The Shadowkiller (4 page)

D
aylight slowly crept into western Washington, and warm ocean air from Puget Sound glided over the chilled layer from the upper reaches of the Cascades, creating wonderfully buoyant air currents. A western red hawk wheeled lazily a half mile above an asphalt ribbon dividing lushly carpeted peaks. The hawk watched that dark ribbon and followed a small speck as it climbed higher and higher up the mountain track.

Inside the speck, a year-old dark metallic green Jeep Grand Cherokee, Mitch Roberts absentmindedly pushed a Springsteen CD into the dash player, then immediately punched the eject button, mindful of the man next to him, whose arms were crossed, his head bent in a light sleep.

Mitch was clean-cut in a square-jawed, buttoned-up, Christian Coalition kind of way. To kill time and keep his mind busy he invented a mental game of juxtaposing his life with that of his snoozing companion and fellow litigator. Mitch had been married for eleven years and had two kids. Mitch's companion, Jack Remsbecker, had been with Mitch's law firm for about two years and had never been married. Mitch had been with the firm longer and was making partner first. Jack was almost as good as Mitch was but had a few more years before the partners would invite him into the inner sanctum. Mitch's recent promotion was marked by a gigantic suit filed five years prior that had just paid off in a massive settlement. Partnership was a done deal.

They had spent the previous evening in very different ways—Mitch with his family in their home on the west slope of Queen Anne overlooking downtown Seattle, while Jack partied with a girl named Shannon he had met the night before at a bar on Lake Union. Having left Shannon's apartment on Capital Hill only two hours ago, Jack found his way back to his condo in Kirkland just in time for Mitch's five a.m. knock at the door. Now he was making up for lost sleep on the ride up Highway 2.

An avid hiker, Mitch had conned Jack into tackling a trail by Mount Brayton, a seventy-two-
hundred-foot knob northeast of Seattle near the loggers' havens of Sultan and Gold Bar. Mitch figured hiking could kill two birds, fostering camaraderie while giving them yet another goal to achieve together.

Mitch steered off a ramp and climbed a dirt and gravel road for about five miles, smiling to himself that the slightly muddy lane-anda-half was about the most challenge he had given this four-wheel drive since he bought it. To his mental checklist he added a note to wash the Cherokee when he got home. He slowed at the turnoff and pulled onto the apron near the trail head.

Mitch tapped Jack. “Wake up call. Caravan leaves in five minutes.”

Jack blinked to a pained squint and glanced at his watch. “Forty-five minutes? You must have been driving eighty.”

The rush of cold dampness gripped them as they opened the doors. It was a week before Thanksgiving. Snow had fallen in the past couple of days but had mostly melted off. Thirty-eight degrees at best, gray clouds floated in to block the predawn sky. Mitch stepped to the back of the Jeep, opened the hatch, and pulled two day packs to the lip of the door, knocking his three-year-old Brittney's Barney the Dinosaur doll out onto the ground. He smiled as he tossed it back inside.

Mitch pulled sandwiches wrapped in foil from a plastic cooler. “Chicken or tuna?”

Jack wandered to the back of the Jeep, a lit cigarette already dangling from his mouth.

Mitch couldn't believe this guy, not yet awake and he's hacking a butt.

Jack took a drag. “You pick.”

Mitch shoved two sandwiches into a backpack and tossed it to Jack, who stabbed at it with his cigarette-free hand but missed.

Mitch eyed the cigarette reproachfully. “What the heck good does hiking do if you smoke two packs a day?”

Jack proudly displayed his pack of Marlboros. “Low tar. And I don't smoke two a day. One and a half, tops.”

Jack fetched a cell phone from his gym bag and Mitch held up a hand. “No phones. We're communing, remember? Anyway, it probably wouldn't work up there.”

Jack shrugged and tossed the phone back into the bag and closed his door.

