The Hunted

by Mike Dellosso

  "Joe, I need to tell you something," Rosa said. Her voice broke with emotion. "You are partly responsible for Rick's death."

  Joe looked at her. Now she had his attention. But there was kindness in her eyes, not anger or blame.

  "He was trying to save your job. He should have just let you fall on your face and learn from your mistake. But he loved you too much." She paused, took a deep breath, and wiped a tear from her eye. "But I forgive you, and so does God. He loves you, Joe, and I know He misses you. Let it go. The guilt. Trust God again. He will see you through." The tears then broke loose, spilling out of her eyes and down her cheeks. Both she and Joe began to cry. She hugged him again and buried her face in his shirt.

  After a few seconds, Joe released her, turned, and left the room without saying another word. Her words had struck him with all the force of a charging bull, and he needed time to sort things out.

  The sun hung high in the sky. Maggie looked at her watch-ten after three-then at Clark Martin. He looked grim. His sun-worn and leathery face was creased with deep wrinkles. His thick, wild eyebrows were pinched above his eyes, and his lips were pressed thin under a yellowing beard. He patted the rear seat of the four-wheeler and hollered, "Hop on, Chief. I'll show you."

  Maggie climbed on, straddled the seat, and held on to Clark's coat. He had called earlier in the day saying there was something very interesting he wanted to show her. At first she had balked. Clark was known for his often eccentric behavior. A few months ago, Kevin the mailman told her Clark had brandished a shotgun and threatened to shoot him if he ever delivered junk mail again. Maggie had to spend half the day trying to calm Clark down and get him to promise never to shoot Kevin.

  Then there was the cow leg incident. Clark ran a small dairy farm just outside Dark Hills and had about fifty cows. One day, Helen Carbaugh called Maggie in hysterics. Her dog had eaten a cow and brought one of the rear legs home. Maggie drove out to Mrs. Carbaugh's place and, sure enough, little Baxter was in the backyard chomping away on a cow's hind leg. After a little investigating, Maggie discovered that the cow had died a natural death, and Clark had removed the legs so his own dogs, all five of them, could "snack on 'em," as he put it. Baxter must have been drawn by the smell and stole himself a tasty snack.

  So when Clark called her saying he had something "intristin"' to show her, she wasn't sure she really wanted to see. Knowing Clark, interesting may not be the right word. But her curiosity had been piqued, so she agreed.

  One thing she quickly found was that Clark drove a four-wheeler with as much grace as a stampeding herd of buffalo. They flew through open field, bouncing over ruts and swerving around groundhog holes, jarring teeth loose when Clark didn't see one or didn't react in time. Every few seconds, he would turn his head and holler, "Sorry, Chief," but Maggie didn't want his apologies; she wanted him to watch where he was going... and slow down. She was sure she was going to be thrown from the vehicle and be pulverized by the ground whizzing by beneath them.

  Thankfully, the death ride lasted only a few minutes. Clark stopped the four-wheeler beside what appeared to be the carcass of a cow and shut off the engine.

  "Is that-," Maggie started to ask.

  "Yup, it's a cow. What's left of her."

  Maggie climbed off the four-wheeler and circled the carcass. The chest cavity had been ripped open and gutted, exposing bare ribs, picked clean of meat. The rear legs were missing, and the front legs were nothing but bones and tendons. The thick hide covering the back was shredded, the torn flesh curled around deep gashes. The cow's face was drawn and frozen in a look of panic, like it had given up the ghost in midscream. And then there was the odor-the nostril-burning smell of death after it had spent a morning and afternoon ripening under the sun.

  "Sumptin' attacked this here cow," Clark said, crouching beside the cow's head and poking at it with his finger.

  Maggie didn't answer.

  "I told you it was intristin', Chief."

  "Yeah, Clark, it sure is."

  Clark looked up at her and squinted in the sunlight. For the first time Maggie noticed he was chewing on something. She couldn't tell what it was other than that it was black and was staining his teeth an odd shade of purple. "Any thoughts?" he asked.

  Maggie shrugged. She wasn't about to tell Clark Martin a lion attacked his cow. She knew better than to throw gasoline on a fire. Word would be all over town before the day was over. "I don't know. What do you think?"

