The Hunted

by Mike Dellosso

  "Joe, we just got here," Rosa said, rising from her chair when Joe came through the door. "It's nice, yes?"

  He smiled. "Real nice. Impressive. I'm so glad Caleb can stay here."

  Rosa motioned to one of the chairs. "Sit down. Can you stay a little while?"

  "I was planning to."

  Outside, in a far corner of the parking lot, just inside the first row of corn, Stevie Bauer paced back and forth, methodically rubbing his hands.

  "Gotcha," he hissed. "You can't hide now. Sticks and stones. Sticks and stones. Shoulda left Stevie alones."

  He giggled at his own absurd attempt at rhyming.

  The thing was out there, just beyond the protection of the hole, lurking in the darkness, pacing, waiting.

  Caleb wanted to push back further into his sanctuary, melt into his hole, lose himself forever in the darkness. But something was drawing him out; something was wooing him toward the opening.

  He inched closer, running his hands along the dirt floor and rough wall, feeling for the opening. There. There it was. He listened. No sound of anything but his own steady breathing.

  He leaned forward almost enough to poke his head out of the hole.

  Thump! Something whizzed by his head and landed heavily on the floor beside him. In a panic, he pushed back into the hole and shriveled as far from the opening as he could.

  It was there. He couldn't see it, but he could hear its claws pawing at the floor, scratching, tearing at the dirt, like a cat groping for a mouse hidden in a wall.

  Terror overwhelmed him, and he panicked. He tried pushing back further, but his hands and heels slipped in the loose dirt. This was it. This was how he was going to die. He would never escape the darkness.

  Inside Hillside Hall, room B-13, Joe leaned back in his chair, swung his left leg over his right, and smiled. "So how'd you land Caleb in this place?"

  "Dr. Wilson has been wonderful. He was able to pull-" Rosa stopped mid-sentence and whipped her head around to look at Caleb. "What was that? Did you see that?"

  Joe looked at Caleb, sleeping peacefully, then back at Rosa. "See what?"

  "He moved. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. Like a shudder or a shiver or something."

  Suddenly, Caleb's whole body spasmed-not a violent seizure, like a thousand volts of electricity had surged through it, but a gentle shiver as one may do when suddenly struck by a blast of arctic air-then relaxed.

  Rosa jumped out of her chair and stood beside his bed. "What was that?" she said, looking at Joe, wide-eyed.

  "I don't know. Why don't you get one of the-"

  It happened again, this time more violently. Caleb's body began to quiver and shake, muscles spasmed, locked up like dry gears, then relaxed, then spasmed again. Neck muscles bulged like taut cords ready to snap, muscles throughout his arms and legs, abdomen and chest rippled and contracted. This was an electrocution sans electricity.

  "Oh, God, help us. What is happening?" Rosa cried.

  Joe burst into the hallway. "Nurse! Nurse! Come quick."

  A young, heavyset nurse ran down the hall and into Caleb's room. Caleb's body shook one last time, like the gentle aftershock of an earthquake, and relaxed.

  "He-he was seizing or something," Rosa said.

  Joe added, "It looked like he was being electrocuted."

  The nurse fingered some dials on the machines by Caleb's bed, checked all the tubes, then put her fingers on Caleb's right wrist and checked his pulse. After a few seconds she said, "His pulse is a little high, but other than that everything checks out OK. Sometimes patients who are in a coma will have involuntary muscle movements, even spasms. It's quite normal. I'll document it, though, so when Dr. Montgomery gets here, she can check it out as well." She patted Caleb's hand. "I'm sure he's just being feisty. If it happens again, let me know."

  "Thanks," Joe said as the nurse left the room.

  Rosa patted her chest and took a deep breath. "That scared me. We need to pray right now, Joe. I don't know why, but I just feel this overwhelming need to pray." She bowed her head without even waiting for him to reply and started to pray. "Dear Lord, protect my son..."

  Joe leaned against the wall next to Caleb's bed, his head bowed, eyes open, watching Caleb as Rosa prayed. He wasn't thinking about what she was saying; his mind was elsewhere, with Maggie and wondering what she was hiding, why she was acting so strange. In some ways she was the same old Maggie he once knew, loved... and left, but in some other way, a way he couldn't quite put his finger on, she was much different. She had become an enigma of sorts.

