The Mountain King (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-two
 

Packing Up 

This is no time to be sentimental,
Polly thought as she rummaged through her closet, sorting through her wardrobe. She selected barely one garment in five and tossed them over her shoulder onto her bed where two suitcases lay open like the maws of hungry fish. She had called in sick to work at the beauty parlor that morning and planned to be packed up, in her car, and several hundred miles away from Hilton, Maine, by the time she was due back to work on Saturday afternoon. She wasn’t quite sure where she would go—maybe Florida, where her widowed mother lived. If she went to Florida, she wouldn’t need any heavy clothes. Or maybe she’d head out west, possibly all the way to California. She told herself not to worry about it. She had done spur-of-the-moment things like this all her life, figuring out what to do as she went. She always knew she’d land on her feet, like a cat, no matter how far she fell. Right now, all she knew was that she wanted to get as far away from Maine as she possibly could. 

She wasn’t entirely sure why she was so desperate to leave. It wasn’t just the sudden brutality of Dennis’s death that bothered her, although she knew she would never forget the bloody horror of what had happened to her lover. And it wasn’t just the inevitable fact that Mark would find out about her affair with Dennis— if he didn’t already know. She had a pretty good idea that blabbermouth Sandy must have told him all about her guest last weekend. And it wasn’t just that she felt in danger because the police still had no suspects—much less anyone in custody—for Dennis’s murder. Her guess, which she had told the police time after time when they interrogated her, was that Dennis must have owed someone money from a poker game or something and hadn’t been able to pay. She hinted—but never came right out and said it—that she thought Dennis might have been involved in some drug trafficking, too. 

But what prompted her to run now was much deeper than any of that. 

Maybe the root cause was what had driven her to the affairs she’d had with Dennis and those four or five other men following her marriage to Mark six years ago. She told herself that she had given their marriage an honest chance, that she had wanted it to work; but for the past few years, she couldn’t ignore the feeling that, every time Mark made love to her, he was thinking about someone else—about his first wife, who had left him eight years ago. 

“And—like always—that makes me number two,” Polly said angrily as she went over to the bed, hurriedly folded the clothes, and stuffed them into one of the suitcases. When one was full, she held the top down with her weight, snapped the locks, and then started piling the rest of the clothes along with her toiletries and some other items into the other. She worked feverishly, grimly, not even caring that she would be leaving behind most of her personal belongings. As long as she had her charge cards—which, thankfully, were in her own name—and the large bundle of twenty-dollar bills she had been saving for the past several months, she was sure she would do just fine in another town, another state. 

Just as she was closing the second suitcase, she heard a car pull up outside the house. Darting to the bedroom window, she looked out and saw that a town police cruiser was in the driveway. She ducked back and peeked around the edge of the curtain to watch as Guy LaBrea and Sandy got out of the cruiser and started toward the house. 

“Shit!”
Polly muttered. 

She grabbed both suitcases and slid them under the bed, taking a moment to readjust the bed ruffle. Then, after a quick check in the mirror, she forced a smile onto her face as she started downstairs just as she heard the kitchen door open and slam shut. 

“Polly? You home?” Sandy called out as she walked through the kitchen and into the hallway. 

“Right here,” Polly said. “There’s no need to yell.” 

She congratulated herself for maintaining the usual edge of bitchiness in her voice, knowing that Sandy would instantly suspect something if she spoke to her in any other way. 

“Oh, Chief LaBrea,” Polly said, feigning surprise when she saw him. “I—I hope . . . There hasn’t been any trouble, has there?” 

For a moment, both LaBrea and Sandy said nothing; then LaBrea cleared his throat and said, “Well, actually, there has been a bit of a problem—” 

“I totaled the Jeep,” Sandy finished for him. 

“What?” Polly shouted. 

Her first reaction, which she tried to mask, was mild disappointment that they didn’t tell her Mark had been hurt or killed. 

At least it wasn’t my car!
she thought, but she was glad she had the presence of mind to look both angry and concerned. 

“You weren’t hurt, were you?” 

“Just a couple of bumps and bruises,” Sandy said, touching the padded bandage on her forehead. “The Jeep’s a complete wreck, though.” 

“She went off the road out on Route 26, up past Newry.” 

“What in God’s name were you doing out there?” Polly asked. 

“Just . . . just out for a ride,” Sandy replied. “I’ve been really worried about my dad, and I—I just had to clear my head out, what with everything that’s been happening lately.” 

