The Hunter Inside

by David McGowan

  ‘You’re one cocky bastard, aren’t you?’ O’Neill spat the words at him. ‘Well, Paul, I’ve just got one more thing I’d like to make clear.’ He stepped back and his face hardened. Paul knew what was coming, but he wasn’t quick enough to get out of the way of it. The pain gushed through his face and he fell backwards off the chair he had been perched upon. Sam O’Neill walked out of the room and locked the door behind him.

  *

  Paul sat, nursing a busted nose that went nicely with the split lip he had already received. He was dazed and shaking, and he couldn’t wait to get out of the police station.

  It would be evening before he could get home. It was three now and Jim Brown, his attorney, would have to get there and work his magic first. Forsby entered the room and asked him for his attorney’s details. Paul took a pen from him and wrote them down. He wasn’t prepared to speak to this man only to feel stinging pain from his busted lip. Forsby took the paper and left the room.

  Paul began to think of what he would have to face when he did arrive home. Thinking about it, he reasoned with himself that this could be even worse than the pain that spread through his face from his nose, which he suspected was broken. He mused upon the fact that this probably meant a black eye come tomorrow, but this didn’t seem too important in the grand scheme of things according to Paul Wayans.

  It was to more worrying matters that he turned his attention. He thought back through his life, trying to think of somebody who might hold a grudge against him. But as much as he thought about it, he couldn’t think of anybody that he thought capable of committing such a barbaric act. It was only when he thought back to his childhood that something came into his mind.

  But surely that was absurd?

  He thought about the stories his grandmother had told him when he was a child. He remembered the dreams that plagued him as a result of those stories. His grandmother had died when he was seven, but he had researched the legend of Shimasou when he was old enough to understand what had caused the dreams. Surely, it couldn’t be that? But what if it was?

  Paul felt the absurdity of his situation again plainly. It was surely madness to put these happenings down to an old legend, but he couldn’t think of anything else. He would have to tell someone. But who? He couldn’t tell these cops. Hell, O’Neill would probably beat him to death and Jim Brown, as good an attorney as he was, couldn’t be expected to believe such a fantastic story as the one he had to tell.

  He would have to wait for his ordeal in Atlantic Beach to be over. Then he would go back home and talk to Todd Mayhew. He would believe him. Good old Todd would believe him. He was a good friend.

  Yes. He would tell Todd – before it was too late.

  8

  Bill Arnold’s Wednesday morning was not as traumatic as Paul Wayans’. It was, however, filled with the same turbulent feelings as the ones that Paul Wayans was experiencing.

  He awoke at 8:30 AM, with a mouth that felt as dry as the Sahara Desert. Groaning, he lifted up his head to realize that he was still on the sofa, the TV blaring out MTV, a corkscrew turning through his head.

  He wondered just how much he’d drunk, and was answered by looking at the table in front of him. Three quarters of the whiskey was gone and nine bottles of Bud stood empty, not looking anywhere near as gloriously appealing as they had the night before. Bill wondered why on earth he poisoned himself so badly, and decided that he would never drink again. Worms tunneled deeper and further into his brain as the room swirled in a haze of grogginess that was half-hangover, half-sleep.

  The haze departed gradually, and he remembered why he had decided to fill his veins with ethanol: the letter, no: the photograph. That was when he felt even more nauseous. He ran into the bathroom and threw up the seat of the toilet, just in time to catch a torrent of liquid vomit. Not the sort of vomit one gets after overeating; full of stomach lining that looks like carrots and bits of meat, but the sort of vomit that wrenches the guts of its victim, even after its contents have been regurgitated. Pure liquid alcohol followed by bile.

  Despite feeling that there was still another gallon of the noxious fluid churning inside him that needed to be purged, he gave up heaving and slid onto the floor of the bathroom; his clammy, sweat covered face resting against the cool porcelain as he struggled to get his breath, his eyes closed and colors dancing in the recess that divided his hangover from the real world outside.

  ‘Why is this happening to me?’ he wondered feebly and out loud to himself. He was a mess.

  He stepped into the shower and turned on the taps. As he felt the warm water massaging his shoulders, part of the weight of his predicament subsided and his hangover began to fade. He fought a desire to stay behind the curtain under the water that enclosed him in what seemed like a protective embrace, and enjoy a permanent Amazonian experience under this tropical rainstorm, but the actuality of his world inescapable, he began once again to muse upon what should be his course of action.

  Sleeping on the problem had not changed his mind, even slightly, upon the matter of whether or not to involve the police. If he were suspected, then that could (and probably would) lead to an even worse situation for Bill. His thoughts were so dictated by fear that running seemed to be the only option open to him.

  As he rubbed the wafer thin piece of soap across his chest, he looked down at the growing amount of flab accumulating on his stomach. Observing that it was reaching never before seen proportions, Bill afforded himself a chuckle as he mumbled out loud, ‘I hope I don’t have to outrun this thing.’

  For Bill Arnold laughter was a good thing. He deserved a chuckle, and it would be a while before he wholeheartedly chuckled again. It was going to be a struggle for good old Bill.

