The Hunter; The Chase; The Kill

by L. J. Smith

  “Of course, if you want—but nothing is free.”

  Jenny nodded without turning. She’d expected this. “Give the hint first,” she said flatly.

  “You can find your friends behind a door.”

  Jenny frowned. “What kind of a door? Have I seen it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have I been through it?”

  “Yes—and no.”

  “What kind of an answer is that?” she said, angry enough to turn. She could face him when she was furious.

  “It’s as clear as black and white—if you know the right way to look at it. Now,” he said, “the price.” He stepped to her and bent his head.

  It took all her self-control to remain rigid and unresponsive in his arms. At last she gasped and pulled away.

  “Oh, Jenny. Let’s stop playing—we don’t need to play this Game anymore. You can have your friends back—you want Dee back, don’t you?”

  “I’ll get her back,” Jenny said shakily. She still felt tingles of electricity in every place Julian had touched her. “I’ll get them all back—my way.”

  “As usual, I admire your confidence,” he said. “But you can’t win. Not against me, Jenny. I’m the master player.”

  “A door I’ve been through but haven’t been through,” she said. “A door that needs to be looked at in the right way.”

  He smiled. “A door in the shadows. But you won’t find it until I take you through it.”

  We’ll see, Jenny thought. Things were getting blurry around her—the shadows were growing. The dream fading.

  “Here,” Julian said. “To remember me by.”

  He put a silver rose in her hand.

  Jenny recognized it. It was the rose he had given her in the Erlking’s cavern, a shimmering half-open blossom, perfect down to the tiniest detail. The petals cool but soft in her palm.

  There was something like a slip of white paper wrapped around the stem.

  This time I’m going to wake up right away, she thought.

  She did. The silver rose was lying on her pillow. She almost knocked it off, sitting up quickly to look at the bundles of blankets on the living room floor.

  Tom and Michael were both there. Two dark heads on white pillows. Jenny leaned over and shook the nearest shoulder.

  “Michael, Tom, wake up. I’ve got the next clue.”

  But when she unraveled the slip of paper from the stem, she wasn’t sure.

  “It’s French,” Michael said. “And none of us speaks French. It isn’t fair.”

  “Life isn’t fair,” Jenny muttered, staring at the words on the paper in frustration. There were only six of them.

  Pas de lieu Rhône que nous.

  “If we only had Audrey,” she said. “Nous means ‘we,’ I think—or is it ‘you’?”

  “Maybe Dad’s got a French-English dictionary somewhere,” Michael said.

  Tom didn’t even try to join in the conversation. He had looked at the silver rose, and then at Jenny, and then he had settled back. Now he was staring down at his own hands.

  Jenny started to speak to him, then stopped. As she’d told Michael before, what was there to say?

  The ring felt as cold as ice and as heavy as lead on her finger.

  Michael found the French dictionary the next morning, but Jenny still couldn’t make much sense of the clue. The words were French, but they didn’t seem to make any sense when you put them together.

  “It’s about me, I know it is,” Michael said. “Because it’s French, and Audrey’s connected with French, and I’m connected with Audrey. I’m next.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” Jenny said. “We don’t know which of us it is—but if we all stay together—”

  “Staying together didn’t do Michael and Dee much good,” Tom said from what had become his habitual position, pacing the hallway.

  “He’s going to get us all. One by one,” Michael said softly. “And I’m next.”

  Jenny stared down at the dictionary and rubbed her eyes.

  It was dark and stuffy in the apartment. Outside the sky was cloudy, gray as concrete. Jenny felt like a rat in a trap.

  She tried thinking about the base instead of the French clue. She’d told Michael and Tom what Julian had said about the door, but none of them could make anything of it. Now Tom was pacing endlessly, and Michael was staring at nothing, and Jenny was very tired.

  Her head felt stuffy and her eyes hurt. She’d had almost no sleep last night. Maybe if she shut her eyes she could think better. If she shut them just for a few minutes . . .

  The crash woke her up with a jerk.

