by R. R. Irvine
He swung the camera away from the image and focused on Keene. Goddamn him.
Deliberately, Jarman allowed the image to blur. Let the bastard’s fans squint if they wanted to see their idol. Maybe then they’d realize just how precious eyes can be.
Sid Norris saw that his cameraman was shaken. But the producer said nothing. Death was like that; it made people feel vulnerable. It made them dig up memories that were best left buried.
Take his own memory for example. It was like video tape waiting to be replayed at a moment’s notice.
The instant he shut his eyes images flared to life, brilliantly clear.
Two boys, ages five and seven, were playing with matches. At first, they were cautious. But then, with experience, came carelessness.
A burning match touched the younger boy’s shirt. It was the touch of death. The fabric exploded. Instantly, the boy was engulfed in flames. He ran shrieking, flapping his arms at the searing pain.
Fire, the psychiatrist had told Norris, is merely another way of dying.
But Norris hadn’t believed him. He believed his mother instead, the words he’d overheard her say, words never meant for him, but true nevertheless.
“Dear God, such pain. It’s not fair, not to a child. What could be worse than dying like that?”
Sundown was only a few minutes away as Marilyn watched the Indian preparing the evening meal. He’d volunteered, but was being closely supervised by both the mayor and sheriff.
Every once in a while, the Indian would glance her way as if he wanted nothing more than to poison her. She shivered. This place was bad enough without having a killer to worry about.
“Cheer up,” Keene said, coming over and putting an arm around her. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“It’s this place.” She hugged herself. “You know it scares me.”
“As long as you’ve got me around, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She tried to smile. But the cold seemed to paralyze her facial muscles.
“Don’t forget. You’ve always got your pistol in case of emergency.”
She peered down at the holster which hung at her side.
“It’s a thirty-eight,” Keene reminded her, “with plenty of killing power.”
She reached down to unsnap the holster flap.
“I know you’ve fired a gun before.”
She nodded once, a quick but hesitant yes. “That was a long time ago.”
“OK. So we’ll get in some target practice right now before it gets dark.”
He went over to the fire and collected a couple of cans that the Indian had emptied into a cooking pot. Then Keene told the mayor where they were going.
“Don’t be gone long,” Benyon advised. “It gets dark fast and you could get lost.”
Marilyn saw the Indian smiling as Keene led her from the campsite.
They found a safe area not more than fifty yards away, where the banks of a dry creek bed protected the others from ricochets.
Keene set up the cans on a low rock about twenty feet from where Marilyn stood. As soon as he returned to her side, he said, “All right. Let’s see what you can do.”
The instant she had the .38 in her hand, she forgot about the cold. In fact, a warmth began spreading through her as she took aim.
Her first shot kicked up dirt a good yard to the left side of the rock.
“You’re closing your eyes just before the explosion,” he said.
She tried again. This time she didn’t miss by more than a foot.
She cocked the pistol and was about to fire another shot when Keene whispered, “Hold it.” He pointed out a ground squirrel that had hopped onto a rock not far from the cans. “He’s got to be either deaf or dumb.”
As if confirming both assessments, the squirrel stood up on its hind legs as if wanting to make a target of itself.
“That’s more like it,” Keene said. “There’s nothing like a live target.”
As soon as she took aim, she knew what he meant. A flush of expectation started her sweating. The pistol made her feel invincible. It gave her the power of life and death. To that squirrel, she became God.
The .38 went off.
“Good shot,” Keene said. “I’ll make a hunter out of you yet.”
Marilyn was proud of herself, more so than she had been in a long time. But when she slipped the pistol back into its holster, the old fears came back. And then she felt colder than before, and more oppressed by the dark barrier of mountains that surrounded them.
27
THE NIGHT wind sounded like a scythe.
Protectively, Graham clamped his left hand beneath his armpit. Then he choked down a mouthful of icy night air and tried to concentrate on the sketch pad in his lap.
