The Huntsman Page 4

  “You can see by the four somewhat rounded pools at the top this is where their arms came off. Unlike the first incident there’s no clear footprint anywhere. If whatever did this stood here it had to bend over far enough to reach their shoulders. It also had to lift them cleanly, since the blood pool is undisturbed, to carry them to the wall. At the point it bent forward, simple lever physics tells me it would have tipped over when lifting either one. Again, the undisturbed pool shows us it didn’t. Also, the angle formed when it bent forward to remove the arms requires tremendous strength to do so and remain balanced. Given the anatomical fulcrum necessary to brace and hinge that strength, I calculate its height at around seven feet with its upper body longer than its lower. Our suspect will not be hard to spot.”

  Wolford remained befuddled. “So? What does all that mean?”

  Miranda’s shoulders slumped. “I’m not sure. It gives us a fuzzy picture of what we’re looking for. If a suspect matches all these characteristics, we’ll know we have our maniac.”

  Miranda inhaled and turned to face what she’d been dreading. The two bodies formed a mixture of parallels and contrasts. Their swelled lower legs had turned a brown-red color from the pooled blood no longer able to circulate. Combined with a fine frost, the blood-drained upper bodies had a translucent, alabaster color that gave them the appearance of wax models. One had a peaceful expression, almost as if he might awake at any moment. The other had a face frozen in the horror of its final visage. An o-shaped mouth screamed a silent warning. Of what?

  An oblique approach from the left prevented having to view the gruesome faces. She leaned close to the man’s shoulder, studied the clear, plastic-like substance bonding the arm to it. Even through the air filter, a faint whiff of decay wrinkled her nose. She unzipped the tool case and scanned for something she didn’t mind ruining. A five-inch long, flathead screwdriver came out. Like hard rubber, the substance had a slight give. Why didn’t the screwdriver adhere? She turned the tool and pressed its plastic end. Nothing. “Can I borrow your pencil, please?” Again, nothing. Metal, plastic, lead, wood, and rubber did not adhere.

  She pulled the arm. It felt like bolted rivets attached it. Miranda pulled harder. Revulsion churned her stomach as the body moved away from the wall but the face remained planted. She tried to squeeze the screwdriver between the substance and the skin. Her eyes widened. The material had embedded threads into the skin. Miranda wondered if perhaps once set, the substance lost its ability to adhere further. A war began between the curious scientist and the practical woman. She wanted to feel the substance directly but also imagined having to partially amputate a finger.

  “I’m going to need a fully-equipped laboratory to conduct a proper examination.”

  “The forensic team is making arrangements to use the ME’s facilities. They just wanted you to see the scene firsthand. They’ll arrive in about thirty minutes to transfer the bodies to the coroner. You’ll meet them then.”

  “Good, I’m done here. Let’s get out of these suits.”

  Outside, Miranda strode toward the street’s dead end, gazed across the harbor’s still waters, listened to its gentle lapping against the moored boats. She closed her eyes, turned her face upwards. The sun’s warmth cleansed and healed, let her feel whole again. Ben came up alongside. “Any thoughts on what’s behind this?”

  She quieted the resentment against reality’s intrusion. Face upward, her eyes remained closed. Seconds passed. A calm, soothing voice reemerged. “I’m honestly baffled by this case. On its face, we’re dealing with a maniacal serial killer but that glue-like material throws everything into doubt. A person with the intelligence and background to create a new substance with unique biological properties is not beyond imagination. How he gave it a genetic signature that violates everything we know about DNA, is.”

  “You presume it’s a he?”

  “A female is unlikely. She would need to have the strength to lift two men onto a wall, not to mention be able to tear off arms. Even for a man, that’s a prodigious feat.”

  Ben’s communicator chimed. “Oh no. We’re going to have to postpone our dinner date.” Wolford’s presumption opened Miranda’s eyes. She turned to look at him. If he feigned disappointment, his expression didn’t show it. “Dawkins and Cross want you on the first flight back to Washington. The three of you have a meeting with the National Science Foundation tomorrow morning.”

