They waited, but the old man merely placed his glasses back in his lab coat pocket. Then he bridged his fingers, capping them, allowing them to continue the conversation.
"Bipedal?" Dixon asked without friendliness. "Does that mean what I think it means?"
"Quite probably," Tipler smiled. "It means that whatever killed your men walks on two legs, Mr. Dixon."
"That's preposterous." Dixon leaned back again. "Humans are the only animal that walks on two legs, Doctor. What do you suggest left these tracks? Bigfoot? This thing must have been registering. It's just that the tracks are too difficult to read."
"Difficult, yes," Tipler scowled. "But not impossible. Is that why you called me here? Because your men have already told you that they know of no creature that could have done this? And now you wish to know if, perhaps, there is an undiscovered species?"
"To be honest, I'll admit it occurred to us," Maddox replied. "And let me add that this is a situation of some seriousness, Doctor. We've got dead soldiers near secure facilities and we want to know how they died. We want to know why they died."
Tipler gazed over the photos of carnage. "I cannot give you the answer, gentlemen," he said finally. "There were species of beasts that are presumed to have been exterminated hundreds of thousands of years ago, yet we still find evidence of their continuing existence. But I am not familiar with this paw print, or footprint." He paused and strolled a short distance away before turning back. "In order to answer your question — to even attempt to answer your question — we would need a scientific expedition, saliva samples, blood samples, plaster casts of the prints, hair samples, video surveillance records. If you are willing to fund an expedi-"
"We can't do that." Dixon stood up. "There are factors which preclude that option. We just wanted your best opinion, Doctor." He paused for effect. "We still do."
Tipler held the stare.
"My best opinion, Mr. Dixon, is that whatever did this has the strength of a grizzly, the speed of a Siberian tiger and, quite probably, the stalking skills of a tiger. Which happens to be the most skilled predator on Earth. Further, if it managed to evade the initial pursuit of your military, I would confidently surmise that it has unnatural intelligence."
"So," Maddox asked, asserting some kind of vague authority, "what do you think it is? I want your best guess."
Tipler sighed once more and glanced at a photo of the tracks. "Your best guess will be revealed by these tracks, Mr. Dixon. But I don't understand why some of them" — he pointed at several—"are so far to the left of these others. It makes no sense that I can see."
They exchanged glances as the old man stared over them. Then, after a moment, they began wordlessly gathering papers.
"Will you be hunting this beast again?" the scientist asked, interested.
"Yes," Maddox replied solidly. "We will."
"Then I suggest you find a man who can possibly track it," said Tipler.
He hesitated, as if scientific passion and personal loyalty were competing with something more hidden, staring at the photograph.
"I know the man," he said softly, "who could do this? If anyone could. But I do not know if he will cooperate. He has his own reasons… for why he does things."
Maddox stepped forward. "Who is he?"
Tipler stared slightly to the side, brow furrowed.
"His name," he said finally, "is Nathaniel Hunter."
Chapter 2
The sunset breeze carried a sweet tang of mountain laurel. Nathaniel Hunter was emptying his simple leather pack onto the table. The door of his cabin was wide open, allowing the green sound of rushing water to move over him. And yet it wasn't sound, but a sudden silence, that made him lift his head.
Where there had been a communicative chorus of bird surrounding his backwoods home, there was now an unnatural quiet. He turned to stare out the door, listened, and heard a car coming slowly up the one-lane dirt road. It was still a mile away.
It took them more than ten minutes to arrive. He met them on the porch wearing old blue jeans, a leather shirt, and knee-high moccasins.
One of the contingent — a portly army colonel — spoke first. But it was the man in civilian clothes, standing in the rear that drew Hunter's sullen attention. Quiet but close, the man was dressed in a suit you would have forgotten without even trying, and dark sunglasses protected his eyes from any probing. Hands clasped behind him, he followed the others like a schoolteacher ensuring that the students perform the assigned task. It was clear who was truly in charge.
"I am Lieutenant Colonel Maddox of the United States Army," said the man in uniform. "We would like to speak with Nathaniel Hunter, if that's possible."
"I'm Hunter," he said, his voice low.
"Well." The colonel stepped forward, an ingratiating smile on his lips.
"We'd just like to get your opinion on some photographs, if you don't mind. Of course, if there is a problem, we can arrange a more formal appointment."
Hunter took his time before turning toward the door, motioning vaguely. "Come into the cabin," he said.
It took only a few minutes for them to recount their story of blood and death in the snow. Then they displayed a series of photographs on the cabin's crude wooden table. They wanted his best guess as to what the killer was, they said, and they wanted to know if there was more than one of them. Hunter bent over the photographs and studied them for a moment. His eyes narrowed as he examined the tracks, as well as the terrain.
Maddox began, "We want to know why these tracks here are so far from the others."
"Wind," Hunter said simply.
Hunter heard the man introduced as Dixon step forward. But Maddox only stared as he said, "Excuse me, did you say 'wind'?"
"Yeah." Hunter had expected this confusion. "These tracks to the side were in a straight line with those others. But the wind moved them, inch by inch. The other tracks weren't moved because they were shielded from the northeastern breeze by this boulder."
Maddox seemed astounded. "Wind can do that?"
Hunter pointed to the tracks. "These to the side were originally over here, like the others. You can see the gap that was left when they were moved. The wind just edged them to where they are here." He shrugged, gave the picture to Maddox. "It's a common phenomenon on sand like this. Is that what you wanted to know?"
"Uh." Maddox started. "Uh, actually, no. We wanted you to—"
A sudden, silent atmospheric change in the cabin stopped him short. It was as if the room had been instantly charged with a primal force, something utterly savage. Hunter watched as Maddox slowly turned his head. He almost smiled at the nervous expression on Dixon's face as he began to sense what was behind him. Slowly, moving only his head, Dixon managed to look down stiffly. Hunter saw sweat glisten suddenly on his forehead.
Massive and menacing, Ghost stood less than a foot behind Dixon and Maddox, slightly to the side. The gigantic wolf was almost entirely black, touched with gray only on his flanks.
Ghost's jet-black eyes seemed to possess a primal and predatory glow. Black claws clicked on the wooden floor as he took a single pace forward, head low, again unmoving. Ghost's uncanny silence seemed more terrifying than a roar.
Hunter made them suffer for only a moment. With a slight smile he snapped his fingers.
"Ghost," he said.
The wolf glided innocently through the men and sat beside Hunter.
Hunter spoke politely. "You were saying, Colonel?"
Maddox had trouble speaking. "I, uh, I was saying that…uh, we wanted you to help us with… with… something."
Hunter smiled at the trembling tone and noticed that Major Prescott's fists were clenched. All of them were sweating, and Maddox's face was pasty, whitening by the moment. He knew this would take all day with Ghost in the room. He looked down, speaking so low that none of the others could catch a word.