There, too, his mind was playing tricks. The soft pencil shapes were also scythelike, cutting edges everywhere. Even the shadows cast by the fire looked sharp enough to wound.
The piercing shadows danced with the wind, creating patterns that put Graham’s effort to shame. His drawing of a cloud-shrouded mountain disappeared altogether as a particularly strong gust of wind momentarily smothered the fire. When the flames rekindled, Graham decided that shadows were better than what he’d created on paper with his left hand.
He switched the pencil to his two-pronged hook, glanced at the other faces around the fire to see how they were enjoying his agony and, to his surprise, found no one looking his way. They all seemed intent on their own problems. The expression on the girl’s face was enough to put Graham’s self-pity to shame.
He exposed a clean piece of drawing paper. Immediately, the white expanse mocked him. He slashed out with the pencil, then began to work in earnest, trying to capture what he saw in her face.
But as he peered down at the pad, it was his own fear that was taking shape there: a freeway, a smashed automobile, a severed hand, all of it.
He tore his eyes from the page and looked up at the night sky. It was like staring into a black hole, a black hole from which howled a nightmare wind.
All at once he realized that he was panting, and that the chill air had set his teeth on edge. He closed his mouth and used his tongue to warm a throbbing molar.
Then he went back to his sketch pad. His lines and shadings, more like smudges actually, were uglier than ever. Evil in fact.
Was the girl’s face evil? No. The evil was what Graham was feeling right now, this moment as the wind made nasty noises in the trees.
Graham coughed in hopes of adding a sound of life to the wind. The sound triggered Jimmy Keene.
“Damn. That was great out there today.” He gestured toward the night. “I wonder if I’ll ever get another shot like that?”
The mayor rushed his reassurance. “Where there’s one, there’s more.”
Keene had been cleaning his rifle, which now rested between his legs like a deadly phallus. “What a feeling to bring down an animal like that.”
He dropped a hand onto Marilyn’s knee. “Think what it must be like to hunt in Africa.”
“There’s nothing left in Africa these days,” said the sheriff.
Mayor Benyon nodded. “Nothing worth killing anyway.”
“I don’t know.” Keene tilted his head as if listening for prey. “What about elephants? There’s nothing that big around here.”
“I’ve come across some grizzlies in the high country,” said the sheriff, “that you wouldn’t believe.”
“Big?”
“Over ten feet when they stand up on their hind legs.”
“Grizzlies are rare, of course.” It was the mayor’s temporizing comment. “They’re an endangered species. They can’t be killed without special permit.”
Keene leaned forward, his eyes reflecting firelight.
Benyon licked his lips. “But in your case, Jimmy, we can make special arrangements. You see something you want in the Hunting Ground and you’re free to shoot it.”
“A grizzly would be something, by God. I’d gi
ve just about anything for that kind of shot.”
Graham was about to speak on behalf of conservation when the wind went berserk, gusting as if it wanted to blow the hunters right out of The Devil’s Mouth.
Around them, trees began to creak and groan. Branches flapped like huge, frenetic birds.
A bough broke off an overhanging branch and fell onto Keene’s shoulders. He screamed and used both arms to cover his face.
“Get it off!” he cried. “Get it off!”
“It’s nothing,” said the mayor, hurling the branch back into the night.
When Keene looked around there was no sign of what had attacked him.
“Was it an owl?” he asked, still cowering. “I heard its cry. It was a big one by the sound of it. It swooped right by my ear.” Keene’s fingers played over his cheeks. “Jesus, it was going for my face.”
“It was nothing but a branch,” said the mayor.
“But—”
“The wind broke it off, that’s all.”
Keene’s hands fluttered around his head as if trying to brush away the darkness. “Goddamn birds,” he muttered. “You’ve got to watch them.”
He uncovered his head slowly, then snatched up his rifle and pointed it at the night.
“I’m going to sleep,” Marilyn said. Without waiting for a response, she moved away from the fire. The night swallowed her, but Keene stayed with the light.
