The Hunted

by Mike Dellosso

  The diner was her pride and joy, her dream come true. Her husband died of a heart attack five years ago, and Darlene used the life insurance money and her retirement savings to buy the beat-up old place. She was slowly remodeling and updating, but it took time and cost money, two things she just didn't have in abundance.

  "Maggie!" Darlene wrapped her arms around Maggie and just about lifted her off the floor. "Good to see ya. I was hoping you'd stop by soon."

  Maggie laughed and politely loosened the larger woman's grip. "Why do you say that? Is something wrong?"

  "Goodness, girl, I'm thinkin' of you. You've got a tough case, what with Rosa's boy and all. You doin' OK?"

  Maggie smiled. "I'm doing fine. Thanks."

  "Well, you give my best to Rosa next time you see her, OK? Tell her everyone here's thinkin' of her and prayin' for her and her boy."

  "I'll make sure to do that. I'm sure she'll appreciate it."

  Darlene put one arm around Maggie's shoulders, pulled her close, and gave her a gentle squeeze. "Now why don't you take a seat over there, and one a' the girls will be right with ya."

  Maggie crossed the room and slid into booth number 17, glad Darlene hadn't asked for details about the mauling. She wasn't ready to talk about it and didn't want to add to the rumor machine that was gaining momentum. Moments later, Joann, a middle-aged waitress, appeared, pen and pad in hand. "Evening, Chief Gill. What can I get you?"

  Maggie had no need for the menu; she ordered the same thing every time she stopped by for dinner. "I'll have the lasagna dinner with broccoli, Caesar side salad, and an unsweetened iced tea." Darlene's offered the best lasagna in town, hands down.

  "Sure thing," Joann said with smiling eyes. "I'll be back with the tea."

  "Thanks."

  Maggie took her cap off and set it on the seat beside her. The bells jingled at the front door, announcing the arrival of another patron in need of a hug. Maggie looked up and felt her heart skip a beat. It was Joe. She almost laughed when Darlene grabbed him and swallowed him in a bear hug. The expression on his face was simply priceless.

  So Joe Saunders was back. At least for a while. She watched him as he no doubt shared the thirty-second version of his life story with Darlene. He hadn't changed much in fifteen years. Sure, he'd put on a few poundsmostly muscle, though, from the looks of it-and his hair wasn't quite as brown as it once was. But besides that, he held a remarkable resemblance to the Joe Saunders she once loved. Could love again. Maybe.

  Rosa's words suddenly echoed through her head. He still has feelings for you. I can see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice.

  Still had feelings for her? What was she supposed to do with that? Especially when she didn't know how she felt about him.

  When Joe opened the glass front door he was pleasantly surprised by the change that had taken place in the old diner. The last time he set foot in the restaurant was as a teenager. It was The Dark Hills Restaurant then and probably inspired someone to coin the term greasy spoon. In fact, he was certain Scooter Koontz, the short-order cook who shared a remarkable likeness with Paulie, Burt Young's character in the Rocky movies, used the same grease to slick his hair and oil his mustache that he used to lube the burgers. It was no wonder the joint eventually folded.

  "Well, well, well. Joey Saunders!" Darlene said, running at Joe, green eyes flashing like emeralds. She wrapped her arms around him and clapped him on the back with both hands. It was like being wrapped in a burrito with a bottle of Chanel Number 5. "It's good to see ya again, sweetie." She released her hug and stepped back, keeping her hands on his shoulders. "Let me look at ya. Wow! You've grown into quite a looker." If there was one thing Darlene lacked, it was tact. She said what was on her mind and didn't care much how it came out. "Where've you been all these years?"

  Joe blushed at Darlene's sudden outburst of attention. "Living up in Huntingdon County-"

  "Are ya married?" Darlene glanced at his left hand. "Girlfriend? Good- lookin' guy like you shouldn't be alone."

  "No, no. Not yet. I do OK with alone."

  "Aw, sure ya do. And ya got a bridge to sell me too, right? So what brings you back to Dark Hills?"

  "I'm here visiting my sister-in-law, Rosa-"

  The smile disappeared from Darlene's face. "That's right; I plum forgot you two are family. Ain't that a shame? How's the little guy doin'?"

