The Hunted (6 page)

Suddenly, as abruptly as it started, the music stopped. The woods around them were silent once again, as if a giant plug had been pulled. A beat later it blared once again, only to be silenced just as quickly. The three of them stared at each other until Jack whispered, “Weird.”

“We ought to check it out,” Ashley said. “I have a great sense of direction, and I know I can take us right to where that music was coming from. But we won't go all the way there. We'll get Dad's binoculars so we can spy on them through the trees.”

“Spy on
who?”

“Whoever's out there playing that loud music. If we use the binoculars, we don't have to get too close, just in case it really is—uh—the
P
word.”

Luckily, Miguel didn't panic this time because he didn't connect “the
P
word” to “police.”

Jack was about to remind his sister that they weren't supposed to stray from their campground, but he was a little curious, too, about who might be out there in the woods.

“OK,” he told Ashley. “Go get the binoculars.”

The sun had long since burned off the early morning mist, and now the noon sky beat down in a stifling wave of heat. As they waited for Ashley, Jack and Miguel stayed at the picnic bench, huddled at the end where tree shadows offered shelter. Miguel's fingers picked tiny splinters from the wooden tabletop; every few seconds, he scanned the trees, watching for any movement, and then, like curtains being shut, his lids would drop down again. He looked scared, Jack thought. And why not? If Jack and Ashley couldn't make sense of the strange sounds, what must Miguel be thinking?

“Come on, Ashley,” Jack called. “Hurry up.”

“I'm trying. Just hold on—I can't find them.”

“Dad said he left them in the trailer.”

“I know, but he didn't say where. Give me a second.”

Flies punctuated the stillness as they buzzed around the picnic table.
“Ashley, come on!”
Jack yelled impatiently.

“I give up,” she said, emerging from the trailer. “They're not in there. Dad must have taken them with him by mistake.”

“Great. No binoculars. Now what?”

“Well, I was thinking that if we hike up to the top of the loop in the road, maybe we could see who's back there,” Ashley answered. “There's a lot of trees t o hide behind.”

“Ummm, I don't think so,” Jack told her, shaking his head. “That's pretty far away, and we're supposed to stay right here in our own campground. If Mom and Dad found out we left here, we'd be grounded for life. Spying with binoculars from far away is one thing, but—”

“It's not that far! Look at Miguel, he's afraid the you-know-who are going to arrest him, which is my fault for bringing it up in the first place. I know that was dumb, but he's still scared. Don't you want to show him it's safe?”

Jack looked at Miguel, whose eyes flicked back and forth from Jack to Ashley to the road.

Weakening, Jack countered, “Maybe we ought to wait until Mom and Dad get back.”

“By then whoever is doing whatever they're doing might be gone! Come on, Jack, we'll be like spies. We'll find them, we'll watch, we'll leave. Do it for Miguel if you won't do it for me.”

That convinced him. “OK, but you have to do exactly what I tell you, and go back when I tell you to, no questions asked.”

“Absolutely!” Ashley agreed.

“All of us need to stay close and keep quiet.
Shhh,”
he told Miguel, his finger to his mouth.

Miguel had barely taken three steps from the picnic bench before he fell, sprawling in the dust. “Shoes too big,” he said, kicking off Ashley's sandals. He went to where Jack had left the garbage bag to retrieve his old, torn sneakers.

“No, they're too dirty,” Ashley protested.

“I think he wants to be able to run if he needs to.”

“Well, if he has to wear those nasty shoes, then at least I'm going to scrape some of the dirt off.” Ashley snatched the shoes from Miguel before he could sit down to put them on. “I'll take them to that green pump over there and squirt water on them. That'll help.”

“He doesn't care about the dirt,” Jack protested, but Ashley had already reached the pump and was pulling on the handle, lifting it and then shoving it down, again and again, until water began to gurgle and then came pouring through the spout. She held the sneakers on their sides beneath the rush of water, pumping the handle continuously. If the cloth in the sneakers didn't look much better, at least all the mud was being washed off the soles.

Miguel stood on the metal door that lay like a lid over the concrete compartment sunk coffinlike into the ground next to the pump.
“¿Qué es?”
he asked, lifting the lid and pointing to the pipes inside.