  “Sorry,” Michael whispered guiltily, picking up a TV tray. He looked even more nervous than usual—almost wild. His hair was sticking up all over his head, and his eyes reminded Jenny of a hamster she’d once had—a frantic hamster that had always tried to run away from her.

  “What time is it?” Jenny whispered back, trying to clear her head. It was almost as dark as night.

  “About four. You slept for a while.”

  Jenny wondered vaguely why they were whispering, then saw the bundle of blankets on the floor in Tom’s place. He was wrapped like a mummy, even his head covered.

  Good—he needs rest, too, Jenny thought, shifting. The slip of paper rustled on her lap. Jenny’s blurred eyes focused on the writing on it, her foggy brain seeing the words not as words but merely as letters—sounds. Pas de lieu . . .

  She straightened suddenly, her breath hissing. Michael nearly jumped out of his skin.

  “What is it?” He limped hastily over to her. “What—did you figure it out? Is it me?”

  “Yes—oh, we’ve been so stupid, Michael. We didn’t need the dictionary. It’s not French at all.”

  “Even I can recognize that much French.”

  Jenny clutched at his arm. “The words are French, but it isn’t a French sentence. I figured that out with the dictionary—the words don’t make any sense when you put them together. It only makes sense in English.”

  “What are you talking about, English?” Michael forgot to whisper.

  “Just say the words to yourself, Michael. Pronounce them the French way, but kind of run them together.”

  “Pas . . . de . . . lieu . . . Rhône . . . que . . . nous—it doesn’t say anything!”

  “Yes, it does. It says ‘Paddle your own canoe.’”

  Michael’s lips formed the words silently as he stared at the paper, then he hit himself in the forehead. “Oh, my God. You’re right. But, Jenny”—he dropped his hand and looked at her—“what does it mean ?”

  “I don’t know.” Jenny glanced out the window, where large drops were hanging from the eaves of the walkway and small drops pattered on the concrete. “But it’s got something to do with water, I bet—so none of us can go outside. But don’t you realize, Michael”—she turned to him excitedly—“we’ve done it! We’ve finally done it! We have a clue, and we have all of us here and safe. We can win this one!”

  Something about Michael’s expression made her heart jolt.

  And then she realized—she and Michael hadn’t been whispering for some time. They’d almost been shouting—but Tom’s blankets hadn’t stirred.

  “Michael—” He was staring at her in terror. The hamster look again. In a single motion Jenny darted to seize Tom’s blankets, to yank them away.

  She just stared at the bunched-up pillows underneath. She could feel herself folding inside. Collapsing.

  “Michael.” She spoke without moving, still holding the blankets. Then she lifted her head and looked at him. He flinched and raised a hand defensively.

  “Where is he, Michael?”—deceptively softly.

  “He made me, Jenny—I told him not to, but he wouldn’t listen—”

  “Michael, where is he?” Somehow Jenny had gotten two fistfuls of Michael’s gray sweatshirt, and she was shaking him. Where did he go?”

  Speechlessly Michael looked toward the gray and dripping window. There were tears
in his dark spaniel eyes.

  “He went to the mountains,” he gasped after a moment. “You know the place he told us about—where they found Gordie Wilson. He thought he could find the base there—or maybe just kill the wolf or the snake. He said that killing them might help you and me, even if he—” He stopped and began again. “I told him not to, Jenny—I told him not to go—”

  Jenny heard her own voice, sounding strangely quiet and detached. Almost musical. “To the mountains. Where they found Gordie Wilson—in a creek bed. Isn’t that right, Michael?”

  Michael blinked at the lines of slanting gray outside. “In a creek . . .” he whispered.

  Then they just looked at each other.

  “Come on,” Jenny said at last. “We’ve got to find him.”

  “He told me to keep you here—”

  “Nothing will keep me here. I’m going, Michael. The only question is whether you’re going with me.”

  Michael gulped, then said, “I’m going.”