  CHAPTER 6 House Calls

  Miranda fought hard not to admit jealousy fed her resentment. Dr. Sara Bell, who sat at the conference table’s head, had just begun her briefing. God, she thought, even her voice is beautiful. The head of the National Science Foundation’s Grants Department spoke without notes, while Miranda kept her eyes riveted to the report she leafed through.

  Life among the animals kept her a world apart from east coast fashion. Chic had long since passed from her clothing lexicon, replaced by practical and durable. Whatever style she’d brought to college ended once male reaction to her makeup and dress proved an unwanted distraction. By the time she began her doctoral studies, trendy threads became a roadside heap run over by a desire for others to view her as a serious zoologist.

  But when she deplaned and entered the terminal, her subconscious roared to life. It took note of the Washington elite whose fashion sense oozed power and confidence. The butterfly long cocooned no longer tolerated confinement. Miranda rushed into a washroom and stood before a mirror. She stared long enough a patron freshening her makeup glanced over.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Just wondering when I became a synonym for drab.”

  “Aw, honey. Don’t worry about it. Professional is the new pretty.” Crushed, Miranda only managed a weak smile. She rejected anyone’s attempt to judge her on a “pretty” scale and yet deep down relished every opportunity to be pretty.

  Another weak smile formed when Dawkins introduced her to the glamorous Sara Bell. Though warm and welcoming, Miranda caught the nanosecond up and down scan—as if a scarecrow in a burlap bag had just entered. She felt her cheeks redden. Miranda wanted to trip her.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Bell. Could you put that in simpler terms?” Miranda glanced to her left. Dawkins must have had a previous encounter with the Grants Director. She hadn’t arrived disarmed.

  “Of course, Agent Dawkins. The law requires us to make detailed reviews of the research grants, i.e. taxpayer dollars, we allot to qualified individuals or institutions. Our analysis of the invoices Professor Joshua Ang submitted indicated he had purchased some rather exotic and expensive equipment. It is not rare for an individual to apply for a grant in one area and perform the actual research in one of personal interest. Our grant control department ordered an on-site inspection. When the auditors arrived, they discovered the grisly scene. Under the circumstances, we thought it best to immediately contact your offices.”

  “Excuse me, Dr. Bell.” Miranda leaned over to whisper in Dawkins’ ear. “Have you briefed her on the details of Professor Ang’s death?” Dawkins nodded.

  “Because of her work, she has a Top Secret clearance.”

  “Dr. Bell.”, Miranda asked, “Have you formed any opinions regarding who might have killed Professor Ang?” Sara gave a slight bow.

  “Dr. Logan. Let me say how thrilled the staff and I are to have the country’s preeminent zoologist visit us. Our zoology section would kill me if I didn’t press upon you how honored they’d be if you could drop by.” Miranda softened at the genuine sincerity.

  “Of course, Dr. Bell. The honor would be mine.” Sara turned serious.

  “I and three of our medical personnel were present at the autopsy. The coroner concluded the shocking mutilations occurred post mortem. We’re stumped however, for a theory that explains all the facts. Particularly baffling is the DNA report. Your presence however, implies an animal might be involved.” Miranda shrugged.

  “I view it more as eliminating the possibility an animal is involved and have drawn no firm conclusions
. You are quite right about the DNA analysis. It has me stumped too.” Agent Cross broke in.

  “Well then, Dr. Bell, if you have nothing further we won’t impose anymore than we have on your busy schedule. I trust if there are any further developments you’ll inform us.”

  “I will certainly do that. Dr. Logan? May I escort you to our zoology department?”

  Back inside the hotel, Miranda flopped into an oversized chair. Plush, cloud-like softness enveloped her. She kicked off her shoes and sprawled. A glance at her communicator indicated Greg had left a message. She sighed. He’d been a factor in her makeup bag’s retirement. “I like natural women.” he declared early on. She had wanted to accommodate him but should have resisted. Despite his good looks, wit, and charm, Greg just didn’t raise her woman. In a confrontation with a mugger, she’d be the likely defender.

  Her eyes grew heavy-lidded. Hold on she pleaded and pressed her communicator’s “2” button.

  “Say ‘hello’, Miranda.”

