Sam shrugged. “If there’s nothing you can do, so be it.”
The mechanic smiled, relieved that Sam wasn’t going to be demanding services that he couldn’t provide. “Okay, unlock the hood and I’ll see what we’ve got.”
Sam pulled the latch to the hood and the mechanic lifted it forward.
He glanced at the radiator. Using his oily rag, he carefully released the radiator cap, until steam escaped out the sides.
The mechanic said, “Well, we know it’s not a fault with your gauge. The engine’s definitely overheating.”
“Do you think you can fix it?”
“Oh, there’s no doubt I can fix it. The question is more a matter of when and that depends entirely on what’s wrong.” The mechanic met Sam’s worried glance. “Look. Everything appears intact. There’s no doubt about it that this car’s been otherwise maintained beautifully. The radiator might just need a clean out.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “If that’s the case?”
“Give me a couple hours and you’ll be back on the road.”
“All right thanks.”
“You’re welcome. If you want to wait inside, I’ve got some magazines but not much else for you to do to pass the time.”
Sam ran his eyes across a path behind the garage that led into a dense forest of Douglas-fir trees toward the Wilson River. “I might just go for a walk. Beautiful part of the world you’ve got here.”
“That it is,” the mechanic agreed. “There’s a nice swimming spot along the river about a klick and a half down that path.”
Sam wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead. “That sounds perfect. Thanks.”
The mechanic’s face hardened. “Have you got a weapon?”
Sam said, “Excuse me?”
“Have you got a weapon? Something big, preferably.”
Sam nodded and made a coy grin. “Sure. A hunting rifle in the trunk. Why?”
The man sighed. “Look. It’s probably not a problem this far down the river or this time of day for that matter, but we’ve been having some trouble with a cougar in the park. It’s attacked three people in the past week. Better to be safe while you’re out here on your own.”
“Really?” Sam asked. “Does that happen often?”
“No. It’s almost unheard of. Mountain lions, despite their name, number less than five hundred in all of Oregon, and rarely come into the touristy parts of the state.”
Sam held his gaze. “But something’s changed?”
“Yeah. It appears something’s got the taste of people. In the past two weeks something’s made a few attacks.”
“Was it definitely a cougar?”
“Hard to say. The hard answer is no. Trackers say that the damage looks like it was done by a large predator cat, but…”
“What?”
“There were no cougar tracks to be found.”
“What did the survivors say?”
“That’s just it. No one survived. Of the three people taken, no one was found alive.”
“Really?” Sam made a slight grimace. “They were all on their own?”
“No.” The mechanic crossed his arms. “That’s just it. The truth is, one of them was hiking by himself, but the other two were in a group.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “And no one saw anything?”
“That’s right. Whatever it was, came in quick, snatched its target, and ran off before anyone could get a look at it.”
Sam leaned in past the Thunderbird’s spare tire, which was mounted onto the rear bumper and unlatched the trunk. It was another style change in the 1956 Ford Thunderbird, and was commonly known as the “Continental” style, after the Lincoln Continental cars.
Inside, in a purpose-built armorer’s safe he withdrew a Remington 12-gauge shotgun. “All right. I’ll take your advice and bring a weapon.”
The mechanic’s jaw opened. “Good God, son, what were you planning on hunting?”
Sam smiled. “Honestly. I wasn’t planning on hunting at all. I’m supposed to be having a couple days off.”
“Okay. Well, I’m sure you won’t have any trouble with cougars carrying a weapon like that. If you give me a couple hours, I’ll try my best to have the car ready for you when you get back.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome.”
Sam secured his shotgun to his backpack and headed into the woods.
The trail quickly turned dark under the canopy of giant Douglas-fir trees. He followed it for a little over a mile, before the trail opened into a clearing beside the Wilson River. A crepuscular beam fixed on the large bend in the Wilson River, turning the water emerald green, as it nestled beneath a wall of jagged shards of white dolomite.
The swimming hole looked divine.
Sam glanced around the area and listened. Birds chirped away in the trees, while squirrels played on their branches, but there were no other people and no large animals he could see. He picked up a perfectly smooth piece of river stone and skimmed it across the calm swimming hole’s surface. It skipped twice and sank.
He picked up another one and tried again. It hit the water and dug in first go.
On the third attempt, the stone skipped right across the large bend in the river, skipping all the way out onto the stone beach on the opposite side.
Confident that he was all alone, he put down his backpack, removed his shirt and dived into the crystal-clear water.
It was refreshingly cool.
His head broke free of the surface.
A moment later, he heard the downwash of two military helicopters as they raced low overhead.
Chapter Two
The tiny log cabin appeared diminutive, almost unassuming at the center of the small clearing. It was surrounded by a dense forest of spruce-fir trees, which jutted upward like an impenetrable barrier as though protecting its occupants from an unknown predator.
Inside, a golden retriever woke up from its almost permanent state of dozing on the cool pine floor with a jolt, the dog’s ears perked and the fur on its back suddenly spiked.
Dr. Jim Patterson spoke with a soothing voice, his eyes turning to meet the dog’s. “What is it Caliburn?”
The dog nuzzled him, before cowering at Dr. Patterson’s knees.
Jim persisted, “What is it, old boy?”
The dog’s eyes widened with terror, locking with the doctor’s, its gaze penetrating his soul. No words were spoken, but Dr. Patterson knew without a doubt what was on the dog’s mind. It wasn’t the first time the poor dog had woken up with the same nightmare. It was always the same thing. He sighed. Humans developed PTSD, no reason an animal as smart as Caliburn couldn’t suffer with the same affliction.
He smiled patiently, his voice taking a gentle approach, similar to how a parent might speak to a child who’d had a nightmare. “It’s okay, Caliburn, he’s dead. The tsunami killed him. It’s been years.”
The dog maintained his gaze. His eyes large and glassy. Jim noticed that the eyes weren’t just filled with fear. There was fatigue there, too. More like the weight of their shared burden had finally overcome the old dog.
Jim gave him a pat beneath his chin. “It’s all right. I’ve buried Excalibur, too.”
Caliburn gave a defiant groan.
Jim nodded. “Yes. I know. Some weapons can’t be broken. But I’ve buried it in a way no one will ever find it. I’ve put it back, back where it belonged, where nobody knows about the wretched tool and its evil purpose.”
Dr. Patterson patted the dog for a few minutes until fear finally gave way to comfort, and he nuzzled his chin down onto the pine floor and resumed his position of rest.
An hour later, the golden retriever stretched lazily, enjoying the coolness the log house’s pine floors provided. He tilted his head and sat upright with a jolt, his ears cocked, as he listened to the almost imperceptible sound of a newspaper being thrown onto the porch by a young boy who made the weekly hike to deliver his master’s mail.