Mitch aimed his keyless transmitter at the vehicle and locked it with a little chirp, then slipped the transmitter into the pocket of his yellow Gore-Tex parka. In the distance a stone escarpment, capped in patchy snow, jutted five hundred feet above the tree line.

“That's it,” he said, his finger arrowing at a slight irregularity in the trees that zigzagged across the mountain's face. “Nine miles, there and back.”

“Great,” said Jack sarcastically. “I can't wait.”

Four hundred feet above the two hikers, the hawk spiraled lazily, and from this vantage point his extraordinary eyes could make out the texture of their clothes and hair. Although he had excluded them as prey, he continued to watch them for they did not belong here. The hawk continued to drift on the growing morning thermals in search of movement in the forest below. He was hungry. Catching an updraft, he soared a few hundred feet and used the added altitude to bank toward the flank of a densely forested slope. Sailing toward it he felt a presence, not a movement, not a smell, not a sound. But something.

Deep inside his small brain a circuit was receiving a vibration on the frequency band just slightly above that of his material world. Like the feeling one gets just before something bad happens. The hawk could not know what it was. It just
was.

He normally would have sounded off with a screech, but his brain told him to fall silent, so he automatically flapped his wings to give himself some distance from the oncoming hill. There was something to be avoided in those trees. But it was not like the human animals.

This belonged here.

T
y awakened, and as weak as the dawn light was, it knifed his retina. As soon as he could focus he saw he was in front of a 7-Eleven in the Benz. He vaguely remembered pulling in—when, he couldn't recall. But he did know he felt like warmed-over dog crap and the half-empty bottle of Glenmorangie on the floormat testified why. He lifted the door, painfully slid out, and shuffled into the store.

Todd Shelton noticed the blondish guy in the rad car had come alive and was entering his store. He was taller than Todd expected.

“Hi. Cool car. You okay?”

“Yeah,” Ty muttered. “Got some coffee?”

“Right there. Just made it. Uh, what kinda car is that? Is that like an old 'Vette or somethin'?”

“No,” Ty said, patting his jacket. Just as he felt a wave of nausea, he realized he'd left home without his wallet. “Shit…”

“Is that one of those DeLoreans?”

As sick and hungover as Ty was, that this bonehead had just mistaken a Rembrandt for a Thomas Kinkade touched a nerve. “No!” he snapped, exacerbating his headache. Then he softened his tone, anticipating he might need a favor from this unenlightened, pimply youth. “It's a nineteen fifty-six Mercedes 300 SL Gullwing,” he explained patiently.

“Cool. A buddy o' mine, actually his brother, has a Gullwing. But, it's, like, a cycle.”

“That's a
Goldwing.
A Honda Goldwing,” said Ty as he made eye contact, trying hard to be nice. “Hey, I left my wallet at home. Could you spot me the coffee? I'll come back and pay for it later.”

He waited as the kid pondered for a solid ten seconds in blank concentration. Finally Ty repeated, “I'll pay you back.” Then, trying to clinch it, “I'm good for it.”

“Uh, yeah, okay,” said Todd. “But you gotta do it before my shift ends.”

“Sure. Thanks,” said Ty.

Todd consulted his black plastic Timex. “Uh, I'm off at eight.”

Suddenly Ty's stomach failed him. “Bathroom?” he croaked.

“Uh, it's just an employee lavatory, but—”

Ty couldn't wait and leaned over the tall Rubbermaid garbage can adjacent to the Slim Jims and herbal energy drink display and vomited up a jaundiced, ninety-two-proof Scottish barf. Feeling better instantly, he wiped the spittle from his mouth and chin and focused on Todd's grimace.

“Sorry,” said Ty. “I don't feel too good. I'll tell you what…,” as his eyes dropped to the name badge, “Todd. I don't think I can make it home and back that fast, so I'll bring it back tomorrow with a tip for you. How's that?”

Todd narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Uh, yeah, okay.”

