The Mountain King (20 page)

Chapter Thirty
 

“He ain’t heavy . . .” 

“Can’t you just hike back to town and come back with some help?” Jack asked. His voice was high and edged with tension. 

Mark looked at him and shook his head. “Look, I don’t particularly like the choices, either, but just what the hell do you think these creatures will do to you once they come back and find another one of them has been killed?” 

“Good point,” Jack said, running one hand down the side of his face. 

“First things first,” Mark said as he fed a few more sticks into the fire. “I have to get you guys out of here—someplace safe.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Phil said, snorting with laughter as he slapped his useless legs. “And just how do you propose to do that?” 

Mark started pacing back and forth across the cave floor while he pondered the situation. He knew he couldn’t leave both men here while he went down the mountain to get help. Even if he left them his rifle, they wouldn’t stand a chance without enough bullets to finish off the four surviving beasts. And that was assuming there were only four more. For all they knew, there might be dozens of these things living in other caves on the mountain or spread throughout the forest. 

But Mark was convinced that he had to get at least one man down off the mountain now, carrying him all the way if he had to. Even if there was some place for them to hide outside the cave, the creatures obviously had a keen sense of smell and would eventually track them down. He felt uncomfortable admitting it, even to himself, but his first loyalty was to Phil. If he was taking anyone, he would take Phil. Jack was much worse off and needed more help, but that also meant he might not survive the hike down. Besides, Mark didn’t have much water or food to leave behind for both of them, so it was tantamount to consigning them to death to leave them behind in the cave. 

“How about up on the ledge, where I was hiding last night?” Mark said, glancing at Jack. “If I can get you up there, and take Phil with me, they may think we
all
got away.” 

Jack stared back at him with a glazed, defeated expression, as if he could clearly read Mark’s loyalty to Phil and saw that his chances of surviving this ordeal were the least of anyone’s. 

“Yeah—I suppose so,” he finally said through cracked lips. “It—it doesn’t really matter now, I guess, . . . now that Mary’s—” 

“Don’t you go giving up now,” Mark said with a 

forcefulness in his voice he didn’t really feel. The memory of Sandy’s horrible death was still too fresh, too painful in his mind. He clapped Jack on the shoulder and gave him a bracing shake. 

“I don’t think you’re in any condition to handle the trip down. Let me get Phil back to town, and then I’ll get back here with some armed men and clean these bastards out. That’s as long as you can hang on. Hiding up there on that ledge is gonna be your best bet.” 

“Without a weapon?” 

Mark considered offering Jack his rifle, or maybe his Swiss Army knife, but he knew that would be foolish. If the creatures found him, he wouldn’t be able to fend them off. It was going to be challenge enough getting down off the mountain while there was still enough daylight even without these creatures chasing after them. Out in the open, he and Phil were going to have to protect themselves if they were attacked. 

“Look, I’m sorry,” Mark said, “but there’s nothing else I can think of right now.” 

“And what if you don’t make it back?” Jack asked, his voice trembling wildly now. “What if—” 

“Don’t worry. I’ll make it back. I promise,” Mark said even as dark doubt filled his mind. “For the past few days, dozens of men have been out here on the mountain, searching for me.” He wished now that he had seen even a single searcher yesterday. Had the police given up the search for both him and Phil? 

Jack considered a moment, then nodded and sighed. “Yeah—I guess so,” he said, not sounding at all convinced. 

Mark hurriedly cut the vines binding Jack’s legs. He was surprised by how light the man was when he picked him up and carried him over to the bottom of the ledge. Using his jacket as a sling, he hoisted Jack up into the niche, then took the longest, strongest piece of wood he could find from the pile of firewood and gave it to him. 

“Use this if you have to,” Mark said. 

From the cold gleam in Jack’s eye, he knew they both understood that this was a futile gesture, but Jack smiled his thanks. 

“Here’s my canteen and some food,” Mark said, handing Jack his day pack. He wished he could think of something reassuring to say, but nothing came to mind so, hoping he hadn’t just signed Jack’s death warrant, he left him there. 

“We’re gonna need this to get down the cliff side,” he said as he knelt down beside Mary’s corpse and cut the vines holding her legs together. He gathered up all of the discarded rope, tied the ends together, wound it up in a thick coil, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he went over to Phil. 

“It’s going to hurt like a bitch when I pick you up,” he said, turning around so Phil could get on him, piggyback style. 

“You don’t know the meaning of the word
pain,”
Phil replied as he hiked himself up onto his friend’s back. 

Once in position, Phil wrapped one arm around Mark’s neck and settled into place. Mark gave him the rifle to carry and warned him that if there was danger, he was going to have to drop him so he could use the rifle. 

“ ‘S long as you don’t break my legs,” Phil said with a forced chuckle. 

“Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor. I wish to hell you could have lost a few more pounds before we tried this, though,” Mark said. Already he was puffing as he started toward the cave opening. He knew he was crazy even to be trying this, but it was the best—it was the
only
plan he could come up with. 

