The Hunted

by Mike Dellosso

  He gave her only months to live.

  Gerald reached over and patted his wife's hand. They were determined to make the most of their remaining time together, but the impending fate hung over both of them like a storm cloud, darkening their mood and suffocating their happiness. He pressed on the accelerator, sending their Olds Cutlass speeding down Route 20 farther and farther away from Dark Hills. "How are you feeling?"

  June shrugged and looked out the window. "OK, I guess." She turned her head and faced her husband. The whole ordeal had aged her considerably. Her face was gaunt, eyes sunken, skin parched. Lines had appeared around her eyes and mouth that weren't there just a few months ago. "I'm not sure I'm up for this, Gerry."

  They were on their way to Gettysburg to enjoy an afternoon of shopping and roaming the battlefields, something they used to enjoy doing.

  He knew what she meant. He knew the pain and depression she'd fought every day since the surgery. He patted her hand again. "You're alive now, babe. Let's just focus on that. We'll take it one day at a time."

  She turned and looked out the window again. Gerald glanced at the cornstalks whizzing by on the other side of the glass. Life was so much like those graying stalks, flying by in a blur. He thought of his kids, all grown and raising their own families. How fast the time had flown-

  Something bolted from the corn on the right side of the road, and Gerald had to yank the steering wheel to the right to avoid hitting it. The car swerved and fish-tailed, wheels screeching on the asphalt, before coming to a full stop.

  "What are you doing?" June hollered, gripping the dashboard with both hands.

  "Did you see it?" Gerald still had a white-knuckled death grip on the steering wheel. His face suddenly felt cold.

  "See what?"

  Gerald looked at June and gasped. "It just ran across the road. I almost hit it. Didn't you see it?"

  June's face had drained of color, and she looked at Gerald with wide eyes. "See what?"

  "The-the ... lion."

  "Lion? What lion? Honey, you're not making sense."

  Gerald finally released the steering wheel. "On Sunday both the Chronisters and the Moyers said they saw a lion, then Harry Lippy shot up Mike Little's car before having a heart attack, said something about thinking it was a lion, then just a couple days ago, a cow was mauled and half-eaten on the Martin farm. And...I don't even want to think about that boy who was attacked last week. What if... June, there's a lion around here, and I almost hit it!"

  June sat back in her seat, closed her eyes, and drew in a long breath. She pursed her lips and shook her head from side to side.

  Gerald thumped the steering wheel with his palms. "That does it. I'm going to Maggie and demand she do something about this."

  The TV was off; the lights were dim, curtains drawn. Joe sat back in his bed at the Dew-Drop Motel, room number 5, pillows propped up behind him. He stretched out his legs, rested his head against the headboard, and shut his eyes. It was just him and God now. He could do this... for Caleb's sake.

  OK, God. It felt awkward talking to someone whom he'd ignored for the past ten years, knowing all along that He knew his every thought, every desire, every emotion. Who was he trying to kid? He obviously wasn't hiding anything. Maybe he was trying to punish God. Give Him the silent treatment. He didn't even know. It had been so long since he prayed he'd forgotten why he had stopped.

  He tried again. God, You know I haven't talked to You in some time. Too long, maybe. I don't deserve any favors from You. Or maybe its the other way around. I don't know. This isn't about me, though. Rosa needs You, and so does Caleb.

  As he prayed, the words came easier. A familiar feeling began seeping into his heart, his soul. It was a feeling of oneness with God. Even though he'd abandoned talking to God, he knew he was still one of His children-that would never change.

  As he talked honestly and openly with his Father, a warm sensation filled his body. Was it peace? He didn't know, but it was familiar... and comforting. Something he thought he could get used to again.

  Please, God... Father... protect Caleb. Bring him out of this coma so Rosa can have her son back. And show me what this message means, if it means anything at all. If I'm hiding a secret that will help Caleb, show me what it is.

  Joe paused to be still, be silent.

  Suddenly, a voice filled his head. It was quiet, like the gentle whisper of wind through a willow, but so clear he almost opened his eyes to see if someone was in the room with him.