  He stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and rubbing the beads of water from his body briskly, so briskly in fact, that his skin stung and assumed a dull red tint. He went into the bedroom and pulled on a pair of briefs, jeans and a T-shirt. Then the thought hit like a ton of bricks dropped directly onto him from something like a four story height:

  Is there any mail?

  *

  Bill Arnold went outside, making a Brrr sound as his teeth began to chatter instantly. He walked toward the mailbox, praying inwardly that it would contain nothing more than the sound of the breeze that passed through it with a low whine. He was disappointed. There was one piece of mail for him to open.

  He recognized the envelope instantly as being of the same origin as the others that had at times amused him, but now sent shivers down his spine that replaced with ease the ones the early morning chill had inspired. His surname was scrawled onto the front of the envelope, a characteristic that Bill had learned to identify with the multiple threats he had received.

  After the photograph he had received on the previous day, he wondered what he was going to see. Bill Arnold, as big and as tough as he looked, didn’t think his overworked ticker could stand any more gruesome shows like the one that had forced him into an alcoholic stupor the night before. He eased the paper from the envelope, dreading the presence of another photograph. He freed the contents from the envelope, and was relieved by the thinness that told him there was no photograph. He double-checked the envelope to make sure he hadn’t left anything inside. All clear.

  All of his deliberations now over, there was nothing to stop Bill Arnold from opening the paper and looking at what was written on it. This was easier said than done, and it took him a full minute to ease open the single piece of paper. On it there were just four words, but four words were enough to inject a huge sense of paranoia into Bill Arnold.

  I am watching you.

  Goose bumps rattled over his skin, from his head to his feet, when he read this statement. Looking slowly around the perimeter of the garden, Bill wondered if this were true.

  Turning to go inside, he noticed the newspaper on the veranda, leaning against the edge of the window frame and bent in two. Damn, that paperboy’s slack, he thought. Why can’t he stop and put it
in the damn mailbox? He grabbed the paper and hurried inside. He opened the cupboard that was under the sink in the kitchen and quickly found a black plastic bag, taking it into the lounge of the small house and placing the empty beer bottles into it.

  Once he had sorted the lounge into a presentable state he sat down and thought again about what he would do. A quick scan through the morning paper failed, as it had the night before, to turn up a report of the murder.

  Still no body for the police, but now he’s ready for me.

  If he were being watched then surely the thing to do would be to run, wouldn’t it? If he were being watched then there was no point in going to the police. But how could somebody be watching him twenty-four hours a day?

  Bill Arnold had crucial decisions to make. His most prevalent thought was to run. A voice inside his mind told him to run. He could watch his surroundings, try to see if he could spot anyone, and then take off when he was least likely to be followed. Then the ball would be in his court, wouldn’t it?

  But for how long would he have to stay away? The rest of his life? Bill didn’t want that. He was settled in Glen Rock; New Jersey was his kind of place. The town was quiet; a small town that didn’t normally have major happenings. That was how he liked it. When he wasn’t driving he liked to be in an environment that wasn’t all hustle and bustle. Glen Rock was that environment.

  While Paul Wayans sat, waiting anxiously for the police to call him back, Bill Arnold was laying his plans. Having decided not to go very far from home (he did not see the point in traveling to the other end of the world when he didn’t want to be running forever), he got out a map.

  ‘Right, not too far away. Hell, I might as well go into New York City. Everyone’s anonymous there. If I do that then I’ll be safe.’

  His sentiments were probably accurate, for any normal person couldn’t follow somebody around New York - it was just too big and too busy.

  ‘Second thoughts, I might as well go to the coast; Long Island, Coney Island, perhaps even Atlantic Beach.’

  Maybe once he was out of danger he could relax and have a good time – forget his stalker existed and put his head and his life back together.

  As Paul Wayans was being told to stay put and wait for the police to get to him, Bill Arnold was deciding what he needed to do to make sure he got away from Glen Rock in one piece. Firstly, he would have to make sure that nobody who might be watching the house would see him leave. This meant binoculars. Bill grabbed a pad and a pen and wrote in capital letters, ‘BINOCULARS’, underlining it twice, one line managing to dissect the word into two parts. Then he had a brainstorm to see what else he would need to take. He came up with money, clothes, weapons (he would take a gun and a knife), and ammunition.

  He tore the piece of paper from the pad upon which he had made his inventory and drew a quick plan of the house and its surroundings. Then he proceeded to divide it into eight sections, four at the front and four at the rear. He would take up positions in each of the sections and observe, using the binoculars, the perimeter of the garden by scanning back and forth and up and down for ten minutes per section. He would be looking not just for a madman in a tree, but also for anything that looked odd or out of place. If he was really lucky then he might see a madman in a tree. He wondered if this would be something he could consider lucky, or if it would paralyze him with fear. But that was the chance Bill Arnold was forced to take if his escape plan was to be successful and he was to get to the coast unnoticed.

