They Stalk the Night

Prologue

Northern Minnesota

Hostile winter winds howled through the forest and spun snow devils across the white ground. The below-zero temperature froze Rick Scofield’s bones through his coveralls. He wished he was back home in Dallas with his wife and daughters. But the pipeline business was booming, quite literally, as Thornhill Petroleum relentlessly blasted trenches through a new stretch of forest or rocky field every day. Rick’s boss didn’t seem to know the meaning of downtime and refused to let the workers take a weekend off to be with family.

Trying to keep positive and focus on his job as the construction site’s demolition engineer, Rick hummed as he hiked alone through the snow-covered forest. He carried a high-powered rifle slung over one shoulder, wary that this was bear and wolf territory. The black bears were supposed to be in hibernation. However, a few had awakened from the blasts and migrated away to some quieter part of the forest. Wolves ran rampant in this wilderness. The last sighting had been a large pack running over a northern hill toward the Canadian border. But that was a dozen explosions ago. Hopefully, those wolves hadn’t stopped until they crossed into Ontario.

Stepping out of the woods, he entered an open field of frost-coated rocks and boulders. The area, called Stonefield Pass, curved around the base of Buckhead Hill. The rocky field where Rick hiked stretched about a hundred yards long and sixty yards across. Its edges were bordered by forest on three sides. On the north side, the snow-covered Buckhead Hill rose gradually to an elevation of a hundred and fifty feet.

Careful not to slip on the slick, jagged terrain, Rick checked the charges he had installed across the pass. He walked between waist-high mounds of stones that had been stacked purposefully across the field. Attached to sticks that stuck up from each rock pile, leather streamers dangled sideways in the wind. The mysterious mounds surrounded a small, three-walled log shed that had suffered from years of harsh weather. Its boards were scratched up in places where bucks might have scraped their antlers against it.

The wood building and crude, manmade rock formations could have been constructed by the local indigenous peoples, although they looked more like cairns found in Scotland or Scandinavia. Perhaps explorers built them long ago. The cairns were so foreign to this place, he got the sense he was trespassing through some ancient burial ground. God forbid there might be human bones beneath these rocks.

Strange symbols with circles, braided knots, and sharp, jagged lines had been carved into the shed’s outer walls. The ornate patterns reminded Rick of old Norse artwork. The hut’s open side faced the heavily wooded Buckhead Hill that loomed above it.

Rick poked his head inside the old shed. Deerskins hung on two interior walls and carpeted the ground. A prominent carved pattern on the back wall looked like a symbolic sun, its eight rays tipped with tridents. Below it sat a rustic table arranged like an altar with colorful quartz stones, juniper branches, and a heavy bowl etched with letters from the runic alphabet.

Rick picked up the bowl and sniffed. The ashes inside smelled like burnt juniper. Fresh. Feeling like an intruder, he looked around to see if anyone might be watching from the woods. No, all alone out here. He considered taking the bowl as a souvenir, but then felt wrong about that and laid it back down in its place.

In front of the shed was a firepit full of charred logs and gray ash. Several yards from the pit lay a log slab stained with blood. Some kind of table for butchering game? Rick found the broken remains of a deer carcass on the ground, a leg bone with a hoof.

The sacred area was right in the blasting path and, sadly, would have to be blown to bits. Rick had wanted to spare this peculiar landmark. He had gone so far as to visit Thornhill Petroleum’s headquarters yesterday to raise his concern with the owner and CEO, Mason Thornhill. The meeting in the conference room had been tense. Outside the building, angry protesters were waving picket signs and shouting for the pipeline company to stop construction.

Rick had said to Thornhill, I was wondering if there’s a way we could preserve the site with the Norse hut on it. It appears that some of the rural people still use it. I think if we were to divert the pipeline around it—

Hell no, we’re not diverting, Thornhill had said. That would waste too much time and money. We’re already over budget. Besides, the people from Hellum have no right to build there. To make his point, Thornhill had tapped a video screen of a spot on a topography map where this remote site was located. This part of the forest is outside Hellum’s territory. It’s company-owned and designated for our pipeline. Stick to the plan, Rick. I don’t want to hear any more talk about diversions.