In answer, Jack showed him the small red sign on the front of the pump. “It says ‘Notice, this water is treated with iodine.' I guess those pipes are part of the….” How was he supposed to explain the process of iodization to Miguel, when he couldn't even get him to understand that the police in the United States didn't go into closed campgrounds and crank up rock music to catch illegal aliens? He could sign the basics to Miguel, like food or a haircut, but ideas were something else. He needed words. Words that he didn't have. The whole thing was so frustrating! “Uh, the pipes put stuff in the water, that's all.”

“Give it up, Jack, he doesn't understand a thing you're saying. Here you go, Miguel,” Ashley interrupted, holding out the dripping sneakers.

“Good show, Ashley,” Jack said. “Now every step he takes, he'll squish.”

“But if he tries to run away from us, he might go slower.” She nodded at Jack, a small smile curling the edge of her lips.

Jack answered with a grin. Sometimes his sister could be pretty smart.

A
shley in front, Jack in back, with Miguel in the middle, they hiked down a lane with two dirt tire tracks running in dusty parallel strips. The road through Quartz Creek Campground was shaped like a lasso, a straight stretch topped by a gigantic loop. The Landon camper was parked on the left side of the lasso; the sound seemed to have come from the farthest edge of the right side of the loop. Whoever they found would be too far back to know anyone else was in the campground.

Stopping abruptly, Ashley asked, “Ooooh, do you smell that awful smell?” Wrinkling her nose, she said, “It's like something really rotten.”

Jack hadn't noticed it before, but once Ashley mentioned it, he could smell it, too, especially when a small breeze wafted toward them. “I don't know what it is,” he answered, “but this whole thing is getting strange.” Maybe the mystery would be solved when they got a look at who or what was back there in the trees. Or maybe it wouldn't turn out to be much of a mystery: Probably hikers had come in from the back country, not needing to unlock the chain at the entrance.

The farther they walked, the worse the smell became. With every breeze, a fresh wave of stench would curl up Jack's nostrils, as if death itself were riding the wind.

It didn't seem to bother Miguel, though. Nothing, it seemed, bothered him, not the rough ride in the camper, not the lack of food, not his dirty clothes, not anything except the police, whom he had good reason to fear, and even that danger he was prepared to face. With his frayed shoes and borrowed clothes, Miguel was at ease in his own skin. That kid, Jack mused, could teach him a lot.

Suddenly Miguel grabbed at Ashley's arm and motioned for Jack to stop.
“Por allí,”
he whispered, pointing. “There.”

“What?” Jack hadn't noticed anything, not the slightest movement or flash of color.

Miguel pointed, then repeated,
“Por allí.”

“OK, I'll go first. You guys follow,” Jack instructed.

“No,” Miguel said. “I go first.”

He must want to see if the police are there, Jack thought, as Miguel cut off the path and moved into the woods. After a hundred more feet, he started ducking behind tree trunks, one at a time, slowly and softly moving forward, nothing more than a shadow. Ashley and Jack followed, doing exactly what Miguel did. Underbrush thickened, scraping Jack's skin. Twigs snapped underfoot. The mysterious smell grew nauseating.

When they reached an opening, Miguel dropped to his belly and pointed. At first Jack could see nothing, but as he strained forward he made out the shape of a delivery van—dark green and inconspicuous in the midst of all the foliage. Jack motioned for his sister to stay down. Ashley made herself small, her eyes barely clearing the tall grass.

“That's not the police,” Jack whispered to Miguel. “Look at the license plate. They're from Washington State, where Seattle is. No
policía.”

“Sí.”
Miguel nodded, growing tense.

The tension had nothing to do with Miguel's concern about police. Devouring the scene in front of him, he stared fiercely, hardly breathing, and Jack knew why. Miguel had heard the magic word
Seattle
. Jack followed his gaze.

Two men sat on folding chairs half hidden by a cluster of bushes, casually talking as though they were merely enjoying a vacation in the woods.

“Man, this silence is killin' me,” one moaned.

“Then next time, moron, remember your headphones. You touch that stereo one more time, and I'll break your hand off.”

“No one's even out here, Terry. What's the big deal? You think maybe a squirrel's gonna report me? I hate nature—it's too quiet. Drives me crazy!”

“Will you stop with the music already? You're just antsy 'cause it's taking a lot longer this time,” said the man called Terry, who sat with his left ankle perched on his right knee. He wore wraparound sunglasses, the metallic kind that made it impossible for his eyes to be seen. A Greek fisherman's hat tilted down so far that its brim touched the top of the sunglasses. His body seemed strong and athletic, but his mouth looked hard.

