The Shadowkiller (10 page)

W
hether crafting 7000 series aircraft aluminum or dimension hemlock, Russ Tardif possessed impressive focus. His thoughts were as linear as a belt sander when determining which cut to make next or whether he had the correct setting on his lathe or bandsaw. Not one to waste valuable time on pastimes like reading, Russ loved one thing above all else: turning raw materials into finished products.

The television report on the missing hikers had long vacated his thoughts and he now brought his mental resources to bear on a particularly difficult miter cut. It was nearly two a.m., but he was not worried about the time since he didn't have to get up in the morning. And not only was it Sunday now, but this weekend was the start of his two-week vacation.

Russ completed the cut on the molding and held it to its mate. Perfect, naturally. He reached for another piece of molding and out of the corner of his eye saw something move past the window. He quickly turned, staring at the small four-light, double-glazed window he'd installed himself. The glass was night black, a few clinging raindrops sparkling from the shop's interior lighting. Russ shrugged off the motion as flying debris, maybe a cedar bough. The fact that it wasn't windy never entered the equation. Russ turned back to his miter saw.

He sensed few thoughts from the small two-leg in the wood cave. Glancing inside, he saw that the screaming animal sound came from something the small two-leg was using that looked to be made of stone, only shinier. He did not want the small two-leg to see him yet. He first wanted to create some confusion. He would let the small two-leg's anxiety build to panic, then terror, streaming out of its mind in waves like driving rain. With that the kill would be more satisfying.

Unaccustomed to earthquakes, Russ took several seconds to conclude that an earthquake must be why his shop was shaking. Although it wasn't a violent motion, he nevertheless had to discontinue making a cut because of the movement of the floor and walls. But as equipment hanging from nails on the walls—saw blades and jigs, old goggles, some T squares, and various other items—all bounced up and down, Russ realized the floor wasn't actually moving. As he quickly discounted the earthquake theory, his new assumption was even scarier—a slide. Suddenly the recurring nightmare of his little shack toppling into the rushing water below was enough to motivate him to step outside to investigate.

That is, until
the sound.

Russ took one step toward the door, and the air outside the shed shattered with what sounded to him like the massive industrial cutters at work as they slashed through giant stacks of sheet aluminum. The tearing-sheet-metal wail came forth with such ungodly volume and resonance it actually vibrated Russ's vulnerable little building—vulnerable because whatever had just let go with that ghastly, inhuman roar was right outside his door.

Russ's heart rate jumped from seventy to one twenty in two seconds. His bugged-out eyes scanned the windows. He was hoping to see something…and desperately hoping
not
to see
anything.
He knew in his heart that whatever was out there was not a falling tree or meteor or a secret government test of a new death ray, but rather
a living thing.

His mind raced for answers as he fixed upon defending himself. He remembered he had a gun in the shop, but in his panic couldn't recall where in the cluttered twelve-by-twelve interior it lay. Throwing everything off his workbench, he began searching frantically for the little nine-shot Harrington & Richardson .22 revolver.

As he furiously swept tools, trimmings, and sawdust onto the floor, the feeble balloon-framed building shook again. Then another sound, not unlike the subwoofer effect from Russ's stereo, began to build. This new sound was an unmistakable animal growl, deep and resonant, like that of a tiger or a bear, but with a wholly different articulation. It was a visceral rumble that quickly climbed into a terrifying, raging roar. Russ knew with heart-stopping certainty this was an animal
nobody
had ever heard of.

Movement in the window again caught his eye and against his conscious will he looked directly at it. Russ knew the top of the window was exactly six feet ten inches. To his horror he saw what looked to be a massive torso pass by, hairy red-black, with arms swinging, but
no head.
Whatever in God's name it was was so tall its shoulders were well above seven feet. Tears welled in Russ's eyes and nausea radiated from his stomach outward. The monster outside his little dwelling was unknown, obviously hostile, and horribly big. In his terror, he convinced himself it was a bear. It was gigantic, hairy, and made
that sound.
Had to be a bear. He tried calming himself, remembering the movie
The Edge
about the guys being chased by a killer bear. Russ knew if he stayed in the shop, he'd be okay.

