The Shadowkiller (36 page)

H
e had been traveling awhile, moving through the trees between the wood caves. He was restless and hungry. A dog had raised its voice to him and he had caught and killed it but had not eaten it. Now he moved on, driven by his appetite and the need to bring sorrow to the small two-legs.

Passing the wood caves, he could feel small two-legs inside but none of the sensations drew his attention. He was now associating pleasure with the hunt. With the surplus of prey he could afford to go hungry until he discovered the right victim to torment, then kill, one whose mind voice appealed to him.

About twenty minutes after Ben left, Ty heard a knock at his door. He felt bad about their confrontation and had more to say to the old man. He was sitting at his computer. He yelled to Ben,“C'mon in.” He turned and got a surprise.

“You're much better-looking than your picture,” said Kris from the doorway, holding up Ty's file.

Ty stood, then froze.

“You probably should invite me in,” she said. “I think it's in your best interest.”

Her eyes moved over the maps and items strewn about the room. “Bigfoot Central. Cool.”

“Why is it in my best interest?”

“Well, I see it going two ways. Scenario one,‘Nutty Bigfoot hunter may be the killer, but he had no comment,' and we know how that would look, or two, ‘Wrongly accused software guru—'”

“Former software designer.”

“‘Wrongly accused former software designer sets the record straight.' If you ask me, I'd go with the latter.”

“How did you find me?”

Kris snickered. “You're the hottest story in town. Finding you was easy. Getting you to talk…now will that be hard?”

“The press and I aren't so close anymore. Why are you different?”

Ty wasn't thrilled when Kris took off her coat and threw it on the bed. “You're not staying that long,” he remarked, putting some edge in his voice.

Kris ignored him and sat on the bed. She smiled expansively. “You need me. You've been arrested for trespassing in the last two weeks, the police have searched your house, you've got some heat on you.” Kris leaned back on the bed. “When politicians or televangelists fuck up, what do they do? They go on TV and tell their story…or confess. Do you have a story…or a need to confess?”

Ty saw her as the worst of the worst. He reached down and grabbed her arm to pull her up. “Okay, that's it. You're outta here.”

Kris resisted. “So let me tell your story if you're not guilty.”

Ty got her other wrist and pulled her up. “Leave. Now.”

As Ty struggled with her, Kris turned the tables on him by suddenly offering no resistance. The result was she fell into his arms. Their faces were inches apart. For a moment Ty forgot why he was trying to throw her out. It was like being offered a ride in a stolen Ferrari: you knew you shouldn't, but it was sure hard getting to the part where you say no.

“Let me help you,” she said seductively.

“I don't trust you. At all.”

“You should.” Kris pulled slightly and he let go of her wrist. She ran her fingertips across his chest. “I want to tell your story. Let people know you're not the wackjob they think you are.”

“Nice pitch. It's awfully compelling, but no.”

Ty whiffed her perfume and it was subtle…intoxicating. Maybe it was just her—

“I think you're innocent, Ty.” She ran her hand up his arm.

“How would you know?”

“I can tell. I have really good people instincts.”

“I thought I did too,” said Ronnie.

Ty and Kris turned to see her in the doorway. Ronnie turned away in disgust.

“Shit,” grated Ty and went after her.

Kris took a moment to process what had just happened. She snickered. “Oops.”

Ty ran down the hall and caught Ronnie at the elevator.

“Honey, please, it's not what you think.”

Ronnie turned to Ty, her eyes fiery. “Oh really?”

“No, my God, no, it's…She came over to get a story out of me and I was trying to throw her out—”

“I could see that.”

“No, you've gotta listen to me, I—”

The elevator arrived and Ronnie quickly stepped on. Ty tried to follow and Ronnie's hand shot up, palm out. “No! Don't follow me.”

The elevator door closed and Ty slumped. After a moment of grief he walked back to his room. Kris had her coat on. “I could call her and tell her it was harmless.” She sized Ty up and thought there just might be the slightest chance the guy needed consoling. “Or was it?”

Ty's cold eyes answered her.

“Okay,” she said, “I should go. I've got a report at eleven. But I'll call you tomorrow.”

Ty walked past her, almost in a stupor. “Tomorrow's Christmas.”