  Clark stood and narrowed his eyes at Maggie. He ran a weathered hand over his jaw. "I've been hearin' word 'round town that there's a lion on the loose." He jerked his head in the direction of the cow. "Sure looks like sumptin' a lion would do, don't it?"

  Too late. Word had apparently already spread through town.

  Maggie forced a laugh. "Well, I know there are some rumors going around, Clark, but I don't know how much stock I'd put in them. This is Dark Hills, remember. America. Unless something's changed, I don't recall ever hearing that we have lions running wild in America. That's why they call them African lions. Now there are-"

  "Chief-" Clark cut her off, holding up both hands and waving them like he was washing windows. "I don't know nuthin' 'bout what do and don't live in America. What I do know is that some folk say they seen a lion, and now I got me a dead cow that looks an awful lot like the work of one of them beasts."

  Maggie nodded in consent. "I know, Clark. I know. I'm sorry about your cow. And as soon as I figure out what's going on around here, I'll let you know." That should hold him off for a little while, she thought. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to be getting back to the station. I know it's not the answer you were looking for, but I really don't have an answer yet."

  Clark shrugged and climbed onto the four-wheeler. "If you say so, Chief," he said, turning the key and bringing the engine to life. "Hop on!"

  Oh, brother. Maggie climbed on and tapped Clark's shoulder. "Go slower this time," she yelled in his ear.

  "What?" And he gunned it.

  CHAPTER 13

  LSTON GILL'S ROOM in St. Magdalene's Care Home was dimly lit and smelled like urine and sweat. Maggie stood in the doorway and watched her father, the former Chief Elston Gill, sleep. He'd spent the last four years of his life in this place, slowly deteriorating.

  Maggie's mother, Gloria, died six years ago from cervical cancer, and Elston just couldn't function without her. He'd lost weight, showed up late for work, misplaced police reports, even wrecked his cruiser when he ran a stop sign, plowed into a pasture, and bowled over one of Clark Martin's heifers.

  Maggie had moved in with him, thinking she could help him cope with the grief and make the life adjustment a little more smoothly, but a little over a year later, Elston suffered a major stroke and lost all control of his right side. His days as police chief were over.

  Maggie tried to care for him on her own, wanted to keep him in his own home where she thought the memories of a life well lived might give him strength and purpose, but Elston only deteriorated further. It seemed without his beloved wife and without his beloved badge, he saw no reason to continue living and simply gave up trying. But fate was not on his side, and death was not ready for him. So when Maggie could no longer handle playing caregiver and newly appointed police chief, she put him in St. Magdalene's, a long-term care facility in Quinceburg.

  Now, leaning against the doorjamb, hands shoved in her jacket pockets, she watched her dad sleep. He was wearing the light blue pajamas with navy blue trim she'd gotten him for Christmas two years ago. The bed covers were pulled up and neatly folded back at his waist.

  The small room was nothing like home. A nondescript dresser sat against one wall, topped with a brass lamp, a framed picture of a young Elston in his uniform, and a small wooden jewelry box. Against the wall at the foot of the bed stood a coffee table with a TV. Next to the bed was a small table with a box of tissues, a clock, and a picture of Elston and Gloria at Maggie's graduation from the academy.

  A twinge of guilt
always jabbed at Maggie whenever she visited, which was never often enough. At times she felt as though she should have given up her position as chief to care for her dad. Family was more important than a job, wasn't it? But at other times she knew this was exactly what her dad had wanted her to do. Police work was Elston's life, his passion. And passing the family legacy on to his daughter was more important to him than maintaining his pathetic life. Those were his words. St. Magdalene's was his idea. He'd told Maggie he'd rather spend the rest of his life confined to a hospital bed and have her carry on the Gill name as police chief than be responsible for ending the Gill legacy because his only child had to stay home and change his diapers.

  Maggie entered the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and placed her hand over her dad's. It was so thin and frail. Blue veins wove over and around stringy tendons, all clearly visible through the spotted paper-thin skin that clung to the bones. His cheeks were hollow, eyes sunken, hair thinning and greasy. The right side of his face sagged like melting wax, and a dribble of drool pooled in the corner of his mouth. No one would guess he was only sixty-five. He looked more like eighty-five. This man, father, daddy, who had given her so much confidence and pride, who had been her hero, her lionheart for so long, was now as frail as a bird.

