alone. Blood pulsed through her ears like a river, and an eerie numbness crept over her body like a shadow. The air in the cellar felt heavy, thick with tension, as if the atmospheric pressure had just plummeted in anticipation of a monster of a storm.

  Something rustled in the far corner. And by the sound of it, something big.

  Forgetting the flashlight, Maggie spun around and peered into the darkness. The something moved again. She could just make out a faint image on the other side of the cellar, moving slowly, quietly. Pacing along the wall. Without taking her eyes off the image, she reached behind her and felt for the flashlight. Her hand groped blindly. Where was it? C'mon. C'mon! There. She whipped the light in front of her, pointing it in the direction of the image. The light sliced through the blackness like a sword and illuminated the corner.

  Nothing. Nothing but the stone foundation and that pile of old lumber.

  In a panic, Maggie pulled her Glock from its holster, holding it next to the flashlight, arms outstretched. She swept both the beam and the gun around the room, covering every square foot of space.

  Still nothing. The cellar was clean... and empty.

  Did I just imagine that? I must be losing my mind.

  She slipped her Glock back in its holster and snapped it shut. She had to get out of there; the cellar was giving her the creeps.

  CHAPTER 7

  OSA SAUNDERS KNELT by her son's hospital bed, hands clutching a black leather Bible to her chest, her head bowed low, lips moving silently. Prayer was where she found her strength, her hope. God was the only part of her life that never changed. Ever since she submitted her life to Jesus when she was in the fifth grade, He had been there for her. When her dad died of liver cancer when she was only fourteen-He was there. When her family moved to the States from Peru, leaving behind everything familiar and safe, and she was alone and isolated-He was there. When Rick died in the trucking accident-He was there. And now, with her precious son in a coma, his body battered and mauled-He was with her, taking every step stride for stride, carrying her when she could no longer find the strength to walk on her own. He was her God, her Savior, her Friend, her Rock. And it was always Him to whom she clung when life's storms raged.

  She could feel Him with her now in the darkened ICU room. He was present, wrapping her in His arms of love, holding her like a mother coddles her child when he's sick or hurt or scared. And He spoke to her, whispering words of peace and comfort, promising to care for her, to lift her up-assuring her that she would once again hold Caleb in her arms, watch him run, hear him laugh.

  She also prayed for Joe. She knew how hard he was taking everything. She knew how hard he had taken Rick's death. Joe blamed himself, hated himself. She knew. She could see it in his hollow eyes, hear it in the way his voice fell cold every time he talked about Rick. She prayed for him. She prayed that Jesus would draw him back and fill his life and wash away all the guilt and self-loathing. She prayed that Joe would let go and once again cling to the same rock to which she clung-the Rock that never faltered.

  The glass door to the room slid open with a quiet whoosh, and Rosa looked up, her cheeks damp with tears.

  "I'm sorry," Dr. Wilson said, diverting his eyes from Rosa. "I didn't mean to bother you."

  "No, no. It's OK, Doctor," Rosa said. She rose to her feet and extended both her arms to shake the doctor's hand. "Thank you so much for what you have done for my son. You have been a blessing."

  Dr. Wilson was a tall, lean man in his fifties with gaunt cheeks, deepset, pale periwinkle eyes, and a shock of thin flaxen hair, clumsily parted to one side. His hand was large and warm, his grip firm and reassuring. Rosa liked him. She had spoken to him on only two occasions since Caleb was admitted yesterday, but she had a sense about people, and she could tell Dr. Wilson was genuine. He truly cared about her son.

  "It helps that Caleb is so strong," Dr. Wilson said, a warm smile parting his lips. "How are you holding up? Are you getting enough rest?"

  Rosa nodded. "I am doing fine. God gives me strength moment by moment."

  Dr. Wilson motioned toward the chair. "Have a seat
and we'll talk about Caleb."

  Rosa sat, and Dr. Wilson leaned against the edge of Caleb's bed. "Good news and bad news," he said. Furrowing his brow, he studied the chart in his hand. "There's an infection in Caleb's arm. One of the grafts may need to be redone. We're increasing his antibiotics and will be monitoring his white blood cell count closely."

  He paused and breathed deeply. "Rosa, I won't sugarcoat this. Sometimes these infections can get the devil in them. If it gets out of control, we'll have to take the arm. We can't let the infection spread to the rest of his body. There's a good chance the antibiotics will do the job, though. I know you're a praying woman. This is something to pray about."

  Rosa nodded in silence.

