That question had gone over and over the psychopath’s mind ever since that night that something, some terrible beast had robbed him of his hand, of his sanity. Yet when he could think rationally, he always drew the same conclusion, the Chandler’s had arrived alone, had taken in some furniture to the cabin, but there had only been the two of them, even though he knew that their friend had intended to go with them. And who was this friend? At the Chandler house he had always worn a large cape, his face shielded in the folds and shadows of the hood, impossible to see or tell what he looked like. Impossible to know why he kept himself covered, or why he did not like stark electric lights or why he preferred that they used lamps or candles when he visited them. Was it possible that this person and the something that attacked him were one and the same? But if that were so then when did he arrive at the cabin? These questions went round and round the fellow’s head until he thought his brain would burst from them. And there was something else. He wasn’t certain but he felt that this thing, this person was still in the area, that he hadn’t left when the ambulance had taken the Chandlers away, that he was out there somewhere and possibly looking for him.

The psychopath shuddered, he’d always considered himself so in control, but now he felt like the hunted and not the hunter. It was a new feeling and one he didn’t like.

There was also another problem. Police patrolled the glen where the cabins were built on the hills and vales of this location and around the lakes where deer and black bear trod. From time to time it was even possible to spot a cougar, though he steered clear of them and shuddered when he heard them snarling at night. Those snarls reminded him of that other thing, some other monstrous mighty thing that sounded similar, that sounded more ferocious and deadly than the cougar.

And to add to it all, the stump from where his hand was severed throbbed painfully and the psychopath was certain that by the large red line that ran from the wound and up his arm that blood poisoning had set in, blood poisoning that could kill him. For the first time in his life he was afraid. Each way he looked there was no way out. Somewhere out there something hunted him, the police with their dogs tracked him, his own blood contaminated was killing him, yet he would not give any of them the satisfaction, he would fight them all until the bitter end.

A twig snapped. Head spinning, alerted to the sound the fellow held his breath, what was that? He searched for cover deciding he was probably okay where he was crouched beneath a bush at the bottom of a large hollow tree in which he had spent the night, creepy crawlies included. Those he could stand, those he could get used to. If only that was all he had to worry about a few bugs here and there.

From beneath the bush he peered, something was coming. It was difficult to see in the half-light of dusk what it could be, but it was something black that he could tell. It moved, ambled with an animal gait zig-zagging between the bracken stopping he assumed to sniff the air, and in that moment realised too late that he was upwind of them and too close that he might move and not be seen.

Heart in mouth he watched the shadowy figure and reasoned that this was that thing, that creature that had taken his hand and fury mounted up like eagles taking to the skies. The fellow looked around him, he needed a weapon and knew he had a knife, but where? Where had he last had it? He remembered suddenly, the night before he had snared and skinned a rabbit, had eaten it raw, but had not picked up the knife. Still he could see it just, glinting in the dying rays of a fiery sun burning low in the evening sky. If he needed to, if he could he might roll with one swift movement pick up the knife and plunge it into the chest of the one that approached him. Courage assailed him, and he started to breathe again, flexing the fingers of his solitary hand watching with renewed excitement as the creature drew near him.

Adept at catching the fish Vincent had spent the last few days deciding on what he had to do. Out and about police still patrolled the area and he had cleverly dodged them till now, but it wouldn’t always be so, with more personnel drawn in, more dogs set loose to track. Though he was grateful that they so obviously had not been set off with any scent of his, for more than once they came close to where he lay hiding, but passed by hot on another fresh trail. Vincent did not know what he might have done had they come up to him, he didn’t even want to think about it and there was something more important, he had to find his way home. Catherine might never return and could he blame her after what had taken place?

