Hunted (6 page)

“According to the map, we'll be in camp in about thirty minutes. Can you wait?”

“Only if you brought along a well-stocked first aid kit. I think I'm dying.”

Ki laughed at her. “Tomorrow will be even worse; then you'll begin to toughen up. I promise.”

“This nag only has one gait,” Stormy bitched. “Uncomfortable.”

“You'll live,” Ki assured her friend.

“If I go to hell, I know now what my punishment will be. Riding around the pits on a horse.”

“You'll hurt your horse's feelings.”

“Not nearly as much as he's hurting me.”

“These are mares we're riding.”

“Nightmares, you mean.”

Ki started laughing and it was infectious. Soon Stormy was laughing at herself—despite the pain in her ass.

Rick Battle had left Darry's cabin with just enough daylight remaining to see him safely back to the station. He had talked with Darry for hours, and was convinced that Darry was who he claimed to be. It boggled his mind. He still could not entirely grasp the enormity of all that Darry had said . . . he doubted he ever would.

Rick had a telephone at the ranger station—the government had seen to that—and there was a message on his answering machine to call Tom Sessions at the district office.

“Tom? Rick. What's up?”

“Rick, I spoke with Munson up at the springs this afternoon. He told me an even dozen hard-looking men parked their vehicles up there and off-loaded equipment, then headed south, toward your area. He said if they weren't military types, he'd kiss a beaver's butt.”

“Military? That's odd. We've had no word that the military would hold any survival training in this area, and they always tell us.”

“Munson said if they were still in the military, they had to be senior sergeants, at least. He said some of them were pretty beat up looking, like in time-worn.”

“What are you saying, Tom?”

“Munson said it. Mercenaries.”

“Were they armed?”

“Pistols only, as far as Munson could tell. He said they all wore them in shoulder holsters or those military type rigs that fit on the chest.”

“Mercenaries?” Then Darry popped into his mind. “Could they be bounty hunters, Tom?”

“Now . . . that's an interesting thought, Rick. That hadn't entered my mind. But who would they be after?”

“I don't know,” Rick lied. “They may have received information about some fugitive hiding out in this area. It has happened before.”

“Or they may be marching in to join up with Sam Parish and his bunch.”

“That's an idea, for sure. I'll check them out, Tom.”

“When you do, boy, you go in armed. Not much spooks Munson, but this bunch did.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

After Tom hung up, Rick sat for a few moments, mentally digesting the latest news. There was no doubt in his mind—none at all—about who those dozen or so men were after.

He recalled Darry's words: “If blood samples were ever taken from me and put under a microscope, it would be all over for me. With the new equipment science has, the DNA testing and all that, I'd be placed in a cell and kept there for the rest of my life. If the doctors hadn't been in such a rush for warm, breathing bodies during World War Two, they would have spotted the difference. By the time Korea came around, I had changed my name, again, and was living in Canada, up in the Yukon.”

“Have you leveled with me about everything, Darry?” Rick asked.

Darry smiled. “Not quite. But you're not ready for the rest of it. All in time, Rick.”

Sitting in his small living room, Rick thought: But you just may be running out of time, Darry. And after all you convinced me of today, what else could there be? What else could you possibly tell me?

* * *

The faint call of a wolf echoed from the wilderness.

“What the hell was that?” Stormy said, looking around her, her eyes trying to pierce the darkness. “Coyotes?”

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Ki said, stirring the beans bubbling in a small pot. “No, that wasn't a coyote. The wolves are slowly making a comeback in the wilderness.”

Ki looked at her friend and colleague and smiled. “Relax, Stormy. They won't hurt you. The big bad wolf is a myth. There has never been a documented, proven account in the United States of a healthy, full-grown wolf ever, unprovoked, attacking a human being. Wolves shy away from contact with humans. They've learned, over the centuries, that humans are not to be trusted to behave in a rational way.”

“I forgot about your working with Craig. That was a good series you did. Some beautiful film.”

“Wolves are important. I disagree with Craig about hunters. He thinks all hunting should be banned. That will never happen and it shouldn't happen. But the wolf certainly should have a place in the wild.”