  "He's in a coma. It's kind of touch-and-go right now. He needed some pretty complicated surgery on his shoulder and skin grafts. But the doctors seem pleased that he's at least in stable condition."

  Darlene shook her head slowly. "Poor boy. Sweet kid. How's Rosa holdin' up? How's she handling everything?"

  Joe smiled politely. "She's hanging in there. She's a strong woman." He paused, feeling that familiar lump rise in his throat, then turned the conversation back to Darlene. "How are you?"

  "Oh, never better. Never better. Look at this," she said, looking around the small diner as if it were Buckingham Palace. "I finally got my own place."

  "It's beautiful, Darlene. Good for you. I'm so happy for you."

  "Business is great too." She patted Joe's arm. "Hey, why don't you grab a booth, and I'll have Joann hook you up with some good grub-on the house. Our specialty is the broiled chicken. Absolutely delicious."

  "Great. I'm hungry as a bear."

  Joe turned to find a booth, but Darlene caught his arm and stopped him. "Joe"-she leaned in close, and Joe could smell the peppermint on her breath-"have you seen Maggie yet?"

  "Yeah. She visited Caleb in the hospital. We talked a little."

  Darlene tightened her grip on Joe's arm and motioned to where Maggie sat. "Why don't you two have some dinner together?"

  Joe looked in the direction of Darlene's nod and saw Maggie sitting in a booth, smiling. She gave a little wave. He waved back. "That sounds like a good idea. Thanks, Darlene."

  "And Joe"-she smiled and winked-"Maggie ain't married either; what a coincidence, huh?"

  Laughing, Joe said, "Thanks for the heads-up. If I meet anyone interested I'll be sure to let him know."

  He walked up to Maggie's booth and stopped beside it. "Hey. Mind if I join you?"

  "Not at all," Maggie said. "Have a seat."

  Joe sat down and the waitress appeared. He ordered the broiled chicken, then sat back and grinned at Maggie. "So are you on break?"

  Maggie gave a quick laugh. "I'm never on break. A cop is always on duty, even when she's off duty."

  Joe thought how appealing Maggie still was and how much she still resembled Ms. Hepburn. She didn't cake the makeup on like some women. She didn't need to. She had a natural beauty about her-large eyes, thin, straight nose, full lips, small chin. She was older now, that was evident, but she was the same Maggie Gill he knew way back when. Or was she? People can change a lot in fifteen years.

  Harold Lippy cruised down Route 20, pressing his old pickup's accelerator closer to the floor. It was evening, the sun had just waved its farewell and dipped below the horizon, and the long, straight stretch of asphalt was abandoned. What did it matter if he was pushing sixty in a forty-five? He wasn't thinking about that anyway. His mind was on the conversation he had just had with Dick Moyer at the Legion. Harold smiled in the dark cab of his truck. A lion. What a crock. Did he really think he'd get an audience with that story? That kid getting attacked over the weekend had everyone a little on edge, jumping to conclusions, speculating, spreading rumors.

  Still, something about Dick's retelling of the lion incident didn't sit right with him. He had fought side by side with Dick in World War II. They landed in France together on D-Day, dodged mortars, watched their peers die violent deaths, shook with fear, and cried for their mothers. They were only eighteen, and they went through hell together. For the past thirty years, they met at the American Legion every other Tuesday afternoon and swapped war stories with the other vets in town. Talking about the horrors they experienced and shared was therapy for all of them.

  Harold was always impress
ed with Dick's memory and ability to recall events, battles, and people in such vivid detail. He made it all come alive again-the sounds of bullets whizzing by, the vibration of the earth when a mortar landed dangerously close, the screams in the night from the wounded, the smell of blood in the foxholes, even the twang of Sergeant Spivey's Tennessee draw. It was all there again, in vivid color, like a digitally remixed version of an early, black-and-white film. When Dick reminisced, the memories flooded back, so real, so intense, sometimes Harold would go home and cry. He didn't mind, though; it was good for him to recall those times, it gave his life some purpose, some meaning. He was a hero; that's what the kids down at the elementary school called him when he visited to talk about the war. He never got into too much detail, though. Their little minds didn't need to know about the blood and gore and death and fear, only about the heroics of the American fighting men.