  Rosa continued praying, "... his body is frail and wounded... " Her mind was on her heavenly Father. She was in His presence, before His throne, interceding for her young son, who was in His hands now. There was nothing she could do but pray. It was frustrating at times. She was a problem-solver, a fixer, but this was one problem she could not fix. She had to let Caleb go and put him in God's hands. All she could do was pray.

  And so she would pray; night and day she would fervently plead with God.

  A light appeared, not bright or brilliant in any way, just a pinhole, high above Caleb, like the first star to appear against a black velvet sky, piercing the darkness like a sword, illuminating his hand and nothing more.

  Peace surrounded him, dispelling the fear and panic that had gripped his body.

  Warmth penetrated his flesh. Starting at the top of his head, it slowly spread down the back of his neck, over his arms, torso, then legs and feet, seeping into his bones and internal organs.

  Then a voice, deep and full, like waves crashing on the surf, shook the dungeon and vibrated in his chest. Oddly, he was not afraid. In fact, he found the voice comforting.

  "Speak for Us."

  Caleb opened his mouth and tried to respond, form words, but no sound came.

  "Speak for Us."

  How?

  The light turned a warm orange, like the glow of smoldering coals and burning embers after a fire has been left unattended for too long. The glow hovered above him, moving closer, descending slowly until it rested in his hand.

  He flinched, expecting fiery pain to send his nerves screaming, but none came. He could smell the pungent odor of burning flesh, see the light searing his hand, but there was no pain, no sensation at all.

  "Speak for Us, child. My child."

  Yes. I will.

  "...he is in Your hands now, Lord," Rosa prayed. "Even in this lifeless state, use him to glorify Yourself-"

  She heard Joe calling her name. "Rosa. Rosa."

  She stopped praying, opened her eyes, and looked at Joe questioningly. He motioned with his eyes toward Caleb. Her son was lying perfectly still, peaceful, like he was sleeping, but his eyes were open-wide open, like saucers. He stared blankly at the ceiling.

  Rosa stood and approached Caleb's bed. She leaned over and looked into his eyes, searching for recognition, for awareness, for life. "Caleb? Caleb honey, can you hear me?"

  There was no reply, only a vacant stare. His eyes were hollow-lights on, nobody home.

  Suddenly, his right hand began quivering, slowly at first, then more rapidly.

  "Look," Joe said, pointing at his hand. "Look at this."

  Caleb's body was completely relaxed except for his hand. It closed so his fingertips touched as if holding a pencil and moved in short, swift movements up and down, side to side, clockwise, counterclockwise.

  Joe started to head for the door to call the nurse, but Rosa stopped him. "Wait, it's OK. Let's just see what he does."

  The hand jumped back and forth for less than a minute then stopped. Caleb's eyes slowly closed, his hand relaxed, and he was once again resting quietly, chest rising and falling as if to the steady rhythm of a metronome.

  Rosa looked at Joe. He frowned and shrugged, obviously just as perplexed as she was. "God is doing something here," she said. "I don't know what, but He is doing something."

  CHAPTER 16

  FTER HER NOT-so-productive talk with Joe in the park, M
aggie made her usual Wednesday morning rounds of Dark Hills. She traveled the length of Main Street, then circled around the perimeter of town, weaving in and out of side streets lined with small, dirt-dusted, single-family homes and rental units, and slowly worked her way back to the center square along High Street.

  The town "square" was actually a circle, and there wasn't much there to attract any kind of outside attention. On one corner was McCormick's, the hub of the Dark Hills nightlife; across from it and traveling counterclockwise was a Mobil station, Finnigan's Hardware, and M & T Bank. High intersected Main at the circle, and just outside of town, about a mile down East High, sat the Dark Hills Paper Company, founded in 1870 by the town's father, Andrew Adams.