“He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother,” Phil said with another hearty laugh; then he was silent as Mark made his way through the main chamber and negotiated the narrow passageway, following the faint yellow circle of his flashlight back to the cave opening. They had just made their way through the outer chamber when a voice, echoing in the darkness behind them, called out. 

“Hey, Mark! Mark!” 

“Yeah,” Mark shouted, already feeling winded from the effort. 

“I don’t think I like this idea,” Jack shouted. His voice was wound high with tension. 

“Don’t worry. Just stay down and be quiet!” 

“No. Please. Don’t leave me here! Come back! Please!” 

Mark hesitated a moment. His knees were buckling beneath the weight of his friend as he turned and looked back into the dark maw of the cave. 

“Please—?” Jack shouted. “I—I know I won’t be able to stand it here alone. I don’t want them to find me. They’ll kill me! They’ll rip me to shreds, just like they did—did to—” 

His voice choked off abruptly, and Mark was thankful that he hadn’t said Sandy’s name out loud. 

Taking a deep breath, Mark called back. “Just hang in there. I’ll be back here to get you within twenty-four hours. I promise!” 

“I hope so,” Jack yelled, sounding not at all reassured. “I sure as shit hope so!” 

Chapter Thirty-one
 

Traces of Red 

The sky was overcast that morning, a dull, gunmetal gray when Polly left for work at ten o’clock. She was still hoping that she would find an opportunity to hit the road, so she hadn’t bothered to take her suitcases out of the car trunk. This morning, though, convinced that the police had her under surveillance, she pushed aside any thoughts of leaving ... for now. 

No, she told herself, she had to act as if everything was one hundred percent normal . . . even considering that her boyfriend had been murdered less than a week ago, her husband was somewhere up on Mount Agiochook looking for his missing and presumed dead friend, a police search party was out there hunting for him, and her stepdaughter had moved out of the house last night. 

You never saw this on “Ozzie and Harriet,”
she thought with bitter sarcasm. No wonder she hadn’t been sleeping well for the last several nights. The tension was definitely starting to get to her. Why, just last night, sometime around midnight, she had awoken, absolutely convinced that someone was in the house. She had sat up in bed and listened as footsteps moved stealthily around downstairs. Her first thought had been that whoever had killed Dennis had come back for her, but she had been too frightened to do anything, even to dial the police. Instead, she had cowered in her bed, shivering as she listened to the footsteps come slowly up the stairs. She had closed her eyes, feigning sleep, and waited with bated breath, absolutely convinced that the intruder had opened her bedroom door a crack and had looked in on her before leaving. 

Her first thought—the one she wanted to believe— was that Mark had come home. But Mark would have turned on all the lights and made a lot of noise downstairs before coming upstairs to talk to her before getting into bed. 

No, if it hadn’t been a dream—and now, in the diffused light of the overcast morning, that seemed the most likely explanation—then someone had broken into the house last night. 

Before breakfast, she had checked upstairs and down, but hadn’t noticed anything valuable missing. Still, even now, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. 

Maybe it was simply paranoia, thinking that the police still suspected her for Dennis’s murder, but she couldn’t stop thinking that it might be something more than that. 

That someone was staying close by the house, keeping an eye on her, watching her every move and waiting to strike. 

After three cups of coffee that morning, her nerves were even more jangled. Her first customer this morning, Mrs. Alvord, was going to be damned lucky to get out of the hairdresser’s shop without a Mohawk. 

As she locked the house door and went down the steps to the garage, Polly was still unable to get rid of the feeling that she was being watched. She kept glancing around the yard as she walked over to the garage, turned the door handle, and ran up the door. The clatter of metal wheels and springs drilled her ears. When she looked over her shoulder, she was surprised not to see that a police car had pulled into the driveway. What she
did
see was a faint glint of metal in the grass beside the back steps. 

“What the hell—?” she muttered as she walked over to it, bent down, and picked it up. 

It was the spare house key, the one they kept underneath the steps. 

She wiped it clean with her fingers and inspected it closely. 

What was this doing out here on the lawn?
she wondered as she turned it over several times in her hand. 

Maybe it had simply fallen from its hiding place, but what if someone had used it . . . last night . . . to get into the house? 

She knelt down and, leaning forward until her cheek pressed against the top step, felt around underneath the stairs for the nail to hang the key on. It was when the top step was level to her eye that she noticed something else—a small splotch of blood, no bigger than a quarter, on the edge of the landing. 

Her heart skipped a beat as she stared at the blood, glistening in the dull morning light with an oily freshness—dark red, almost black. She felt almost compelled to reach out and touch it, to see if it was still wet, but instead she squealed with surprise and pushed herself away from the steps so hard she fell backward onto the wet grass. She barely noticed that her clothes got wet as she scrambled to her feet. Her pulse was racing hard and fast in her throat, and she was unable to tear her gaze away from the blackish red smear. 

Was it Dennis’s blood . . . still there from that horrible night?
 

She glanced fearfully to the spot beside the garage where she had found Dennis’s mutilated body. A cold, clutching fear filled her. 

Did Dennis’s killer come back last night for me?
 