Ty poured a jumbo coffee and as he turned to walk outside, the same news headline that captured Todd's attention caught his eye:

Ty was riveted by two words:
broken trees.
Badly hungover, he focused hard, reading and rereading the short article, slowing each time to savor those two significant words. Ty wondered if the article was a cruel joke, perpetrated by the gods to tease him at his lowest ebb. But Ty also felt there was something to fate or coincidence and that maybe he was supposed to see this story at this exact point in time.

“Hey, uh, Todd, mind if I take a copy? There's something in here I need.”

Since unsold copies of the
Snohomish Daily News
got shitcanned anyway, Todd didn't really care. “Yeah, okay,” he shrugged, “just add that on.”

This news of the possible misfortune of another had given Ty a reason to live a little longer.

While Jack Remsbecker hated the first five hundred yards of the trail, since it only pointed out how he needed to quit smoking, his hiking partner loved it. Mitch saw it as a metaphor for his career, his life. Things had been grueling in his twenties but then the trail of life smoothed out and now he could manage whatever fate handed him. He enjoyed his life and felt pity for Jack's hollow, bachelor existence. Mitch thought it was a waste not to share your life with those you placed above yourself—a great woman, then great kids. Those who saw such sentiment as a corny, traditional sociocultural cliché Mitch dismissed as cynics, truly believing that love conquered all and that it was a basic human need, like eating or sleeping. Maybe that's what separates us from animals, he thought.

From his vantage point high above, his eyes were cemented on the two multicolored forms moving slowly up the trail. Like the hawk's, his existence generally comprised a series of actions and reactions. When he was hungry he ate, when he was tired he slept. And his waking hours were spent in search of sustenance, of which he required a great deal. But unlike the hawk, he had the power of advanced thought. And unlike the hawk, he could make these two creatures his prey.

A mile up the trail, with Mitch setting a purposely competitive pace, Jack stopped, winded.

“What's wrong?” Mitch asked as he slowed but didn't stop. “You toast already?”

Jack gulped air. “Screw you, I'm fine. I'm just not here to set a record, that's all.”

“Okay. I'm warmed up and don't want to stop. I'll meet you at the Y.”

“Yeah, okay,” agreed Jack. “Give me a sec. I'll be three minutes behind you.”

“I won't bet on that,” Mitch threw in sarcastically.

“Yeah, whatever.”

As Mitch continued up the trail, Jack was irritated that his partner's pace was that of a thirtysomething guy with no vices.
How can you live like that? Guy's married to his college sweetheart and has done everything by the book.
Jack's heaving breath made nice little stratus clouds around his upper body. When he felt short of wind like this, he did the one thing his body demanded and his head knew was wrong: reach for a cigarette. He lit up and that first pull of smoke felt like pure oxygen, his distress instantly relieved. He tarried for a few minutes savoring the taste of the Marlboro Light.

He watched as the small two-legs separated. One continued past him but did not see him sheltered in the trees. The one that stayed behind burned
something that issued a smell he did not know. He watched it. The small two-legs were the Keepers of Fire.

He did not know how they controlled it, but that didn't matter. They controlled it and let it loose and they had brought misery to him and his own. And he hated them for it.

The Great Fire had been during the last warm time and he had been moving since. He was drawn here because he felt he was close to the place of the small two-legs. After the Great Fire passed, he resolved to kill every small two-leg that crossed his path. Not for food, but for what they had done. But now there was something new, something he had not known about killing them.

The first one he had killed only a few suns before surprised him when its fear spilled out in waves. He felt its mind voice as he would a warm breeze on his face or a drink from a clear, cold stream. It was then he realized the small two-legs died in a different way than a bear or deer or salmon, in that their feelings of terror were powerful and their thoughts were more like his own. Though their bodies were tiny and fragile, their mind voices were strong. Destroying them, but only after draining their fear, gave him a feeling that was as strong as anything he had ever known—like fire, like mating.