  “Then let’s get out of here. We may already be too late.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Tom had never shot a gun before. He’d taken this rifle from a case in Zach’s father’s den. Zach’s father wasn’t going to be happy when he found it missing, or when he found the back door jimmied open, either.

  But Tom wasn’t going to be around to hear about it.

  He had no illusions on that. If he was right, this was strictly a one-way trip.

  Of course, Julian’s base might not be up here after all. There weren’t any doors on this mountain slope, and Julian had told Jenny the others were behind a door. But this was definitely a place where the wolf and the snake hung out—and Tom didn’t expect them to pass up the chance to attack him.

  If he even got one of them, Jenny’s chances would be better. If he got both, maybe she could actually make it.

  The idea had first come to him the night Audrey had disappeared, when they’d all been talking in Michael’s living room. Michael and Dee had been saying that the only way to win Julian’s game was to find the base, and Tom had said, “There might be another way”—and then stopped. The other way that he’d thought of was too dangerous. Too dangerous for Jenny, anyway. It wasn’t a trip he wanted her making.

  He’d thought about his idea during the next two days, going over it, debating about whether to tell Dee. She’d want to be in on it, he knew. But that would mean leaving Jenny practically unprotected. That was the basic problem with the idea—if Tom left Jenny, he left her vulnerable.

  Then Dee had disappeared—and suddenly the choice had become critical. Soon Jenny wouldn’t have anyone to protect her . . . and Julian could creep in through her dreams.

  That was what had decided Tom in the end. He couldn’t keep Julian out of the apartment—which meant he was no good to Jenny there. What he could do—maybe—was to give her one less enemy to fight.

  I’ll bet it took both of them—the wolf and the snake—to get Dee, he thought, trudging through the damp and puddling creek bed. Dee could’ve stood up to either one of them alone—but not both.

  Maybe Jenny would have a chance against one or the other of them alone. Or maybe—if Tom’s luck really held—he could get both before Julian killed him.

  No one else had even suggested going after the animals. It simply hadn’t occurred to them. They all thought of the creatures as phantoms—and, God, no wonder. The Shadow Wolf Tom had seen on the beach had looked like a moving nightmare, a luminous specter. But it had been flesh and blood.

  That was what Tom’s first trip out here had shown. The black and tarry stuff he’d scraped off that rock was blood. Gordie must have wounded one of the animals before it got him. The creatures could bleed—as Tom had proved for himself on the beach. He’d cut the wolf, and his knife had come away dark.

  They could bleed, and they left physical marks behind, like the scratches on Audrey’s car. They had some sort of material existence. Maybe they could die.

  Tom was going to find out.

  Rain was splattering his face. Cold rain, stinging drops—not like a spring shower. The cattails in the creek bed were swaying and dripping. Everything was gray.

  He was getting near the place. Not far now. Tom was coming from the south, downwind of the three sycamores. Maybe he could surprise them.

  In the gray cold he comforted himself with a picture of Jenny. Jenny—all warmth and sunlight. Golden-glowing, her hair streaming back in the wind. Jenny in the summertime, safe and happy and laughing. That was what Tom wanted—for Jenny to see another summer. In this world instead of the world of ice and shadows.

  Even if he wasn’t there to see it with her.

  Movement ahead. Tom squinted into the rain, then smiled grimly. Yes, it was there. Black against the gray background, impossibly big, glowing with its own blue light like a rotten log full of foxfire. A creature that looked like a wolf painted with luminous paint on darkness. The sight of it alone was enough to send a human running and screaming, mind broken.

  Because it wasn’t real—it was super-real. It was the archetypical Wolf—the one kids dreamed about. The one that had inspired stories like Little Red Riding-Hood. The one that lurked at the back of the human brain, eternally crouched and ready. Reminding people of what the world had once been like, a savage place where humans were the prey. When teeth and claws came at you in the night, and you got eaten.

  Funny, Tom thought, how most people these days took it for granted that they weren’t going to get eaten. Not so long ago—a few thousand years, maybe—it had been a pretty serious problem. A constant danger, the way it still was for birds and kittens and mice and gazelles.

