by Nick Thacker
Elias had come from a long line of hunters. His father and grandfather had taught him and his brothers how to hunt, and even the Ziegler women had shown a proficiency for handling weapons. The war had ravaged his homeland as well as his family history, and it had taken him a good bit of political maneuvering and distancing from his family tree to get back into the good graces of his countrymen after WWII. His father had died fighting for the wrong side, and thankfully Elias had fallen far from the tree when it came to political leanings.
He stood and stretched. Tomorrow was another day, and he was confident he could get the contract extended. He'd be paid half for his work so far, but he really wanted the bounty they'd promised by delivering on the contract. His contact at the company had even suggested to him that they could prepare an outfit to help search the countryside for the animal—two additional men, including one who would cook and provide quartermaster duties.
He had answered that he preferred to work alone, but now he was second-guessing himself. Elias’ stomach grumbled. It would be nice to have a fresh, hot meal to come back to.
Much of hunting like this was waiting, following, camping, and more waiting. The moment of pulling the trigger and bringing down a wild animal was a moment one had to earn, and that moment could take days to achieve. He enjoyed being alone, out in the woods, but his age was beginning to make him long for shorter, simpler days. Trekking through densely forested areas in search of wild game might be peaceful, but it wasn't easy.
He stood, stretched, then began packing away his rifle. Time to call it, he thought. He could almost taste the Bavarian beer selection awaiting him at the themed tavern just down the hill from his campsite. He might even splurge and use the per diem the company had allotted him for one of the massive turkey legs he’d seen smoking behind the bar.
With a mind toward food and drink, he closed his pack, slung it over his shoulder, and turned.
He heard a click. A tiny, fragmented sound that was at once perfectly at ease in the midst of the forest around it, and yet something so foreign it caught his attention.
It was the clicking sound of a breaking stick, one that would have been as thick around as his thumb, and therefore strong enough to withstand a good bit of pressure.
He waited. Still turned away from the noise. He had a better sense of presence and space sometimes not using his eyes, and besides, it was growing darker by the minute. He didn’t want to ruin whatever chance he might have at bringing in a kill.
He and the stick-breaker waited there like that, for well over a minute, Elias barely breathing and the creature — whatever it was — not making another sound.
For all he knew, the thing could have been creeping up on him, ready to pounce, but he sensed that anything large enough and careless enough to break a stick beneath its feet either was no danger to him or something that would start an attack loud enough for him to react.
Elias waited more, then risked a glance over his shoulder.
Nothing.
The silence and stillness of the Swiss Alps foothills greeted him, staring back at him as it had for hours, only now darker and colder. He squinted into the spaces between the trees, and —
There.
No, his eyes were playing tricks. What he had thought was a shadow, a looming creature standing taller than him on two feet, was nothing but a simple illusion cast by the twisted branches of the trees. He even identified the branches that played a part in the trick, seeing the trucks and the wide spaces between forming the shadow he’d seen before.
Time to go, old man, he told himself. He turned back once more, then again twisted his head around to peer on the creature-looking shadow.
It was gone.
See? he told himself. Nothing but a trick of the imagination.
6
Ben
It had been a full day of traveling before Ben arrived in the small town of Grindelwald, Switzerland. Flights to Geneva, then to Berne, then a long, meandering train ride to Grindelwald. Upon arrival, Ben had wanted nothing more than to take a long nap — the train offered no comfortable seating, and he hated flying — and get a bite to eat.
But when he’d stepped off the train and seen the mountains, or ‘horns,’ as they were called here, he was stunned. He’d traveled quite a bit during his stint with the CSO, and he even lived in one of the most picturesque states on the planet, but he had never in his life seen a village so beautifully spaced beneath the towering mountain range. Idyllic and perfect in its color and landscape, Grindelwald had had that same effect on myriad people traveling to the area for skiing, climbing, and sightseeing. It had long been a national treasure, and even an international tourist destination.
And part of that appeal, Ben now knew, was that the city maintained a relatively small population of around 4,000. Mostly related to tourism and hospitality, the inhabitants also had a comely, homegrown feeling to them, and it hadn't taken Ben long to discover that. He'd asked around for directions to the small inn Mrs. E had booked for him, and he was met with a delighted response offering not only directions to the inn but directions to every other tavern and pub and restaurant in the area worth visiting while he stayed.
It turned out that the inn was near the station, so he'd decided to walk the three blocks instead of hitch a ride, and he was glad he did. He felt as though he'd been thrown back in time to a place where life was simpler and peaceful. The floral arrays and foliage were in full bloom, and many of the storefronts and second- and third-story porches had been decorated with glorious bouquets of springtime flower arrangements.