A day later, alone in the wilderness, Rick took a moment to give the rustic shed, stone mounds, and sticks with streamers one final look. To whoever had used this place, he said, I’m sorry. I tried to save it. He then pulled the two-way radio off his belt and called his partner. Charges all set. Over.

Pete Dobson’s voice squawked back, Prepare for blast, Frosty. Over.

Copy that. And quit calling me ‘Frosty’. The boys back at the base camp had called Rick by that nickname ever since his wife and girls had sent him a care package speckled with snowman stickers, a colorful mix of Olaf from the movie Frozen and the classic animated Frosty character. While he had loved the gift box full of snacks and homemade sugar cookies, the ribbing from his coworkers had taken its toll. Call me ‘Frosty’ again, buddy, and I’ll start calling you ‘Dobby’.

Pete chuckled through the walkie-talkie. Roger that, Snowman. Now get your ass to safer ground. Over.

Rick sighed. All right, I’m on the move. Over and out. He hoofed it across the icy rock terrain. Tripping over a jagged stone, he grabbed hold of a rock stack and accidentally knocked a few stones off the top. Something bone-white inside the hollow mound caught his eye: a skull with horns. It might have belonged to a buck with spiked antlers. Why bury a deer skull inside a mound?

On the other side of the rocky pass, he walked along a windblown field of frozen tundra that ran along the base of the hill. He stood on a flat granite escarpment that was an island in the snow and a safe distance from the blast’s range. A nice spot to watch the show.

He radioed Pete that he was all set, then put on his ear protection. On his smart phone, he pressed the video record button and spoke into the camera. Girls, this is what Daddy does when he’s away from home. Then he turned the camera toward the blast zone.

His adrenaline pulsed as he watched the rocky burial ground and the little log shed that sadly awaited their fates.

Pete counted down from ten on the radio, …four, three, two, one….

A chain of explosions disturbed the peaceful quiet with sonic boom-boom-booms. Stone mounds disintegrated, one after another, into geysers of dirt, rock, and snow. The hut exploded into a scatter of splinters, a few wood fragments lighting up like torches before raining down and extinguishing in the snow. The ground shook with a quake that crackled nearby pines and tremored through the rock under Rick. He struggled to keep the camera steady. From the treetops, birds flew skyward in a breathtaking pattern. A hundred yards away, a herd of white-tailed deer burst from a thicket and fled across a snowfield, disappearing into another grove of woods. The nature lover in Rick didn’t like disrupting the animals’ habitat, but it was a necessary evil to make way for the pipeline.

After the tremors finally passed, he turned the camera back toward himself. Daddy’s job’s a real blast, eh. He shook his head at the corny pun, but knew his daughters would giggle their hearts out. Ages five and six, Jess and Hailey still thought Daddy’s goofy humor was funny. Miss you guys, but I’ll be home Christmas Eve. He blew a kiss to the camera and waved bye-bye, then stopped the recording. He would show the video to them this evening when he got back to his trailer at camp where the out-of-town employees bunked at night. He couldn’t wait to sit at his laptop and FaceTime with Janet and the girls. Except for computer chats, he hadn’t seen or hugged them in weeks.

The falling debris and earth tremors finally settled. However, the explosions seemed to have stirred up the wind. All around the pass, the tree branches shook wildly. The midafternoon sun got blotted out by dark gray clouds that suddenly rolled in out of nowhere. The warning signs of a nasty snowstorm quickened Rick’s heartbeat.

Pete, he said into his radio. Weather up here’s taken a turn. I’m coming back down. Over.

Instead of Pete answering, their foreman, Mack Brody, barked with a harsh crackle, Negative, Rick. We need you to keep working till last light. Over.

What if I get caught in a blizzard?

There’s none on the radar.

Rick stared up at the clouds hovering over the hill. That’s not the way it looks at Stonefield Pass. Wind has gotten fierce here. It’s starting to snow.