  Dr. Wilson paused and held Rosa's gaze for a second. "Now, the good news. Caleb's cranial pressure has been improving steadily, and we're hoping tomorrow to take him off the medication that's keeping him in the coma. It's up to him then whether he wants to wake up or not."

  Tears welled in Rosa's eyes. She removed a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at them. "Thank you, Doctor. That is good news. As for the infection-we will have to put it in God's hands. I am trusting Him to take care of my son."

  Dr. Wilson smiled and reached for Rosa's hand. Taking it in his, he gave it a gentle squeeze. His voice was quiet and sincere. "I envy your faith. I can see it's what keeps you strong."

  "God keeps me strong."

  Miles away, in the tiny paper mill town of Dark Hills, the flame of a solitary oil lamp danced in the darkness of a small room, casting gyrating shadows on the walls. The globe had broken some time ago, exposing the flame to the cold drafts that blew through the decaying trailer home.

  Stevie Bauer knelt in the middle of the room, crouched so low his forehead rested on the dirty, faded carpet. His shaggy hair fell around his ears and draped on the floor, the faint smell of body odor wafted from his unwashed shirt, and carpet fibers pushed through holes in his jeans and embedded in his knees. Before him sat the tan tabby cat, relaxed on its haunches, head tilted curiously to one side.

  Stevie lifted his head, straightened his back, and sat back on his heels, facing the cat. He threw his head back and stared at the ceiling, eyes wide, hands resting on his thighs.

  He glanced at the cat, making sure it hadn't lost interest. It remained motionless, watching him intently, obviously intrigued. Stevie giggled. He liked having an audience.

  "I'm listenin'," Stevie said in a singsong way. The voice was speaking again. Her voice. And he had to listen carefully, follow directions, obey. Obey. He had to obey her voice. Momma always knows best.

  His eyes darted back and forth along the ceiling, and a smile stretched across his face. "Caleb Saunders... finish the job. Dinsmore. Dinsmore. Dinsmore. Dinsmore. Shoulda left Stevie alone. Woody Owen... poor cripple. Glen Sterner. Eddie Hopkins. Naughty boys. Time to pay up. And Bob. Bobby boy. You thought you got away with it, Bob."

  He paused, listening again. "Chief Gill, the old man. L-stone. Dirty pig. Last to go."

  He began to laugh, louder and louder, his voice filling the small trailer, his body shaking, twitching, shivering.

  Suddenly, as if a switch in his brain had been thrown, her voice stopped, and he fell silent. He looked at the cat; its eyes glowed large in the light of the lamp, reminding Stevie of two orange marbles. He tightened his vocal cords and made his voice high-pitched and childlike. "Soon, Momma. Soon. No one'll ever hurt us again."

  Stevie leaned forward and put his mouth to the cat's ear. "You ready?" he whispered.

  The cat growled low, pulled back, and took a swipe at his face. Stevie flinched and yanked his head back, reflexively covering his cheek with his hand. The skin under his fingers was wet and raw. He pulled his hand away and looked at his fingers-blood, bright and red, streaked across them. Stevie smiled. Blood tickled his cheek. The cat licked its paw.

  "Oh, you're ready," Stevie hissed, breaking into wild laughter. "You're ready!"

  Rosa was deep in prayer again. After speaking to Dr. Wilson and getting the latest on Caleb's condition, she felt compelled to take it to the Lord. Caleb was in God's hands now. There was so much damage to his little body-the head trauma, the shoulder, the skin grafts, the infection-only God could bring a full recovery.

  He's Your child, Lord-

  A soft knock came at the ICU room's door.

  Rosa looked up to find Chief Gill standing in the doorway. She was dressed in her beige uniform, hair gathered in a tight ponytail.

  Rosa's eyes widened with surprise. She got up, walked over to where Maggie stood, and took the younger woman's hands in hers. "Chief. What a pleasant surprise. Please, come in and sit."

  "Hi, Rosa." Maggie looked Caleb over, then met Rosa's eyes. Concern wrinkled her brow, darkened her eyes. "How's the little trooper doing?"

  Rosa shrugged. "He's alive, and for that I am thanking God, but he has a long way to go. He is fighting an infection now, where they did the skin grafts on his arm. But Dr. Wilson said they are giving him more antibiotics to hopefully take care of that." She sighed. "And then there is the brain swelling and the shoulder surgery." Rosa sat and forced a smile. "But I am trusting God to take care of him. And I know He will."

