Project Nemesis (A Kaiju Thriller) (5 page)

She nods, but corrects me.
“Old man who called Sasquatch.
Look, I’m going to give you two choices, come with me and talk to Mr. Johnson, or I’m going to book you for public drunkenness.”

I smile. It’s screwy, but I kind of like that she’s playing hardball, and that she wants me to come with her. But my head and body would rather I spend the next few hours in a fetal
position.

“I have coffee,” she says. “And ibuprofen.”

“Sold.”

6

Ten seconds after sitting in the passenger’s seat of Collins’s tricked out Sheriff’s SUV, I’m ready to ditch Betty and find me a new girl. Whether that’s a new car or Collins, I have yet to decide. The seats are cushy, the engine roars when she turns the key just once—Betty takes some coaxing—and her badass stereo has an MP3 player port. I look around, counting eight speakers. “How’s the sound system?”

“We’re not car shopping,” she says, and picks up a thermos from between the seats. She pops off the red cap and unscrews the cover, releasing a rich coffee aroma that distracts me from my pounding headache.

She pours a cup. “It’s sugared, but no cream.”

“Perfect,” I say
, reaching
for the cup. She hands it to me, and I test the temperature with a sip. Hot enough, but not too hot to chug. I drain the cup in three large gulps. “You mentioned ibuprofen?” I hold the cup out and make a face that begs for more.

She hands the thermos to me. “You need it more than I do.”

I pour another cup and drain it. When I put the cup down, she’s got three maroon pills in her hand.
“Figured a big guy like you might need three.”

“Figured right,” I say, taking the pills and popping them in my mouth. I pour a third cup, and swallow it down with the pills. I breathe a sigh of relief as the caffeine flows through my system, chasing away the cobwebs. The hot liquid will dissolve the pain meds fast and the caffeine will speed its delivery to my system. I’ll be feeling peachy in about thirty minutes. “Thank y—” The flavor of the coffee finally registers. “This is French roast?”

She thinks for a moment and then nods.
“Sounds right.”

“Sounds right?” I take a sip. “Starbucks French
roast
.
Sugar, but no cream.”

“So?” she asks.

“So,” I say, “your teeth are whiter than any coffee drinker’s should be. You’d also know exactly what your thermos held, and you wouldn’t be so willing to let a stranger drink your wake-up juice.” I thrust a finger in the air, hitting the SUV’s ceiling. “And, Starbucks French roast with sugar, no cream, is what I have been drinking every morning for the past four years.” I take another drink, straight from the thermos, and wipe the moisture from my lip. “You lied to me.”

“Watson, I think you’ve got it,” she says.

“Watson indeed.
How long have you known Ted?”

“About ten years,” she says. “Don’t know him well, but he called me a few days back. Told me you’d be in the area, what you were doing, and asked me to bring this to you.” She motions to the coffee.

“So that’s why you came to the cabin?”

“At five thirty in the morning? I don’t know Ted that well. I’m here at the crack of dawn because you spooked the neighbors.”

I look up the road.
Nothing but trees.
“I don’t see any neighbors.”

She puts the truck in gear and speeds over the rough road. I barely feel it.

Betty, your days are numbered.

We only drive thirty seconds before I see a large log cabin with a sculpted yard, perfectly managed flower beds and a tall U.S. flag snapping in the breeze.
Retirees for sure.
Possibly ex-military.
The gravel driveway crunches under the SUV’s tires.

“That’s Mr. Johnson,” Collins says.

I see the old codger sitting in a rocking chair on the wraparound porch and take note of the U.S. Marines cap he’s wearing. If there is anything I respect, its folks in the armed services who are braver than I am and who risk everything in service to their country. Technically, my job is similar, but I hardly think Sasquatch is a threat to national security, though given the number of calls Mr. Johnson has made, he might disagree. But I won’t give him a hard time. He looks down at us, staring over his aviator glasses and takes a long drag from a bright orange can of Moxie soda. Not ribbing this guy is going to be tough.

I pull down the sun guard and flip open the mirror.

“Don’t bother,” Collins says. “There isn’t anything you can do that will make you look like a DHS agent.”

There are rings under my eyes, a twig in my cap and dirt smudged on my cheek. I pluck the twig from the cap and then use it to rub the dirt from my face. I lick my thumb and finish the job with my own spit. I slap my face, three times on each side, adding a little color and helping the coffee wake me up. I look at Collins.
“Better than nothing, right?”