  The paper mill consisted of several colossal gray buildings, all faded and streaked with rust stains and decades of dirt and grime. The mill overlooked the town like a giant dragon huffing out huge billows of thick white smoke. Most of the buildings were abandoned now, left to rot knowing they'd never be used again. Broken-down, rusted truck cabs and logging trailers, partially hidden by waist-high weeds, littered the crumbling and faded asphalt area around the mill. Three railroad tracks passed through the complex, weaving through the countryside like steel arteries. One was still in use. The others had long ago been relegated to the task of storing dilapidated, vandalized boxcars.

  Like the rest of Dark Hills, the paper mill had lost its vitality.

  At one time, in the early and mid-1900s, the mill was bustling with activity that spilled over into the town. Population within the borough had soared to over ten thousand and looked like it would continue to climb. But in the sixties the mill lost several large contracts, business plummeted, jobs were cut, and the town of Dark Hills slipped into the dark ages. The population shrunk to just under four thousand and never recovered.

  It usually didn't take Maggie long to make her rounds. The town's perimeter had also shrunk over the years to barely twenty-five square miles surrounded mostly by open fields and small wooded areas on the south and west sides, and the thickly wooded Dark Hills to the north and east. When she finished her tour, she'd drop by some of the local businesses, shoot the breeze with some of Dark Hills's old-timers, refill the cruiser at the Mobil, and run any errands that couldn't wait.

  Things happened at a crawl in a small town, and at times being the chief of police was downright boring. But it was in her blood; it was part of her family's legacy. Her father was chief, as were her grandpa and great-grandpa. She wasn't about to be the Gill that broke the cycle. But she knew she would be. At thirty-three, single, and childless, the chances of her passing on the family birthright were getting smaller and smaller every year. The legacy would no doubt stop with her.

  Maggie steered her Crown Victoria cruiser onto East High and headed back toward town. She'd circled the plant a few times and found nothing out of place. She never did. She reached for her coffee, took a long sip, and momentarily thought about spending some time cleaning the clutter that had accumulated on her dash.

  Her cell phone rang. Flipping it open, she checked the display. It was Gary. "Yeah, Gary. What is it?"

  "Maggie, I'm at Woody Owen's house. You'd better get over here right away."

  By the sound of Gary's voice and the quiver that vibrated through each word, she could tell something was wrong. Gary wasn't shaken easily. She asked the first, most obvious question that jumped into her mind. "Is it what I hope it's not?" Now her voice shivered.

  There was a pause so long that Maggie thought she'd lost him.

  "Yeah. I'd say so. I don't know what that loser Owen got himself into. Just get over here. OK?"

  "I'm on my way."

  When Maggie stopped in front of Woody's house, she took one look at Gary standing on the front porch-hat off, hair disheveled, face ashen and drawn-and knew the worst had happened. Gary liked to put on the tough-cop appearance, but Maggie knew there was more to him than that. Everyone had their weaknesses, their tender spots.

  She got out of the cruiser, leaving her own hat on the passenger seat, shut the door, and walked across the small lawn to the porch. Built in the fifties during the population boom, Woody's house was a yellow, twobedroom rancher with a wide concrete porch and bay window. It sat on a barren, one-acre lot backed by a small wooded area that connected with Yates Woods about a half-mile away. Beyond the woods was the fivehundred-acre farm owned by Josiah Walker.

  "You OK?" Maggie asked Gary. "You look like you're gonna puke."

  Gary didn't smile. His face was white and expressionless, like cold stone. "Already did. I'm OK."

  Maggie reached for the doorknob of the storm door.

  "I'd put something over your nose before you go in there," Gary said. "Unless you want to taste your breakfast again."

  She reached in her pocket, pulled out a white handkerchief, and held it over her mouth and nose.

  As soon as Maggie opened the door, she realized the handkerchief would do no good. The stench hit her like a truck and pushed her back outside. The house was saturated with the smell of death-stale blood and rot. Bile rose in her throat, and she had to swallow hard to keep from vomiting. She turned her head away from the open door, sucked in a deep breath of fresh air, put the handkerchief back over her mouth and nose, and stepped back inside.

  The first couple breaths of the stale air in the house burned in Maggie's nostrils. She had to fight the bile pushing its way up her throat and the growing urge to gag.