Then they made eye contact.

Russ looked at the apparition in the window and its face nearly filled the two-by-two aperture. It was no bear…definitely
not a bear.
Russ stared at it dumbfounded, uncomprehending, as they locked eyes. It was a face from Russ's worst nightmare, not because it was alien or misshapen, like some heightened bogeyman from a Hollywood horror movie, but because it was so huge…and
almost
human. It was the
almost
part that turned Russ to stone. The monster sized him up and curled back thin, black lips, revealing immense, even, yellowed teeth, flanked by thumb-sized canines. Its eyes, as gold as a cat's but with circular pupils, were framed by a low sable brow, angled down in fury.

Russ stumbled backward, away from the petrifying vision in his window, fell over his table saw, and tumbled to the floor. He flashed back to the window…and it was gone. Wiping sweat from his forehead, Russ suddenly appreciated everything he'd ever taken for granted because now he truly feared it was all about to end.

As he frantically scurried to locate the gun, part of the roof imploded and a black fist, larger than his portable television, appeared. Unfurling massive ebony fingers tipped with dirty, squared-off nails the size of matchbooks, it clawed away at the shattered shingles and tar paper while splintering the two-by-six rafters like balsa wood.

Russ spun around and made it to the door just before the entire wall caved in behind him, taking most of the roof with it. Russ turned to see his gigantic opponent wade in after him. Effortlessly tossing aside the two-hundred-fifty-four-pound table saw as if it were made of Styrofoam, the creature reached toward him. Russ suddenly knew exactly what it was that was about to seize him.

In a last futile effort to save himself, Russ pulled open the door. But in a flurry, giant fingers wrapped around his neck, and the wall in front of him—door and all—collapsed outward as he and the beast blew through it. Russ was stunned by the trauma and disoriented by his brain's now constricted blood supply. His last sensation before he lost consciousness was the wet night air on his face.

The devastation to the small building was total. Amid the ruin a couple of damaged electrical wires crossed. The resulting sparks met a receptive pile of bone-dry sawdust, and with a moderate
whooofff,
the shed began to blaze. The fire grew too fast for the rain to stop it.

When Russ came to, still somewhat stunned, he saw off in the distance what appeared to be a bonfire. Then he realized he was being spirited away by this devil-giant, the way a child lackadaisically carries a doll, thumb and forefinger curled around the neck, arm at its side, dragging the doll's feet. Russ's feet were ice cold as they passed through the creek, upstream, heel-first, involuntarily kicking stones and floating branches.

Russ was not a religious man nor had he ever really been a churchgoer but, like most people at the point of death, he started pondering what lay beyond this mortal coil. He began a silent prayer that he might die quickly. Unfortunately, in a seemingly pitiless world of Darwinian cruelty, Russ's prayers weren't answered. It wasn't because Russ was being punished for an unexamined secular life, nor was it because, following that simple axiom of the animal kingdom, little fish get eaten by bigger fish—and metaphorically Russ was just a little fish. No, Russ's misery was part of a larger plan of retribution.

High in the hills above his home, Russ had an interminable hour of anticipation to consider the big questions about life and death. When they finally reached their destination, his captor quickly broke his neck to immobilize him and then tore off his clothes. Once that final humiliation was complete, the monster ripped open his guts and yanked out his intestines, which he stuffed into his mouth as Russ's vision mercifully faded to black.

M
ac was back in the department by 6:35 a.m., five minutes later than he and Carillo had agreed upon too few hours before. Now in charge of the search for the lawyers, Mac phoned the department before leaving home to see if they had been found. They had not. He poured a cup of coffee, then punched up some info on his computer to corroborate Deputy Bill's story about the missing logger. Reading the report, Mac was irritated with the young patrol officer not only for leaving the scene of the lawyers' disappearance before it had been secured, but also for the confusion over the so-called blood evidence. He decided to take the green deputy aside later and reacquaint him with proper procedures.

