"Outside," he said.
Treading with an air of shocking animal might, the wolf moved fearlessly through the three of them. Then it reached the door and angled away, disappearing with haunting silence and grace. The air silently trembled with the wildness, the power, the very scent of it as it was gone. But Hunter knew Ghost would remain close, just as he knew they wouldn't see the wolf again — not ever — unless it wanted them to.
"Good Lord," whispered Maddox as he took out a handkerchief, wiping his face. "Is that… is that your dog?"
"He's a wolf."
"Yes… yes, of course." The colonel cast a nervous eye to the doorway and involuntarily backed up. "But… but what does it do?"
Hunter stared, almost laughed, but suppressed it; there was no need to mock them, even incidentally. They weren't at home in his world, though he had managed to become both prosperous and respected in theirs. He added, "He does whatever he wants to do, I guess. He comes, he goes."
"I mean, do you own him?" Maddox added. "Is he trained? Does he always come and go like that?" All three of the men had repositioned themselves so they could keep an eye on the door.
Hunter half-shrugged. "No, he's not trained, Colonel. And nobody owns him. He comes when he wants. Goes when he wants."
"But… but how much does the thing weigh?" Maddox asked. "I didn't think wolves got so… so huge."
"That depends on bloodline," Hunter answered, continuing to unpack. "Most male wolves go a hundred or so. Ghost is about a hundred and fifty, more or less. He won't get much bigger."
Maddox began to recover degree by degree and Hunter tried to move it along. He knew they were still dancing around the central issue. He continued quietly. "Now, gentlemen, if you're ready to talk, maybe we can get down to why you wanted to see me. What do you want?"
Fortifying himself, Maddox stepped forward. He pointed at the photographs of slaughtered soldiers.
"We want to know," Maddox said in a stronger tone, "what kind of creature could have done this? What kind of creature could have walked through an entire platoon like this, killing such heavily armed men?"
Frowning slightly, Hunter shifted the photos and finally shook his head. "Maybe a grizzly," he muttered, but with obvious uncertainty. "But I doubt it."
"Why do you doubt it?"
"Because a grizzly will usually maul its victim," Hunter answered, more certain. "It'll hit over and over, tear off your scalp, your face. And whatever did this struck once, maybe twice, with each kill." He pointed at a photo. "This man was killed with one blow. So whatever did this didn't attack out of fear or rage." He paused, eyes narrowing. "Whatever did this…had a reason."
"But what animal would… I mean, what animal could do something like this for a reason?"
Hunter shook his head. "I don't know."
"But aren't you supposed to be an expert on—"
"Colonel," Hunter cut him off, "I don't consider myself an expert in anything at all. I just do what I do, the best way I can do it. And I don't think I can help you. I can't tell you what killed your men." He waited; they were stoically silent. "I can say, however, that whatever killed these men didn't kill for food. It didn't kill out of defense. And it didn't kill to defend territory."
"Like a tiger might have done?"
"It's not a tiger."
"But how can you be certain?" Maddox was openly disturbed. "You just said that you're not certain what did this."
"Because these men were attacked on level ground with open field all around them." Hunter was relaxed and certain. "Tigers don't do that. They'll attack from an elevated position or from ambush. A tiger will never put itself in a position where it might have to chase prey. They don't chase."
"Tigers won't chase prey? Why?"
Hunter shrugged, went back to removing equipment from his pack. "No one knows. Instinct, maybe. Maybe because they're so heavy. But if a tiger doesn't catch you within three or four bounds, you're probably a free man."
Struck by a stray thought, he pointed vaguely to a grainy photo. "See these tracks?" he continued. "This… thing… was moving fast, and in a straight line. It's as if… I don't know… as if it was trying to reach something." Drawn to direction of his own words, Hunter studied several photos, quickly arranging them in a new order. "Do you see this? All of these men went down in sequence. It moved through them, killing quick and moving to the next, always headed in the same direction." For a long time he paused. When he spoke again, his voice was flat. "I'm not sure that this is an animal."
Slowly Dixon stepped forward, almost indulgent. "Mr. Hunter, this has got to be an animal. Certainly, and this should go without saying, no human being could have done this."
"Believe what you want." Hunter was unaffected. "But I've never seen an animal that killed like this. Animals have reasons, like fear or rage or defense, when they kill. And there's no evidence of that here. Not that I can see. It didn't maul, which would indicate anger. It didn't eat. It just killed and moved on to the next victim." With a faintly fatigued sign, he stood back. "You wanted my best guess, gentlemen. That's it."
"What about the tracks?" Dixon pressed. "You're certain they're not bear tracks?"
"No, they're not bear tracks. They're not even close. Your own people can tell you that." Hunter stared at him. "In fact, if I had to make a determination, I'd say they were human."
Dixon blinked. "Have you ever seen an animal leave tracks like this?"
"No."
"Never?"
"No."
Dixon seemed slightly agitated, but cast a quick glance to the door. "Look, Mr. Hunter," he began, "we were told that you're an expert at tracking. And please don't tell me you're not. We've checked you out."
Hunter laughed soundlessly.
"Yeah, we do that with everyone," Dixon continued, as if he'd seen the expression a thousand times. "Nathaniel Hunter. Grew up in the wilds of Wyoming. Your father died before you were born and an old trapper and a Sioux Indian woman raised you. The trapper taught you to track when you were just a kid, and you're supposed to be the best in the world. Some kind of legend. They say you can track a ghost through fog, and you've been used by police departments to find kids lost in wilderness areas when everyone else has failed. And that you've located animals so on the brink of extermination that there were only a handful left. Then, when you were twenty, you found a tree in the Amazon that provided a better treatment for spinal meningitis. You sold it to a pharmaceutical company for about twenty million. And since then you've discovered a dozen plants that provide antibodies against various bacterial infections. Yeah, and I know this old shack isn't your only place. You have a penthouse in New York filled with about twenty million in art and rare books, a place in Paris that rivals the Smithsonian for rare artifacts. You go wherever you want, do whatever you want. Got a private jet on standby at JFK Airport and high friends in high places in both government and private business. You're the money behind the Tipler Institute." Dixon shook his head.
"You're a kick in the head, Hunter. You've got all that damn money and you hardly spend a dime on yourself. All those luxury spots of yours sit empty while you spend most of your time at this old shack." He grunted. "You're an interesting guy, all right, but the one thing everybody agrees about is that you're some kind of wilderness guru. So surely you have some clue of what this might be. Even if it's just a suspicion."
Hunter held Dixon's stare, not bothering to look friendly. "I've already studied them, Dixon," he said. "They're vaguely like a bear but the tracks are badly marred and melted, so it's hard to tell. And then this thing is bipedal, so it doesn't move like a bear when it's either running or loping or walking. This thing, whatever it is, probably weighs about three hundred, and it's right-handed. It looks to the right a lot and pauses about every fifty feet. It's hunched when it moves, as if it's stalking. And when it turns it pivots both feet at the same time. When it kills it tends to strike from right to left, placing its weight on its left front leg, like a boxer."