  The sight of the Lurker, the Shadow Wolf, brought it all back clearly. One look at it and your brain stem remembered everything. How it felt to be chased by something that wanted to tear into your entrails. By something you couldn’t bargain with, couldn’t reason with, something without mercy to appeal to. Something only interested in tearing your flesh off in chunks.

  Tom couldn’t let a thing like that near Jenny.

  He was almost close enough now. It was moving toward him, slowly, crouched. He could hear the thick snarls over the patter of rain.

  Tom raised the gun to his shoulder.

  Careful—steady. He was pretty good at this at carnivals, an excellent shot. The wolf was almost in range. Tom centered the crosshairs—

  —and heard a noise behind him.

  A slithering, dragging noise. The Creeper. The Snake.

  He didn’t turn. He knew that it was almost on him, that if he didn’t run now—this instant—it would get him. He didn’t turn. With every ounce of his will, he kept his eyes on the wolf.

  In range. Now! Now!

  A horrifying hiss right behind him—

  Ignoring it, Tom squeezed the trigger.

  The recoil staggered him. Carnival guns didn’t buck like that. But the wolf was more than staggered. The force of the bullet dropped it in its tracks.

  Got it! I got it! I did it—

  The snake struck.

  Tom felt the blow in the middle of his back. Already off balance, he fell. But he twisted even as he went down. One more shot—if he could get off one more shot—

  He was lying in the mud. The snake was towering over him, a column of swaying darkness. Huge, and hugely powerful. Eyes shining with an unearthly light, mouth wide in a hiss. Giant dark head rearing back to strike—

  Now! For Jenny—

  Tom fired straight into the gaping mouth.

  The snake’s head exploded.

  It was terrible. Dark blood spurted everywhere, stinging Tom’s face, blinding him. Heavy coils, whipping in their death throes, fell on top of him, flogging him. He couldn’t get them off. Everything was blood and darkness and struggling terror.

  But I did it, Tom thought, clawing wildly at the flailing, spurting length of the snake. Oh, God, if I can just get out of here . . . I did it. They’re dead.

  That was when he heard the no
ise.

  A roaring like a waterfall in the distance—or a river. Getting closer fast. And he couldn’t see, couldn’t get up.

  Jenny, Tom thought—and then the water reached him.

  “Jenny, you’re scaring me,” Michael said. It was almost a whimper.

  Jenny herself wasn’t scared. She was cold and clear and furiously angry.

  The idea that Julian’s base might be at the creek had passed through her mind once or twice. But she’d dismissed it last night because it didn’t fit in with the door.

  Tom had obviously felt differently.

  “Keep walking,” she said. It seemed as if they’d been walking forever. She knew they were in the right area because they’d found Tom’s car—but where was the creek bed? Michael was limping badly.

  “What’s that?”

  It was a rushing, liquid sound, louder than the rain. Jenny knew what she would see even before they crested the next rise of ground and looked down.

  An unusual sight for southern California, where most creek beds were cracked and dusty. This one was full of dark, swiftly moving water—much too full for the little rain that had fallen. There was no natural explanation for it. It was a freak event, a flash flood that should have been impossible.

  But it was there. A swollen river by a sage-covered slope leading to three large sycamore trees.

  And in a little eddy directly below Jenny, swirling round and round between some rocks, was a neatly folded paper boat manned by a dark-haired paper doll.

  She didn’t realize the boat was the next clue until they were back at the apartment.

  She had been playing with it all the way. She’d set Tom’s doll on the coffee table with the others, arranging them with mad precision beside the car keys Michael had thrown there. A little line of paper dolls that sat and looked at her as she sat on the couch. She’d been turning the boat over and over in her hands while Michael huddled in a blanket on the love seat.

  Then she saw the writing on the waxy paper.

  It was very simple, a kid’s riddle. The simplest clue of all.

  What gets bigger the more you take away from it?

  She’d heard that one in kindergarten, and both she and Michael knew the answer.