“I know it. I was thinkin' maybe the wind's blowing in the wrong direction,” the other man said. “But you'd figure with that rotten deer over there, you wouldn't need to depend on a breeze to carry the smell. Whoo, that baby is ripe.” He slapped his knee, maybe for emphasis, maybe hitting a bug. He was bareheaded, with no sunglasses, and young, about mid-twenties, with long, reddish hair so curly it was almost fuzzy. He wore a muscle shirt that might have been white once but was now a dingy gray. His shoulder—the one facing Jack's direction—was crowded with tattoos.

Holding her hand over her nose, Ashley pointed past the men to the bloated carcass of a deer, a hundred yards from where the men sat. Why didn't they move away from that awful smell? It was bad enough to make Jack gag, and the two men were closer to it than he was. What was going on here? Maybe they ought to leave before they were spotted. Silently motioning to Miguel and Ashley, Jack began to back slowly through the trees.

“Hey Max, did you hear something?” asked Terry, the man in the hat.

Had they been seen? Jack, Ashley, and Miguel froze, hardly breathing. Jack's heart began to bang in his chest. Every muscle stiffened.

“Yeah! Maybe this is it,” Max answered quietly. “It's coming through on the left! I hope it ain't a big male. Give us a sow with three cubs.”

Jack's breath escaped in a puff. They hadn't been seen. The men were looking off into the woods to the east of them.

“Yeah—that'd be luck,” Terry agreed. “I'd settle for two cubs. Two'd be lucky. That'd earn a K for you and a K for me.”

K? Did they mean a thousand? Dollars? For what? Jack reversed himself and crowded closer.

“Maybe we oughta move back even farther so it can't see us,” Max murmured.

“We're pretty much hidden, but OK.” Both men faded backward into the trees, not more than ten yards from where the kids lay hidden. Now the sound of rustling grew louder. Twigs snapped and popped. Something big was coming, cracking branches, shifting leaves.

“Got the gun?” Max asked softly.

“Ready and loaded. Come on, bear,” Terry said, his voice hushed. “Come get your lunch. Thatagirl.”

A grizzly head appeared, weaving from side to side, the snout working as the adult female sniffed the air. One cub tried to push ahead of her; she swatted it back. A second cub stood unmoving near her back feet.

“Score,” Max declared. “Two cubs.”

Jack drew in his breath. In spite of the thick foliage, he could tell that Terry had raised a gun to his shoulder. They were going to kill the mother grizzly! Should he yell? Warn the bear? Reveal their position and take their chances? He twisted his head toward Ashley. His sister's skin had blanched white, and her eyes were wide with terror as she gripped Jack's arm. “It's a
grizzly!”
she mouthed.

“Let her get closer to the bait,” Max said softly. “Bring her out of the woods into the clearing so I can get a better shot at the cubs.”

They were going to kill the cubs, too!

The stench of rotting was so overpowering that in no way could the big grizzly have smelled humans nearby. If she heard them, she gave no sign. Unafraid, she lumbered toward the deer carcass on the ground. A trap to lure bears to their death!

Miguel scooted forward, taking in everything. Jack felt paralyzed. Choices whirled though his mind, all of them bad. He waited helplessly as the mother grizzly sank her teeth into the carcass. She was dark brown, thick furred, and healthy looking. One of the cubs had the same dark brown fur as the mother, like molasses; the other was lighter, more honey colored. The babies took timid bites.

“OK, let 'er rip,” Max said, and before Jack could react, a shot rang out, but it didn't sound like a rifle shot; it was muffled, and the big grizzly didn't fall. She just stood there, on all fours, shaking her head as though annoyed, then trying to reach back to grasp, with her teeth, the metal tube that stuck out from her shoulder.

“Did you put in a big enough dose?” Max asked.

“Plenty.”

“Then why isn't she falling down?”

“Sometimes it just takes longer,” Terry answered. “Look, there she goes. Her front legs are buckling. Hurry up and dart the two cubs before they run.”

But the cubs weren't making any attempt to leave. As the female bear slowly rolled on her side, grunting and twitching, her cubs nudged her with their snouts, unsure what had happened to their mother, not knowing what to do.

“Careful you don't hit big mamma again when you shoot the cubs,” Max said.

“Here, you do it,” Terry answered, handing Max the dart gun. “Use enough stuff in the darts to knock 'em out for a while.”