  Gently squeezing his hand, Maggie said, "Dad. Wake up, Dad. It's me."

  Elston's eyes fluttered open and a dry tongue ran over his lips. The left side of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile. "Magpie. You... good?" The stroke had slurred his speech and left him with Broca's aphasia, a speech disorder that made speaking complex sentences all but impossible. At first, Maggie had a difficult time deciphering her dad's simple, childlike sentences, but years of guessing and filling in the blanks had honed her skill.

  "I'm fine, Dad. Just fine."

  Elston licked his lips again and swallowed. "How's house?"

  Maggie knew he meant the police house, not their house. "Things have been interesting lately. Dad, I need to talk to you about something."

  Elston's mouth dropped and the smile faded.

  "I need you to just listen, OK? This is important."

  Elston nodded and squeezed her hand. Maggie was surprised by how weak his grip had grown.

  "Dad, do you remember Joe Saunders?"

  He nodded again. "Nice."

  Maggie smiled. "Yeah. You always liked Joe. A couple days ago his nephew was mauled by something in the old Yates place. Then Woody Owen's dog was attacked and killed. Doc Adams said it most likely was a large cat. Said it could very well be a lion."

  Elston's left eye widened, showing the yellow sclera around the irises. His hand began to tremble beneath Maggie's.

  "Dad, listen. Last night Joe and Bob Cummings went into Yates Woods to hunt it and... Bob was killed." She paused and fought back the tears waiting behind her eyes. "I don't know what to do, Dad. It's happening again, isn't it?"

  Licking his lips, Elston tried to sit up, pushing his left elbow against the bed and grunting.

  "Let me help," Maggie said, gripping him under the arms and hoisting him up to a more seated position. He was lighter than she expected.

  She propped a pillow behind his head.

  Elston reached out to Maggie, lifted his left hand, and stroked Maggie's hair. "No tell," he said, his voice strained and raspy. "No tell!"

  "Why, Dad? Why can't I tell anyone, get some help?"

  "No tell! Family... " He grimaced and dropped his hand. She knew what he was trying to say. Family legacy. To talk would be to expose the secrets her family had kept under wraps for generations, and it would taint the family legacy forever. The Gill name would be smeared, and everything three generations of Gills had worked for, sacrificed for, would be destroyed.

  Finally, Elston gave up and relaxed his face. Tears formed in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks, catching in the creases around his mouth. He looked so pitiful. "Please," he said, "no tell. Please."

  Maggie began to cry too. "Then what do I do, Dad?"

  Elston reached up again and placed his hand on her cheek, thumbing a tear from below her eye. His face grew very serious, eyes intense. "Secret! Hide! No tell." His hand fell to the bed, and the left side of his lip quivered. "Please, Magpie, no tell. Please."

  "OK, OK, Dad. I won't."

  With jaws clenched, with eyes narrowed, Elston grabbed a fistful of sheet and said, "Promise!"

  Maggie hesitated.

  "Promise, Magpie."

  "OK. I promise."

  It was movie night again at Woody Owen's place on Fulton Street. Then again, every night was movie night. Woody was a loner of sorts. Ever since the roofing accident that left him paralyzed from the waist down, he had no need for company.

  After the accident, he'd tried to resume his normal social life of going to McCormick's Bar every Friday night and partying Saturday nights. But he soon tired of the awkward stares he and his chair got, the gawking, the snickering, the people going out of their way to help him-help the poor cripple. He didn't need help. He didn't need anyone. He could take care of himself just fine, thank you. He didn't have a job, either, but disability paid the bills. He was doing OK.

  His decision had cost him a lot of friends, even Evelyn, his girlfriend. She'd been there for him in the hospital, through the unsuccessful surgeries, the rehab, everything. But she'd have left him sooner or later. He knew it. How long could she keep up the sympathy act? How long could she pretend to love a cripple? He was doing them both a favor; at least that's what he'd told himself a million times in the dead of the night when the loneliness and remorse would sneak up on him.