“I think hunting is cruel and barbaric,” Stormy said, pouring a ready-mixed martini from a small can. She'd bought a case of the ready-mixed drinks to take along.

The outfitter had shaken his head in disbelief at all the equipment the women had bought. Took three packhorses to tote it all. Very gentle packhorses.

“It serves a purpose, Stormy. A very important purpose. I hunted as a kid. I've killed deer. I can dress out a deer just as well as anybody.”

This was a side of Ki that Stormy did not know. “Why did you stop hunting?”

“I no longer needed the meat to survive. I came from a very large family, Stormy. A very large family on a very small farm. A lot of times, we wouldn't have had meat if we hadn't hunted.”

“Did you have the heads of deer mounted to hang on the wall?”

Ki laughed. “No. Daddy wouldn't permit that. He said that was just as barbaric as a soldier mounting the heads of the enemy he'd killed. Daddy taught us to respect the animals we hunted, and the land we lived on. He said nobody could really own land; we were just taking care of it for a time. And we'd damn well better take care of it, for God wasn't making any more of it.”

“I didn't know there were wolves in Missouri.”

“There aren't. Not anymore. Daddy said there were red wolves when he was growing up. Until a bunch of stupid bastards killed them all out. They trapped them, they shot them, they poisoned them.” Ki cut loose with a string of cuss words that would awe a barroom filled with sailors.

Stormy poured Ki a martini and handed it to her. “You really get all worked up about wolves, don't you? I've never seen this side of you.”

Ki said, “Let me tell you something about Craig. He's a top reporter and a gentle and good man. He loves animals. But there is a side to him that most people don't know. He was a marine in Vietnam. More than that, he was Marine Force Recon. Back in the Second World War, those guys were called Raiders. When we were winding down the story on wolves—up in Alaska—we were sitting in the hotel lounge having a drink when this bunch of dipshits came in and started bragging about the wolves they'd killed that day. Stormy, they shoot them from planes and helicopters. They chase the animals until they're exhausted and then shoot them. For sport. That's the type of hunter my daddy taught me to despise. They kill just for the sake of killing. Well, Craig had a few words to say about that, and the man invited Craig to step outside. Stormy, we were in Alaska for five more days, and that guy was still in the hospital when we left. Craig stomped him into the ground. One of the loudmouth's buddies stepped in to take up for his friend, and Craig broke his arm—at the elbow—with some sort of martial arts move. Craig is an easy-going man; you know that. Just don't make him mad.”

Stormy sipped her martini for a moment and then asked, “You don't believe in gun control, do you, Ki?”

“No. Absolutely not. I know you do, but you're wrong.” Ki smiled across the small and carefully built fire. While Stormy was blond, Ki's hair was as black as midnight. Stormy was tall; Ki was almost petite. But Ki had been raised on a working farm, and was strong for her size. “You really want me to get wound up this evening, Stormy?”

“I withdraw the question, Ki. Let's save it for another time. Right now, let's eat. I'm ravenous!”

* * *

At dawn, the mercs split up into six two-man teams, spread out, and began working their grids. But they were still miles away from Darry's cabin. It was slow work for the manhunters, for they did not know what Darry looked like, or really, even if he was in the area. The one thing they did know was that he lived alone. The hunt was on. The mercs thought they were alone in this hunt. They were very wrong.

* * *

The man who had outfitted Stormy and Ki drove up to the ranger station. “Don't send any more people to see me, Rick,” he said. “I'm nearly out of ridin' horses and pack animals. I never seen so many people gettin' outfitted for the wilderness.”

“Really? So early in the season? Hell, we're just into spring! We're not ready for the influx yet.”

“Tell me about it,” the outfitter said drily. “But these ain't tourists, Rick. I don't know exactly what they are, but they ain't tourists.”

“You want to explain that?”

“Can't. It's just a hunch. They're all armed, Rick. Pistols, mostly. Carried in shoulder rigs or high up on the belt, like the feds do. They got fancy communications equipment. I never seen nothin' like it. Little bitty portable fold-out satellite dishes. And money ain't no object.” He spat on the ground. “That's what leads me to believe they're government people.”