Now Jack began to put the pieces together. These guys weren't planning to kill the mother bear or the cubs. They were poachers, out to steal them! So this was what had been happening to Glacier's yearling bears. His mother had thought the lack of cubs might be caused by a shortage of food in a drought year, or an unknown disease, or who knew what else? And all along, the bear cubs were being poached from the park.

Ashley stirred in the grass, tugging Jack's arm again, still looking terrified.

“Shhh,
you'll be OK,” Jack whispered. “The bear's tranquilized.”

Max moved around for a better shot at the cubs, who were whimpering and nosing their mother. When a dart hit the rump of the darker cub, it squealed and twisted convulsively, trying to bite the metal tube, which was smaller than the one Terry had used on its mother. The honey-colored cub started to scurry away. Max was a good shot; his dart hit the cub in the shoulder. Its cry was pitiful.

In a matter of minutes, both cubs were sprawled on the ground next to their mother, unconscious.

“Better hurry,” Max said.

“Don't worry, we got time,” Terry answered. “Big mamma ain't gonna come to for a good while. We'll be outta here. Get the nets.”

Miguel had been lying flat on his stomach, chin resting on his crossed arms. Now he scrunched forward, but he wasn't watching the men or the cubs; instead he was staring at the van. Jack could almost read Miguel's mind: The van meant only one thing to Miguel—Seattle. He was scouting out the scene, trying to find a way to get into that delivery van without being caught. The fate of the bears was inconsequential to him, and although he'd been friendly enough to Jack and Ashley, both Landons were merely brief, interesting detours in his drive toward his goal.

Jack pulled Miguel's head close and whispered in his ear, “Don't do it. Those are bad men! If they see you, they'll see us, and we'll all get hurt. No!”

Miguel's large, dark eyes stared somberly into Jack's face. He didn't answer. Had Jack's words made any difference?

The two men pulled heavy netting from the back of the van. Dragging the drugged cubs by their back feet, they lifted them together onto the netting, wrapping them thoroughly like a bundle of loose watermelons, and then tying the netted package with ropes so that even when the cubs woke up, they'd be immobilized. After they were bundled securely, the men heaved them through the van's back doors.

“Got everything?” Terry asked. “Don't forget the chairs. And pick up those beer cans, just in case. We don't want to leave fingerprints.”

The folding chairs went into the tailgate beside the sleeping cubs; the beer cans were thrown farther back, bouncing off the wall between the van's cargo area and the cab. Terry started the motor while Max hurried around to the passenger side, slamming his door.

The tires spun wildly. Jack's thoughts spun just as fast. Those guys had to be stopped, and he was the only one who could do it. Leaping to his feet, he pulled up Ashley and motioned to Miguel.

“Listen to me. They'll need to open the chain, so they'll have to park the van. Maybe we can rescue the cubs while the van is still behind the chain.”

“But—they're grizzlies,” Ashley protested.

“They're babies and they're zonked,” Jack cried. “They can't hurt you. There's no time to argue—come on!”

Whether or not he understood, Miguel didn't need any urging. He ran ahead of Jack and Ashley, careful to stay out of sight of the two men in the delivery van, weaving through the trees in a footpath that led straight toward the chained entrance. For the van, it was a long drive around the loop from the spot where Max and Terry had set their trap, and because of the rough road, it moved slowly.

The three kids cut straight through the wild forest in the middle of the loop, shortening the distance, gaining time. When they came close to the campground entrance, still keeping hidden in the trees, Jack saw that the van had already arrived. From the inside, Max kicked open the passenger-side door, allowing heavy metal sound to pulse through the air as guitar riffs and drums shattered the stillness. Good, Jack thought. With that music, they won't be able to hear anything. Timing would be crucial. There'd be no second chances.

Mentally, he tried to figure how long it would take the men to unlock the chain, hoping it would be long enough for him to carry out his plan. No time to think if it made sense. He had to try.

“Jack—we can't,” Ashley panted. “You're crazy.”

“I know.” Gulping for air, he told them, “I'll open the back door and pull out the cubs. You help me, OK, Miguel?” He pointed to himself, then Miguel, then the van. Miguel nodded. “Ashley, stay here.”

Jack took a deep breath and waited for Max to turn his back. “Start now!” he hissed, then darted from the underbrush. He prayed the men wouldn't see them, that Terry wouldn't look into the side-view mirror and that Max wouldn't turn around and catch them in the act.