The wind shifted direction. The flapping sound stopped. In its place was a screech, a sound that Keene found quite tolerable judging by the look of him, but that started Graham sweating. It was a sound that made his right wrist blaze with agony.
“It’s The Devil’s Breath,” said the sheriff.
“What?” asked Graham and Keene together.
“A canyon at the end of this valley—it’s called The Devil’s Breath. The wind makes strange noises going through it. We’re about a mile from there. When you see it in the morning, you’ll know why it’s called The Devil’s Breath.”
“Why go anywhere near it?” Graham asked.
“We don’t have to actually. It marks one boundary of the Hunting Ground. Beyond it, there’s government land.”
“Then why bother?” Graham persisted.
“There are caves in that canyon.”
Graham shrugged.
Keene took a quick look around. The wind had calmed. The trees were no longer raising a fuss. His neck, which had been scrunched protectively into the collar of his heavy jacket, reasserted itself bit by bit, like a turtle reluctant to commit itself totally to the outside world.
“Hellsake, use your head,” Keene said, “Caves mean bears. Am I right?”
“Absolutely,” said the mayor. “And if we happen to flush one, why, then we work him back this way. Then he won’t be on federal land and we’ll all be safe from the FBI.” Benyon grinned.
Yeba Kah, who was handcuffed to a tree out beyond the reach of firelight, began chanting, a rhythmic, atonal recital of alien words.
“That’s all we need,” Keene complained. He pointed his rifle toward the sound.
“He doesn’t bother me,” Graham said.
“I don’t want him scaring away the animals.”
The chanting stopped and Yeba Kah said, “I have spoken to Koshari. He says only a fool would get close enough to smell The Devil’s Breath.”
28
THE DEVIL’S Breath clouded the morning air. With each puff of vapor from the canyon came a ragged, panting sound, as if some unseen guardian was issuing a warning to all would-be trespassers.
“Ah,” Keene mocked. “It sounds like the old boy is in—the devil himself.”
He leaned out over the edge of the steep gorge and shouted, “To hell with you!” The words echoed faintly.
Then Keene laughed, short, barking sounds that died without being repeated.
“You’re tempting fate,” Graham said.
“I believe in me.” Keene tapped his chest. “That’s all.”
Before Graham could answer, Sheriff Fisk said, “The steam comes from a hot spring.”
Graham peeked over the edge. It was a hell of a drop to the bottom, two hundred feet at least. “And the sound of breathing?”
Fisk shrugged. “Who knows? Probably something to do with the way the steam rises through the rock formations.”
A snort of vapor punctuated his comment.
Graham used his teeth to pull the glove from his left hand. Then he dug a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “And the smell?”
Again, the sheriff shrugged. “Strange, isn’t it? You’d expect it to smell like rotten eggs.”
Graham nodded.
“It smells familiar,” Keene said.
But to Graham it was alien. He turned to question the Indian, but Yeba Kah shook his head, either in refusal or ignorance.
Graham went back to studying The Devil’s Breath. Its steep sides were broken by teethlike out-croppings of granite that marked what looked like a tenuous trail leading to the floor of the canyon. It was about as far across the gorge as it was deep, although the other side appeared deceptively close in the muted morning light.
In the old days, with his good right hand, he would have been able to throw a rock across the chasm.
The more he stared into the canyon, the more it reminded him of a barrier, an obstacle put there to keep out intruders like himself. But then, that was his imagination acting up, triggered by the Indian’s fanciful tales.
“That’s all federal land out there.” The mayor waved expansively. “As far as you can see. A quarter-million acres of protected property, a sanctuary where hunting hasn’t been permitted in over forty years. In these mountains, our Hunting Ground is the only exception.”
There certainly wasn’t a quarter of a million acres in sight. Visibility was more like a quarter of a mile, thanks to a morning mist.
Keene clicked his tongue. “I suppose then, that that’s a federal bear out there?” He pointed across The Devil’s Breath.