Did he break into the house and come right upstairs, but then decide to leave me alone, to let me live . . . for now?
 

Is he stalking me right now, taunting me by showing that he can get me whenever he damn well pleases?
 

She knew the sensible thing to do would be to notify the police immediately, but she decided not to do that. She didn’t trust the police any more than they apparently trusted her. 

Polly was so preoccupied with thinking about what she should do that she didn’t even notice the car that had pulled into the driveway until the driver’s door opened and slammed shut. 

“Something the matter?” Guy LaBrea asked. His voice sounded oddly close in the still air. He looked at her with flat, expressionless eyes as he walked up to her. 

Polly felt numb as she turned to the police chief, shook her head, and managed to say, “Uh .. . no.” 

As soon as she looked away from the spot of blood on the landing, it grew in size in her imagination until it was the size of a spilled gallon of bright red paint. She was surprised LaBrea didn’t notice it and comment on it right away. 

“No,” Polly said again after drawing a deep breath and bending down to wipe the dampness on the backs of her legs. “I was just—I slipped on the walkway and fell. I’m okay. God, sometimes I’m so clumsy!” 

LaBrea nodded, then glanced up at the house. “I stopped by the high school earlier this morning to speak with Sandy. Had a few things I wanted to talk over with her, but she wasn’t there. Is she home sick or something?” 

Biting her lower lip, Polly shook her head. “No. As far as I know, she spent last night over at Karen Bishop’s.” 

LaBrea narrowed his gaze. 

“We—umm, well, Sandy and I had kind of an argument last night,” Polly added feebly. 

“I see,” LaBrea said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I happened to bump into Karen Bishop at the school, and she told me that Sandy was over to her house last night, but she said she didn’t stay the whole night, that she must have left sometime around midnight and didn’t come back.” He nodded toward the house. “You sure she’s not up in her room?” 

“Positive,” Polly said, shrugging tightly. 

She had checked Sandy’s bedroom while searching the house to see if anything had been stolen last night. She had to fight the impulse to turn and look back at the house, afraid that she would scream the instant she saw the blood on the back steps. In her imagination, it had spread out into a glistening puddle that was dripping in thick, shimmering red globs from the steps and gushing out over the lawn. A wave of dizziness gripped her, and she felt as though a surging bloody tide was swirling at her ankles, tugging at her, trying to pull her down. 

“I know she and her father had picked a meeting point out at the base of the Round Top Trail,” LaBrea said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe she’s gone out there.” 

Polly thought his voice sounded steady, completely normal, as if he hadn’t even noticed the bloodstain on the steps. 

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, fighting the tremor in her voice. 

“Maybe I ought to take a drive on out there and have a look around.” 

“She—uh, she never told me anything about that,” Polly replied, her voice still flat and emotionless. 

“Well,” LaBrea said, looking squarely at Polly, “you also might want to know that we’re calling off the search for both Mark and Phil. The weather forecast is calling for some pretty rough weather later today and tonight. I can’t risk any more men than I have to up there. A skeleton crew of forest rangers is going to make one last sweep today, and that’ll be it, at least until the weather clears.” 

“I see,” Polly said numbly. She was surprised that apparently LaBrea still hadn’t noticed anything seriously wrong. 

“I don’t want to upset you,” he said, “but chances are something’s happened up there. We—well, you ought to know that one of the search parties located what we think was your husband’s campsite yesterday.” LaBrea took a deep breath and waited for her response, but Polly was still feeling too disoriented to react. 

“It looks as though something’s gone wrong up there. The tent and camping gear were all torn up, thrown all over the place. I’m not saying he’s hurt or anything, mind you, but . . . well, there’s been some fairly well substantiated reports of some kind of animal up there in the mountains, maybe a bear or something that’s on a rampage. You might have heard what happened out at Josh O’Connell’s barn several nights ago.” 

“No. No, I didn’t,” Polly said. 

“Well, I don’t want you to worry, but—” LaBrea shrugged as though he were helpless. “What with the weather turning bad and all, I just hope to hell Mark gets down off that mountain today.” 

“Is there anything I can do?” Polly asked in a trembling voice. Her face felt numb, and her leg muscles were shaking so badly she thought she was going to lose control of them and collapse. 

Again, LaBrea shrugged. 

“I think all
you
can do is go to work, carry on as best you can, and hope for the best. I have the number at Marilyn’s Beauty Shop, so I can call if I hear from either Mark or Sandy.” 

“I—I’d appreciate that,” Polly said, not really feeling it. 

“Okay, then,” LaBrea said. 

Polly felt only a marginal sense of relief as she watched LaBrea turn and walk back to his cruiser, get in, start it up, and drive away. Even before the sound of his car had faded away, she ran up to the house, got a bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush, and washed away the last trace of blood from the landing. She wasn’t entirely convinced it was Dennis’s blood, but any speculation as to whose it might be was blocked out of her mind by her single, most worrisome fear. 

What if the police and the whole town of Hilton blame me for what happened to Dennis? I’ll never get out of this mess!