He supposed it must be six days at least since he had last seen her and he had masterfully kept images of her from his mind, even clamping down tightly on the bond that he shared with her unwilling to know her emotions, afraid to know what she felt about him. Only in dreams did he have no control, and when he woke each morning erect and frustrated, he became angry at what she had stirred up within him. Maybe in time the need would subside, maybe in time he would learn to forget. Now though he had to find his way home, however long it might take. He knew that such things as telephones existed had on occasion used one, and he felt that if he could only find a directory with the name and number of any one that he knew, he could ask for help to get him back to the city of New York. From there, he could make his way back, from Brooklyn or Queens or Manhattan he could tramp the tunnels that would lead him home.

Travelling by night he felt safest and to sleeping beneath the dappled sunlight filtering through the bushes he grew accustomed. In other circumstances, he might enjoy it, in time to come, he might see it as a pleasurable memory to hold dear. Aware that he had wasted too much time already in the hope that Catherine might return Vincent trod the way carefully, sniffing the air and staying downwind so that any dog he encountered would not give away his position. The psychopath was the least of his worries now. It had been six days, and the fellow should be weak from loss of blood and no threat to him.

Sometimes sounds startled him. Night sounds that he was usually so at home with made him jumpy. Out here so far from the city strange animals roamed the glen and though he was awed by the sight of a grazing herd of deer he was also cautious by the prowling gait of a cougar, or worse the slow moving one purpose in mind, black bear. Eating machines heavy and wild, and some at their most dangerous, mother bears with cubs.

It was fortunate that his night vision made him capable of knowing where he was going, that his acute sense of smell and hearing afforded him time to crouch and hide when danger presented itself, but he couldn’t prevent the odd crack of a twig underfoot, indeed the floor was littered with them. At such times he would pause and wait before moving on, and so his progress was slow and hesitant but constant.

He stuck as close to the road as he dared knowing that in all probability it would be along the road where he might find a telephone kiosk where he could ring one of his friends. Having usually had no need of money, Father, fortunately, had had the foresight to make him take some along and the coins lay comfortably in his breast pocket where he could feel that they were there. He only hoped that when the time came, he had brought enough with him.

Vincent smiled, if only he could hail a taxi, or telephone for one, have the driver take him straight to Central Park where he would alight, pay his fare and slip away to his home beneath the city. But then if he could do that he would have no need to be living in the tunnels beneath the city. For if a taxi driver could trust him with the way that he looked and way out here in no man’s land where anything might befall him, then the whole city could certainly trust him.

So leaving behind the glen, making progress hour by hour, Vincent made his way down the hill and past the very many lakes shimmering silver in the light of a lazy harvest moon. And onward, away from the cover of tree and shrub, out past the clearing where the police had first set up surveillance and down toward the main highway from where they had come almost two weeks before. Strange to think that nothing had been resolved, that the psychopath had never been killed, that in effect he needn’t have risked his life for Catherine after all. Catherine…the very word conjured up all kinds of emotions within Vincent’s heart, not least of all bitterness. Right now, after everything he had endured he wished he had never ever heard the name…yet…those few moments they had spent together…

He shuddered, pulling his cloak more firmly about him and dismissed all thoughts of that time spent with Catherine at the cabin firmly from his mind. He had to do this, he had to, or he would become insane. One day maybe, one day he would find someone genuine enough to love him, but it would be a long time before he would trust anyone again. What was it that they said, ‘once bitten twice shy?’ Well he had been bitten twice now and so he would be trebly shy. Next time, if ever there was a next time he’d be cautious, take his time, not have his heart broken so readily. That kind of pain he could do well without.

He walked on, the shadows of the night his only friend and more at home in the darkness than any other person, at least for that he was thankful. Not having to be spooked by the pitch dark or not having to imagine that all kinds of horrors, ghosts and ghouls were pursuing him.

He was one with the night. Cloaked from head to foot in ebony he blended in with the shadows and he was safe, or as safe as he could be in a strange place and with one thought only in mind. Home, home to life beneath the city, home where he was truly safe. He hurried on, eager now to put some distance between him and the glen. He had a long journey ahead of him, but he would make it. Of that, he was determined.