  But what was he to make of this lion story? Harold knew Dick was no liar; he had gone through everything Dick talked about, and the man didn't embellish a thing, told it just as it happened. But a lion? In Dark Hills? Impossible. Maybe Dick had taken one too many sips of his beer. He wasn't a drinking man and never could hold his liquor.

  Suddenly, something stopped Harold mid-thought. He slammed the brake pedal to the floor and the pickup fish-tailed to a stop, tires screeching in the still night. Two glowing eyes peered at him through the darkness, straight ahead, in the middle of the road.

  Harold closed his eyes tightly. No way. He had to be seeing things. He opened them and looked again. The eyes were still there, hovering just above the asphalt horizon.

  Without thinking, Harold reached for the .22 in the rear of the cab, opened the glove box, and removed an ammo clip. He shoved the clip in the rifle and flipped the bolt up, back, and, forward, chambering the first round.

  Opening the cab door slowly so it didn't squeak, he stepped out, staying behind the open door-just in case. The eyes were getting closer, growing larger, looming, floating.

  It had to be Dick's lion.

  Harold rolled the door's window down and propped the barrel of the rifle on the frame, holding the stock against his shoulder. Not tonight, buddy boy. You picked the wrong soldier to hunt.

  Sighting down the short barrel, he aimed for the gaping space between the eyes. It would take more than one shot to bring the beast down. He steadied his hand by exhaling slowly and squeezed the trigger. The sound of the gun startled him, and his hand slipped off the trigger. He slammed the bolt up, back, forward, aimed, and fired again. The eyes swerved to the right, almost jumping the ditch alongside the road and heading into the cornfield. But they steadied again and headed right for him. His heart pounded, tightening his chest, shortening his breath. A throbbing ache had overtaken his left arm, and his vision blurred.

  He rubbed at his eyes, reloaded, and fired again. This time he heard it-Ping! The sound of a bullet ricocheting off metal.

  Suddenly, the eyes stopped, no more than fifty yards away, and a voice hollered, "Hey! Hey, man! What are you doing? Are you nuts?"

  Harold dropped his rifle and clutched his chest, then collapsed to the asphalt. The rifle rattled to the ground beside him. He couldn't catch his breath. An unbearable weight had landed on his chest, paralyzing him, suffocating, pressing the life out of his lungs.

  The last thing he saw before he blacked out was a man run up to him, curse loudly, then bend over, yelling something into a cell phone.

  Maggie could hardly believe that after a decade and a half of not hearing a peep from the man she was once sure she'd marry, he was now sitting across the table from her and they were having dinner together. It was like something out of some cheesy romance movie. Girl and boy fall in love, grow up, go their own ways, lose contact, only to reconnect over a decade later, changed people, and fall in love all over again. Well, she didn't know about the falling in love all over again part. But maybe...

  Maggie leaned her elbows on the table and smiled at Joe. "Where are you staying?"

  "At the Dew-Drop Motel down the road. It's OK. Clean."

  Maggie picked up a sugar packet and fingered it thoughtfully. "What have you been up to these past fifteen years?" She knew she might be rushing it, prying into his personal life a little too quickly, but she wasn't one to beat around the bush. He knew that.

  Joe smiled and shook his head. "That's the Maggie Gill I once knew. Right to the point. Actually, I was wondering when you would ask. After the army, I was going to come back and try to pick up where we left off, but... it just didn't feel right. I don't know. I got into some bad things in the military and was really screwed up when I came out. For a while I worked for a trucking company making deliveries up and down the East Coast."

  He hesitated, and Maggie could see by the pain in his eyes that he was once again fighting off the feelings of guilt. He swallowed and continued. "After Rick died, I took some time off, just wanted to be alone, you know, then started my own landscaping business. I've been doing that now for a little over nine years. Mags, I'm sorry I never came back for you, never even contacted you. Like I said, I was really messed up there for a while. One day I woke up in a jail cell and realized I needed to change some things-even started going to church and praying and stuff. I had to start over completely. It was slow going because I had a lot to change, and change doesn't come easy for me, but I was getting there. Then Rick's ... accident happened, and I sorta lost it. It was like climbing a difficult rock face and just as you're making some progress, getting a hang of it, you lose your grip and fall backward. I lost interest in everything, God, church, everything. Lost all the ground I had gained." He shrugged his shoulders. "But that's my battle. I'm sorry I hurt you."

