At about the same time, Jack Cates and the WHOMP team inspected the destroyed corral trap in the cool morning. Dolph wrangled two dogs on leashes, while the others finished readying their weapons.
In person, the damage was even more significant than it had appeared on the computer monitor, and drove home the power of the animal they sought. The metal was not only twisted, but in places torn like tissue paper, as well, the remains ground into the churned-up dirt. The automatic feeder had been toppled, and they startled a bunch of crows feeding on the spill.
“That sucker must stand four feet high at the shoulder,” Dolph said, holding the leashes on two mountain cur mixes who sniffed the ground and looked up the slope in silent expectation.
“That ain’t far off,” Max said. He was still upset about blowing the chance to finish this the previous night.
“Maybe we should go over to the National Guard armory and ask about borrowing a bazooka,” Dolph added.
Max looked at the tree where the trail cam was mounted. It leaned a few degrees to one side, and the ground was disturbed where one of the major roots had tried to pull free. “If I hadn’t been sitting right there watching it, I never would believe a hog could do this.”
He ran his hand over a spot where the bark had been rubbed away. The surface was sticky from exposed sap, and thick bristles adhered to it.
“It’s just an animal,” Bronwyn said. “It’s big, but it’s not that tough.”
“Say that after them tusks get ahold of your legs,” Dolph said. “When they run past you, they shake their heads, like this. They’ll cut you up good.”
“I ain’t saying it’s not dangerous,” she continued. “A brown recluse is dangerous, but it can’t stop a well-placed shoe, now, can it?”
“Just remember this: If one gets after you, jump up in a tree and make sure you pull your legs up after you.”
Dolph passed the dogs’ leashes to Jack and pulled a plastic squirt bottle from a side pocket of his camouflage pants. “Everyone rub some of this on your exposed skin.”
Max took it, opened the lid, and sniffed. “Good gravy, Dolph, what is that shit?”
“Not shit,” Dolph said. “Piss. Pig piss.”
“I ain’t rubbing pig piss on my skin,” he said, and handed the bottle to Bronwyn. “Here, honey. Tell me this don’t stink.”
“Call me ‘honey’ again, Max, and pig piss will be the least of your problems.” She handed it to Jack. “I washed all my clothes in baking soda last night, and showered in it this morning. I’m neutral.”
Jack handed the bottle and leashes back to Dolph. He indicated the Key-Wick scent dispenser hung on a leather thong around his neck. “I got a whole bagful if anybody else needs one.”
“I reckon I’ll take one, then,” Dolph grumbled. “Don’t want to be the only one who smells like a pig wet his pants.”
When they were ready, with walkie-talkies distributed, all their cell phones on vibrate, and anything that jingled out of their pockets, Jack faced them. “We’ll follow the creek up into Half Pea Hollow. The tracks lead back up that way. When we spot it, don’t hesitate, and don’t ask for permission. If you have a shot, take it.”
“Absolutely,” Bronwyn said.
“I know we’re also supposed to kill any and all wild pigs we run up on, like we have in the past,” Jack continued, “but on this particular trip, we don’t want to scare off the reason we’re out here. If we spot the big one and take him down, then you can pick off any of the others dumb enough to stick around.” To Dolph, he said, “You reckon them dogs are ready?”
He rubbed their heads with familiar affection. One, Random, was a light brown, while Hobo was darker, with a hint of pit bull in his broad head. Like most mountain curs, they waited in total silence, the same way they would pursue any animal they were set on. Typically Dolph knew they’d cornered their prey when he heard the hog’s distinctive panicky squeal. “Any readier and they’d be dragging me after ’em.”
“You really think they’re up to tackling that monster?” Max asked.
Dolph was actually worried about that, but he wasn’t going to cast aspersions on his dogs. “Better worry if the hog’ll last until we get to him.”
“Let ’em go, then,” Jack said.
Dolph unsnapped the leads, and the dogs took off along the stream, Hobo running along the bank, Random splashing through the water. One of them let out a lone bark that echoed in the morning silence. In moments they’d vanished around the bend into Half Pea Hollow.
“Reckon where this creek starts?” Dolph asked as he straightened up and rubbed his lower back.
“A spring up in Half Pea Hollow, I suppose,” Max said.
“Anyone ever seen it?”
They turned to Bronwyn. “Not me,” she said.
“You’re a—” Max stopped before he put his foot in his mouth. “Local.”
“I don’t know every square inch of the place. I’ve only been up there once, with Tony Cator, and we were … otherwise occupied.” She smiled a little at the memory.
“Ever hear about the King of the Forest?” Dolph asked.
No one said anything until Max inquired, “The what?”
“Story I used to hear when I was the warden. They say the biggest deer in the world, big as an elk, lives in this area. They call him the King of the Forest. He has two female coyotes who follow him around.”