Rick looked pained. “I work for the government, Chuck.”

“That's different. You're one of us ... in most ways. I figure at least three of these people are military types. Haircuts, bearing, and mannerisms. Something is goin' on in the wilderness, Rick. And I don't like it.”

“They could be moving against Sam Parish and his bunch.”

“That's possible, but I don't think that's it. I just get the feeling these people come from a lot of different federal agencies. And I don't think they're workin' together. I think they're workin' at cross-purposes.”

Rick studied the older man's face for a moment. “You're not telling me everything, Chuck. Come on, give.”

“Ever' goddamn one of these feds, and that's what they are, goddamn feds, asked the same type of question. Is there a man between twenty-five and thirty years old, five-ten to six feet, livin' alone near here? I didn't tell ‘em jack-shit! I hate the fuckin' feds, Rick. No offense, but I ain't got no use for them. You work for the government; you have to cooperate with ‘em. But I don't. They can all kiss my ass! If a man wants to live alone or with his family out in the big lonesome, long as he don't break no laws, he's got a right to be left alone with his beliefs. The goddamn government ain't got no business stickin' their goddamn fuckin' noses in his business.”

“I agree with you,” the voice came from behind the men and spun them around.

“Where the hell did you come from?” Rick asked.

The man smiled. “My truck developed a flat tire about a mile down the road. I find that my spare is also flat. Careless of me. Do you have any sort of portable compressor?”

“Are you another goddamn federal agent?” Chuck demanded.

The man laughed. “No, 'fraid not. I'm a wildlife photographer. The name is Johnny Mack.”

* * *

Darry left his hybrids at the cabin and went for his weekly romp with the wolf pack that had settled into the area. But they were tense and nervous, and they signaled danger to him. Darry walked among them—being careful not to get between the alpha male and female—and they all began to settle down. Normally, a pack would not tolerate an outsider. But with Darry, they knew he posed no threat to them; indeed, he was an asset to the pack, for when he was as them, he warned the pack what areas to stay out of and which were safe for a night hunt. The alpha female signaled “follow me,” and the pack took off in single file, with Darry bringing up the rear.

They ran for several miles, staying in the brush and on safe trails the pack had checked out and scented as their own. The female led the pack up a grade and behind some rocks on a ridge overlooking a long valley. She bellied down, and the others followed suit, Darry beside her. Darry had named this female Rodica, after a girl he had known back in the village where he was born. Both Rodicas were lovely.

Neither the wolves nor Darry were winded. Darry had not even broken a sweat during the several mile run.

Darry looked out over the valley and immediately saw why the wolves had told him there was danger. He could see two teams of men working slowly through the wide valley. He uncased his binoculars, adjusted for view, and studied the men. He had never seen them before. They moved like hunters. Not game hunters: man hunters. Professional warriors.

He lowered the glasses and put his hand palm down on the ground. Rodica laid her muzzle over his hand in a sign of trust, then raised her head and gently bit at his chin. Wolf affection. Darry pressed his face against hers and signaled her to take the pack away, to safety. Two seconds later, there was no trace of the wolves on the ridge.

Darry lay alone on the ridge and studied the teams of men. Now they had been joined by a third team of two men, and Darry had a strong suspicion there were more of them working on the other side of the timber-covered far ridge. There was no doubt in his mind what they were looking for. They were looking for him.

Darry sighed and cased his binoculars. He lay for a time with his forehead on the cool ground. He was so tired of running. Centuries of running. An endless roll of years, unable to establish any sort of permanent home or relationship. And it just got worse as technology advanced. It hadn't been so bad before the telegraph and telephone and the industrial revolution; life was slower and easier, and it had been much simpler to lose one's self. It was getting more difficult each year.

Darry raised his head and gazed down into the valley. Two more men had joined the others, and Darry felt sure there would be still more. The men had gathered in a small circle and were squatting down. One was pointing toward the west. That was all right, for Darry's cabin lay to the south of the valley. But they'd get around to it, sooner or later.

He wondered just how good these men were. That question was answered a heartbeat later when a voice said, “Mike? You copy this?”