The black shape was closer now, almost upon him. He could practically feel its hot breath as the creature sought a path through the trees. Twigs snapped underfoot, and the fellow hiding beneath the bush looked askance at the knife buried in the earth where he had left it some yards away. Easy peasy, he could roll, swipe up the knife, plunge it in the creature’s belly, and then he would whisk off that hood, stare into the face of the man that had taken his hand before he made him pay and finish him off for good.

Sweat broke out on the fellow’s brow as a snarl sounded near by. It sounded to his left but twigs snapped to his right. He frowned, something was wrong. As the dark figure loomed above him it suddenly consumed him surrounded him to his left and to his right, and though he lunged away for the knife he had in sight something stopped his movement with one heavy jab at his foot. Inches away from the knife the fingers of his remaining hand gnawed at the earth intent on dislodging the knife and bringing it toward him. But he was held fast and the sound around him was ear splitting. Snarls and growls and…

He didn’t know when he became aware of it, but suddenly the great weight was lifted from off him and then he felt a sudden breeze about his leg and then something warm running down to his boot soaking his sock. He pulled his leg up managed to kneel and spring forward hand reaching out for the knife that sparkled in the light from the silvery moon, elated when he felt his hand grasp the handle and pull the blade from the leafy earth. He rolled just as he had imaged that he would and came face to face with not a man upright and cloaked but rather two pairs of golden eyes clamping down on him with lightening speed. In a split second he plunged the knife against flesh and fur heard the growl and knew that what had hold of him with intent to kill was not that of the hooded creature but rather of two ravenous black bears! Twisting this way and that he half crawled half stumbled away as strips of his recently scored back came away beneath their mighty claws, and pain shot through him as they rent away flesh down to the bone.

Driven by hunger and incensed by the scent of fresh blood, the bears pounced upon him tearing, mutilating, biting until bone snapped between their teeth and the guttural cries of their prey split the night as blood poured from his throat. In seconds, he was still, the last withering twitching nerves all that remained of the once insane body that had taken the lives of many in much the same way. There were some that would say that death had been too good for him, even death this way, had been too swift too soon, the bears should have let him suffer more, should have killed him slowly, eaten him alive so that he would know how it felt to feel such agony. But the real animals were not of the creature kind, the real animals were those that walked upright and lived in cities and walked the streets of their fellow man. The real animals were human beings. For no animal ever let another suffer, going straight for the jugular swift and sure, to satisfy one craving and one craving alone, hunger and not the depraved pleasure associated with those we know as kin.

All was quiet in the glen, the silent creatures waiting, anticipating their own safety until the familiar sound of the hunter devouring the hunted muted with the breeze rustling through the leaves. And then bit by bit they moved on busy about whatever they did in the darkness, searching for their own needs of fruit or berry, nut or prey.

Vincent having been alerted to the cries and screams that had pierced the night, moved on quicker now, his attention focused on the lights from the highway far below. Obviously, the psychopath was still at large and obviously, he had killed someone else, probably a police officer. By first light the glen and hills would be swarming with cars, men, dogs and helicopters, so he had to move, had to go faster, for out here in the clearing he would easily be spotted and the next canopy of trees was yet three miles away.

Vincent picked up his pace, running with cloak billowing behind him, his breath coming hard and fast, not stopping until the three miles were safely behind him. Only then, did he slow, only then did he seek a place to hide, a hazelnut bush heavy with nuts drawing him near. He could crack them with his teeth satisfy his hunger and sleep. Sleep as the dappled sunlight of day draped its warm blanket over him until the night came round again. And then he would rise and make more progress in the shadow of the darkness – the one who was faithful - his only friend.

“Peter, can you see anything?”

They’d been driving slowly around the glen for hours now, pausing at the edge of the many lakes, looking for foot prints that might signify that someone had drank there recently.

“No. It’s been ten days, honey. Ten since you last saw him, nineteen since you brought him up here. He might not necessarily have hung around.” But then if he hadn’t then where was he?