You got your thermals on, Frosty. You’ll be fine. Prep the next zone. Over.

Copy, boss, Rick said, doing his best to hide his anger. He needed the job, but the pace they were working was insane. Downright hazardous. The pipeline’s trench path should have been marked well before the blasting started, but the disappearance of one of the demolition team members had stalled the game plan. Rick had been the lucky man brought in to replace the missing engineer. The poor guy had gotten lost in a blizzard and never made it back to camp. A search for the body had turned up nothing.

He reviewed the topo map on his tablet. Some engineer had designed Thornhill’s pipeline to go up and over Buckhead Hill. The apex was flat and covered with tall white pines and spruce.

Rick hiked to the foot of the hill. The forty-five-degree slope had plenty of rock outcroppings and sideways-growing trees to grab on to. A skilled rock climber, he could scale that hill without rope, no problem.

The storm clouds above kept whirling and thickening, dumping fat snowflakes even heavier.

Rick sighed. Let’s get this over with. He pulled a handful of stakes with red flags from his backpack and stuck markers in the ground every few yards as he ascended the hill. He and his team would come back tomorrow with surveying equipment and calculate where to set the charges. Bent against the face-nipping boreal wind that blew sleet across the hillside, he steadily climbed toward the top. He thought about the ancient site they’d just blown to smithereens, wondered why the shed’s open side had faced this hill. Why had someone recently butchered a deer on a slab and left behind the carcass?

Lugging his backpack and rifle, it took half an hour to climb up the slope. Reaching the hilltop plateau at a wall of pines, Rick took a moment to catch his breath. From the ridge’s high vantage point, he had a majestic view of the valley of rolling snowfields and surrounding forests. The distant snow-capped hills were blurry humps in the gray haze made by the clouds. Farther south of the blast zone, a miles-long gash through the evergreen conifers showed hints of the construction area and partly assembled pipeline.

Rick stepped into the dense woods that covered the top of the hill. This area had an entirely different feel from any other part of this wilderness. The copse of white pines and spruce gave off an unsettling feeling that caused Rick’s neck hairs to stand. There were no signs of birds or wildlife, but at the same time he felt a presence. That eerie sensation he was being watched. He had noticed the same feeling a week ago when he and Pete had encountered a wolf pack led by a big black alpha. The timber wolves had looked hungry. The intensity of their eyes had pierced right through Rick. He and Pete had fired off warning shots, scaring the pack away. While on the job, Rick didn’t kill wild animals unless he absolutely had to in self-defense. Now, he swore he’d heard a twig crack from somewhere in the pines. What if those wolves live in this forest? he thought with trepidation. Shit, I’m all alone here.

A surge of fear coursed through him. He pulled his rifle off his shoulder, switched off the safety, and scanned the area in a slow, three-sixty turn. The evergreens stood too close together, their branches intertwined.

No wolves in sight.

Keeping his guard up, he forged ahead, weaving between trees that tugged at his coveralls. He continued to stake flags into the frozen ground. It occurred to him how selfish Man was to claim territory that for so long had belonged to the animal kingdom and the ancient trees, earth, and rocks.

And here he was, an accomplice to violating Mother Nature.

A moaning wind careened through the trees. The vapor puffing from his mouth thickened as the temperature fell. His frozen nose and cheeks had turned numb. His footsteps crunching over exposed stones and hardpacked snow sounded hollow. The flurries falling from the sky came down even heavier. Soon this whole forest would be covered in fresh powder. He wanted to abandon these woods, but if he half assed his job, he’d catch hell from his foreman.

A couple dozen more stakes, then I’m packing it in and heading back to camp.

He continued to watch for wolves that might be stalking through the trees. Movement in the thicket to his right caught Rick’s eye. He twisted around with his rifle. Seeing it was just a white rabbit hopping along the ground, he exhaled a sigh then laughed. Nearly pissed myself over a bunny. He took a step toward it. Hey there, little fella.

