Hunter (3 page)

Maddox concentrated. "You're certain this isn't the work of a grizzly, Doctor? Or maybe a polar bear? A tiger, maybe?"

"No, not a grizzly, nor a brown bear," the professor expounded in a low tone. "For one matter, a grizzly has five claws. And whatever did this had four predominant claws, and a smaller one. But the paw print is distinctly ...humanoid. Now this," he paused, "is damn peculiar." A long silence lengthened. "No, gentlemen, not a bear of any kind. Perhaps them tigers could have caused this much carnage to your team, but the tracks are ... just ... they just appear to me to be somewhat too manlike. In fact, far too manlike."

"But clearly no human being could do something like this, Doctor." Dixon spoke for the first time.

Tipler raised his eyes, gazing over bifocals. "I would not make a determination of any fact until I had obtained the information necessary to make the determination of that fact, Mr. Dixon." He smiled. "That is the discipline of science."

Dixon leaned back, smoked in silence.

The army officials were, indeed, leaning forward as Tipler raised a magnifying glass from his pocket, studying the photograph more closely. Finally he lowered it with the glass, but continued to stare profoundly. His voice was quiet. "These tracks ... how far did your men follow them, gentlemen?"

"Why?" Maddox asked.

"Because they do not 'register.' "

"Register?" the colonel asked. "What does that mean?"

"They ... they are not in line." The scientist gestured. "A tiger, which is the only terrestrial beast that could have struck with such fury, registers when it walks or runs. Which is to say that both paws on the left side are in a line, as they are on the right. There should be two paw prints set closely together, in a straight line, left side and right side. And, clearly, they are not the tracks of a grizzly, though they resemble one in size."

"Yes," Maddox said. "Our military trackers told us that. But they lost the trail when it moved to high ground. They said no one can track across rock. This animal seemed to know it was being hunted."

"Most creatures are more intelligent than we presume, Colonel," Tipler replied, casting a narrow glance at Dixon, who was smoking quietly. "No," Tipler added finally. "It was not a tiger. The fury of the attack is commensurate with a tiger, but it is not feline or canine. Nor is a larger species of Ursus. No. Whatever did this ... was distinctly bipedal."

They waited, but the old man merely placed his glasses back in his lab coat pocket. Then he bridged his fingers, capping them, allowing them to continue the conversation.

"Bipedal?" Dixon asked without friendliness. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

"Quite probably," Tipler smiled. "It means that whatever killed your men walks on two legs, Mr. Dixon."

"That's preposterous." Dixon leaned back again. "Humans are the only animal that walks on two legs, Doctor. What do you suggest left these tracks? Bigfoot? This thing must have been registering. It's just that the tracks are too difficult to read."

"Difficult, yes," Tipler scowled. "But not impossible. Is that why you called me here? Because your men have already told you that they know of no creature that could have done this? And now you wish to know if, perhaps, there is an undiscovered species?"

"To be honest, I'll admit it occurred to us," Maddox replied. "And let me add that this is a situation of some seriousness, Doctor. We've got dead soldiers near secure facilities and we want to know how they died. We want to know why they died."

Tipler gazed over the photos of carnage. "I cannot give you the answer, gentlemen," he said finally. "There were species of beasts that are presumed to have been exterminated hundreds of thousands of years ago, yet we still find evidence of their continuing existence. But I am not familiar with this
paw print, or footprint." He paused and strolled a short distance away before turning back. "In order to answer your question—to even attempt to answer your question—we would need a scientific expedition, saliva samples, blood samples, plaster casts of the prints, hair samples, video surveillance records. If you are willing to fund an expedi-"

"We can't do that." Dixon stood up. "There are factors which preclude that option. We just wanted your best opinion, Doctor." He paused for effect. "We still do."

Tipler held the stare.

"My best opinion, Mr. Dixon, is that whatever did this has the strength of a grizzly, the speed of a Siberian tiger and, quite probably, the stalking skills of a tiger. Which happens to be the most skilled predator on Earth. Further, if it managed to evade the initial pursuit of your military, I would confidently surmise that it has unnatural intelligence."