“
S’pose
.” The word carries just a hint of an accent.

“Georgia.”

“What?”

“You were raised in Georgia.”

She just looks at me for a moment, twisting her full lips.

“I’m good with accents and local dialects,” I explain.
“Kind of a hobby.”

She just opens her door and hops out.

I follow quickly, nearly falling out of the SUV as I open and close the door. Mr. Johnson is already on his feet, standing at the top of the porch. He waggles his hand at me. “What’s wrong with this one?” he says to Collins.
“Looked like he was having a seizure in the car there.”

The accent is thick and slow.
A Mainer through and through.

I straighten myself up and put on a grin. “Mr. Johnson.”

The man’s eyes widen slightly and his white caterpillar eyebrows rise. “You told him my name?”

“Mr. Johnson,” Collins says. “This is Jon Hudson. He’s an investigator with the—”

“U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service,” I say, climbing the steps. I hold my hand out to shake his.

He looks at my hand, then back up at me. “
Jeezum
Crow, boy, you look shot at and missed, shit on an’ hit.”

I nod.
“Had a run in with a rack a
poundahs
.”

He returns my smile and shakes my hand.
“Ayah.”
We’re speaking the same language now.

“How
ya
doin
’ this
mornin
’?”
I ask him.

“Oh, fair t’
middlin
’,” he says. “Be a lot better if not for that
shoot’n
an
hollr’n
last night.”

“Won’t happen again,” I say.

Johnson gives me a one-eyed squint.
“How’s that?”

I nod to Collins. “Officer Collins here was just telling me about it.
Couple of kids up to no good.
She ran them out of town.”

“That right?” he asks.

Collins clears her throat uncomfortably.
“Won’t be bothering you again, Mr. Johnson.
Made it clear I’d throw them in jail next time.”

“But that’s not why we’re really here,” I say. “Is it Mr. Johnson?”

He walks along the porch, aided by a cane. “Follow me.”

Collins pulls me back and lets Mr. Johnson get a few feet ahead of us. “What’s a rack of pounders?”

“Six pack,” I say. “I was being honest.”

“Over here,” Johnson says. He stops at the side of the porch, leaning on the railing. He points out at the woods.
“Seen ’
em
walking out there.
At night mostly.
Sometimes during the day, though they keep to the shadows. Just shapes.
Sounds.”

“Sure it’s not a bear?” I ask.

He whips around toward me and hitches a thumb at Collins. “You already sound like her!”

“Just trying to consider all possibilities.”

“
Ain’t
no
bear. I’ve seen bear.
Hunted bear.
Whatever it is out there, it walks on two legs.
Comes ‘round least twice a day.
Usually dawn and dusk.
Maybe in the night, but me and Sally—that’s my wife—turn in ‘round nine, so I wouldn’t know.”

The man’s testimony is plain and simple. He’s not claiming to have seen brown fur, a large head or any other traditional Sasquatch feature. He just knows that something is walking in his woods, and that it’s a biped.

“Served in Vietnam, sir?” I ask.

“Walked the Ho Chi Min Trail.
Yes, sir.”

“Then I believe you,” I say.

“Well, damn,” he says. “It’s ‘bout time someone did.”

“But,” I say quickly. “There is one other possibility I’m not sure you’ve considered.”

“What’s that?” he says.

“Only other biped out here, aside from
ol
’
Squatch
, that I can think of.”

He thinks for just a moment, but then shakes his head. “Damn, son, you’re right.
People.”

I can see that this idea bothers the man even more than Sasquatch. To him, Bigfoot is probably just another denizen of the forest. Like a bear.
Or a cougar.
But people, in his woods? Those are trespassers. And now that I’ve put the idea in his head, he’s probably going to spend the night on the porch with a shotgun. And since I don’t want to be the reason Mr. Johnson spends the rest of his life in jail for murder, I turn to Collins and ask, “Feel up to a hike?”

7

After getting some basic information from Mr. Johnson, we strike out into the woods. I put on a good tough guy show for the old vet, but once Collins and I are concealed by the forest, I lean my head against the rough bark of a pine and groan.

“You going to puke?” she asks.

“Just hoping the pain killers kick in soon.”