  At first glance it looked like a break-in. A lamp was broken on the floor, pictures were knocked off the wall, shards of glass scattered across the carpet. The TV tray was lying on its side, popcorn and chips crushed into the rug. She peered into the kitchen and noted the splintered back door, hanging by one hinge like someone-or some thing-very large had muscled through it.

  But where was Woody? Where was his wheelchair? Maggie turned to Gary, who had followed her into the house, and gave him a questioning look.

  He nodded, keeping his mouth clamped tight, and motioned toward the hallway.

  Maggie stepped through the living room, carefully avoiding toppled furniture and broken glass.

  At the far end of the hall, where it cornered and led to a bedroom and the bathroom, the wheelchair lay on its side.

  But still no body.

  Maggie walked down the hall and hesitated at the corner. Instinct told her what awaited. She didn't want to look, couldn't imagine the horror she would find. And yet she had to look; she was a cop, and this was part of her job. It was her duty.

  She made one more attempt at swallowing the acid in her throat, rounded the corner, and hesitantly looked in the bathroom. Bile shot up her gullet like a rocket, and she doubled over and vomited on the carpet. Her stomach twisted and contracted, her nose burned, eyes blurred with tears. There, on the floor in the middle of the bathroom, was Woody-or what was left of him. The body lay face up, ripped open from pelvis to neck. That was all that registered in Maggie's mind before she turned away. That was all she needed to see. It was more than she needed to see.

  She turned, stumbled, and fell into Gary, who was able to steady her again. "Nice welcome, huh?" he said, holding her by the shoulders.

  She heard his voice, faint and muffled, but didn't focus on it. "I-I need to get out of here." It was all she could say. Her head was spinning, her stomach churning. A wave of bile burst from her throat.

  Maggie staggered down the hallway, through the living room, and pushed through the door into the outside world. She ran to the edge of the porch and breathed in, filling her lungs with cold, crisp air, cleansing her nostrils of the putrid odor that burned in them. Oxygen rushed her brain, and she suddenly felt very light-headed. Bending over, she rested her hands on her knees and breathed in again. Long inhale, fill the lungs from the bottom up.

  Gary was right beside her, his hand on her back. "Owen was never a pleasant sight, but I've seen him looking better. You OK?"

  She nodded and sucked in another deep breath. The cool air burned
in her nostrils, but it was a welcome burn, purifying. "You believe me now?"

  Gary folded his arms and scanned the open field across the street. "Do I have a choice?" He was silent a moment, letting Maggie catch her breath. "It gets weirder. I got an anonymous call this morning. Said, `Woody Owen needs your help.' That was it. So I dropped by and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, I looked in the window and saw the living room. Looked like a bomb went off in there. My first thought was break-in, right? So I walked the perimeter and found the back door busted like you saw. That's when I searched the place and found that in the bathroom."

  Maggie straightened her back and inhaled again. The smell from inside the house was wafting out onto the porch. "Shut that door, will you? Check and see if the neighbors saw or heard anything."

  Gary swung the front door closed. "What do you want to do with Owen's ... remains? We can't just leave 'em there. In a few days the whole place'll stink to high heaven. We'll have every scavenger in a five-mile radius showing up to check out the new raw bar."

  Maggie pressed her lips together and held her hand over her nose and mouth. Could the smell get any worse? Unfortunately, she knew it could... and would. In a couple days, the neighbors would smell it in their homes. She brought both her palms to her forehead. Her head felt like an overinflated balloon that would at any second reach its maximum capacity and burst wide open. "I don't know. I wish this whole thing would just go away. Just... just get rid of it. Everything. For once, Gary, do something on your own!"

  Gary stared at her but didn't say anything.

  "Sorry," Maggie said. She glanced at the house; the smell was still there. "I'm sorry. Just take care of it, OK? And I don't want to talk about this again."

  She turned to leave when Gary said, "It was that nut job, Bauer."

  Maggie gave him a sideways look. "What was Stevie?"

  "The caller."

  "How do you know?"

  "How could I not know? You know Bauer's voice when you hear it. Definitely one of a kind."