"So," Maddox asked, asserting some kind of vague authority, "what do you think it is? I want your best guess."

Tipler sighed once more and glanced at a photo of the tracks. "Your best guess will be revealed by these tracks, Mr. Dixon. But I don't understand why some of them"—he pointed at several—"are so far to the left of these others. It makes no sense that I can see."

They exchanged glances as the old man stared over them. Then, after a moment, they began wordlessly gathering papers.

"Will you be hunting this beast again?" the scientist asked, interested.

"Yes," Maddox replied solidly. "We will."

"Then I suggest you find a man who can possibly track it," said Tipler.

He hesitated, as if scientific passion and personal loyalty were competing with something more hidden, staring at the photograph.

"I know the man," he
said softly, "who could do this? If anyone could. But I do not know if he will cooperate. He has his own reasons ... for why he does things."

Maddox stepped forward. "Who is he?"

Tipler stared slightly to the side, brow furrowed.

"His name," he said finally, "is Nathaniel Hunter."

* * *

Chapter 2

The sunset breeze carried a sweet tang of mountain laurel. Nathaniel Hunter was emptying his simple leather pack onto the table. The door of his cabin was wide open, allowing the green sound of rushing water to move over him. And yet it wasn't sound, but a sudden silence, that made him lift his head.

Where there had been a communicative chorus of bird surrounding his backwoods home, there was now an unnatural quiet. He turned to stare out the door, listened, and heard a car coming slowly up the one-lane dirt road. It was still a mile away.

It took them more than ten minutes to arrive. He met them on the porch wearing old blue jeans, a leather shirt,
and knee-high moccasins.

One of the contingent—a portly army colonel—spoke first. But it was the man in civilian clothes, standing in the
rear that drew Hunter's sullen attention. Quiet but close, the man was dressed in a suit you would have forgotten without even trying, and dark sunglasses protected his eyes from any probing. Hands clasped behind him, he followed the others like a schoolteacher ensuring that the students perform the assigned task. It was clear who was truly in charge.

"I am Lieutenant Colonel Maddox of the United States Army," said the man in uniform. "We would like to speak with Nathaniel Hunter, if that's possible."

"I'm Hunter," he said, his voice low.

"Well." The colonel stepped forward, an ingratiating smile on his lips.

"We'd just like to get your opinion on some photographs, if you don't mind. Of course, if there is a problem, we can arrange a more formal appointment."

Hunter took his time before turning toward the door, motioning vaguely. "Come into the cabin," he said.

It took only a few minutes for them to recount their story of blood and death in the snow. Then they displayed a series of photographs on the cabin's crude wooden table. They wanted his best guess as to what the killer was, they said, and they wanted to know if there was more than one of them. Hunter bent over the photographs and studied them for a moment. His eyes narrowed as he examined the tracks, as well as the terrain.

Maddox began, "We want to know why these tracks here are so far from the others."

"Wind," Hunter said simply.

Hunter heard the man introduced as Dixon step forward. But Maddox only stared as he said, "Excuse me, did you say 'wind'?"

"Yeah." Hunter had expected this confusion. "These tracks to the side were in a straight line with those others. But the wind moved them, inch by inch. The other tracks weren't moved because they were shielded from the northeastern breeze by this boulder."

Maddox seemed astounded. "Wind can do that?"

Hunter pointed to the tracks. "These to the side were originally over here, like the others. You can see the gap that was left when they were moved. The wind just edged them to where they are here." He shrugged, gave the picture to Maddox. "It's a common phenomenon on sand like this. Is that what you wanted to know?"

"Uh." Maddox started. "Uh, actually, no. We wanted you to—"

A sudden, silent atmospheric change in the cabin stopped him short. It was as if the room had been instantly charged with a primal force, something utterly savage. Hunter watched as Maddox slowly turned his head. He almost smiled at the nervous expression on Dixon's face as he began to sense what was behind him. Slowly, moving only his head, Dixon managed to look down stiffly. Hunter saw sweat glisten suddenly on his forehead.

Massive and menacing, Ghost stood less than a foot behind Dixon and Maddox, slightly to the side. The gigantic wolf was almost entirely black, touched with gray only on his flanks.