  But now he was used to the solitude. He even enjoyed it. He could do what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted, and there was nobody to tell him otherwise. He was a free man.

  Over the years he'd become quite the movie connoisseur too. Every Sunday he would pore over the TV listings and plan his evenings. He would then go to Traynor's Video and rent a handful of movies for the week-usually horror or suspense. Tonight's selection was Sleepy Hollow.

  Woody had gone through his nightly ritual of gathering snacks from the refrigerator and pantry, grabbing a six pack of brewskies, transferring himself from his wheelchair to the recliner, and settling in to his throne, remote in hand, snacks well within reach.

  He was just about to push the start button on the remote when he heard a faint scratching noise at the back storm door.

  He listened. There, the scratching again. And again. It was faint but persistent.

  Can't be a stray, he thought, then remembered Cujo wasn't there anymore to chase the stray cats away.

  Ignoring the scratching, he clicked the play button and the movie rolled. It'll go away.

  Ten minutes later the scratching didn't go away, and a low, haunting meow started, first in short bursts, then in long, drawn-out, sorrowful howls. Woody finally decided that there was no ignoring the nuisance at the door. If he wanted to enjoy his movie night, he'd have to get rid of it.

  He cursed as he punched the pause button on the remote and slammed it down on the TV tray. He then lifted himself off the recliner, swung around, and landed perfectly in the wheelchair. Dodging stacks of magazines and newspapers, he wound from the living room to the kitchen and positioned himself in front of the back door. He pulled the door open, and there, on the other side of the storm door, was a tan tabby cat, sitting on its haunches and shivering, looking wide-eyed up at him.

  "Go away!" Woody hollered. The cat cocked its head and looked at him as if trying to decipher the strange sounds coming out of his mouth. "Go on, git!"

  But the cat didn't budge. It only stared at him longer, let out a long, mournful meow, and pawed at the door.

  Woody leaned forward and banged on the metal bottom half of the door. The cat flinched but didn't leave its perch on the back stoop. It meowed again and pawed at the door some more.

  "OK, OK." Woody opened the door a few inches to allow the stray access to the warm kitchen. "There. Happy now?"

  The
cat began to purr and rub its head and neck against the large rear wheel of the chair. Woody bowed and stroked the cat's head, which led to more leaning and deeper purring.

  Sighing, patting his lap with both hands, Woody said, "C'mon, you little devil. C'mon up here, and let me take a look at you."

  The cat crouched, wiggled its bottom, then leaped onto Woody's lap. He slid his hand down the cat's back, starting at its head and ending at its tail. The fur was slick and soft, and the cat pressed into his touch, purring even louder.

  "You're a friendly fellow, aren't you?" Woody said, stroking the downy fur of the cat's cheeks. "You wanna join me for movie night? I'll even share my snacks with you."

  CHAPTER 14

  HE PLAYGROUND HAD seen better days. The swing set was still sturdy, but the poles were covered with chipped paint, rust taking over where the paint had bailed. The cracked-rubber swings were supported by creaky, rusted chains. The merry-go-round was lopsided and rusty, like Sylvester Stallone in Rocky Balboa; the sliding board, once the mightiest structure in the park, was slightly warped, dipping in the middle as if it had received a gut-shot and lost its will to fight. The grass was patchy, the mulch old and crusty. On the other side of the open area stood an old oak, half its branches rotted, brittle, and leafless. Somebody had neglected this park for far too long. Joe leaned back against the smooth wood of the only park bench and sipped his gas station coffee from a Styrofoam cup.

  Behind the swings, the horizon glowed pink, the opening act of what was promising to be a glorious sunrise, nature's grandest performance, much grander than even Rocky's attempted comeback.

  Joe had risen early, hoping to catch the sun's arrival. He needed some time alone before starting the day. After visiting Rosa at the hospital yesterday, he'd returned to his motel room, tried several times to call Maggie (which had resulted in leaving awkward messages on her voice mail each time, which had resulted in him feeling like a pimply teenager calling for a first date), then fell asleep in front of the TV. He didn't awaken until after five o'clock, tried Maggie again (more voice mail, more pimples), and spent the rest of the evening hunkered down in the DewDrop, watching old western movies where the villains all had names like Snake-Eye Joe and Cactus Will.