“Never heard that,” Max said.
“On nights when everything’s right, they can turn into people. A man with the antlers of a stag, and two beautiful women. Sometimes they trick people into coming into the woods, and they’re never seen again.”
“That sounds like an old wives’ tale,” Bronwyn said. “And I know some old wives.”
“So you’ve never heard about it?”
“I’ve heard about the Tooth Fairy and leprechauns; should I believe in them, too?”
“I ain’t saying I believe in them, just that it’s interesting.” Dolph let it drop at that, but he did note that Bronwyn had not, at any point, denied their existence.
Jack said, “Let’s go,” and they headed off after the dogs.
* * *
Duncan paused. Had he just heard a dog bark? Over the thundering of his own heart, he listened for anything else: the crunch of leaves, the snap of a twig, the flap of wings as startled birds took to the sky. He heard nothing except the distant, soft keening of a cicada.
He tried to slow his pulse with long, deep breaths, but it wasn’t racing because of his exertion. He was excited, but not in a good way. This was close enough to terror that he couldn’t tell the difference, and if he stopped to think about it, he might never get moving again.
Was he really planning to murder one of his best friends? There could be no colder blood than this, elaborately setting Adam up to walk right into his sights, innocent and unaware. He thought back to their childhood, attending the old schoolhouse before the big county school was built. They were in the first graduating class from the new facility, and like everyone in their class, they hated it. It didn’t help that the principal, Mr. Stall, strode the halls like a Nazi commandant, yelling about PDAs back when it meant “public displays of affection” and making sure no one had any sort of fun.
He had been there with Adam the night they’d backed his truck up to the new school’s double doors, intending to leave tire marks on the fresh concrete. Only the combination of alcohol, pot, and nerves made Adam back up just a hair too much, smashing the outer glass. They’d left tire marks, all right, as they tore out of there, giggling in terror and shouting in triumph when it became obvious no one was following. Everyone knew they’d done it, including Mr. Stall, but no one could prove it. So they got away scot-free, and became minor celebrities for a brief time.
Well, “scot-free” wasn’t entirely accurate. Nothing happened in Cloud County that old, now-dead Rockhouse Hicks didn’t know about, and he definitely knew about this. The Tufa legends began and ended with him, and he wielded a kind of power unlikely ever to be seen in this county again, unless that little Harris girl grew up a lot meaner than she appeared. (Duncan had seen her publicly facedown an enemy, and even offer that enemy a gun to shoot her with, when she’d been only twelve. Rockhouse, on the other hand, would’ve sent someone to shoot that same enemy from a safe distance.)
So Rockhouse had showed up at his parents’ farm at dinnertime a few days later, spewing obscenities about punk kids and their worthless parents. Duncan had never seen his father turn so red before, and yet he’d said nothing back, because you didn’t have a smart mouth around that old man. If you did, things would happen to you that could never be traced back, but that Rockhouse was without a doubt responsible for. Duncan had been grounded for two weeks, with no TV and, worse, no music. There was hardly a worse punishment for a Tufa, even one with faint Tufa blood like him.
Now he reflected how glad, how motherfucking delighted he was that Rockhouse was no longer around. Junior Damo was nothing compared to the old man.
But beneath these memories, beneath his current thoughts, that song about Handsome Mary continued to run.
I courted her awhile, in hopes her love to gain,
But she proved false to me, which caused me much pain.
She robbed me of my liberty, deprived me of my rest,
They called her Handsome Mary, the Lily of the West.…
* * *
The WHOMP team moved along the stream. They’d passed through the ravine and were now deep in Half Pea Hollow. The valley had never been logged, burned, or otherwise cleared. Jack had studied satellite pictures, topographical surveys, even Google Maps of the area, but had gotten very little useful information. This was one of those isolated places that could be learned only by walking its trails. If there were trails.
In front of him, Bronwyn faintly hummed a tune that Max couldn’t quite catch, despite following her so closely, he could almost whisper in her ear. At last he said quietly, “What’s that song?”
“Just something my daddy sings,” she said.
“What’s it called?”
“We shouldn’t be talking, should we? We might scare the hogs.”
Max fell silent, but after a few moments added, “You live around here, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“So you’re a Tufa?”
“I am.”
“Is it true what they say about you?”
Now she turned and gave him a skeptical glance. “Is this the best place for this conversation?”
“It’s not the best place for any conversation,” Jack whispered harshly from the lead.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Max said.
“Of course you did,” Bronwyn shot back.
“Well … I’ll admit, I’m curious. So did you learn to shoot in the army?”
“I learned to shoot in my backyard.”
“Is that where you learned the bow and arrow?”
“No, I picked that up after my daughter got fascinated with it from catching glimpses of The Hunger Games on TV. I figured I should learn my way around so I could teach it to her when she gets old enough, if she’s still interested. Turns out I have a real knack for it.”