“Probably should eat something.

I load my voice with sarcasm and say, “You think?”

A granola bar hits the side of my head and falls at my feet. It’s one of those super healthy kinds.
Flax seeds.
Agave and honey.
Almonds.
Cherries.
I would have preferred the chewy chocolate-chip variety, but food is food and this is healthier. Bending over to pick it up hurts like hell, but I unwrap it and wolf it down in four bites. Without moving from my position by the tree, I unzip my pants.

“Oh God,” Collins says. I can hear her feet crunching away through the leaf litter. “You know I could fine you for indecent exposure.”

“I drank at least eight beers last night and a pint of coffee twenty minutes ago. What did you think was going to happen?” I sigh with relief as my bladder drains. My headache fades too, and I feel myself return to some semblance of normalcy, though I’m going to need something to drink soon or that headache is going to come back with a vengeance.

After putting myself together, I turn and find Collins just twenty feet away, atop a small rise, her back to me. I stand and stare for a moment. Stay professional, I tell myself. Don’t do anything stupid. I turn my eyes to the ground and clear my throat so she knows I’m coming.

“Feel better?” she asks.

“Dandy,” I say.

“Something interesting on the ground?”

I don’t look up. Stay professional. “Thinking,” I reply. “Let’s go over what we know so far.”

“You’re taking this seriously?” she asks.
“Kind of figured you were putting on a show for Mr. Johnson.”

“As much as I would like to go back to bed, I believe him. Sure, he’s a little paranoid. All old people are. And he’s probably more than a little bored. But there’s a nugget of truth in there somewhere, and he’s a nice guy, so it’s worth checking out.
My good deed for the day.”

She smiles at me as I climb up the hill behind her and manage to keep my eyes from wandering. “You don’t get to do this much, do you? Look for clues.
An actual investigation.”

“About as much as you do, I’d guess.”

“Touché” she says.
“So.
Investigator.
What do we know?”

“Johnson heard something walking around on two legs.
Probably a person.
But he also hears the sound fairly regularly and around the same times of day.
Which hints at a routine.
But his hunting days were already over when he and his wife had the place built, so he’s never actually explored the woods, or hunted them. I’m willing to bet he hasn’t even driven farther down the road, for fear of getting stuck.” I turn to Collins. “And you’ve never been past their house, either?”

“Never had a reason,” she admits.

I reach for my
smartphone
, thinking I might be able to find a satellite view of the area, but it’s missing. It’s still in the truck. “Have a phone with Internet access?”

She pulls an
iPhone
from her pocket, waggles it like it’s a piece of junk and puts it back. “Have the phone, but not the coverage.”

I would never admit it, but the fact that we’ve got a little bit of a mystery here excites me. “Well, let’s have a look around.”

We meander through the woods for ten minutes. The forest is fairly young, like it was clear cut fifty years ago. As a result, the area is congested with brush, ferns and several smaller trees that make walking in a straight line impossible. Despite the challenging terrain, we blaze our trail in silence. And as we do, I feel something change between us.
Nothing romantic or some kind of sexual tension.
Just the opposite.
We relax. All of the morning’s awkwardness and tension just melts away. Then I realize what it is. I’m comfortable. And despite my relaxed persona, I find true relaxation elusive. People unnerve me until I really get to know them. Cooper and Watson are pretty much the only people that know the real Jon Hudson, but Collins is already
worming
her way past my defenses, though not intentionally.

I pull a maple branch aside so that Collins can pass, but then I see something on the ground and let it go. The branch snaps against her legs and elicits a shout, but then she’s by my side, looking down at my discovery.

“It’s a path,” she says.
“Could be a game trail.”

I shake my head. “No. Animals don’t disguise their paths.” The worn center of the path has been covered with leaves, but the slight depression is impossible to conceal. “Which way did Mr. Johnson say he heard the footsteps heading?”

Collins points to the right.

I stand and look back, trying to see any hint of the log cabin. It’s hidden. “Mr. Johnson has good ears.” I step over the path, careful not to disturb the leafy disguise and walk twenty feet beyond it. Collins follows my lead and we follow the path without walking on it. If someone is up to no good out here, it might require a longer investigation, and there’s no sense in tipping off the bad guys that someone has found their path.

