swelled up inside him like thick, black poison, making his stomach do sour little flips.
At last, convinced that he had to do something right now, he looked up the number for the police station in the phone book and picked up the kitchen phone to dial. On the third ring, the dispatcher answered and immediately put him through to Chief LaBrea.
“Hey, Mark ... I was just about to give you a call.”
“Anything happening yet?”
After an uncomfortable pause, Guy answered, “Well, no. Nothing about Phil, anyway. Haven’t really had a chance. I tell you, I’ve been busier than a three-balled bull in heat. Last night ‘round nine o’clock, a semi jackknifed out on 26. Then, a little after midnight, just as we were getting that mess cleaned up, we got a call from Josh O’Connell out by your way, on Spruce Mountain Road. He was all worked up with some harebrained story about how a bear or some damned thing got into his barn and killed one of his prize calves.”
“A bear . . . ?” Mark said, mostly to himself.
“Hell, Josh was going on and on about how he took a couple of shots at this—this thing. He thinks he wounded it, but it ran off, he says; and get this, on two legs, he says, like it was some kind of bear or ape or something.”
“You know,” Mark said, “O’Connell’s farm borders the National Forest.”
Mark knew that, at least as the crow flies, Josh’s farm wasn’t more than a couple of miles from where he had been camping the night before, when that creature had attacked him. He decided not to remind Guy of his own harebrained story.
“Yeah, well, I went out there and checked it out,” LaBrea went on. “There certainly was a lot of blood, and there were some rather unusual looking tracks out behind in the pasture; but to tell you the truth, I suspect Josh has been hitting the sauce again, ever since his old lady up and left him—again. I’ll bet he’s just digging up that crazy-assed werewolf scare they had over there in Cooper Falls—what was it? Some fifteen years ago.”
Mark decided to let Josh O’Connell and his problems slide for now and asked, “So when do you think you can get a search party organized?” He used a clipped, businesslike tone of voice to help keep some of his more unnerving thoughts at bay. He realized that he should show at least a modicum of concern for how hard LaBrea had been working, but he was already feeling defensive, suspecting that there would be a long bureaucratic delay before anything was done about trying to find out what had happened to Phil.
“First thing this morning, I put a call in to Fred Gibbons at the Forestry Department,” LaBrea said. “I—Hold on. Let me check my messages. Nope. He hasn’t called back yet. I’ll give him a follow-up call.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
LaBrea snorted with laughter and replied, “Yeah, you could get the town council to increase my damned budget so I could hire me a few more officers. I can’t do shit with the manpower I have.”
“If it would help, I could drive over and talk to Gibbons myself,” Mark said.
“I don’t see where that would do any—”
“It sure as hell would if it got some men out there on the mountain in an hour or so,” Mark snapped. He tried to block out the corner of his mind that was whispering that, even if Phil had survived the fall down The Zipper, and even if he had been able to last through two nights of below-freezing temperatures up there on the bare mountain, he probably wasn’t going to last much longer, not without food and water.
“I was going to say I don’t see where that would do any harm,” LaBrea said softly. “Look, Mark, I know you’re really upset about what happened up there, but God’s honest truth, you know and I know that you can’t take it personally. It was an accident, all right?”
“Yeah, but I—”
“I know that cliff. I’ve been up there, and the only thing you would have accomplished if you
At last, convinced that he had to do something right now, he looked up the number for the police station in the phone book and picked up the kitchen phone to dial. On the third ring, the dispatcher answered and immediately put him through to Chief LaBrea.
“Hey, Mark ... I was just about to give you a call.”
“Anything happening yet?”
After an uncomfortable pause, Guy answered, “Well, no. Nothing about Phil, anyway. Haven’t really had a chance. I tell you, I’ve been busier than a three-balled bull in heat. Last night ‘round nine o’clock, a semi jackknifed out on 26. Then, a little after midnight, just as we were getting that mess cleaned up, we got a call from Josh O’Connell out by your way, on Spruce Mountain Road. He was all worked up with some harebrained story about how a bear or some damned thing got into his barn and killed one of his prize calves.”
“A bear . . . ?” Mark said, mostly to himself.
“Hell, Josh was going on and on about how he took a couple of shots at this—this thing. He thinks he wounded it, but it ran off, he says; and get this, on two legs, he says, like it was some kind of bear or ape or something.”
“You know,” Mark said, “O’Connell’s farm borders the National Forest.”
Mark knew that, at least as the crow flies, Josh’s farm wasn’t more than a couple of miles from where he had been camping the night before, when that creature had attacked him. He decided not to remind Guy of his own harebrained story.
“Yeah, well, I went out there and checked it out,” LaBrea went on. “There certainly was a lot of blood, and there were some rather unusual looking tracks out behind in the pasture; but to tell you the truth, I suspect Josh has been hitting the sauce again, ever since his old lady up and left him—again. I’ll bet he’s just digging up that crazy-assed werewolf scare they had over there in Cooper Falls—what was it? Some fifteen years ago.”
Mark decided to let Josh O’Connell and his problems slide for now and asked, “So when do you think you can get a search party organized?” He used a clipped, businesslike tone of voice to help keep some of his more unnerving thoughts at bay. He realized that he should show at least a modicum of concern for how hard LaBrea had been working, but he was already feeling defensive, suspecting that there would be a long bureaucratic delay before anything was done about trying to find out what had happened to Phil.
“First thing this morning, I put a call in to Fred Gibbons at the Forestry Department,” LaBrea said. “I—Hold on. Let me check my messages. Nope. He hasn’t called back yet. I’ll give him a follow-up call.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
LaBrea snorted with laughter and replied, “Yeah, you could get the town council to increase my damned budget so I could hire me a few more officers. I can’t do shit with the manpower I have.”
“If it would help, I could drive over and talk to Gibbons myself,” Mark said.
“I don’t see where that would do any—”
“It sure as hell would if it got some men out there on the mountain in an hour or so,” Mark snapped. He tried to block out the corner of his mind that was whispering that, even if Phil had survived the fall down The Zipper, and even if he had been able to last through two nights of below-freezing temperatures up there on the bare mountain, he probably wasn’t going to last much longer, not without food and water.
“I was going to say I don’t see where that would do any harm,” LaBrea said softly. “Look, Mark, I know you’re really upset about what happened up there, but God’s honest truth, you know and I know that you can’t take it personally. It was an accident, all right?”
“Yeah, but I—”
“I know that cliff. I’ve been up there, and the only thing you would have accomplished if you
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