And as he moved closer to where they lived, he had found that, even when he was not near them, he could sometimes hear the strange sounds from their heads, those complicated, confused mind voices. He could even feel them when they were far away, sometimes as far as a distant valley. He had never killed anything for any reason other than to fill his belly or protect his tribe, but now vengeance had taken on something unexpected: pleasure.

Five minutes after finishing his cigarette, Jack needed another. He knew he shouldn't but he stopped, pulled out his smokes, and popped one up.
So what if I'm an extra five minutes late to the rendezvous point?

As he lit up he heard a rustling in the trees nearby. Probably a chipmunk or a raccoon or something. He was hoping to hear it again so he could report at the office Monday he'd encountered some real wildlife. He did hear it, only this time it didn't sound like a squirrel. It was definitely bigger. He held a lungful of smoke, keeping as quiet as possible for fear of spooking some decent fauna like a deer.
Maybe it's a bear.

Quickly exhaling and stubbing out his cigarette, he began walking. Fifty feet up the trail he heard it again, a faint crackling of small branches and maybe some partially dried needles on the floor of the forest. He heard, even felt something, as if whatever it was had decided to pace him, just out of sight in the trees.

“Mitch? That you?”

He didn't believe this was Mitch's style, but the man was certainly cunning enough and perhaps possessed just a hint of cruelty. Maybe he wanted to scare his pal. He thought he had detected a little passive aggression from Mitch.

“Mitch? Come on out, you jerk. I know it's you.”

Nothing.

Jack quickened his pace despite the increasing upward slope. There was definitely something following him. Maybe worse, whatever it was seemed to be toying with him. His mind raced to find possibilities. A mountain lion? A bear?

Another slight crackling sound off trail caused a chill to rocket down the back of Jack's neck. He didn't think a bear would follow someone. It would prefer to just make its move or stay away altogether. It had to be Mitch. Jack stopped and confronted the wall of green.

“Okay, you made your point,” he said, stifling his anxiety. “I'll keep up.”

Nothing.

Mitch would have shown himself at that point, unless he was perverse in a way Jack had never imagined. Now Jack was scared and started moving even faster. He remembered the stories of people being mauled and killed by mountain lions a few years back in California and got goose bumps. Then he tried to get a grip, telling himself it was ridiculous that a grown man would be frightened by a few sounds.

This is silly…fucking nuts, frankly.

Jack stopped again and peered ahead into the forest. For a split second he thought he saw movement, a large shape quickly passing, then nothing. He stared, shaken. He couldn't have seen what he just saw. Or thought he saw. Optical illusion, or…

Jesus, it really is a bear. It's a fucking bear.

Yet his mind rejected the possibility because bears just weren't that big. He'd seen them in the zoo and watched
Grizzly Adams
as a kid, and though that was certainly a big bear, it sure as hell wasn't anywhere near as big as—

No,
he refused the thought.
Nothing
in the forest was
that
big.
Yet trees don't move…

He watched the small two-leg and felt its rising fear. It pleased him that they were also easy to catch and provided a large quantity of good meat. Once the colorful yet tasteless outer skin was sloughed off, their soft underflesh was savory, better than any other animal he had eaten.

He stood in the shadows of the big trees and watched the small creature standing down the trail and followed the teachings of the old ones: let the hunted come to you.

Jack's radar was on full alert but there was nothing on the horizon. Nothing but that shape he thought he saw. After twenty seconds passed with no other indications, he tried convincing himself he hadn't seen it. He
couldn't
have seen it. Frightened, he turned and started trotting uphill, pulling out his pack of Marlboros as he moved. He'd light on the fly.

Then he had a feeling of something warm on his back. It was such a palpable but bizarre sensation, it caused him to stop and turn. Jack fully expected to see the sun peeking from behind the clouds, but instead the unbelievable figure facing him astride the trail a mere fifteen yards away caused his entire body chemistry to change in a split second. His hand went lax and his cigarette pack dropped.