  Nothing is secret that will not be revealed.

  It was one of those Bible verses from his past, hidden somewhere in the convoluted twists and turns of his brain.

  Joe smiled, his eyes still closed. Thank You. He didn't know what it meant. He didn't know what any of this meant, but with the voice came peace, definitely peace. This time there was no mistaking it.

  Now he'd just have to wait.

  "Now, everybody just calm down." Officer Gary Warren stood behind the counter at the police station, both hands resting on the Formica top, and raised his voice above the murmur of the group of angry citizens who had poured into the small lobby. "Chief Gill will be here in a few minutes."

  He picked up the phone and called Maggie's cell again.

  "I'm on my way," she said. "I'll be there in about a minute; just try to keep everyone calm. Last thing we need is a riot breaking out."

  Gary placed the phone back in its cradle and hooked his thumbs in his belt. He looked over the crowd of locals, pursed his lips, and sighed. He used to wonder what he was doing in this dead-end small town. Dark Hills wasn't exactly in need of a crime fighter. It needed a babysitter. Heck, in the past seven years, he'd only used his handcuffs four, maybe five times, and had never unholstered his gun, until Woody's the other day. The most action he'd seen in this hole-in-the-wall town was an occasional speeding ticket. He actually found himself longing for one-just one-young punk to cop an attitude with him, take a swing at him, anything that would warrant a little justified police force. After the navy, he'd entered the police academy with every intention of joining the force in Baltimore or Philadelphia. He even entertained thoughts of going across the country, maybe Vegas or LA. He wanted big-city action-homicide, burglary, car chases, hostage situations, stakeouts, maybe even hunting down some terrorists. He wanted to be where the action was, where the real crime fighting took place. But then Maggie talked him into spending a few years in Dark Hills. "Hone your skills, your instincts," she said, "then move on to a big city." Well, this recent string of events wasn't exactly big-city crime, but it was something; it was action, and it had his adrenaline charged. Maybe after this was all over he'd move on to a bigger-

  The front door of the station opened.

  Maggie burst through the door and the crowd hushed. "Good evening, everyone," she said, picking her way through the gathering of about twenty people.

  She stepped behind the counter and surveyed the group. The Moyers were there, as were the Chronisters and the Hellers. Clark Martin was standing near the back, stroking his hairy chin. Mike and Bernadette Little were next to him. Others were there as well; no doubt they'd heard about the lion stories at Darlene's or McCormick's. Small towns ... news travels quickly.

  Maggie straightened her back and scanned the crowd. "What seems to be the problem here?"

  "You know what the problem is, Chief," Gerald Heller said. He put his arm around June's waist. "This afternoon I almost hit a lion that ran in front of my car. And others here have seen it too."

  "We saw it in our backyard," Mary Chronister said, her voice squeaking.

  "So did we." Dick Moyer spoke up.

  Clark Martin piped up next, his voice low and steady. "And you saw my cow, Chief. It all makes sense."

  "We just want to know what you're doing about it," Gerald said. "We don't want to wake up some morning hearing about another child, or anyone, getting mauled... or worse."

  "Now, now, settle down," Maggie said, holding up both hands for silen
ce. "I'll have you all know I've already taken measures to look into the problem."

  "Problem?" Mike Little said. "You call a rogue lion roaming our woods and fields a problem? You think bullet holes in my truck is a problem? That's quite an understatement, don't you think?"

  That brought a roar from the small crowd. "Yeah!"

  "It's more than a problem, Chief!"

  "Someone's gonna get eaten!"

  Maggie raised her voice and slapped the countertop. "Quiet! Now, I've contacted all the zoos in the area, and none of them are missing a lion. I've also contacted all the circuses that have been in the area or have passed through the area in the last year, and none of them are missing any lions. If, and I say if, there is a lion out there, we have no idea where it came from, but I assure you we're doing all we can to protect our citizens."

  "Like what?" Clark's voice rose from the back of the lobby.

  Maggie hesitated. "Like... like having both my officers, Wilt and Warren, patrolling the town and outskirts. Like contacting the proper authorities and notifying them of the sightings."