Something odd about this snowshoe hare made Rick freeze. The rabbit flopped its head as if its long ears were full of mites. Its fur was patchy with bald spots along its back and sides. Gaping lesions in pale, diseased skin exposed its rib bones. Rick could see the interior cavity that housed its gray innards. Carried on the wind came the smell of rotten meat.

How was this rabbit even still alive?

Its ear-flopping head abruptly came to a halt and turned Rick’s way. The hare’s solid white eyes seemed to bore into him. Foam dripped from its furless mouth.

The damn thing’s rabid.

He aimed his rifle, intending to put the poor animal out of its misery. Before he could get off a shot, the rabbit snarled and bounded toward him fast. Attacked his right ankle. Gnawing teeth tore a hole through his pants leg, biting into his work boot.

Rick stumbled back, kicking out his leg, but the hare hung on. Its loud, high-pitched snarls hurt his ears. He brought the butt of the rifle down. Pounded the creature, over and over. Its spine cracked, but its teeth kept chewing through his boot. They broke skin. Rick cried out in pain. He bludgeoned the skull until it caved in. Its teeth finally let go.

Panicking, he stumbled backward and fired two wild shots. The first knocked the bark off a tree. The second blast blew apart the rabbit’s body in a puff of white fur. Pieces of bone and gray flesh scattered across the snow. The animal did not bleed. The only blood leaked from the torn hole in his boot. The wound in his ankle burned like fire.

Lying on its side, half of the broken hare continued to squirm, clawing the ground with its front paws, refusing to die. It inched toward him, its mouth chomping, as if wanting to take another bite out of him.

Rick took off, stumbling painfully through the brambles, eager to put distance between himself and that damned freakish rabbit. He had to get back to base camp and get treated quickly or he could die of rabies.

A gust blew against his face. A white fogbank drifted through the pines and spruce. Snow came down thick. Wind plucked his carefully placed red markers out of the ground and whirled them around in the air. Damn that Brody. Now I’ll have to do all that work again tomorrow.

A snowy fog swallowed Rick. Blinded him. He pulled his goggles from his coat to shield his eyes. Knocked around by the sudden blizzard winds, he became disoriented. He spun on his feet, fighting to stay upright.

Which way did I come in?

All the stakes were gone. Leaning into the wind, he searched for his tracks. Couldn’t find them. The constant snowfall kept changing the landscape. Limping, he wandered through the woods until he finally admitted to himself that he was lost.

He pulled his walkie-talkie off his belt. Rick to base. Over.

The radio crackled, but no one answered. He called a few more times, but nothing.

Shit. Rick checked his compass, but the needle spun crazily.

He randomly chose a direction and continued walking. The trees seemed to have grown even closer together, conspiring to trap him. Branches clawed at him as he struggled to find a way out of this damned forest.

Again, he sensed a presence. Over the wind, grunting sounded from somewhere in the pines. A deep, guttural huffing followed by snorts. The mist concealed whatever animal was making the noise. But the thing was damned close.

His heart jolting with panic, Rick jerked his rifle, left then right, as he tried to pinpoint the direction of the animal. The trees around him swayed. Branches cracked. Whatever stalked within the fog sounded bigger than a wolf. Heavy footfalls approaching sent vibrations from the ground up through his boots. Into the bones of his feet.

A growl bellowed directly behind Rick. Not looking back, he ran limping as fast as he could, ignoring the pain from his foot and the branches scraping his face and neck.

In the fog, an unseen predator ran with him, snapping tree limbs, pounding the ground with thunderous feet. Then came an earsplitting shriek like nothing he’d heard before.

Rick cried out in terror and halted. The marrow in his bones froze; his insides turned to ice. A cold burn spread from his chest down his legs and upward, into his head.

He fell to his knees, shivered uncontrollably.

Footfalls closed in behind him.

Terrified, he clamped his eyes shut. A memory of his last video conversation with his daughters flashed through his mind. Jess and Hailey pleaded, Come home, Daddy.

Part One

Stalker

Chapter One

The wall phone in the kitchen rang, interrupting Sam Larsen’s enjoyment of Jeopardy! He and his wife, Dawn, were cozied up on their couch in the den, legs tucked under TV trays, waiting for their chicken pot pies to cool.