  “Hello, Professor.”

  “How are you? You sound tired. Like someone drained your life force.”

  “I’m okay. Sometimes a woman yearns for the little girl that preceded her. Or maybe it’s time lag. In the past forty-eight hours I’ve flown from Ohio to California to Hawaii to Washington. The half-hour orbitals are fine but they’ve wreaked havoc with my internal clock. Did you receive the feather, video and additional reports I sent? Did you have a chance to go over them?”

  “Yes to all.”

  “Let me update you on everything that’s happened since our last conversation.” When she finished the link remained silent except for his drumming fingers.

  “This is a baffling situation with two certainties from which you must proceed. One. The DNA report must be correct. Perhaps someone has created a genetically engineered monstrosity. Two. So far three people are dead. I suspect there’ll be more. Since you don’t have a security clearance and are not CIA, the agency may not be entirely forthcoming. Neither are the killer’s motives and methods clear. Given the unknowns, your safety is paramount. You need help and protection. There is someone in India who can provide both. He attended three of my classes last year. Go meet him and ask for his help. His name is Janesh McKenzie. He may be a little difficult to locate but I’ll send you his last address. He’ll be your life insurance.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a hunter.”

  CHAPTER 7 Driving Miss Logan

  Miranda looked up from the communicator’s display. She opened her mouth to speak but closed it and shook her head. A week ago she had landed in New Delhi then boarded a train to Chandrapur. The nineteen-hour ride provided time to take in the unfamiliar sights, sounds, aromas, customs, behaviors and people of a culture dating from antiquity. Many interactions had taken place via facial expressions and hand gestures but the prevalence of English on the former British subcontinent insured uncertainty remained short. Now she bumped along a narrow trail marked by two parallel tire tracks and bordered by a thick green forest where everything deeper than three yards disappeared. Twenty-five miles east of Chandrapur, in the Tadoba Andhari Tiger Reserve, the New World had become a distant memory.

  “Do you think there are any tigers nearby, Narsimha?” He laughed.

  “No, not here, Kumārī Logan. We’re just entering the reserve. Farther in though, I would not let you step out the vehicle alone.” The second-year engineering student from the local Sri Sai Polytechnic College and native Chandrapurian had proved a godsend since meeting her at the rail depot. She could not imagine how without his detailed knowledge of the surrounding region and perfect command of Hindi and English coupled to a ferocious intellect, she could have tracked down Janesh McKenzie. Narsimha had done so with such aplomb it made her at first suspicious of his true vocation.

  Cross and Dawkins had raised no objection to her India detour. They had accepted at face value her desire to collaborate with a trained field biologist. She’d made no mention of Professor Akiyama or their conversation, preferring to play her cards close. Halfway through the flight, Cross had uploaded Narsimha’s name. Despite that, Miranda had come to accept Narsimha as just an independent tour guide working summer break.

  He’d introduced her to his extended middle class family’s fifty some odd members. With great warmth and hospitality they’d treated her like a visiting emissary. Three homes had prepared great feasts where curious neighbors waited patiently outside to glimpse the rarity a red-haired American presented. Every time she answered Janesh McKenzie to the question why she’d come to Chandrapur, oohs and aahs accompanied raised eyebrows. Though all knew of the Mahān Śikārī—the Great Huntsman—none, including Narsimha, had ever met or seen him.

  Miranda returned her attention to the dossier her communicator displayed. The skimpy details confirmed McKenzie had given the CIA no reason to have more. His Scottish father, a Charge d’affaires serving her Majesty’s Diplomatic Service, fell in love and married a local Brahmin who gave him a son, Janesh. The parents, now retired pensioners in Mumbai, led quiet, unremarkable lives.

  A student ID and passport photo, grainy through transmission, showed a somber, pleasant-looking man with thick, straight black hair parted right-to-left. An impressive academic record ranked him in the top five at every phase. But curiously, with Biology a career field that mandated doctoral degrees for serious advancement, he’d left graduate school before completing his first year. A moment later the reason scrolled up.