Mac had a personal collection of area maps, mainly the beautifully detailed USGS survey maps of the wilderness areas north and east of Seattle. His job occasionally took him into those regions, but he enjoyed studying the charts in his free time, a habit that caused his fellow detectives to jokingly christen him Map Nerd. He had begun collecting them after moving from Los Angeles. He loved maps, and this was a way to familiarize himself with his new home as well as his beat.

He pulled out a map of the area where Joe Wylie had vanished. Using his finger, he traced the logging road to where the contour lines leveled out into a flat section, the place where Deputy Bill Alexander indicated the timber cruiser's truck had been abandoned. The report mentioned some empty beer bottles strewn about the floor of the cab. Mac shook his head slightly in disapproval. Though Wylie was apparently an alcoholic, he was married and had a solid job. Mac's gut told him this guy didn't fit the profile of someone running away from his life. And if he was going to do so, why drive up into the middle of the woods? You'd catch a ferry or disappear from Sea-Tac Airport. This just didn't make sense.

Then he thought about the tracking dogs from the night before. They weren't just scared, they were
terrified.
He'd never seen any dog look like that, let alone such experienced trackers. Things were not adding up and that intrigued Mac, who prided himself on being able to quickly categorize almost any situation. He remembered a line from Shakespeare:
The game's afoot.

Mac had long ago learned to trust his instincts, tempered with his own form of crime-solving algorithms. These seemingly unrelated events of the three missing men, the dogs, and Deputy Bill's broken trees caused him to search his memory banks for correlations. He arrived at no rational answer.

“This is fuckin' ridiculous,” Carillo spat as he entered the work area, strode to his carrel, and threw down his keys.

“And good morning to you too,” deadpanned Mac.

“They find those dickhead lawyers in the twenty-five minutes it took me to drive in?” Carillo asked as he crossed to pour some coffee.

“Nope.”

“Shit. So I guess we gotta go back up there? You know, this is all just political bullshit. Putting us on some missing hikers just because they're rich and connected and—”

“I'm not sure we'll find them,” Mac stated, halting Carillo's tirade.

Carillo, pouring coffee, stopped and turned, midcup.

“Whaddya mean?”

Mac Schneider was cerebral whereas Carillo saw himself as action-oriented. Carillo knew Mac had made some amazing busts based on hunches when he was with the LAPD. Mac stood and responded to Carillo with a shrug.

“Don't know. Just a feeling. Let's go.”

Carillo wondered at times if Mac had some sort of psychic ability.

The first rays of morning light were far kinder to Ty than they had been the day before. Waking from strange, inexplicable dreams, Ty stared at the soaring ceiling of his bedroom for a moment. The memory of the dreams washed away from his mind like a sand castle in a tide's path as Ty slowly narrowed his focus, straining to make out the wood grain of the ceiling twenty feet above. He rolled his head toward Ronnie, her head mostly buried in a pillow, dead to the world.

Ty studied the visible corner of her face. The hurricane of depression that had propelled him to his car thirty-some hours before had passed. It now seemed like a week ago, maybe another lifetime ago. Ty reached out and gently brushed a few locks of hair clinging to her eyebrow, and as he did, he was struck by the softness of her skin. It was a sensation he hadn't stopped to savor for a long time. How soft she was. How much he loved her.
God, I love her.
His fingers moved over her head, now caressing her hair, ever so slightly so as not to wake her. He wanted this moment to last, gazing at the love of his life without dialogue, without conflict.

Ronnie's head turned slowly and she inhaled deeply as she awoke. As her eyes opened, the first thing Ty read in her smiling, sleepy face was her vulnerable love.

“Hey,” he whispered.

She smiled again, still not completely awake, and crawled the two feet to him, wrapping her arms, her legs, her body, around his. Their lips touched delicately, then again, with a bit more energy. After a few minutes of light pecks, Ronnie was more awake, more aroused. She rolled them both slightly, positioning her head on Ty's pillow, with Ty above her. Running her hands through his hair, she pulled his face to her, opening her mouth for a longer, more passionate kiss.

