Patterson stroked the dog. “No. You and I both know I’m not getting out of here alive. So stop thinking that way.”
Caliburn gave a conciliatory whine. It was the sort of familiar and appealing sound that all dogs make when they express their natural desire to be loved by their masters.
He scratched the dog behind his ears and attached the encrypted USB flash drive onto his collar. “Now, I need you to do something for me. Can you do that?”
Caliburn met his gaze, and Jim was almost certain he could see understanding in the canine’s intelligent face as the dog acknowledged him.
“Good. I need you to run. Only you can escape Excalibur. And only you may one day prove capable of defeating him.” He gave his dog one last embrace and then said, “Now run!”
The dog gave a defiant bark. He wouldn’t leave his master to certain death.
Jim turned to face his dog. “Bless you, Caliburn… you have been a dear friend. But now you must leave. You’re too valuable. Remember, you carry the only solution… you have to escape.”
Caliburn made a somber whimper, and nudged him affectionately one last time. Their eyes locked. Jim reached down with his left hand and patted him.
The door burst open.
Jim turned and said, “Caliburn… run!”
Chapter Four
The purple martin was the first to catch his attention.
Sam Reilly, relaxed on his back in the water, and stared up at the unique bird. It was the largest of the North American swallows. Known for its speed and agility in flight, it appeared dazzling as it raced from the sky at speed, weaving through the branches of the thick forest of spruce-fir trees with its wings tucked backward. It was quickly followed by a pair of great blue herons, which were in turn followed by green herons. By the time he spotted the horned grebe fly by overhead, Sam’s eyes narrowed at the mystery.
Something nearby had gotten all the birds spooked.
He squinted as he made out the shape of a large white-tailed kite flying high above the tree line. He shrugged. The North American raptor might very well explain what had upset the nearby birds. A moment later, the entire forest erupted in a cacophony of distressed birdlife. Horned grebe, northern pintail, peregrine falcon, red phalarope, snowy egret, and tundra swans flocked in such dense numbers that they shielded the sun from the forest, turning daylight into night. The wall of trees, which had previously looked spectacular at more than a hundred and fifty feet, now appeared like the uninviting ramparts of a sinister castle in a medieval wood.
Sam meandered back to the edge of the river, dried his face and hands and casually retrieved his shotgun. A wry smile creased his lips as he wondered, more out of curiosity than any real fear, what had spooked the birds.
What the hell are you all afraid of?
There was no reason a coyote, cougar, or a bear should instill such terror in a flock of birds that could fly.
He leveled the shotgun, aiming the same direction from which the birds had approached, and where the forest had somehow turned evil.
He felt the drum of his heartbeat, and dismissed the rising fear with incredulity.
He was holding a Remington 12-gauge shotgun. The same weapon was used by militaries and police forces throughout the world. It was designed to kill bad things.
Sam’s lips curled upward into a smile. There was no doubt in his mind, at this very moment, he was the most dangerous animal within the Tillamook State Forest.
A moment later, he heard the sound of multiple gunshots echoing through the forest.
The flock of birds overhead dissipated into an outward direction, leaving an ominous opening from where the gunshot reports had originated.
Sam stared at the opening.
He took up a defensive position and called out, “Hey! Are you all right?”
But was greeted only by the growing silence, as all wildlife appeared to scatter.
Sam shouted again, but was met by the hiss of silence.
He finished drying himself and got dressed.
Concerned that someone had been shot or was injured, he followed a well-worn deer path deeper into the forest. Sam wondered who had fired the shots. If it was a hunter, the person would have most likely answered him by now. More likely, it was a hiker, who had been attacked by a wild animal, and had hurriedly attempted to fire his or her weapon in defense.
There had been four shots fired.
No production weapons were designed to hold just four shots. Either the magazine wasn’t full, or the person had stopped midway through their magazine.
The question was why?
Had they just run out of shot? Did they hit their target? An alternative explanation, and this was the most likely, the unknown predator had already reached the person, preventing them from releasing any further shots.
Sam moved quickly.
He considered dialing 911 on his cell phone. But what would he say? He heard rifle shots in a forest? There was no reason to think someone had been injured or killed. There could be any number of logical explanations for why a person should shoot four rounds and then stop. Likewise, just as many reasons why a hunter might not answer his calls — perhaps he or she was deaf, or wearing ear protection.
No, all he had to go on right now was a gut feeling.
And right now, it just felt wrong. Worse than wrong. The previously sun-filled forest imbued with the chatter of birds, squirrels, and other wild animals, now appeared dangerously quiet, as though some sort of hidden evil seeped out of its shadows.
Sam climbed the ravine at a brisk pace. He reached the top of the first ridgeline and was stopped by a dog.
It was a golden retriever. Docile and friendly by nature. This one appeared to have missed the memo, because right now, it was facing him, with bared teeth, and growled low in its throat.
Sam frowned. “What is it boy?”
The dog paused, as though suddenly brought out of its trance. A confusion set across its intelligent face. The dog picked up Sam’s scent, and began to wag its tail. It was panting heavily as though it had been running hard.
Sam said, “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The dog tentatively moved toward him, dipping its head to smell Sam’s outstretched hand. A moment later the golden retriever gave a relaxed whine.
Sam stroked the dog behind its ears. “You’re okay now.”
He looked up toward the log cabin on the peak of the next mountain up ahead.
The two Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters he’d seen flying low over the forest canopy a few minutes earlier were now hovering low above it. A team of soldiers were sliding down ropes, and setting up a defensive perimeter around the cabin.
Sam’s eyes darted between the helicopters and the dog. “Is that your home?”
The dog barked.
It was a subdued bark, somehow somber, but clearly affirmative.
Sam said, “Something bad happened up there, didn’t it?”
The dog’s large brown eyes became hooded and somehow darkened. It made a slight whimper.
“I heard gunshots.” Sam spoke soothingly, as he gave the dog a gentle pat. “Was that your master?”
The dog nudged him.
He couldn’t be sure, but the dog almost seemed to be answering him, trying to tell him about some sort of hidden hardship.
Sam said, “I’d better go see what this was about. Someone’s going to want to know what happened to you, I’d bet.”
He stepped around the dog to continue up the trail, but the retriever bolted in front of him on the deer trail and bared its teeth.
Sam said, “Hey, I thought we were friends.”
The dog’s tail started to wag again, as it continued to pant.