Sam ignored the annoying ring, too focused on the game show. He and Dawn were in a heated competition and she was ahead of him by several points. The show’s winning contestant chose the category Classic Scary Movie Directors. Sam had one up on his wife this time. Dawn couldn’t watch a horror movie to save her life. When the movie title The Howling appeared in a block on the grid, Sam shouted, Who is Joe Dante? a second faster than the contestant on TV.

You and your monster flicks. Shaking her head, Dawn gave him a point.

Sam laughed, enjoying this rare moment of victory against the Jeopardy! champ of their household. Even after forty years of marriage, Dawn still lit up Sam’s heart. He loved her spitfire nature and competitive passion.

The kitchen phone rang again.

At their feet, their two German Shepherds, Arya and Loki, started to whine, as if the dogs knew bad news was on the other end of that call.

Sam started to get up.

Don’t waste your energy, Dawn said. Probably a telemarketer.

It could be one of the kids, or grandkids.

"They all know better than to call during Jeopardy! she said. Besides, if it was a 911, they’d call my mobile."

Despite their efforts to watch the game show, the phone kept ringing and ringing. The landline, which had been there since the Eighties, didn’t have voicemail.

That’s eight rings. Sam felt a familiar unease crawling beneath his skin. Must be a police matter.

If it’s so important, wouldn’t they call your mobile? Dawn asked.

I left it in my truck.

"Well, let the guys at the station take care of it then. You’re supposed to be retired."

Dawn was right, as usual. At the age of sixty, after a full career as a cop for the small Norwegian village of Hellum, Minnesota, Sam had earned the right to kick back and enjoy more time with his wife. With a declining population of one hundred and six residents, not much happened here these days beyond the occasional domestic dispute, busting minors for vandalism, and a few drunk-and-disorderlies. While the pair of officers Sam had trained were fully capable of policing the tight-knit community, they still asked for his help on a weekly basis. Truth be told, he was having trouble letting go of the job. There were only so many house projects, hobbies, and TV shows a man could take. While he enjoyed helping Dawn with her dog-breeding business, Sam missed doing police work. Not that he would ever admit that to her.

The phone’s incessant ringing blared like a siren.

That’s it, I’m answering the dang thing. He pushed away his still-untouched pot pie and followed the sound into the kitchen. He picked up the handset with the long yellow cord and said into the phone, Sam Larsen speaking.

Hello, Sam, it’s Sheriff Hoyt.

Sam’s stomach filled with acid every time the sheriff called. The county sheriff’s department and Hellum police assisted one another from time to time. Recently, when some of the village’s younger men got into a brawl with the roughnecks at the Ice House Tavern near the town of Deer Haven, Sam and a few volunteer deputies had helped the sheriff’s men break up the fighting.

Sam’s first concern was for the people of his community who had spent too many nights in the sheriff’s jail. Sometimes it was pipeline protestors. More often than not, it was delinquents like the Skagen brothers, who committed general mayhem.

Who’d you arrest this time? Sam asked.

No one from Hellum. Another pipeline worker has disappeared near your neck of woods. I’m forming a search party. I need you to come to the Thornhill construction site ASAP.

Dawn stood from the couch, concern forming lines on her forehead. Their dogs stood on either side of her, looking forlornly at Sam.

Sorry Hoyt, but I can’t help you this time. I turned in my badge last month. Mike Omdahl is running the station now. Call him.

Already did. He won’t lift a damn finger.

Sam wasn’t surprised that Mike had refused to help. Men from the pipeline had beaten up his brother, Charlie, and put him in the hospital. Last month, when Mike had officially taken over Sam’s job as police chief, Mike had sworn he’d only patrol within the confines of the village. Whatever happened to people outside of Hellum’s jurisdiction was the sheriff’s problem.