  Maggie seated herself in the other chair and patted Rosa's hand. "You're a strong woman, Rosa. I don't know how I would hold up if I were in your shoes."

  "You would do the same as me," Rosa said. "God, He gives strength when we need it most."

  "Are you doing OK as far as work goes? If you need me to take care of anything-"

  Rosa gave a little laugh and shook her head. "No, no, no. Thank you, but Mr. Bortner at the mill, he told me to take off as long as I need. He said they will hold my job for me. And Darlene, she is such a sweetheart. She said all the girls are practically fighting over each other to cover my shifts. I have been blessed to work for such great people. How many other bosses would be so generous?"

  Maggie shook her head and smiled. "Not many. I'm glad they're all being so thoughtful."

  "Joe told me you stopped by early this morning," Rosa said. "Thank you. That was very kind. Did you get a chance to talk to him?"

  Rosa didn't miss the sparkle that touched Maggie's eyes. "Yes, I did. He seems to be holding up OK."

  "Seems, yes. But there is a lot going on inside that heart of his, a lot that he keeps hidden away. He has never forgiven himself for his brother's death, and I know he partially blames himself for what has now happened to Caleb. He is very hard on himself."

  Maggie frowned. "I'm sorry to hear that. I never knew he held himself responsible for Rick's death. That must be an awful burden to carry around."

  Rosa cocked her head to one side and smiled at Maggie. She could almost read the woman's thoughts, as if they were written on her forehead. Rick had told her about Joe and Maggie's past relationship, and Rosa could tell Joe's sudden appearance last night had left Maggie shaken. She looked deep into Maggie's dark blue eyes and found the answer before she asked her next question. "You still love him, yes?"

  The question obviously caught Maggie off guard. Her cheeks reddened, she fumbled with her hands, and she struggled to clear her throat. Rosa knew Maggie had come here to talk about Caleb, not Joe, and certainly not her feelings for him, but some things needed to be brought into the light. And Rosa was never one to shy away from honest talk.

  Maggie cleared her throat again and ran a finger along her eyebrow. "I don't know. I feel something, but I don't know if I'd call it love or not." She dropped her eyes and studied her folded hands for a second. "I loved him once. Very much so. But that was a long time ago, and we've both changed so much."

  Rosa leaned forward and placed her hand on Maggie's. "Joe still has feelings for you. I can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice."

  Maggie frowned and glanced away. "Well, I don't know about all that. It was such a long time ago."

  "It wasn't that long ago. You should talk to him about it. I think he would open up to you."

  Maggi
e straightened, and suddenly her face turned cool, professional. "Maybe I will, if I get the chance. But right now, I have other things on my mind."

  CHAPTER 8

  FTER HER VISIT with Rosa, Maggie headed back to town for dinner. She strolled into Darlene's Diner, paused at the Please Wait to Be Seated sign, and waved at Darlene, who was coming straight at her, arms open wide.

  Darlene's Diner was Dark Hills's watering hole. The locals gathered there for breakfast, lunch, and dinner to catch up on the town gossip, share the latest news, and offer their opinions on everything from politics to religion to sports.

  Maggie never thought the small diner was much to look at. It was housed in a fifty-year-old building that began as Mack's Family Restaurant, was then The Dark Hills Restaurant, next Marco's Pizzeria, and finally The Johns Family Cafe. Darlene Slagle bought the floundering business from Pete Johns two years ago, closed the doors for two months while she gave the place a good scrubbing and new paint job, and reopened it under a new name and new management. It maintained its fifties era feel, though. The booths had red-topped tables rimmed with shiny chrome; the bench seats were red vinyl, cracked in places and held together with packing tape. There was a bar running along the left wall with red vinyl-topped chrome stools. Beyond the bar was the kitchen. "Always hoppin', never stoppin'." That's what Wayne Simmons, the stocky, dark-haired short-order cook said.

  But the main attraction at Darlene's was Darlene. She had grown up in Dark Hills, worked as a cook in the high school cafeteria for forty years, retired two years ago at the age of sixty, and knew everyone-and everything-in town. A large robust woman with bright red hair, green eyes, and a smile that could lighten the darkest mood, Darlene made sure to greet every one of her guests. She knew everyone in town by name and most of what was going on in their lives. She loved to talk, loved to laugh, and loved to hug. Even when strangers passing through Dark Hills would stop for a quick bite, they never left without first telling Darlene their entire life story and being the recipient of one of her locally famous hugs.