The main road through town was paved, but it didn’t take much for Ben to imagine cobblestone or even dirt pathways between the buildings and horses in place of the cars. It looked to him like one of the many tiny ski resort towns back home, without the garish displays of wealth and privilege. A sports store sold new and secondhand ski and climbing gear, and small grocers on both sides of the streets offered in-season fruits and vegetables for prices in currencies Ben didn’t understand.
The whole experience was breathtaking, and he had immediately wished Julie had come along. There was still time to have her fly out, but he wouldn’t waste the CSO’s resources on it unless she truly was needed here.
The inn looked like the sort of thing he’d see on a postcard, and the old man at the front desk — the owner and tenant, he assumed — was equally delighted to see him as the woman who’d given him directions. He walked Ben up to his room and gave him the same spiel as the woman: where to eat, where to drink, where to ski.
Ben smiled along, then dumped his single backpack on the twin bed and turned to the small mirror in the room. He felt as though he hadn’t showered in weeks, but he didn’t look it. His eyes were heavy, but he’d decided to get something to eat first, then come back to the room to relax and meet up with Eliza tomorrow morning, first thing.
He called Julie, checked in with her and shared his experience so far, then headed out to find one of the three pubs the locals had recommended.
He’d ended up in one simply called Downtown Lodge, right across the street from a similar-looking inn called Alina’s, both quaint-looking single building bed-and-breakfasts. This one had a small tavern on the ground floor and an inviting, warm orange glow spilling out the open front door.
Ben pulled the jacket he was wearing up over his neck as he finished the last of the beer. It was cold, now that the sun had gone down, and he'd even seen on the forecast that there might be a bit of snow during the week he was here. Not uncommon for this time of year, but he'd half-expected the weather to be warmer than it was in Alaska. Right now, it felt as though it was going to be difficult to keep warm walking around town. He made a note to purchase a ski jacket, or something heavier than his light coat, tomorrow before meeting Eliza.
“Get you another?” the barman asked. His English was perfect, and Ben had a hard time believing the man was from Switzerland.
He nodded, then put a credit card down on the tab
le. “Keep it open, too, if you don’t mind.”
The older man winked at him. “Already have, son. Usually slow this time of year, so the only people coming around are looking for late-season skiing or early-season flowers. Either way, it’s quiet enough that we typically don’t worry too much about tabs.”
Ben frowned. “It’s free beer?”
The man guffawed. "No, certainly not. I just mean we don't worry about the tab until you leave."
“That’s… what a tab’s for, right?”
“No, leave the town. You’re staying over at old Ringgenberg’s place, yeah?”
Ben nodded again.
“Leaving Friday?”
“How’d you know?”
“He was just in here earlier today. Said he had an American coming later, so he had to get back to the counter before you arrived. Said you were from Alaska.”
“I am.”
"And yet, you seem cold."
Ben laughed. He liked the guy. He was funny and warm, and he seemed like he genuinely enjoyed Ben’s company. He nodded. “Yeah, I’m chilly. I packed for cool, but I have to admit it’s getting cold out there.”
“Stop by Roth Toni tomorrow. The sports shops will get you — out of town tourists and all that — but the little shop down the way carries cheap coats and things.”
“Thank you, I really appreciate that,” Ben said.
The barman performed the obligatory Karate Kid wax on, wax off movement, making a circle on the bar top with a dishrag, then leaned in closer to him. “May I ask what your business will be, here?”
7
Ben
Ben wasn't sure how to take it. His voice was a bit lower, and the man seemed to want to keep this portion of the conversation to himself. Still, there were only three other people in the bar, all men. Two were sitting across from each other at a table; the third was drinking a whisky at the opposite end of the bar. None of the other patrons seemed to care about Ben or their conversation.
“Uh, work, actually.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Not many come out here for work, son. What type of business are you in?”
“Well, I, uh, help people with… things.”
“I see. An Alaskan CIA-man.”
Ben laughed again. "No, unfortunately, it's nothing as cool as that."
"How 'cool' is it, then? Do tell; I'm just an old fart running out of good bar stories."
Ben leaned a bit closer and shifted on his stool. The man seemed harmless, and Ben knew there wasn’t really any information he could share that was sensitive in any way, perhaps besides the names of the involved parties. “I just got a call that someone around here might need my help. I work for a new group called the Civilian Special Operations.”
“Special Operations?” the man asked. “Oh, that sounds serious.”
“Trust me, the civilian part keeps it pretty tame.” It was a lie, but it was a safe one. “We mostly help people find things that have gone missing, or make things right that have gone wrong. As long as we’re helping people and not hurting them, we’ll take the job.”
There was a bit more to it than that, but again Ben decided it was probably not worth offering up extra information.
The man nodded slowly, still smiling. He placed a basket of fries in front of him — Ben hadn’t even noticed the younger man deliver them — and then offered him another beer.
Ben waved it off, knowing that two beers was about his limit.
The bar owner worked down to the other side of the bar and refilled drinks for his patrons, then moseyed back to Ben.
