"What the hell are you doing out here?"
I blustered. The stone-faced kid had a way of getting to me. It was the second time in the last 18 hours he had unexpectedly materialized out of the fog.
"I have been searching in the woods," he said evenly.
"Searching? Alone? In this weather? In those woods? Are you out of your mind?"
Kelto stared back at me with a look of intolerance. "It is altogether possible, Mr. Wages, that I understand what is happening much more clearly than you do."
In less time than it takes to describe it, I was down to the last few inches of the old fuse, and it was burning fast. "Damn it, Kelto, if you know something that can shed some light on this situation, you'd better come out with it before someone else gets killed. While you were out there poking around in the woods, Madden held a village council session and decided to make a sweep through that area."
"I told you to let me handle it."
"Handle it hell," I shouted. "We've got some kind of maniacal, half-crazed, depraved monster out there that butchers animals and carves parts out of people — and you make it sound like we're trying to get rid of some kind of garden pest. Just because you've got some sort of personal vendetta against this thing, you can't ignore your responsibility to…"
"I told you to let me handle it," he repeated solemnly.
Grammarians will tell you there is a difference between frustration and exasperation, but to my way of thinking it's nothing more than a matter of degree. What I'm saying is that I vaulted through the former straight to the latter. Kelto not only wasn't any help, but this pointless exchange had cooled the trail of the Austin woman — if, in fact, she had ever been there. I sighed and started walking back toward the old schoolhouse. Kelto was still back there, standing in the fog.
Officially, it was going on sunset, but the time of day seemed of little importance. I had returned to the site of the assembly, jumped in the Z and took off for Freeman's Field. It took me a good 15 minutes to do so, but I caught up with Madden at just about the point his sweep team cleared through the area beyond the ill-fated spot where the young couple had died just the morning before. Before leaving, I had been smart enough to raid the old survival kit for the Mauser and a flashlight. Both items were tucked securely in my belt and concealed by a poplin windbreaker.
We worked our way steadily west. The going was tough. I had been assigned a position out on the left flank of the team, closest to the shoreline — a boulder-cluttered area laced with scrub pine, a tangle of bramble and waist-high weeds. Most of the time I couldn't be certain what the next step would lead to.
I don't really know what we expected to find, but we didn't find any blackened patches of earth similar to the one where Percy was killed. Nor did we find any evidence of broken saplings, unusual holes or gouges in the surface. Even more importantly, I encountered nothing that looked like a two thumb, three finger imprint.
There was a definite lack of what you would term the sounds of nature — no chatter of birds begrudging our invasion and no trace of any wildlife. There was only the steady, almost mocking sound of the placid water lapping against the rocky shoreline.
The whole effort, as it turned out, was a tiring, fruitless and time-consuming four-hour drill in futility. The sweep from east to west by Madden's group accomplished a big fat zero.
We intercepted Constable Kendall's group, four men and two teenage boys carrying kerosene lanterns at the junction of two sandy trails. The dancing flames of their lanterns created a bizarre flickering setting in the foggy landscape. From there on, the two squads combined their efforts and collectively canvassed the area on into where Percy's deserted pickup truck still languished. Caleb's squad and Harlan's men were still out there somewhere.
We were at the rendezvous point. Jake checked his watch, grumbled and plunked his heavy frame down on the tailgate of Kramer's truck. It was the best seat in the house, and I joined him. I took out a cigarette, offered Jake one and noted with a modest degree of satisfaction that it was only my fifth one for the day. That achievement, however, paled in comparison to the fact that Madden's entire crew, including yours truly, had survived the trek in from the Freeman boundary without some sort of encounter. There was little doubt in my mind that Madden viewed it as just another day's work, but to my way of thinking, it was akin to conquering Everest.
We had been waiting no more than five minutes when Caleb's crew began to filter out of the woods into the clearing. "We could hear Harlan's crew working out to our right," he said. "They're runnin' three, maybe four hundred yards behind us."
Jake nodded, slowly scanning the men from the last three groups. In all, I counted 23 of them. At least five of them looked as though they could be 15 or maybe even younger. There was no horseplay between the youngsters; there seemed, instead, to actually be a grimmer dimension to them than the older group.
It was a good 20 minutes later when Harlan's crew began arriving. They straggled out of the woods, one by one, most carrying shotguns, two bearing torches. This time I glanced at my watch and confirmed my suspicions; it was 7:45. The fog had now completely choked out what little daylight there was left.
The men broke up into several small groups. Here and there fragments of conversation could be detected. For the most part, comments were subdued and low-key. There was an awareness that Harlan himself still hadn't emerged from the shadowy woods, and comments began to pass from one group to another. No one could recall the last time they had seen him.
Madden and Kendall huddled near the rear of Kramer's truck, nervously stealing glances back at the woods to the west.
I checked my watch again; it was nearing 8:20. Darkness rapidly enveloped us. I looked back at Madden, who was headed toward me. The many folds of his contoured face had all collapsed into one massive, scowling frown. "Harlan shoulda' been here by now," he grunted.
The men had already started gravitating toward us. They were growing restless. Kendall began circulating among them. Flashlights and lanterns emerged. The colorless nothingness of the persistent fog caught the reflection of the still-sputtering flames and bounced them back at us in an eerie pattern of unreal color.
It was still enough that Jake didn't have to shout.
"Look, men, I don't have to tell ya that Harlan ain't come out yet. He's long overdue. Sergeant Kendall and me agree we better be startin' a sweep west to look for him."
This time the grumbles were absent. The men were tired, but they were his friends, his neighbors, maybe even relatives. A new commitment had evolved.
Kendall stepped forward again. "Okay, we've got seven torches. I want you to work in clusters — three on each side of the man carrying the torch. Take a good look at the men on each side of you. Know who they are and keep them in sight. If you lose visual contact with the group on either side of you, start hollering until you re-establish contact, then tighten up your group and go on. The clusters at each end of the line should be particularly alert to your exposed flank. Double-check everything. We don't know what we're dealing with."
One of the younger men stepped forward. His voice trembled. "You think that critter got 'em, Sergeant?"
Jake shook his head. "Don't know, Clem. We just don't know."
Kendall took the first few steps, and three ranks began to cluster up On either side of him. I had an ugly flashback of National Guard units, apprehensive, new to their roles, uncertain of their purpose — Kent State. The thought raced through my mind. What if one of these guys sees a ghost or a shadow and gets trigger happy?