In a clearing at the lip of the canyon directly across from them stood a grizzly, up on its hind legs as if to get a better look at the hunters. Its growl of protest carried across the abyss.
“Goddamn,” Keene muttered. “I’ll never get another shot like this.”
“No,” the sheriff said emphatically.
The bear must have heard him, because it dropped to all fours and growled again, more menacing than ever.
Keene raised his rifle. “Who’ll ever know, for Chrissake?”
“You heard me,” the sheriff replied.
Keene took his eye from the rifle sight, but kept the gun against his shoulder. He appealed to the mayor. “Well, what about it?”
“What’s the harm?” Benyon said, taking Sheriff Fisk by the arm.
“For one thing,” Fisk answered coldly, “I thought we were after trophies, something our friend here can take home and hang on his wall.”
The mayor nodded without releasing his hold on the sheriff.
“All right then,” said Fisk. “Once we set foot across that canyon, we’re breaking the law. And if we video tape the shot, which is the whole point of being here, we’ll convict ourselves right on TV.”
“One place looks just like another,” the mayor answered. “No one will ever know exactly where we are.”
“The Devil’s Breath isn’t a place people are likely to mistake for somewhere else. Besides, we haven’t got a permit to shoot grizzly.”
“I’ll get one, don’t worry about that. Postdated too. The responsibility will be mine.”
“I don’t like it,” said the sheriff.
“It will be over and done with before you know it.” Benyon nodded toward the bear, which was still eyeing the hunters. “Besides, how long can it take to get there and back?” It was more plea than question.
“Longer than you’d think.” Fisk shook his head. “I’ve made that climb down into the gorge before. It’s deceptive.”
The mayor said someth
ing under his breath, something Graham couldn’t catch. The sheriff answered with a shake of his head, a definite no.
Mayor Benyon whispered something else. The sheriff sighed; his shoulders slumped.
The mayor’s voice returned to normal. “You know how rare grizzlies are. We might not get another chance. A grizzly would be something for national television.”
“Now you’re talking,” Keene said. He gestured to his cameraman. “Hurry up. That bear won’t wait forever.”
Sheriff Fisk turned away as Jarman unloaded his gear. The instant Marilyn inserted her earphone and nodded, the cameraman whispered, “We’re rolling.”
Keene eased down into the prone firing position. The shot, Graham figured, couldn’t be more than two hundred and fifty feet.
“You think a .30-06 is enough gun for a grizzly?” Keene asked without taking his eye from the target.
“You hit him right,” said the mayor, “and he’ll go down like a ton of bricks.”
The bear moved just as Keene fired. At the sound of the shot, the huge animal lumbered toward the shelter of nearby trees. Keene fired again.
“You hit him,” the mayor yelled as the grizzly disappeared from sight.
“You sure?”
“Yes. In the shoulder, I think.”
“It didn’t seem to slow him down any.”
“He won’t get far.”
“Jesus,” Keene sighed.
“He’s probably bleeding to death right now.”
“I hope so.” Keene pushed to his knees. “That wasn’t a bad shot considering he was on the run. Not bad at all. You sure I didn’t get him with the first one?”
“You could have,” replied the mayor. “I didn’t see it though. But the second shot got him for sure.”
Keene stood up and chambered another round into his .30-06.
“If he hadn’t moved,” Mayor Benyon continued, “it would just be a matter of picking up your bearskin. Maybe it is anyway.”
“By God, let’s get moving then. I’ve always wanted a rug in front of my fireplace.” He winked at Marilyn.
“You’d better think twice,” the sheriff said. “A wounded bear is dangerous.”
Benyon stepped in and forcefully steered the sheriff away from the others. Once they’d moved out of earshot, they put their heads together like conspirators. Graham didn’t have to hear them to know what was being said. What did surprise him, however, was the fact that Fisk had such scruples, while Benyon, no doubt, would have had the sheriff stuffed and mounted on Keene’s wall if that would insure the success of the mayor’s precious Hunting Ground.