“I’d better be going,” Ben said, once again offering his card.
"Don't worry about it," the man said. "Stop by before you leave Friday, and we'll settle it."
Ben thanked him and stood up.
“Oh, son — before you go.”
“Yeah?”
“You might stop by Alina’s across the street. Talk to the owner there. Man named Hugh. Nice guy, and I’m sure he’d like to meet you.”
Ben frowned. “He’d like to meet me?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“And… why is that?”
“Well, you’re in the line of work that helps people, right? ‘Finds things that have gone missing?’”
Ben sighed. He knew he shouldn’t have opened his mouth. Now he’s going to want me to find his prized Mustang convertible or an old baseball card, he thought.
“I don’t know,” Ben said. “I’m not sure I was clear when I said that, and —“
"I believe you were, son," the barman said. "He's got a daughter. Came home to see them after being away at university for a while. Thing is, she never showed up."
Ben cocked his head.
“He’s been beside himself trying to sort it out, and the police here just don’t have the resources to help. They say she’s probably just waiting it out in a bigger city, meeting up with friends from school.”
“But he doesn’t think so?”
The man shook his head. "No one thinks so, son. She was scheduled to be in town a couple of nights ago, and someone even said they saw her getting off the train."
“And she never arrived at her folks’ place.”
“That’s right. No reason to expect she’d change the plans, and her father’s been pretty worked up about it. Actually am surprised he’s got the shop open today — his wife and her grandparents have gone up to Interlaken to look for more help.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Ben said.
“Right, we are too. Nice girl.”
“Is… there anything else?”
“Well, no. Just go talk to him if you get the chance.”
Ben nodded, still feeling like he shouldn't have offered up information about his line of work. He wished he could help, but there were others matters here he needed to attend to. If the local police couldn't figure it out, why should he be able to?
But he also liked this man, and it wouldn’t hurt to just check in.
"Okay," he said. "I'll go see him. Tomorrow morning, after a meeting."
The man’s face lit up. “Wonderful! I’ll mention it to him. Thank you, son.”
8
Dietrich
“This is a mess,” Lars said. “This is an absolute mess. I thought I paid people like you to fix messes like —”
Roger Dietrich held up a hand, and Lars stopped. He was seated across the table from him, and for the last half-hour he'd been silently and patiently listening to Lars berate him and the rest of the staff.
No one else on the planet could have gotten away with this, but Dietrich wasn’t afraid of Lars.
“I am not a lowly scientist who works for you, Lars,” Dietrich said. “Do bear that in mind. We are on the same team.”
Lars’ mouth opened, then closed again. He nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry. I apologize. I am just at my wits’ end. Dr. Canavero had everything under control. I cannot understand what could have happened. How this could have —“
“We will have it under control,” Dietrich said. “Remember that. We will get back on track, Lars.”
“It will be too late.”
Dietrich shook his head. “It won’t. Our hunter is out there now, working to resolve this as quickly as possible.”
“He is taking too long.”
“We haven’t even told him what it is he’s hunting for,” Dietrich argued.
“And we cannot tell him. It’s too risky. If my grandfather finds out anything —“
“Lars, he won’t. No one will. You did the right thing. Shutting down was the correct move, and no one’s the wiser.”
A few days ago, they'd shut down the new research division, sending all but a handful of the staff and scientists away on leave. They had the funds to keep them on payroll, but Lars didn't want his grandfather to suddenly appear and ask for details. They needed to keep this quiet, so they offered their staff a 'surprise vacation' package, including per diem.
Many of them had chosen to go skiing in one of t
he many nearby ski towns, with the requirement that they should be prepared to return to work in one week. Many of the scientists, privy to the events that had taken place a few days ago, had also been paid for their silence.
The building was now running with a skeleton crew of security guards and specialists and doctors — only the necessary staff to keep the place running for a week.
But Lars needed to get this matter resolved. He didn’t have a week. Dietrich knew the man was stressed, but he had done a good job of hiding it.
So far.
Dietrich had known this man for a decade, and so he was able to see when the cracks began to appear. They were small, mostly unnoticeable now, but the next few days would be trying.
“What do you want to do?”
Lars sighed. “We need to join the hunter. We need to go into the field and get this resolved. The sooner we can get out there and —“
“You want us to go out there with him? Lars, he’s a professional! We can’t expect to —“
“You can stay here if you want,” Lars said. “I am going with him. The more we have searching, the faster we can find it and return it to the lab. The faster we can continue with the operation.”
And the faster we can solve the actual problem, Dietrich thought. The faster we can move to the real test.
"Inform Mr. Ziegler that we are adjusting his schedule. His directives will be made clear tomorrow at this time. Hopefully, he is still close enough to return by then."
Dietrich was making notes on his phone as Lars spoke. “Here?”
“Here, at the coffeehouse. That is fine. I trust you can outfit us by tomorrow as well?”