Ghost's jet-black eyes seemed to possess a primal and predatory glow. Black claws clicked on the wooden floor as he took a single pace forward, head low, again unmoving. Ghost's uncanny silence seemed more terrifying than a roar.

Hunter made them suffer for only a moment. With a slight smile he snapped his fingers.

"Ghost," he said.

The wolf glided innocently through the men and sat beside Hunter.

Hunter spoke politely. "You were saying, Colonel?"

Maddox had trouble speaking. "I, uh, I was saying that
...uh, we wanted you to help us with ... with ... something."

Hunter smiled at the trembling tone and noticed that Major Prescott's fists were clenched. All of them were sweating, and Maddox's face was pasty, whitening by the moment. He knew this would take all day with Ghost in the room. He looked down, speaking so low that none of the others could catch a word.

"Outside," he said.

Treading with an air of shocking animal might, the wolf moved fearlessly through the three of them. Then it reached the door and angled away, disappearing with haunting silence and grace. The air silently trembled with the wildness, the power, the very scent of it as it was gone. But Hunter knew Ghost would remain close, just as he knew they wouldn't see the wolf again—not ever—unless it wanted them to.

"Good Lord," whispered Maddox as he took out a handkerchief, wiping his face. "Is that ... is that your dog?"

"He's a wolf."

"Yes ... yes, of course." The colonel cast a nervous eye to the doorway and involuntarily backed up. "But ... but what does it do?"

Hunter stared, almost laughed, but suppressed it; there was no need to mock them, even incidentally. They weren't at home in his world, though he had managed to become both prosperous and respected in theirs. He added, "He does whatever he wants to do, I guess. He comes, he goes."

"I mean, do you own him?" Maddox added. "Is he trained? Does he always come and go like that?" All three of the men had repositioned themselves so they could keep an eye on the door.

Hunter half-shrugged. "No, he's not trained, Colonel. And nobody owns him. He comes when he wants. Goes when he wants."

"But ... but how much does the thing weigh?" Maddox asked. "I didn't think wolves got so ... so huge."

"That depends on bloodline," Hunter answered, continuing to unpack. "Most male wolves go a hundred or so. Ghost is about a hundred and fifty, more or less. He won't get much bigger."

Maddox began to recover degree by degree and Hunter tried to move it along. He knew they were still dancing around the central issue. He continued quietly. "Now, gentlemen, if you're ready to talk, maybe we can get down to why you wanted to see me. What do you want?"

Fortifying himself, Maddox stepped forward. He pointed at the photographs of slaughtered soldiers.

"We want to know," Maddox said in a stronger tone, "what kind of creature could have done this? What kind of creature could have walked through an entire platoon like this, killing such heavily armed men?"

Frowning slightly, Hunter shifted the photos and finally shook his head. "Maybe a grizzly," he muttered, but with obvious uncertainty. "But I doubt it."

"Why do you doubt it?"

"Because a grizzly will usually maul its victim," Hunter answered, more certain. "It'll hit over and over, tear off your scalp, your face. And whatever did this struck once, maybe twice, with each kill." He pointed at a photo. "This man was killed with one blow. So whatever did this didn't attack out of fear or rage." He paused, eyes narrowing. "Whatever did this
...had a reason."

"But what animal would ... I mean, what animal could do something like this for a reason?"

Hunter shook his head. "I don't know."

"But aren't you supposed to be an expert on—"

"Colonel," Hunter cut him off, "I don't consider myself an expert in anything at all. I just do what I do, the best way I can do it. And I don't think I can help you. I can't tell you what killed your men." He waited; they were stoically silent. "I can say, however, that whatever killed these men didn't kill for food. It didn't kill out of defense. And it didn't kill to defend territory."

"Like a tiger might have done?"

"It's not a tiger."

"But how can you be certain?" Maddox was openly disturbed. "You just said that you're not certain what did this."

"Because these men were attacked on level ground with open field all around them." Hunter was relaxed and certain. "Tigers don't do that. They'll attack from an elevated position or from ambush. A tiger will never put itself in a position where it might have to chase prey. They don't chase."

"Tigers won't chase prey? Why?"

