The Mountain King Page 8

  “Probably faster than Markie-boy’d ever dare goose it,” he whispered as he lurched down the walkway toward the door on the side of the garage. His plan was to get the car started, then open the garage door from the inside, hop into the car, and wheel on out of there as fast as he could.

  As he was reaching for the doorknob, though, something—a faint snorting sound from behind him—caught his attention. He turned and peered into the backyard but could see nothing in the darkness. The small expanse of lawn was backed by trees that stood out like thick, black lace against the starry sky. A chilly wind blew into his face, making him shiver and wish he had grabbed his jacket. Shaking his head to clear his mind, and figuring it had just been the wind or something, he turned and opened the garage door. He was just about to enter the darkened garage when he heard or sensed something moving behind him. As the heavy thump of running feet filled his ears, he spun around just in time to see the quick motion of— something—-black against the dark wall of the trees. A large, lumbering dark shape was charging straight at him from the backyard.

  “What the fuck—”

  Before he could say anything more, the shape was on him.

  It towered above him, outlined against the night sky like a mountain. Two large arms materialized from the bulk and swung at him from both sides, catching him up in a crushing embrace.

  Jesus, God! Help!.. . Help me! Dennis thought, but he couldn’t make the tiniest of sounds.

  Powerful arms applied steady pressure, crushing him in their embrace. Dennis heard his pulse filling his ears with thunderous beats as whoever—or whatever—this thing was started squeezing him tighter and tighter.

  Help me!. .. Polly!. .. Please!. .. Help me!

  Dennis tried to resist the pressure that was bending him steadily backward, but his arms were pinned uselessly to his sides. A loud snapping sound was accompanied by a bright, white jolt of pain that slammed through his body like lightning. Dennis let out a short, feeble shout as the thing let go of him, and he crumpled to the ground. His back was broken, and several ribs had been crushed to pulp. He was lost in an explosion of pain.

  No!. . . Please! Dennis thought, but he couldn’t take a deep enough breath to make a sound. His body was so racked with pain it still felt as though the creature had him in its powerful embrace.

  The dark figure crouched low, twisted to one side, and then spun around quickly with its huge, flat hand extended. The impact was terrific, like a stick of dynamite going off inside Dennis’s head. Bright swirling lights spun across his vision, and searing flames of pain filled him as the side of his face caved in. Before the instant of pain passed, the creature’s other hand slammed into his stomach and lifted him clear off the ground as sharp claws dug through his shirt and into his belly.

  Sitting in the living room with the TV up loud, Polly barely heard the commotion outside. Her first thought was that Dennis was too drunk even to get outside the door, so she ignored it. But when she heard him shout, she leapt off the couch and ran into the kitchen. She slapped on the outside light and looked out the window over the sink. Beside the garage, she saw a blur of motion as a large, dark shape darted away from the garage and into the backyard. For a moment, she thought it was Dennis, but then she saw him sprawled on the walkway in front of the garage door.

  “Goddamn clumsy oaf!” she muttered, thinking he had fallen down the steps and hurt himself. If she had to call for an ambulance, it was going to be just a little bit awkward, explaining how a drunk man who wasn’t her husband had fallen down and hurt himself in her yard this late at night.

  Polly raced outside, intending to help him, but when she was halfway down the walkway, she stopped dead in her tracks.

  “Dennis . .. Are you all right?”

  Halfway to him, she leaned forward, not quite daring to come any closer.

  He wasn’t moving. He was lying on his back, staring up at the night sky with a glazed, unblinking stare. The dark stain spreading across the ground underneath his stomach looked almost like—

  “Oh, Jesus!”

  A thick, sour taste bubbled up from Polly’s stomach into her throat when she realized that she was looking at a long coil of Dennis’ intestines. Her legs suddenly went all rubbery and were barely able to support her. She gagged once and covered her mouth with her hand in an attempt to hold back the sudden rush of sour vomit.

  She called to him again, feebly, but Dennis still didn’t move. The dark stain beneath him—which could only be blood—continued to spread. Moving ever so slowly, Polly approached the body, her breath catching painfully in her throat. Once she was close enough, she saw the keys to Mark’s Corvette, clutched in Dennis’ lifeless hand. Whimpering, she forced herself to bend down and take them from him. Then she spun around on her heel and raced back into the house.

  She was nearly numb with shock and fear, and her hands were trembling uncontrollably as she dialed the police station. She blurted out what had happened, and the night dispatcher assured her that Chief LaBrea and a patrolman would be over within minutes.

  Before the police arrived, Polly hung the Corvette keys back up on the wall, then took a shot of whiskey in hopes that it would calm her down enough so she could think up a logical explanation to give the cops as to why Dennis Cross was outside her house this late at night.