  A routine police patrol along London’s Pimlico Road captured a man climbing out of a second-story window shortly after 7am on a Sunday morning and returned him to the apartment in handcuffs. The Cambridge Vice-Chancellor, who’d returned unexpectedly from an overseas conference, wished only to avoid scandal and embarrassment. Three days later though, the then twenty-two year old Janesh McKenzie departed school and London for India. The skimpy dossier contained no evidence he’d pursued his education anywhere else. Only the three anatomy and evolution courses he’d taken under Professor Akiyama as a non-degreed registrant filled the intervening fifteen years. At the document’s end someone had inserted the Hindi translation for Janesh—Lord of Men.

  The gloomy forest gave way to a light-filled, airy clearing. A hundred yards away, three official ATV’s stood grouped alongside park rangers chatting and smoking. Closer to the forest’s edge, a shirtless man with his back turned rummaged inside a civilian ATV, its rear door high in the air.

  Narsimha slowed to a stop. “We’re looking for Janesh McKenzie.” The seven men paused their smoking to eye Narsimha then lingered a bit longer on Miranda before nodding toward the man. She did not hurry to cross the short distance. No longer shaded by the forest canopy, dried grass underfoot radiated the sun’s heat.

  Two huge dogs sat on either side of the vehicle, their fixed gazes evidenced instinctive distance calculations. Her eyes widened as she neared. Seven slash marks glared white against the man’s dark skin. Four formed horizontal traces across his spine. Three lined diagonally from his right shoulder to the waist. Though other possibilities existed, claw marks came to mind.

  “Excuse me. Are you Janesh McKenzie?”

  “Perhaps.” He continued moving, opening, and examining bags. Miranda waited. The sun grew hotter. She gave up.

  “These are beautiful dogs. Are they yours?”

  “They accompany me.” Her zoologist side admired the distinction.

  “My name is Miranda Logan. I am in charge of animal care for Ohio’s Columbus Zoological Park.”

  Miranda felt as if he’d delegated ten percent of his brain to the conversation, the other ninety focused on whatever held his attention. “Professor Gary Akiyama sent me. I need his help. If you are not he, I’d just as soon be on my way.”

  The man straightened and turned around. Miranda stifled a gasp. The grainy photos had not prepared her for his reality. From a height she estimated at just over six feet, two clear, light-brown, tawny eyes sat above a straight nose
and full lips. Strong jaws flexed muscles at the hinges. A strand of glossy, jet-black hair creased his forehead. His body bore no resemblance to an unnatural gym-produced muscularity, but one hardened by rigorous outdoor activity. A flat, toned stomach ended just above low-slung beltless pants that somehow managed to remain modest. He projected an aura not of strength but power. A sardonic grin spread to reveal bright, strong teeth. “I am Janesh McKenzie. If Professor Akiyama sent you, consider me at your service.”

  Miranda concentrated to regain focus. Somehow her pursuit and the world that produced it had shrunk in his presence. Worse, she stood in a primeval forest halfway across the world about to raise absurdity to new heights. “I am in pursuit of someone that has brutally killed three men. He may be using some type of creature. Professor Akiyama believes you can help me.”

  “Creature? What kind of creature?” Miranda shifted her weight and tried not to sound sheepish.

  “We can’t identify it.”

  Janesh stared at her. His expression remained blank. A zoologist and an evolutionary biologist had encountered a creature they could not identify. Something didn’t add up. “I see.” He turned around and continued inspecting bags and equipment.

  “I have a doctorate in zoology, Mr. McKenzie. I really am stumped.”

  “Relax, Dr. Logan. If anyone other than Professor Akiyama had sent you, this conversation would be over.” The heat and the man’s taciturn nature weakened her impulse control.

  “If anyone other than Professor Akiyama had sent me, I wouldn’t have come.”

  A spear emerged from the vehicle interior. He leaned it against the door. Miranda stared. Besides movies and books she had no experience with spears. Its thick, rugged, wood shaft appeared well-worn and used. Two darker rings indicated hand placement. In the modern world, why would a spear appear well-worn and used? A steel ten-inch double-sided blade did not shine or gleam. And yet she could feel its ability to slice and penetrate. Its silent, inert stance left no doubt of its purpose. She viewed a death instrument.