“But how did you—?”
“You know what I did learn in the army, Max?”
“What?”
“Not to talk on patrol.”
“Will you two shut up?” Jack said.
Bronwyn had told them that this path was known as the Devil’s Courthouse because a dense patch of rhododendron called a “laurel slick” made going slow and miserable, like waiting for a jury to decide your fate. It closed in around the creek once they left the ravine, and the way the light filtered through the trees overhead gave the whole area a strange, underwater vibe. The dense vegetation held the air still, and the late-summer humidity had them all sweaty and damp under their gear.
There was also the very real danger of copperheads and rattlesnakes, and although they all wore snake-proof boots, they wouldn’t protect against a stray hand put down for balance or a stumble that sent a whole body sprawling into the undergrowth.
The wild pigs, of course, could navigate this strange, almost tropical plant-sea with ease. And so could the dogs.
“Great gosh a’mighty,” Max said. “Smells like a sewer line broke.”
“Whoa,” Jack said as he stopped. The others fanned out around him.
Ahead the relatively narrow stream had been recently widened. The ground was muddy and torn up, and the previously clean water was opaque with sediment and excrement. This was where the hogs wallowed to cool off in the heat.
“Y’all check that out,” Bronwyn said, and indicated an enormous flattened area, bigger than any of them, at the edge of the bank. Something huge had rolled around there.
“That’s our boy,” Dolph said. He took three long paces to measure the size of the impression. “Seven feet, at least.”
Max looked around. “Think he’s watching us right now?”
“Hogs don’t act like that,” Jack said.
“Hogs don’t normally shove trees around, either.”
“They went up the hill,” Dolph said, indicating the trampled vegetation. In one bare patch of mud they saw the tracks of several hogs, with two clear dog prints impressed over the top of them. Dolph swiped at the mosquitoes drawn to their body heat and blood.
They followed Jack uphill out of the slick. About halfway up, they unknowingly crossed the very trail that Duncan had run down just minutes before. The dogs, locked on to the scent of the pigs, paid it no mind.
As the air warmed, more insects emerged and swarmed them. They hadn’t wanted to risk any bug spray scent giving them away, and now they paid for it.
Bronwyn continued to hum a tune that Max could not identify, so quietly it blended with the buzzing of the bugs and the birds chirping in the trees.
“Look,” Dolph said softly. Jack held up his hand to halt, and they all gathered around the discovery.
Protruding from the leaf litter was the lower jawbone of a hog. The V-shaped bone sported a pair of two-inch tusks and a row of angled, worn incisors at the very front. It was light and dirty-white, the edges worn down by rain, wind, ice, and snow.
Dolph picked it up, examined it, and said, “Been here about two years.”
Jack nodded. “So they’ve been in Half Pea Hollow for a while.”
“Long enough for one of ’em to grow to be a monster,” Max said. No one argued.
But Jack still couldn’t believe a hog had grown that large on what it could find in the wild. He suspected there was something else, a layer of secrets that the hog’s presence would reveal once they found it.
He looked around at the heavy forest and changed that last thought. If they found it.
* * *
Duncan crept slowly along, suddenly unwilling to force the confrontation. It was all up to fate and the night winds now: if he saw Adam first, then it would clearly be their will that he got his revenge. If not, then he’d made a good-faith effort to restore his besmirched honor; he could hold up his head at the old cave, and he could look Junior in the eye.
Thoughts of honor brought that song back to the front of his brain.
One evening as I rambled, down by a shady grove,
I saw a man of low degree conversing with my love.
They were singing songs of melody, while I was sore distressed,
O faithless, faithless Mary, the Lily of the West.
Something stirred in the undergrowth ahead, and before he could even raise his gun, an emu with two striped chicks stepped out. The birds looked just as surprised to see him.
He’d seen them crossing the road before, and at least one that had lost that race to a barreling semi. But he’d never come across one in the wild, this close.
It stared at him, and he slowly raised the gun. He’d heard they could viciously kick, and he wasn’t about to get laid open by one like Panel Barton’s award-winning coonhound.
The emu—was he remembering right that it was the fathers who raised the young?—defiantly ruffled its feathers and bobbed its long neck. Duncan took a step back. If he fired, the noise would bring Adam running. Isn’t that what he wanted?
The emu grunted repeatedly and kicked detritus and dead leaves at him. Duncan backed up another step and prepared to shoot.
But, apparently satisfied that its point had been made, the emu turned and led its chicks off into the forest. Within moments they were lost to sight.
Duncan’s heart thundered so hard, he glanced down to see if the front of his shirt vibrated. He took several deep breaths and wiped sweat from his eyes. Then, moving even more slowly, he continued into the forest.
* * *
“Stop,” Jack hissed, and held up his hand.