Polly said nothing as she shifted her gaze from Sandy to LaBrea. 

“I have to fill out an accident report so you can start processing your insurance claim,” he said. “I wonder if it’d be too much of a bother for you to come down to the police station with us.” 

“Oh, yes—sure,” Polly said. “For a moment there, I was ... worried.” Her hand fluttered like a nervous bird against her chest. “I thought—you know, that you might have found out something more about— you know, who killed . . . Dennis.” 

“I’m afraid not,” LaBrea said. 

“To tell you the truth, I don’t think I’ll ever feel completely comfortable until whoever did it is safe behind bars.” 

“I’m sure the state police are doing their best,” LaBrea said, sliding a glance over at Sandy. 

Polly thought there seemed to be something fishy going on here, as if the two of them were hiding something from her, but she dismissed it, thinking only of her unfinished packing upstairs and how badly she wanted to get on the road. After an awkward moment when no one said anything, she checked her watch and said, “Well, I’m due at work in an hour or so, but I suppose I could meet you down at the station. Give me five minutes to put on some makeup.” She still would have enough time to finish packing, load the car, and be on the road after filling out the necessary police forms. 

“No need for you to drive,” LaBrea said. “I can drive you down. The cruiser’s blocking your car, anyway. The forms will only take a few minutes. I can drop you off at work.” 

Polly hesitated, but only for a moment. She wondered why LaBrea hadn’t brought the forms out to the house, but realized it wouldn’t look good if she asked. 

“Okay,” she said brightly. “Let me run upstairs and freshen up a bit. I’ll be right back.” 

She went quickly up to her bedroom and dialed the beauty parlor. When Marilyn answered, she explained that she was feeling much better and would be able to make it to work after all. Marilyn protested, telling her that she didn’t have to push herself; she could have the afternoon off if she still wasn’t feeling up to snuff, but Polly insisted that she’d be there within the hour and hung up. Grabbing her purse from her dresser, she went back downstairs. 

No one said a word as the three of them walked out to the cruiser. LaBrea started up the car, backed out of the driveway, and headed for town. He and Sandy were silent for most of the drive, and that gave Polly plenty of time to wonder when she was going to get another chance to leave. 

Damn! If only I’d left ten minutes sooner!
 

Chapter Twenty-three
 

“. . .
Help us . . .” 

Sudden darkness engulfed Mark. 

Then, within that darkness, there came an explosion of spiraling white-hot stars and trailing comets accompanied by a searing jolt of pain. 

Something hit him hard and slammed him down against the rocks. His head hit the ground with a resounding
thump.
A flashing instant later, a huge, claw-tipped hand swiped down at him, missing his face by less than an inch but catching the front of his jacket and ripping it wide open. He was only distantly aware of the jangling metallic sounds the bullets made as they spilled from his torn pocket. They scattered like dice across the uneven ground and disappeared down into the cracks between the stones. 

Mark experienced no clear thoughts, only pain and confusion, and then a vague sense of relief when he realized that the crushing weight had only grazed him. Surprised that he hadn’t been squashed flat on the rocks, he took a deep breath and held it as he propelled himself backward, scrambling over the rocks in an awkward crablike crawl. His arms and legs were flailing wildly, but somehow he managed to keep hold of his rifle. Reacting on pure reflex, he raised it and fired as the huge form loomed above him like a massive tower that was about to collapse on top of him. 

The instant the rifle boomed and kicked back in his hands, the creature let out an ear-splitting howl that echoed from the cliff side and blended with the hornetlike zing of the bullet as it ricocheted off the rocks. To Mark’s ears, it sounded as if not just one but dozens of creatures were shrieking inside his head, but the sound snapped him back to sharper awareness. 

He flopped back on the rocky ground as his shocked brain finally registered the pain of the impact. His vision was blurred, and there was a loud rushing sound in his ears, like a blast of hurricane winds. All around him, the world was a wild carousel of sunlit blues and smeared swirls of darkness that threatened to suck him down into unconsciousness. He tried to stand up, but his body felt all rubbery and goofy, and wouldn’t do what he wanted it to do. He caught only a fleeting glimpse of motion as the beast spun around on one foot like a trained circus bear, and then disappeared behind one of the large boulders. 

In an instant, a muffled silence settled around Mark. 