  Maybe . .. just maybe, if she could make Guy LaBrea believe it, she would be able to make Mark believe it, too, when he heard about what had happened.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pickup Point

  Sandy came home from Karen Bishop’s house early Sunday morning as soon as she heard about what had happened at her house late Saturday night. Polly was understandably distraught, even if Dennis hadn’t been her boyfriend; but Sandy didn’t believe for a second the line her stepmother had given both her and the police, that Dennis had borrowed some tools from Mark a few days ago and had been returning them late at night, trying to sneak them into the garage, apparently, so he wouldn’t disturb whoever was home. All day and night Sunday, and then throughout the next day at school, Sandy felt increasingly anxious about meeting her father at their appointed spot that afternoon. She knew for certain now that, no matter what else, she had to tell him everything.

  As soon as she got home from school, without even checking to see if Polly was home or not, Sandy got the bullets from the closet where her father stored them, hurriedly packed up the food and other supplies he had told her to get, and then jumped into the Jeep and took off. Tension was coiling in her stomach like sour acid as she followed Route 26 out of town toward Newry and the start of the Round Top Trail.

  There weren’t many houses once she got outside of Newry—just a few scattered farmhouses. After a while, the wide fields, tinged now with autumn colors, gave way to thick forest. Tall, dark pine trees closed down around the Jeep as the tarred road ended and a washboard dirt road began. The Jeep bounced and chattered over the bumps in the road, spiking Sandy’s nervousness. Several times she was swept up by waves of panic, thinking that she must have taken the wrong road, or worrying that something had happened to her father, but—at last—she saw the sign up ahead that marked the beginning of the Round Top Trail. With a fantail of dust swirling in her wake, she pulled into the small parking area and stopped the Jeep.

  For several seconds, Sandy just sat there, clutching the steering wheel and listening to the Jeep’s engine click as it cooled down. Hazy sunlight shifted with a dull lemon flicker through the overladen branches overhead. She scanned the surrounding woods, trying to pierce the wall of dark greens and browns, but saw only the heavy sway of branches. A blue jay cried out and flew away. A red squirrel scurried across the solitary picnic table and up a tree.

  There was no one around.

  Come on, Dad! Where the heck are you?

  She opened the Jeep window and listened to the high hissing of wind in the pines. It sounded lonely and cold, and she tried to imagine how lonely it must be up there on the mountain. She wished she didn’t feel
so apprehensive, but she knew there was no avoiding it. If her father didn’t show, she’d be worried sick about him; if he did show, she was going to have to tell him about what had happened.

  Either way, she didn’t like what was going to happen.

  A flicker of motion off to her right caught her attention. She turned and saw her father, waving and calling out to her as he came down the trail. He was carrying a walking stick in one hand and had an empty backpack slung over his shoulders. Gritting her teeth, Sandy got out of the Jeep and ran to meet him.

  “Hey, how’s it going, babe?” Mark asked, smiling through three days’ growth of beard. “Got the stuff I wanted?”

  Sandy almost automatically replied that everything was just fine but then simply shrugged.

  Mark immediately picked up that something was wrong. “Hey, what’s the matter?”

  “There’s been some trouble ... back home,” Sandy said. She was already close to tears. “Dennis Cross is ... dead.”

  “What?”

  “Someone killed him ... in our backyard.”

  “Our yard?”

  Sandy nodded and forced herself to continue, knowing that she had to spill it all right now or else she’d never find the courage to say it all. “The police aren’t sure, but they think it might have been a bear that’s been reported in the area.”

  “A bear?” Mark said, letting his voice trail away.

  While Sandy hurriedly told him everything she knew about the grisly incident, about Polly’s affair with Dennis, and—worst of all—that the police were now looking for him, her father listened with steadily mounting dismay and concern, and then anger registering on his face.

  “—but only for questioning,” she finished.

  She wished she didn’t feel like a traitor or murderer for hurting her father like this. His pain was obvious from his tight, squinting expression and the firm set of his jaw.

  “Somehow I’m not surprised . . . about Polly and Dennis, I mean,” he said finally. He blinked his eyes rapidly to keep the tears from forming. “I guess I just don’t have a way with women, huh? First I scare away your mother, and now—now I’m not even able to hang on to Polly. Shit!”

  He kicked up a clot of sod with the toe of his boot and gripped his hiking stick so tightly the knuckles on both hands turned white. Sandy looked at him, wanting more than anything in the world to cry and hug him, to let him comfort her and tell her everything was going to be all right, but she couldn’t move.

  “So anyway ... how’s it going for you out here?” Sandy asked, once she gained a bit of control. She studied him and added, “You know, I think you might look good with a beard.”

  Mark scraped the stubble on his cheeks and forced a smile.

  “Umm—yeah. Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not having any luck. I haven’t found any tracks or anything. I’ve set up camp a couple of miles up the trail, just across the east branch of the river. About halfway to the top.” He paused a moment and looked thoughtfully back up the trail. “I suppose I’m going to have to move my camp now. In case the police come looking for me.”