“Just another day for working stiffs, right? Later.”

She walked out, and Ty marveled at his dumb luck that Ronnie would come over with an olive branch just as the hot reporter was putting the make on him. Ty angrily kicked at the bed and caught the frame instead, stubbing his toe. “Ow, shit!” That made him even madder. He evaluated good targets in the room, then some part of his rational mind told him to calm down. He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling about as broken as he'd felt in a long while.

He had become less careful because of his familiarity with the terrain and broke the rules more often. The old ones taught that you must cover your presence and move in and out of another's territory without leaving a trace. Feeling his total superiority, he walked boldly, occasionally leaving his tracks where they might be seen, his two-thirds of a ton easily etching the impression of his feet.

He moved close as he passed the wood caves, peering through the warm ice openings, waiting to lock eyes with a small two-leg, its waves of terror his reward. While he was looking into one opening, a female passing by inside saw him and let out a tiny, high-pitched cry. He suddenly felt her sexuality and it made him curious. Small two-legs were similar to him in some ways. He felt a pang of his own sexuality and realized it was something he missed. But the small two-legs were too small, too fragile for his kind of mating. Her second scream brought him back from his thoughts. He responded with a thunderous bellow that shook her small dwelling. Then another small two-leg, a male, probably her mate, entered that part of the cave and met his gaze. The male's fear poured off him like a warm wind, even more than the female's terror, and that is when he made his move.

The sides of their little cave were soft, like a thick wall of branches. It gave easily. As he entered the cave, their pitiful cries, both from their mouths and their minds, made him want to silence them quickly. Their cave was cramped and he had to bend down to fit inside. He struck the male with his open hand and the little body flew through the wall, its life-light snuffed. The female tried to run past him, to go through the hole he had made, but he grabbed her around the neck. Stepping back outside so he could rise to his full height, he held her up to his face, his grip just enough to silence her mouth cries.

This one had only one thought and he could not decipher it immediately. Then he knew what she was thinking. His iron grip clasped her throat, sending blood rushing from her mouth, nose, and ears, and popping her eyes out of their sockets. He dropped the corpse and moved around the wood cave. Through one of the openings he saw a slowly spinning wash of controlled fire on the wall in patterns. He recognized the patterns as the shapes of a deer and a rabbit. Lying next to it in the shadows was the object of the female's last thought, her cub.

It was lying in a small nest. He tore away the wall and pulled the nest closer to him, not wanting to enter the restricted little cave again. The cub

awoke and cried. He sensed only the most basic thoughts from it, no fear, just simple anxiety. It was pure and unconfused, unlike its elder small two-legs. This cub had thoughts like other young animals, the sense of fear still undeveloped. He examined it and thought it was much like his own cub—the one the small two-legs had killed with their fire. Leaving the ruined remains of its parents, he held it in the palm of his left hand and moved toward the trees.

T
he drive north to Snohomish County was surprisingly enjoyable for Kris. She liked her new, younger crew. The soundman, Jess, was quite a card, and Gary, the cameraman, it turned out, operated outside the box. Gary even pulled the van into a little grocery on the north side of Monroe to pick up half a case of beer for their “wrap party.” Their intern Gwen was a pliable little mouse who exhibited the proper respect for Kris.

High spirits prevailed because it was Christmas Eve and they were doing a remote shoot high in the mountains, far from the prying eyes of the public. After finishing their feed at five minutes after eleven, they planned to spend a little time soaking in the ambience of the woods, as well as celebrating Christmas with a few Buds. Gary and Jess each hoped to get lucky with Kris, or at least open the door for a date. If Kris said no, there was always Gwen, the winsome little coed from the UW, and each had lusty preconceptions of how sorority girls could be. Jess tried to break out the brew before they even arrived, but Kris quickly kiboshed that. Gary figured that rebuke gave him a leg up with Kris.

Kris liked this crew because they didn't bitch about her smoke in their eyes. She gave them points for being afraid to stand up to her. She made brief eye contact with Gary, her glance promising him a chance. She noticed her message was received as he settled back, happily inhaling her smoke.
It's just too easy,
she smiled.