  Maggie smiled, and a gentle warmness spread throughout her body. Joe Saunders had sure grown up. She remembered the first time they met. It was in the first grade at Dark Hills Elementary. The school year wasn't even four days old when Joe lifted Maggie's skirt on the playground. Miss Munchin witnessed the crime and was on the scene in seconds. Grabbing hold of Joe's ear with a deadly pincher grip, she dragged him all the way to Principal Spotts's office. Spotts gave Joe a good clobbering on the behind and sent him home, where his mom gave him another clobbering. The next day Joe, walking a bit more gingerly than usual, found Maggie first thing and apologized. Don't ask why, but after that they were best friends and remained so all the way through high school.

  Maggie smiled at the memory. The look on Joe's face when Munchin took hold of his ear was worth millions.

  "I suppose all of us have battles to fight," she said. "It's not easy being chief of police and a woman."

  "Seems like everyone likes you."

  She laughed. "I don't know about that. They put on a smile and say `Hi, Chief,' but I know there's plenty of them in this town who think I belong in a kitchen with a kid strapped to my waist. And I'm sure most of them think I'm too young to handle this job. Heck, sometimes I think I'm too young."

  "Well, from what I've seen so far, you're doing a great job. Hey, how did it go at the Yates place this morning? Did you find anything?"

  Maggie was glad for the change of subject. She wasn't ready to talk about domestic life with Joe. There was once a time when all she wanted was to be in a kitchen with a kid strapped to her. Their kitchen; their kid. "Just some clumps of fur. Looked like cat, but I wasn't sure. I sent it away for the lab to take a look." She paused, not sure if she wanted to tell Joe about the eerie shadow. But what the heck, maybe he saw something similar. "There was something else, though."

  Joe cocked his head. "What do you mean?"

  "I-I don't know exactly. I got the feeling something was down there with me, watching me. And...I saw something in the corner. But when I shined the light on it, nothing was there but some old boards. It was probably just my overactive imagination playing tricks on me, but it really creeped me out." She sighed and rolled her eyes. "I was probably just seeing things. It's pretty creepy down there. I guess all the ghost stories about that place jus
t got to me."

  "Well, something is out there, something real. That was no ghost that attacked Caleb, and we need to find it before it attacks again."

  Maggie frowned. "You think it will attack again?"

  "It's only a matter of time. If not here, it will be somewhere else. It has the taste of human blood now, and who knows where it will turn up next."

  Woody Owen backed his wheelchair away from the refrigerator, a can of Michelob and bowl of sour cream and onion dip on his lap. He wheeled over to the pantry, opened the door, and reached for the potato chips. Another quiet evening at home. Just him and the TV. Stephen King's The Shining was on tonight, and Woody was looking forward to settling into his recliner, snacks in hand, and enjoying the show. He spun his wheelchair around-it took him months of practice to be able to maneuver the chair in his tiny house-backed up a few feet, turned to the right, and headed into the living room, dodging stacks of newspapers and porn magazines.

  Parking his chair at an angle to the recliner, he set his goodies on a TV tray to his left. He then lifted himself off the seat, spun his weight to the right, and landed softly in the oversized TV-throne.

  He was ready; let the show begin.

  The opening scene came on, and the TV flickered brightly in the darkened room. Woody reached for his beer, popped the lid, and took a long swig, wincing as the carbonation burned his throat. He then grabbed the bag of chips and tore them open. He'd seen The Shining a hundred times before, saw all of Stephen King's movies, but this was his favorite. This was going to be a great evening. Good snacks, good movie, nobody to bother him.

  Right before the first commercial break, Woody's rottweiler, Cujo, began barking wildly outside. He was used to Cujo's ranting; the dog didn't know when to shut up. He'd bark at a squirrel in the yard. But this was different. The barking was continuous, intermingled with low guttural growls.

  "Hey, Cujo," Woody hollered, not taking his eyes off the TV. "Shat up, will ya!"