“Come on!” Mark shouted, lying back on his elbows and panting heavily as he stared wide-eyed all around him. “Where the fuck’d you go?” 

He was sitting up with his legs splayed wide in front 

of him and listening to the rolling echo of his voice as it faded in the distance. His body was trembling with pain and surprise. He shook his head to clear it, but that did little good. The only clear thought he had was to bolt his rifle and be ready for another attack if it came. He aimed at the spot where the beast had disappeared, and he waited, his breath coming in fast, burning gulps. 

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, unable to stop the violent trembling inside him. His stomach felt like jelly. “Come on! Where the fuck are you?” 

He was still completely disoriented by the sudden attack, but he couldn’t stop wondering what the hell this thing was, and how it could have attacked him so swiftly, without warning, and then disappeared so completely. 

But the mountainside was quiet except for the distant, whistling wind. Mark started to wonder if he had imagined what had just happened, but then, off to his left, moving away from him, he caught a shifting of darkness within the deep shadows cast by the boulders. He turned quickly and aimed, but before he could fire, the motion was gone like a passing shadow. His grip wasn’t at all steady, and the bead of the rifle kept wavering back and forth as he squinted, trying to catch some trace of activity. 

“Come on! Come on out, you son-of-a-bitch!” 

His first impulse was to get up and pursue the creature—whatever the hell it was—but then he thought better of it. Skittering on his hands and feet, he backed up until his back was pressed against one of the larger rocks. His muscles were tensed, ready to react instantly. It took a conscious effort to slow down his rapid breathing, but at least he felt a little bit secure, knowing that he couldn’t be attacked from behind. Crouching on one knee, he glanced around, concentrating on calming down while he waited. He strained to see or hear any indication that the creature was still in the vicinity, but the silence remained unbroken. 

Had he killed it with his first shot? 

Was it lying just behind that rock, wounded . . . possibly bleeding to death? 

Or, even at such close range, had he missed it, and right now it was circling around behind him or retreating higher up the mountain to lay ambush for him someplace else? 

Mark patted his jacket pocket to convince himself that all of his ammunition had spilled out of his torn jacket pocket. Only one shell remained. With trembling hands, he slipped the bullet into the breech and bolted it home. By his reckoning, he had shot only once since reloading this morning. That meant, with this one new bullet, he had five shots left. 

Five shots! 

He had a supply of ammunition back at his campsite, but he couldn’t waste the time to go back and get it. Not now. There was no going back until he made
sure
this son-of-a-bitch was dead, whatever it was. 

Every nerve in his body was stretched to its limit as he waited for the creature to reveal itself. As much as he wanted to believe that he had killed it with one shot, he was fairly certain that his shot had missed. The creature had roared in anger and surprise, not in pain. That meant it was still out there, somewhere in the rocks, waiting . . . just waiting. 

Ever so slowly, keeping his guard up, Mark stood up. His legs threatened to collapse underneath him, but he clutched his rifle for support and scanned the area back and forth, poised for another attack. Shadows clung to the spaces between the boulders. Every dark crevasse beneath every boulder fairly vibrated with dark menace. He imagined twisted animal shapes with bright, glowing eyes staring back at him. He forced himself to breathe slowly, cautioning himself not to jump and shoot at every shadow. He had only five shots remaining. If the first one hadn’t done the job, then one of these was going to have to do it. 

Daylight slowly swept into the valley, and the coned shadow cast by the mountain shortened as the sun passed slowly around the mountaintop toward the west. Mark shivered as he moved step by cautious step, edging his way to the rock behind which the creature had disappeared. He scanned the ground, searching for a telltale splotch of fresh blood on the rocks, but saw nothing. The lichen-covered rocks were smooth and undisturbed. 

“Come on,” he whispered. “Where the Christ are you? I know you’re—” 

His voice caught in his throat when he saw something large and dark, sprawled face-down on the rocks several feet downslope. At first, he thought it was just another shadow cast by a rock, but then he made out its shape. 

“God damn! Yes!”
 

Raising the rifle to his shoulder and keeping it fixed on the figure, he came out around the rock so he could get a better view of the thing without getting much closer, just in case the creature was playing possum. Its arms and legs were flung out wide, conforming to the rough contours of the rocks. 

It was motionless. 

There wasn’t even a hint of movement of the huge ribcage, but Mark stared at it for a long time, thoroughly expecting the thing to roll over suddenly and jump at him as soon he got within reach. 