Bob Hoagland was about to pack it in for the evening. He bid his wife, Janet, good night and had turned out his Christmas lights when he heard something outside his home. Bob and Janet were retired on ten remote acres northeast of the city of Snohomish, and the only sounds they heard at night were raccoons or possums rooting around their trash cans. This was very different, a soft, plaintive crying.

Bob flipped on the light and opened the front door to one of the strangest sights he'd ever beheld. A baby was lying on one of the stones of their walk, several yards from the porch, clad in Disney pajamas. Blinking his eyes in disbelief, Bob looked around the yard, then walked into the cold night air and picked up the whimpering infant.

Janet was in the rec room watching the end of a news magazine show. When Bob walked in, the baby let out a wail that sent her out of her chair. Bob looked at her quizzically.

“It was just there, out on the walk.”

Both felt a chill from the utter weirdness of it. Janet walked over to examine the baby.

“Want me to call the police or will you do it?”

Bob whiffed. “Whew, I think it's had an accident.”

Janet smelled it too, but after four kids she knew her business. “That's not baby poop.”

They both sniffed, trying to identify the strange, foul odor. Then Bob called the police.

After getting lost twice, Gary the cameraman steered the Channel 7 van up a narrow secondary road, the headlights cutting a little tunnel of light through which to crawl. The high energy of the crew had dimmed somewhat at the prospect of not finding the location where they were supposed to broadcast. Kris held her watch close to the instrument panel to read it, then lit a cigarette.

“Stop here,” she commanded. “It's ten forty-five.”

Gary glanced at her but continued searching for the turnout described by the Snohomish County Sheriff's PIO.

“Look, what difference does it make?” she asked. “It's dark, it's the fucking forest. We're anywhere we say we are. This is it. Stop.”

Her three comrades suddenly realized why she was a rising star: she made her own rules. A turnout beckoned at a bend in the road and Gary pulled in. They piled out to set up. Kris looked around and could see no lights from homes. She knew the darkness assured them that the viewing audience would believe they were right next to Skip Caldwell's bike trail. Jess raised the microwave dish, linked their feed with the station, and ran a test.

From the station, a technician's voice crackled over both Jess and Gary's headsets,“Okay, I've got bars, now give me a picture.”

Gary hefted the heavy Ikegami HDK-79E hi-def camera to his shoulder, connected it to the battery pack on his belt, then to the base station in the van, then switched on the camera light. Back at the station the bright image of Gwen helping Kris adjust her hair winked onto a bank of standby monitors.

The assistant studio director pressed his talk button. “Okay, we've got you. We've got a grocery store robbery in progress in the Central District, so we'll probably lead with that. Air Seven's en route, so you might get bumped to between seven and ten after. We'll advise.”

Gary chopped his light and hit the standby button on his Iki. The enthusiasm of the group returned, now that they were going to meet their deadline. Kris puffed away on a cigarette, bathed in the light from the open van, whose shadows melted into the boundless black void around them. She looked at Gary and took a drag. “Ready?”

Gary gave her a thumbs-up. “Let's knock this out and have a brew.”

Gwen liked this crew. They were younger and hipper than some of the others she'd worked with. And Kris Walker wasn't the dragon lady everybody said she was, although on the drive up Kris had blown some smoke in Gwen's face, making her cough. Except for the smoke, Gwen liked Kris.

At five to eleven Mac, skimming through the newspaper, read that Dr. Wade Frazier had not only received a sizable research grant but had been made head of his department. He smiled to himself, now realizing why Frazier had been loath to help him:
would have blown his big grant and even bigger job out of the water.
The phone rang and Mac set the paper aside.

“Schneider,” he answered.

“Mac…” It was Ben, sounding sleepy and slightly out of breath.

“Ben, what's up? You okay?”

“Just had a dream…one of those dreams…”

“Yeah,” said Mac. “The one where the thing's after two people? That dream?”

“Not that one, another. This sounds strange, but I think you know her.”

“Who?” asked Mac, suddenly very curious. “Know who?”

“A blonde. I think it was your reporter. Real pretty.”

“Yeah, sounds like her. Why? What did you dream?”

“You got her number?”

“Yeah, but she might not—”

“Warn her. Now.”