  As Bill Arnold was settling into the first position of his hastily drawn plan, a car was on its way to Paul Wayans that would deliver him to a helicopter that would take him to where Bill Arnold wanted to be within an hour. Bill didn’t know this and he didn’t care. He would be sitting at various points inside the house for the next hour and a half, watching and waiting for signs of his anonymous stalker. But if this meant that he could get into his car and drive away safely, without being followed, then that was fine by him.

  It was going to be a long day. There was still another thing he had to before he could leave Glen Rock.

  By the time Paul Wayans and the annoying Pat Forsby were getting into the car that would take them to the waiting helicopter, Bill Arnold had completed half of his eight-point plan to surveillance success. He saw nothing out of order and nobody watching him. But he felt tense. What was he going to do if he did see a maniac edging toward the house with a gun or a knife?

  He took hold of the shotgun that he was to take with him on his journey southwards. Today was going to be tense, and the gun made him feel a little bit better, more comfortable. He carried on surveying the borders around the house, following the same routine for each sector of the property, using the binoculars to scrutinize dense areas of brush. By the time he had completed surveillance of the entire area surrounding the property, it was twelve thirty, and Paul Wayans was arriving at the police station in Atlantic Beach.

  He had seen nothing that looked out of the ordinary while conducting his vigil. He also didn’t feel any better. He grew tenser and more nervous as the time went on, much the same way that Paul Wayans was feeling as Special Agent Sam O’Neill walked into the room fifty kilometers away.

  He went into the kitchen of the house. Sweat dripped from his armpits and rolled down his body, some of it making its way across his stomach, which was fighting a battle of its own against the turmoil of nerves that made it tie itself into knots. All of this was heightened by the hum that rang in his head from his alcohol binge, which he now regretted intensely.

  Fifty kilometers away, Sam O’Neill was getting angry. So angry, in fact, that he felt he might strike Paul Wayans at any moment. His patience was running out as the man in front of him told him lie after lie. Paul too was starting to feel the strain getting to him.

  So now it was time to go. Bill’s scanning the garden at the back of his house, looking in greater detail than he would have previously thought possible at the thick bushes and even up into the trees, had failed to reveal anything that looked remotely out of place. It had failed also to reveal a psychotic madman sitting in a tree with war paint on his face, holding a samurai sword and waiting to pounce. This didn’t surprise Bill. He’d had a feeling that he wouldn’t see anyone or anything - it all seemed too crazy - but his time-consuming inspection had made him feel better about venturing outside the door of his small house.

  He was anxious to be away from Glen Rock for a while and out of the reach of the madman that was plaguing him. Now that he had completed his surveillance, he was confident that he could get away unnoticed. He looked up and placed two of the fingers of his left hand against the wooden door of a cupboard that was home to his pots and pans and muttered, ‘touch wood’.

  While he didn’t think he was superstitious, it was something his father had always done when Bill was growing up and it had rubbed off on him. Today was the anniversary of his father’s death: ten years, and he would not fail to visit his father’s grave for anybody, not even a psychotic killer.

  Bill grabbed a sports carryall from the bedroom and hurriedly threw in some clothes. He went into the bathroom and gathered some toiletries; toothbrush, shampoo, razor and shaving foam were all placed into the large bag, then went back into the lounge and retrieved the binoculars and the map. He placed them inside and closed the zipper, before placing the bag on the floor near the door.

  Next, he went back into the bedroom and opened the closet, fishing around inside before retrieving a small, steel box that contained ammunition for the shotgun. He took the box and went back into the lounge. Everything felt as though it were taking twice as long as it should. It felt to Bill like he was operating in slow motion. He placed the shotgun and ammunition next to the bulky carryall and shoved his wallet into the pocket of his Lee jeans. He was ready to go.

  Paul Wayans was sat at the same moment, fifty kilometers away, nursing a split lip and a busted nose and waiting for his attorney, Jim Brown, to arrive and obtain his release.

 
; Bill Arnold ran to his Ford, which was still parked diagonally across the drive, the way he had left it in his hurry to get the smell of beer into his nostrils the previous night. He deposited the carryall onto the back seat of the car, before grabbing the shotgun from the doorway and placing it underneath the driver’s seat. He then closed and locked the door of the house, looking around nervously as he did so, before getting into the Ford. He sat for a moment, thinking about the journey he was about to undertake, looking around the garden once more. He felt uneasy, like somebody was watching him. He’d scanned the whole of the perimeter, and had remembered to quickly look down the sides of the property as he came out. He had seen no one and nothing to make him feel that anybody was, or had been, watching him

  It was past time to go. Bill started the engine of the Ford on the second attempt and pulled out of the drive. He drove for about ten minutes, a feeling of depression gnawing at his insides and pulling at his flagging spirits. He pulled into a florist’s shop near the cemetery, feeling close to tears. Thinking about his father and that crazy day ten years ago when he had been told of his death was enough to make tears stand in the corners of his eyes, and he tried to brush them aside, before entering the florist’s shop and buying a bunch of lilies. Somebody had once said that lilies were associated with death, and for one reason, he continually placed lilies on his father’s grave. The reason was his continued reluctance to let go of his father, despite the passing of so many years, until he understood what had happened to him and why.