  Sandy shifted nervously from one foot to the other. “Umm, Dad. I hate to sound—you know, suspicious or anything, but you didn’t—you know, you didn’t do it, did you?”

  “Do what? You mean kill Dennis Cross? Come on, Sandy, don’t be ridiculous!”

  Sandy shrugged. “Well, I mean, I didn’t think so, but I thought—you know, if you had found out about them before now, you might have lost your temper, you know, and ... and done something.”

  Mark snorted with laughter. “Yeah, well, I won’t have to do anything about Dennis now, will I? Someone else has taken care of that for me.”

  Sandy bit her lower lip and nodded, unable to look at the pain in her father’s eyes.

  “You didn’t happen to tell anyone you were meeting me out here, did you?”

  Sandy shook her head tightly.

  “Good,” Mark said.

  He covered his mouth with his hand and considered for a moment.

  “Look, I know the right thing to do would be to come down off the mountain right now and go and talk to the police. Guy would believe I had nothing to do with it, but I dunno.” He shook his head solemnly. “I just can’t do that right now. I’m going to stay up there until I find out what the hell happened to my friend. If the cops think I might have had something to do with what happened to Dennis . . . well, then, they’re just going to have to come up here and find me if they want to talk to me.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Sandy said, her face creased with worry. “What if they do come up here looking for you?”

  “Then we’ll have all that many more men who can help me look for Phil.”

  Sandy tried to say something but was at a loss for words.

  “Look, let’s get the supplies from the Jeep so I can get back up there, okay? It’ll be good to have some fresh food for supper tonight.”

  Sandy smiled weakly and said, “I packed a few surprises for you, too.”

  “That’s great, babe. You know, I’ll be needing more food and clothes in another couple of days. Another sweatshirt or two might come in handy, too. It’s been pretty cold up there at night. Think you can meet me out here again, say, on Thursday?”

  Sandy shook her head. “Cheerleading tryouts are this Thursday, but I could skip them.”

  “No, let’s make it Wednesday, then. C’mon, let’s get that stuff loaded up so you can get back home before dark. I—uh—it’d probably be best if you didn’t let Polly or anyone else know you told me what’s been going on.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  It didn’t take long for Mark to fill up his empty backpack with the food and clean clothes. Sandy had carefully wrapped up a half pound of hamburger and had included two un-asked-for bottles of beer, which Mark planned to have for supper that night.

  Once he was ready to head back up the trail, Mark gave his daughter a long, strong hug. After a quick exchange of goodbye kisses, he turned and started back up the trail, disappearing silently into the tangle of dark green shadows.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Sandy had the disorienting feeling that he had never really been there. She felt suddenly lost and lonely as she stood beside the Jeep and stared at where he had gone. She told herself that it was foolish, but she feared that she might never see him again. Tears blurred her vision as she got back into the Jeep, started it up, and drove away.

  As soon as the Jeep disappeared around the corner, another figure strode out of the woods where it had been hiding. It was tall and wide-shouldered, and covered with a smooth mat of brown fur. Its left shoulder was marred by a raw wound that had started to scab over. Dried black blood matted the creature’s fur.

  In spite of its huge bulk, the creature moved with silent grace as it came over to where the Jeep had been parked. A cold, animal intelligence burned in its eyes as it scanned the area for danger. With a low, soft grunt, it sniffed the air as it looked back and forth between the trail where Mark had gone and down the road where Sandy had gone. Its thick, black lips curled back in a snarl. Then, with a bellowing snort, it took off into the woods, moving silently through the shadowed forest as it ran parallel to the road where dust from the Jeep’s passing still swirled in the late afternoon sunshine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Manhunt

  “Look, I don’t want to have to keep repeating this, but this isn’t some kind of vigilante committee or anything, okay? And it sure as hell ain’t no goddamned manhunt.”

  Guy LaBrea was standing behind his desk, speaking loud enough to be heard above the murmur of the thirty or more men who were crowded into his small office. It was just past six o’clock in the morning. Outside the office window, the sky was slowly blending from pale gray to blue.

  “ ‘Least as of right now, neither Mark Newman nor anybody else has been charged with anything in connection with the death of Dennis Cross, so I think it’s best if we all just si
mmer down.”

  “How come?” someone at the back of the room yelled.

  LaBrea looked up and saw Dan Jenkins staring earnestly at him. Ever since Saturday night, as soon as he had heard that his best friend and drinking buddy had been killed, Dan had been calling the police station, pressing LaBrea for answers as to what had happened. His question now was followed by scattered grunts and murmurs of approval.

  “Why?” LaBrea said. “Because although some of you might not agree with me—” he nailed Dan with a harsh look, hoping to keep him quiet “—we haven’t clearly established any motive in the situation. That’s why! State police evidence technicians have been working on this case all weekend, so let’s let them do their job, all right?”

  “How about what happened out at Josh’s?” someone else called out. “Ain’t there a connection?”