Keeping his rifle aimed straight at the back of the creature’s head, he approached to within twenty feet. Staring at it, he felt an odd mixture of relief and puzzlement. At first, it did indeed look like a huge, brown bear. Its thickly muscled shoulders and short, powerful-looking legs were covered with a thick mat of coarse brown fur with darker hairs creating a distinct black zigzag pattern. The back of its head was bullet-shaped with thick slabs of muscle bulging at the base of its short neck. Both hands were visible; they were wide and flat, and had long, curled fingers tipped with yellowed claws. 

“You faking it? Huh? You son-of-a-bitch?” Mark whispered as he took another few steps closer. 

He stopped again, about ten feet away. Bracing the rifle against his shoulder, he aimed at the lower left side of the creature’s rib cage and gently squeezed the trigger until the rifle cracked. 

The booming echo rolled down the slope. A puff of dust popped into the air as a thumb-sized hole appeared in the creature’s side. The body jolted with the impact of the bullet, but no blood gushed from the wound. 

“Awright, you motherfucker! You’re dead as shit,” Mark said, unable to control the deep tremor in his voice. He chambered another bullet, aimed at the creature’s head, and fired again. Fur and skull fragments exploded into the air as the blast of the rifle echoed from the hillside. “I guess that about evens the score, huh?” 

Mark slung the rifle over his shoulder and walked boldly up to the dead creature. 

He couldn’t stop staring at it, astounded by its size and how almost human it looked. As he bent down close to inspect it, his nostrils were assailed by a thick, cloying animal smell that reminded him of a cow barn. He prodded one outstretched hand with the tip of his rifle, amazed at the obvious formidable strength of the clawed hand. Something like this could easily gut a cow or horse, not to mention a man, with a single swipe. This had to be what had ransacked Josh O’Connell’s barn and killed Dennis outside his house. 

Using his rifle for leverage, Mark rolled the creature over onto its back until it was stopped by an outcropping of rock. The creature’s blank, unfocused gaze caught and riveted him. Even in death, the thing’s eyes glistened with an almost human intelligence. The pupils were dilated, looking like large, wet, black marbles. The creature’s thick lips were peeled back in a death rictus that made it look like it was still snarling. Its mouth was lined with a row of sharp teeth that looked like they could bite a baseball bat in half with one easy snap. 

“So what the hell are you, huh?” Mark said, addressing the carcass. “Are you a Bigfoot or what?” 

As he stood there staring at the dead beast, he suddenly realized that something was wrong. It took him a moment to realize what it was, but then he saw that the left shoulder of the creature wasn’t wounded. The creature didn’t have the gaping wound he was sure he had seen when it had attacked him yesterday! Although a lot of what had happened was just a confused memory, he knew for damned sure that the creature’s left shoulder had been bleeding, badly, either from an old wound he had reopened when he hit it or a fresh one from the damage he had done when he hit it with the butt of his rifle. That wound had made the bloody trail he had followed up to the base of Katherine’s Leap. 

“What the fuck’s going on here?” Mark whispered. 

With some effort, he rolled the creature over onto its other side and inspected the right shoulder, but that side wasn’t wounded, either. 

Just then, a loud
click-click-click
drew Mark’s attention. He turned around quickly, just in time to see a small rock hit the ground at the base of the cliff several feet behind him. Cocking his rifle, he dropped into a protective crouch and stared up at the top of Katherine’s Leap. 

Jesus! This isn’t the one I was tracking,
Mark thought with a numbing flood of panic as he looked over his shoulder at the dead creature. 

There’s more of them!
 

A knot of fear settled in his stomach when he realized that he had just wasted two shots. 

Of course, it made sense. He was a damned fool not to have realized it before now. If one of these creatures could exist up here, then there would have to be others. How else could they continue to survive? 

“So how many are there?” Mark whispered as he scanned the cliff side to see who—or what—could have caused that rock to fall. Aiming his rifle up at the spot where he thought the rock had come from, he waited silently for some sign that there was another creature nearby. 

Keeping a watchful eye all around, he moved slowly along the base of the cliff until he was back at the spot where he had found Phil’s things. When he looked up and carefully scanned the face of the cliff, he saw a protruding ledge which he hadn’t noticed before. Now, with the early afternoon sunlight glancing off it, it looked quite large.