The path ends a half mile farther when it merges with the dirt road. But it continues on the other side. The road here is in even worse disrepair.
Foot-deep potholes.
Large rocks uncovered by years of unchecked erosion. Even Collins’s SUV couldn’t get through here.

“This isn’t right,” Collins says.

“A little pavement wouldn’t hurt,” I say.

“No, look at the rocks. They’re too big.”

She’s right, the rocks are pretty big, impossible to drive over, but I’m not exactly a dirt road expert.

“A lot of the dirt roads in town need to be graded every year. Some get new dirt. If it’s a busy road, I get to sit and watch. There are a lot of stones in the dirt they use, but nothing bigger than my fist. She holds up a clenched fist. Callused skin covers all of her knuckles.
Interesting.
“Some of these are more than a foot tall. That means the original layer of dirt was even higher.
Makes no sense.”

She’s right. “Someone put rocks here, which means—” We both turn to the left, looking down the dirt road. “—we’re going
thataway
.”

We make good time on the road. The large rocks disappear after fifty feet.
Definitely a manmade deterrent.
But why?
Are some hillbillies out here making moonshine? We’re not even in the right part of the country for that. We’ve barely gone a half mile when the road ends at a chain link gate overgrown with vines. A fallen tree has come down in front of gate, its roots pulled from the ground as though toppled by the wind.

Collins kicks the tree with her boot toe. “Convenient.”

“Dirt bikes could get past the boulders,” I say. “Not this.”

“So what’s the big secret?”

The gate is eight feet tall and nearly impossible to see through. A spiral of razor wire tops the gate, which is connected on either side to a ten-foot-tall chain link fence—also topped with razor wire. Big secret is right. “Have any militias in the area?
Cults?”

“Not that I know of.”

I slide over the tree for a closer look at the gate. There’s a sign under the vines. My keys are still in my pocket, so I take out the small jackknife, which I keep sharp, and I cut vegetation away. The white, metal sign is splotched with rust, but I have no trouble reading the text. At the top is a bright red message that would unnerve just about anyone:

U.S. ARMY

RESTRICTED AREA

USE OF DEADLY FORCE

IS AUTHORIZED

WARNING

It’s followed by a paragraph of text:

This site has been declared a restricted area by the authority of the Commanding General, in accordance with the provisions of the directive issued by the Secretary of Defense on 20 August 1954, pursuant to the provisions of Section 21, Internal Security Act of 1950. Unauthorized entry is prohibited. All persons and vehicles entering hereon are liable to search. Photographing, making notes, drawings, maps, or graphic representation of this site or its activities, is prohibited unless specifically authorized by the Commanding Officer. Any such material found in the possession of unauthorized persons will be confiscated.

The dates are a dead giveaway. “It’s a Nike site.”

“A what?”

“In the wake of World War II, the U.S. Army wanted an air defense network so something like Pearl Harbor couldn’t happen again. Nike was a line-of-site anti-aircraft missile system deployed around the United States, especially in coastal and high population areas during the early ‘50s.
 
There were hundreds of sites, all with signs just like this one. But the missiles were never used and when the Russians built ICBMs, Nike was officially obsolete. They were decommissioned and the sites were abandoned by the mid seventies. But—”

The tone in my voice catches Collins’s attention.

I meet her fiery eyes. “—this was not a Nike site.”

“What? How do you know?”

“I grew up with a Nike site in the woods behind my house. I played up there with my cousins when I was a kid.
Drank up there with my friends when I was older.
Never did figure out how to get inside the bunker, but the site was surrounded by a six-foot-high chain link fence. No razor wire. I think the signs and armed guards were deterrent enough.”

“Other sites in higher risk areas could have had more of a barrier,” she says.

“Sure, but they would have been topped with barbed wire. Razor wire wasn’t developed until the ‘80s and this style wasn’t used until at least the ‘90s. Also, why have a Nike site way the hell out here? They defended coasts and population areas.
Willowdale
is neither of those things.” I reach up and rub one of the blades between my fingers, a thin layer of rust coating my fingertips. I slide my rusty index finger over my tongue.
Tastes chemical, not metallic.
I spit. “The rust is
fake
. Someone doesn’t want visitors.”

“Ahem,”
comes
a deep voice that spins both Collins and me around. Her hand goes to her hip, but she doesn’t draw, which is probably a good thing considering the shotgun leveled at her chest.