They watched the emu and its two chicks emerge from the forest and move across their path. The adult turned in their direction once, but either didn’t see them, or didn’t think them a threat. In a few moments they were gone.
“That is one big mama bird,” Max said.
“That’s actually the daddy,” Dolph said. “Mamas lay the eggs; daddies raise the chicks.”
“Huh. They’re from Australia, right?”
“Yeah.”
“They must do everything backwards down there.”
“My husband,” Bronwyn said with narrowed eyes, “is home watching our girl right now so I can be out here pig hunting with you. Is that backwards?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I think we can have this discussion later,” Dolph said.
Jack glared at them. “Is the concept of ‘quiet’ too complicated for you three? Because if it is—”
“My bad, Jack,” Bronwyn said. “Sorry.” She looked directly at Max with the intensity that had given her, in her teen years, the nickname “the Bronwynator.”
* * *
The song grew in Duncan’s head. He could hear the plaintive voice of Aoife O’Donovan now, as clear as if he’d worn earbuds.
One evening as I rambled, down by a shady grove,
I saw a man of low degree conversing with my love.
They were singing songs of melody, while I was sore distressed,
O faithless, faithless Kera, the Lily of the West.…
He shook his head. It was Mary, or Flora, depending on the version, not “Kera.” But he swore that’s what the voice sang in his head.
And then he spotted movement ahead. He froze.
At first he thought it was another emu. It was certainly too tall to be a wild pig, even the monster they supposedly sought. But then Adam stepped into a shaft of sunlight.
Now all the questions he’d asked himself roared back. Should he fire from hiding? Or should he confront Adam, so the son of a bitch would know why he was being killed? Did he offer to make it a fair fight, with knives or fists? Or did he just scare his friend, make him think he was about to be killed, and then walk away?
Before he could begin to sort through all these questions, the rage exploded, Hulk-like, and he raised the gun. He knew exactly what to do to the backstabbing son of a bitch. Surprisingly, his hands did not shake.
I stepped up to my rival, my rifle in my hand.
I caught him by the collar, and boldly bade him stand;
Being driven to desperation, I shot him in the head,
But was betrayed by Kera, who once shared his bed.…
He blinked. In the song, Mary, or Flora, betrayed the singer to the law. But how could Kera do that to him? She was dead, after all. Dead and gone.
Dead and gone. Because of that motherfucker. The rifle was rock-steady as Duncan sighted down the barrel.
And then a rancid, appalling smell washed over him.
* * *
They were halfway up the slope of Dunwoody Mountain and had finally emerged from the ankle-snagging undergrowth into a no less overgrown, but easier to navigate, forest of old trees. These were mostly white oak, and the team knew that their mast, consisting of white oak acorns, was a favorite of wild hogs. This might explain why they’d taken up in Half Pea Hollow in the first place. Certainly the ground was bare of any acorns in the immediate vicinity, and there were older piles of scat.
“Hog heaven,” Dolph observed.
“And it looks like the angels have been having a high old time,” Bronwyn agreed.
“Let’s hope we add at least one devil to the choir,” Dolph said.
“Hey. Hey!” Max called from back down the trail. He pointed into the dense growth they’d just left. “Look!”
They joined him. In a dozen places, the weeds were pressed down in roughly oval-shaped patches. The hogs had used it for a bedding-down area, and recently, too. The trees showed evidence of rubbing as well, with bare patches of bark. None were so large as the one they’d found at the trap site, though, and none of the beds looked suitable for their monster.
Max slapped at his neck. “Man, everything in this hollow bites.”
They resumed their climb until Jack once again held up his hand, and the team stopped.
“What?” Max asked. Bronwyn slapped his arm for quiet.
Jack sniffed the air. If there was one odor he recognized, it was the smell of wild hogs. “They’re close,” he said so softly, he wondered if the others heard him.
Dolph and Max quietly closed the breeches on their guns, and Bronwyn smoothly drew and nocked an arrow.
Dolph shouldered his rifle and pulled the Glock from his belt holster. From the butt hung a small dove feather, and as they watched, the wind moved it, showing that the breeze came from the south. The hogs were that way, farther along the slope, possibly back down in the laurel slick.
“It smells like a pig’s ass, all right,” Max observed in a whisper. Brownyn rolled her eyes.
Jack knelt and put a hand on the ground. Sometimes he was able to feel the approach of pigs, if there were enough of them, or if they were big enough. It wasn’t a rational ability, but it had proved itself. This time, though, he felt nothing.
The team formed a square, each facing a different direction, ensuring nothing would sneak up on them.
Jack wondered, why hadn’t the dogs cornered them yet? If they were close enough for a human being to smell, then the dogs should have gotten to them long ago. Unless something had happened to the dogs—
Then the distinctive squealing reached them from down in the valley.
And then they heard a gunshot.
Followed by a scream.