  "Did you call the Game Commission?" Clark asked.

  "As a matter of fact, Clark, I did. And I'll have you know it took a lot of convincing to get them to look in to the matter. They think we're all a little nuts down here. Look, you all have to believe me that we're doing all we can. I know what you all want, but I'm not about to let a bunch of hunters go traipsing around Dark Hills shooting at anything that moves, especially since we really don't know for sure what it is."

  "Then I'll take my gun and hunt it myself," Clark hollered, his voice cutting through the murmur of the crowd.

  Others in the room joined in. "Me too."

  "I'll help ya, Clark."

  "Count me in."

  Maggie held both hands in the air and clapped them three times. "Now hold on. Hold on!" When the room had quieted, she continued. "Nobody's going to do any such thing. You all can leave your guns and macho attitudes at home and try to calm down. If I catch anyone hunting without a license, or hunting at all, for that matter, I'll haul you in, you hear? Look at yourselves, all ready to form some posse and go hunting something, and you don't even know what the something is."

  "It's a lion!" someone yelled.

  "Oh, really," Maggie said, resting her hands on her hips. "You're all so sure about that. Mary, what time was it when you thought you saw a lion in your yard?"

  Mary looked around the room before answering. "I'm not sure, it was dawn."

  "Was the sun up yet?"

  "Well, no, not fully up. But I know what I saw."

  "Really? What direction was it facing? Was it standing or sitting? Was it male or female? Did it have a mane? Some lions don't have manes, you know."

  Mary looked around the lobby again, a hint of red touching her cheeks. "Well, I don't know all that. I-I didn't get that good a look at it before it was gone. I'm...I mean, I'm pretty sure it had a mane."

  Maggie shot a glance at the Moyers. "How 'bout you, Dick, Betty? Did you get a clear look at it?"

  They were standing in the middle of the crowd, no more than ten feet from the counter. Dick shot a furtive glance at Mary Chronister, then lifted his chin and said, "Sure did."

  "You did, huh? And you were wearing your glasses?" Maggie knew for a fact that Dick and Betty didn't wear their glasses unless they left the house. She'd had that conversation with them before.

  Dick shrugged. "Well, no. We only wear them when we go out."

  Maggie held up a small placard that read, DUI Doesn't Pay. "Can you please remove your glasses and read this for everyone here?"

  Dick slipped his glasses off his nose and squinted, Betty blushed, but neither of them could make out the words. They both shook their heads.

  Maggie continued to make her point. "And, Gerald, you say it ran across the road, right in front of your car, right?"

  "That's right," Gerald said, nodding emphatically.

  "Did you notice if it was male or female? Did it have a mane?"

  Gerald looked at June, then back at Maggie. "Well, no. It all happened so-

  "If you had to testify in court, to a judge and jury, swearing on the Holy Bible to tell the truth, that you were 100 percent sure what you saw and almost hit was a lion, would you be able to do it? So help you God?"

  1, uh-well, when you put it that way..." He paused and swallowed, his face bright red. "No. I suppose I wouldn't."

  Lastly, Maggie looked to Clark Martin. "Clark, all you have is a dead cow. It could have been a bear or a pack of wild dogs. You know it, I know it, and everyone in here knows it. None of us can say for sure that it was a lion."

  Clark offered no comment. He stood by the door, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, staring defiantly back at Maggie.

  "People, I've taken every necessary measure I can with what we have. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to have to ask you all to clear the lobby. This meeting's over."

  There was a hushed grumbling as the crowd made their way out of the station. When all had left, Clark Martin stood by the door and paused. He then turned to Maggie and said, "Chief, when someone dies, it's gonna be on your conscience. You know that, don't you?"

  Maggie didn't answer. It was already on her conscience.

  Later that evening, long after the sun had bid its final farewell and surrendered to the encroaching night, having left his car parked a quarter mile away on an empty stretch of road, Gary Warren crept through the darkness, stealing from moon shadow to moon shadow. Holding his breath, he entered Woody Owen's house through the back door and turned all four knobs on the stove as far as they would rotate to the left. The flameless ranges hissed. He then dialed the thermostat down to fifty-five degrees.