I’ll be straight with you, Hoyt, Sam said. We’re not exactly on friendly terms with that oil company. They’ve been shaking our houses nearly every day with those blasts. They keep driving frightened animals into our territory. I hate to tell you no, but that pipeline company is a menace. I recommend you call on folks in Deer Haven for extra searchers.

There’s no time for that. If the man’s still alive, we only have a short time to rescue him before he freezes to death. Come on, Sam, I could always count on you whenever someone got lost out there.

The sheriff knew how to work at Sam’s conscience. It was true that when it came to people getting lost in that wilderness, Sam had never failed to answer the call and help with the search. Just last summer he’d located a young newlywed couple lost for three days while hiking. Fortunately, they were alive, albeit hungry and weary. Sam had guided them back to the rescue team’s camp.

Whereabouts did the oil man disappear? Sam asked.

A beat of silence followed before Hoyt said, Near Stonefield Pass.

Sam’s whole body tensed. What the hell was he doing way up there?

I can’t tell you. But that’s where we have to search.

"You know the dangers of that place. No one should be going up there."

The pipeline men are about to start combing those woods. That’s why I need you. No one knows that wilderness like you do, Sam.

Dawn stood nearby. Even though she couldn’t hear the full conversation, she was emphatically shaking her head no.

Just a moment, Rayburn. Sam covered the phone’s mouthpiece and said to his wife, Another man’s gone missing near Buckhead Hill.

No, she said angrily, "you are not helping those pipeline men. Not after all they’ve done to us and the land. Fear filled her eyes. I don’t want you going anywhere near those woods at night. Her hand gripped his wrist. Please, Sam, don’t risk yourself for them."

Sheriff Hoyt’s voice sounded desperate in Sam’s ear. I’ve bailed you and your people out on more than one occasion. Helped you search for Ben when he went missing. I even stayed silent about the way you dealt with that murderer in Hellum. News of it never left the village, did it? Sheriff Hoyt let that last favor hang in the air a moment. Back then, you told me if I ever needed anything….

Sam stared at the wall lined with family photos of everyone in the world he cared about: Dawn, their three kids, seven grandkids, their large extended family on both sides, and friends within their community. In a photo from ten years ago that had captured a happier time in his life, Sam was fifty, leaner, sporting his Minnesota Vikings ball cap over short silver hair. He stood next to his twenty-eight-year-old son, Ben. Both smiled, clutching fishing rods and holding up bass they had caught at the lake. The photo had been taken right before Ben and his friend, Tommy Skagen, had gone missing on a hunting trip. The memory of the police search through the forests for them tugged at Sam’s heart with renewed grief. Ben had been forever lost to that forest. Only Tommy came back down from that mountain, changed. Then there was the tragedy that had struck the village after. Images of murdered town members flashed through Sam’s mind.

To Sheriff Hoyt he said, Don’t start the search until I get there.

After hanging up the phone, Sam said to Dawn, I’m sorry. This is about more than saving just one man.

Your damned principles are going to get you killed and then where will I be without you? She stormed off, the two German Shepherds following her.

Sam let out a small laugh. Dawn was a strong-willed woman whose own ‘damned principles’ routinely put her in harm’s way, sometimes even in jail. She might be short and kindhearted, but she was fierce, especially when she led protests against the local oil company.

Dawn could get along just fine without him. It was Sam who’d be lost without her. She would eventually realize this was something he had to do, even though Sam doubted the pipeline worker was still alive. Dangerous or not, this was the only chance they had to retrieve the body and keep the sheriff’s search party from bringing evil back with them.

Chapter Two

By the time Sam reached the pipeline’s base camp in his Bronco, the storm clouds had moved on after covering the landscape with fresh snow. It was after nightfall, but the half moon reflecting light off the sugar-white dunes offered enough visibility to see. From the back of his truck, he grabbed his backpack with first aid kit, headlamp, and climbing gear, then his crossbow. People often ribbed him for carrying a crossbow. Most of the men in these parts preferred rifles. Sam felt more comfortable with his Excalibur and was much more accurate hitting targets with it. For this outing, he wasn’t hunting game, but where they were going, he would need special protection. The quiver attached to his backpack carried