C. Box - Nowhere to Run

“Do you think he’s still there?” Campbell asked.

“I doubt it,” Parnell said. “He knows we have the high ground and a clear field of fire. He’s not stupid enough to try to take us on up here in these rocks.”

Smith nodded. “He waited until we left Capellen alone before he attacked him. That way, he had the odds on his side as well as the element of surprise. I wonder how long he’s been tracking us?”

Parnell shrugged.

“Maybe all night,” Smith said.

Campbell turned. “Farkus, what the hell are you doing back there?”

Farkus said, “Trying to make Capellen more comfortable. I took his vest off so he could breathe easier. I’m sure he won’t mind if I wear it for a while.”

“What are you doing with his pants?”

“What is it with those guys?” Smith asked no one in particular. “We couldn’t see a damned thing without our night vision equipment, but whoever went after Capellen didn’t seem to have that problem. And I seriously doubt those guys have any real technology to use.”

“They’re not human,” Farkus said.

“Bullshit,” Parnell spat.

They’d made it to the rock slide without being attacked. The horses were picketed on a grassy shelf above them, and Capellen lay dying in Farkus’s jeans with his back to a slick rock. There had been no movement on the scree beneath them or in the wall of trees below since they’d arrived an hour before.

Smith said to Farkus, “If they aren’t human, then what the hell are they?”

“They’re Wendigos,” Farkus said, pleased to finally be able to introduce his theory.

Smith said, “Jesus. But that doesn’t work because these guys used to be human.”

“That’s exactly how it works,” Farkus said. “They start out human, but something goes wrong. It’s usually related to terrible hunger, but sometimes it’s like a demon enters into them and turns them into monsters.

“I know it sounds crazy, but things have been happening up here in these mountains for the last year that don’t make sense. It’s common knowledge in town that something’s going on up here.”

Hearing no objection, Farkus forged on, keeping his voice low. “One night, in the Dixon Club, I asked an old Indian I know. He’s a Blackfoot from Montana by the name of Rodney Old Man. That’s the first time I heard about Wendigos. Then I did some research on the Internet and checked out a couple of books from the library. It’s scary stuff, man. These people who turn into Wendigos look like walking skeletons with their flesh hanging off of their bones. They stink like death-like those horses we found back there. And they feed on dead animals and living people. They’re cannibals, too, but they’re really weird cannibals because the more human flesh they eat, the bigger they get and the hungrier they are. And they can see in the dark .”

Farkus said, “You guys are from Michigan, which is close to Canada, where most of the Wendigos come from. Do you know the story of an Indian named Swift Runner?” Farkus asked. No one spoke. “Now there was a man filled up with the spirit of the Wendigo. Killed, butchered, and ate his wife and six children.

“You hear of a guy named Li just a couple of years ago? Up in Canada? He cut the head off a fellow bus passenger he’d never met before and started eating him right there on the bus.”

Parnell hissed, “Shut up , now ,” and put the muzzle of his weapon against Farkus’s forehead. Parnell’s face was flushed red with anger. The soundtrack for his rage was Capellen’s wet breathing, which had got worse.

“Gotcha,” Farkus said.

As the eastern sky lightened enough for Farkus to shed his night vision goggles, Capellen died with a sigh and a shudder.

“Poor bastard,” Parnell said. “There was nothing we could do to save him.”

Farkus didn’t say, Except maybe take him to a hospital.

Parnell stood up and peeled his goggles off, said, “We’ll pick up his body on the way out. He’s not going anywhere.”

Then: “Let’s get this thing over with so we can go home.”

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

It had been a long time since Joe had got up earlier than the rest of his family and made them breakfast. He cooked what he always cooked, what he knew how to make, what he thought they should want even though he wasn’t sure anymore that they did: pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon. He’d drunk half a pot of coffee and his nerves were jangling by the time Marybeth came down the hall in her robe.

“Smells good,” she said.

He poured her a mug of coffee.

“Thank you,” she said. “I hope you don’t take it personally if the girls don’t dive into that big ranch breakfast you just created. Don’t forget-they’re getting older and more health and weight conscious all the time. It’s a struggle to get them to eat a banana or cereal in the morning before school. Most of the time I’m giving them something as they dash out the door.”

“That’s because you don’t tempt them with bacon,” Joe said. “Bacon is magic.”

She let that pass. “Any sign of Nate?”

“Nope. My guess is he’s out at his old place on the river or staying with Alisha.”

“I’d guess Alisha.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

She said, “I’m glad we talked last night.”

“For starters,” he said.

She smiled and looked away. He watched as she peered through the front room toward the picture window, squinted, and turned to him. “Who is parked in front of our house?”

“What?” There hadn’t been any vehicles in front when he’d gone out earlier to collect the weekly Saddlestring Roundup. Now, though, there was a massive red Ford Expedition with Colorado plates blocking Marybeth’s van in the driveway.

Joe walked to the front window in his apron with a spatula in his hand, just in time to see the passenger door open and Bobby McCue swing out. McCue was talking with someone inside. Although the windows were darkened, Joe could see at least two other heads besides the driver.

Marybeth joined him at the window, and they both watched as a man and a woman got out of the Expedition. The man was tall and red-faced, and his movements were swift and purposeful. He slammed the door shut and strode around the front of the vehicle. He wore an open safari jacket, jeans, and heavy boots, as if he planned to traverse the Outback later in the day. The woman, in a knee-length navy blue jacket, wrapped her arms around herself as if trying to make herself smaller. She was short, thin, dark, and furtive. She appeared uncomfortable or nervous, and she looked to the red-faced man for their next move. He gestured toward the house with a brusque nod and walked right by her, swinging his arms. She followed him up the concrete walkway in front of Bobby McCue.

“Do you know them?” Marybeth asked.

“I know the guy in the back. He’s the one who came to see me in the hospital and lied about being from DCI.”

“What do you suppose they want?”

“I don’t know,” Joe said, “but if they want to talk, I’ll steer them into my office. Do you mind feeding the girls?”

Marybeth said, “That’s what I do every day, Joe. I think I can handle it.”

The red-faced man said, “Brent Shober” and stuck out his hand.

Joe reached out and shook it. “I was wondering when I might hear from you.”

“This is my wife, Jenna.”

“Hello, Jenna. I’m Joe Pickett.”

She smiled tightly and looked away from him.

“And our investigator, Bobby McCue.”

“We’ve met,” Joe said, nodding toward McCue. McCue shrugged and winked, as if he and Joe were brothers in arms in law enforcement subterfuge. Joe shook his head, denying the bond.