  The house would fill with natural gas, and when the temperature inside dropped to fifty-five, which should happen sometime in the early morning hours while he was home fast asleep, the furnace would kick on, and then... well, Maggie said to take care of it, didn't she? It would be taken care of. By the time the fire department arrived, there would be nothing left of poor Woody or his house. An investigation would be done, and Bob Foster, the fire marshal, would conclude that it was a tragic accident caused by a gas leak.

  After arriving home, Gary downed two beers and fell asleep on the sofa. At exactly 3:17 a.m., according to the clock on the DVD player, Andy called, informing him that Woody's house had exploded. The fire department was there now putting out the resulting inferno.

  CHAPTER 19

  T NINE O'CLOCK in the morning, room 5 of the Dew-Drop Motel was still dark. The shades were drawn, lights were off, and Joe Saunders was just stirring out of a restless sleep. He forced his eyes open, rubbed the sleep from them, rolled over, and lifted his head to look at the clock-9:17. He then noticed he was still in his clothes from the previous day-must've fallen asleep while praying last night. With a grunt, he fell back into the pillow and allowed his heavy eyelids to close again.

  He had dreamt a lot last night. Most of the images were now cloudy, some of Caleb, some of Rosa, some of Rick. Fortunately, none contained sharp-clawed little people with a thirst for blood. But one remained vivid in his mind's eye. He could still see the images flashing on the inside of his eyelids like an old silent movie reel. It was in black and white and seemed to happen in varying speeds-fast, then slow, then fast again.

  Maggie was there, pinned to the gray leafy ground by two huge, blood-stained paws resting on her shoulders. There was fear in her eyes, heart-stopping fear. She was panicking, screaming, writhing, and thrashing, trying to free herself from the beast's hold. Then her eyes fell on him-Joe-and she began yelling his name, begging for help. He couldn't hear her, but her lips formed his name over and over again.

  Her face was twisted and distorted by the fear, her lips dry and cracked and bleeding.

  Joe ran to her, fighting off the branches and thickets that pulled at his flesh. His skin tore and ripped, but he felt no pain. He didn't care anyway; he had to get to Maggie. Finally, he ma
de it to where she had been, but now she was gone.

  Then his ears were opened, and he heard it-laughter. Not happy, jubilant laughter, as might be induced by a troupe of costumed poodles performing flips and somersaults at a circus, but mocking, tormenting howls of demented laughter. The kind produced by malevolent funhouse clowns just before the ax falls.

  He looked around. Where was it coming from? What happened to Maggie? The laughter continued, growing in volume and intensity. It struck him then-it was Maggie laughing.

  From his right, he felt something large and heavy brush against him. He spun around, but there was nothing, only darkness.

  Joe began to panic. His heart raced; the hair on his nape bristled. He tried to move. He had to get out of there, but it was as if his feet were glued to the ground. He tried to yell, but no sound would rise out of his throat.

  Suddenly, two glowing eyes appeared in the blackness, hovering in midair. They stared at Joe, bore holes right through him as if those huge paws had ripped him wide open, exposing his soul. He tried to move again, tried to lift his feet, but it was useless.

  Funhouse Maggie, unseen, continued laughing, mocking.

  The gleaming eyes jerked, and the beast lunged, its razor claws splayed, ready to tear him to shreds.

  The room phone rang, and Joe jumped. His eyes flipped open like taut window blinds. His heart hammered in his chest, lungs heaved. Was it real? Was it a dream? He was in a fog.

  The phone rang again.

  He looked around the room. Everything was as it should be. The TV sat quietly. The curtains hung silently, motionless. No evil-grinned, axwielding clown lurked in the corner. All was as it had been when he fell asleep, except another day had expired. It was Thursday, five days since the attack.

  The phone rang again. His cell was on the dresser, plugged into the wall socket recharging.

  Joe drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then reached for the receiver. "Hello?" His throat felt raspy and dry.