Hunter shrugged, went back to removing equipment from his pack. "No one knows. Instinct, maybe. Maybe because they're so heavy. But if a tiger doesn't catch you within three or four bounds, you're probably a free man."

Struck by a stray thought, he pointed vaguely to a grainy photo. "See these tracks?" he continued. "This ... thing ... was moving fast, and in a straight line. It's as if
... I don't know ... as if it was trying to reach something." Drawn to direction of his own words, Hunter studied several photos, quickly arranging them in a new order. "Do you see this? All of these men went down in sequence. It moved through them, killing quick and moving to the next, always headed in the same direction." For a long time he paused. When he spoke again, his voice was flat. "I'm not sure that this is an animal."

Slowly Dixon stepped forward, almost indulgent. "Mr. Hunter, this has got to be an animal. Certainly, and this should go without saying, no h
uman being could have done this."

"Believe what you want." Hunter was unaffected. "But I've never seen an animal that killed like this. Animals have reasons,
like fear or rage or defense, when they kill. And there's no evidence of that here. Not that I can see. It didn't maul, which would indicate anger. It didn't eat. It just killed and moved on to the next victim." With a faintly fatigued sign, he stood back. "You wanted my best guess, gentlemen. That's it."

"What about the tracks?" Dixon pressed. "You're certain they're not bear tracks?"

"No, they're not bear tracks. They're not even close. Your own people can tell you that." Hunter stared at him. "In fact, if I had to make a determination, I'd say they were human."

Dixon blinked. "Have you ever seen an animal leave tracks like this?"

"No."

"Never?"

"No."

Dixon seemed slightly agitated, but cast a quick glance to the door. "Look, Mr. Hunter," he began, "we were told that you're an expert at tracking. And please don't tell me you're not. We've checked you out."

Hunter laughed soundlessly.

"Yeah, we do that with everyone," Dixon continued, as if he'd seen the expression a thousand times. "Nathaniel Hunter. Grew up in the wilds of Wyoming. Your father died before you were born and an old trapper and a Sioux Indian woman raised you. The trapper taught you to track when you were just a kid, and you're supposed to be the best in the world. Some kind of legend. They say you can track a ghost through fog, and you've been used by police departments to find kids lost in wilderness areas when everyone else has failed. And that you've located animals so on the brink of extermination that there were only a handful left. Then, when you
were twenty, you found a tree in the Amazon that provided a better treatment for spinal meningitis. You sold it to a pharmaceutical company for about twenty million. And since then you've discovered a dozen plants that provide antibodies against various bacterial infections. Yeah, and I know this old shack isn't your only place. You have a penthouse in New York filled with about twenty million in art and rare books, a place in Paris that rivals the Smithsonian for rare artifacts. You go wherever you want, do whatever you want. Got a private jet on standby at JFK Airport and high friends in high places in both government and private business. You're the money behind the Tipler Institute." Dixon shook his head.

"You're a kick in the head, Hunter. You've got all that damn money and you hardly spend a dime on yourself. All those luxury spots of yours sit empty while you spend most of your time at this old shack." He grunted. "You're an interesting guy, all right, but the one thing everybody agrees about is that you're some kind of wilderness guru. So surely you have some clue of what this might be. Even if it's just a suspicion."

Hunter held Dixon's stare, not bothering to look friendly. "I've already studied them, Dixon," he said. "They're vaguely like a bear but the tracks are badly marred and melted, so it's hard to tell. And then this thing is bipedal, so it doesn't move like a bear when it's either running or loping or walking. This thing, whatever it is, probably weighs about three hundred, and it's right-handed. It looks to the right a lot and pauses about every fifty feet. It's hunched when it moves, as if it's stalking. And when it turns it pivots both feet at the same time. When it kills it tends to strike from right to left, placing its weight on its left front leg, like a boxer."

A stunned silence.

Maddox was the first to speak. "You can tell all that from those photographs?"

Hunter nodded.

"But ... how?"

Hunter waved a hand at the photos. "Sideheading, dulling and compression, pressure release marks, wave and pitch, curving. Simple things, Colonel."

"But our pathfinders, our trackers ...they couldn't tell us all that."