Their tongues intertwined, their tastes and smells mingling as the intimacy of the moment grew. They kissed deeply, powerfully, passionately, with the intense blending of their souls that only time and limitless love can bring. Ty pulled off Ronnie's T-shirt and threw back the bedcovers as their body heat climbed. He tossed the shirt to one side of the bed and drank in the beautiful nakedness of her body. As she lay beneath him, she exulted in the moment, stretching out her arms and spreading her legs as if making a snow angel. Then she reached up and drew him down to her, the skin of their chests touching, her nipples unyielding with arousal, then his lips finding them, encircling them, her eyes closed, breath hitching in ecstacy.

At the other end of the vaulted, sky-lit hallway, Meredith had been playing in her bedroom for more than an hour. Having roused uncharacteristically early, she decided it was a good place to spend the quiet time before her parents and brother awoke. The walls were gaily decorated in colorful graphics and the images of cartoon and movie characters. Her room was spacious, with a play loft at one end.

Still dressed in her Snoopy pajamas, Meredith began a stage play starring Barbie and Ken. In her script Ken and Barbie were having problems, an unexplained alienation brought on by something traumatic that had happened to Ken. He had seen something weird and people made fun of him and it hurt his feelings. As a six-year-old she was an existentialist by experience and did not completely understand or account in detail for causality. Ken had made himself an outsider because, well, he just did.

Playing the scene for a few moments caused her to ponder the real life characters upon whom she based her little drama. Suddenly she needed them. She needed them to hold her and to tell her they loved her…and loved each other. For if they didn't love each other, how could they really love her?

As Ty's tongue flicked back and forth, bringing Ronnie closer to orgasm, her gasps of pleasure didn't quite mask another sound, a discord with the sound effects of love, a…knocking…at their door. In the split second it took to realize it was one of the kids, Ronnie was off him, scrambling for her T-shirt. Across the huge master suite, one of the double doors slowly creaked open. Ronnie, now out of bed, shirt in hand, saw Meredith's little face peering around the edge of the door. Her daughter had seen her naked before and Ronnie felt there was no shame in the human body, but nevertheless she also felt there was a time and place for certain things and quickly slid the shirt on. Ty found his underwear and, with his midsection masked by the rumpled mound of comforter, managed to get them back on.

“Are you guys okay?” came the tiny-voiced inquiry.

Ronnie unconsciously straightened out the bedding.

“Sure honey, we're fine. Did the Mad Bo scare you?”

The Mad Bo was a fantasy creation of Meredith's, a creature that came in the night or any other time she needed attention, giving her an excuse to go running for her mommy or daddy. Ty guessed his daughter had seen a cartoon “mad bull” on television a few years back and the Mad Bo had become her phonetic version.

Meredith took her mother's question as an invitation and slowly entered the room.

“No. It wasn't him. I just wanted to see if you guys were…there.”

Ty smiled, pulled back his side of the comforter and patted the bed.

“C'mon, sweetie. Wanna get in with us?”

The little girl shuffled across the room toward them, her pixie face trying to suppress a smile. This was what she wanted. She arrived at the bed and climbed in her mom's side, and Ty and Ronnie fluffed up the pillows, nestling their daughter between them. Ty looked at his wife and daughter, and his nostalgia instantly soured into a flash-forward of another reality, one that didn't happen but very nearly did. Instead of being in bed with her husband, Ronnie was reeling as she made arrangements to deal with Ty's remains. And instead of snuggling in between the two most important people in her world, his daughter was trying to understand the biggest, most shattering event of her young life.

Ronnie smiled to herself. Though robbed of an orgasm, this moment was still pretty good. Despite her prestigious career and all that came with it, the only things that mattered—really mattered—except for that little boy down the hall, were right here with her.

She bussed her daughter's cheek and felt like grabbing a little more sleep. Looking over at Ty, she was startled to see tears in his eyes. Not wet in the corners, but streaming down his cheeks. They made eye contact and he wiped his face and looked away but it was puzzling enough to worry her again. She suddenly felt helpless, a desolation inside that reminded her of problems that just might be beyond her powers of understanding. She closed her eyes, hugged her daughter tightly, and escaped into sleep.