Over the past few days Peter had kept checking with Father and knew that the only news he had had was that from a helper who had reported receiving a very strange phone call in the middle of one night but had hung up believing it to be some kind of crank call. It was only when he awoke in the morning and remembered that he wondered if the person that had called himself Vincent might be the one that he knew lived in the tunnels. Father told Peter all about the conversation he had had with Ray, the helper. “I asked him what Vincent had said when he called and he said something like; ‘I can’t rightly remember, something like, Ray, this is Vincent, can you connect me? I didn’t understand and was too tired to think. I checked the clock it was four in the morning and switched on the answer phone. When it rang again the machine picked it up, I just ignored it and went back to sleep.’”

At that Father had groaned, he knew that Vincent had taken enough money with him to make up to four emergency calls, because it had been at his insistence that he do so. “How many calls did he make?” He asked afraid to know the answer.

“In all? Four, including the one I picked up. I’ve written down what he said on the others. Here.” Father reached out for the offered piece of paper with one hand, pushing his spectacles up firmly on his nose with the other and started to read.

First message, ‘Ray, its Vincent. I need help. I need collecting. I’m at Catherine’s glen in …’ the money ran out.

Second message, ‘Ray pick up, please. It’s me Vincent. Ray, are you there? Ray…Ray…”

Third and final message, “Ray, its Vincent, yours is the only number I can remember and there is no directory in this booth, Ray I’ve no money left…”

Silence descended over Father’s chamber as the enormity of what Vincent had said hit him. No money left, no way of calling any one else, no way of knowing who to call without a directory, oh if only Vincent had known Peter’s number.

Relating the tale to Peter later that day, Peter had jumped from his seat and called over his shoulder in leaving, “I’ll find him for you Jacob, don’t worry. Now that psycho is dead the restrictions around the glen have been lifted. If Vincent’s out there I’ll find him, or I won’t return without him.” All this as he exited the chamber calling louder and louder as he trod the tunnel beyond, filling Father’s heart with relief and hope and prayer. He knew he could count on Peter, but he just wished that there was something more that they could do. Vincent was lost in a strange place, and between there and home was a spaghetti junction of freeways that he would have to cross. That thought terrified Father, and as prayer was the only thing left to him now he used it, he prayed like crazy with all of his heart.

Dismay warred with disappointment as Vincent penniless and weary of time and occurrence decided his options. Ahead was a concrete jungle of unknown buildings and roads unfamiliar. Even if he did suss a route, he couldn’t be certain that it would take him home. It might well take him miles out of his way. Behind him and four days away was the glen, back there, Catherine’s cabin where stocked with food and fuel he could hole up and wait until someone came. It might not be the Chandler’s but Vincent did know that Peter had a cabin up there somewhere, so maybe there would be a chance that he would come instead.

It annoyed him to think that he had spent four perilous days hiding, slinking away scared to death like some dog every time he heard the sound of an approaching car, though generally it had been, to his surprise, police cars coming down from the glen, and the expected helicopters had never arrived.

That more than anything made Vincent wonder. Had they just decided to give up? Perhaps government funding didn’t stretch far enough to spend week after week searching for a man that had been so badly injured he might well be dead anyway. But what of that which he had heard the night he had left the glen? From whom had that bloodcurdling scream come from? Was it possible that the psychopath himself had met a gruesome end?

Standing undecided Vincent watched with ease from the safety of his vantage point at the vehicles speeding by on the freeway at the bottom of the last hill that signalled the start to Catherine’s glen. He’d been there a day already trying to muster up his courage to continue on his way not knowing which way to head and wished he had a compass, wishing he had been able to see the direction Charles Chandler had driven that night. Was the glen to the east, south, north or west of Manhattan? He should have known, and he kicked himself for his tired brain, foggy that it was from lack of food and perilous days on the run. But somehow he couldn’t remember, couldn’t fathom which direction home was in.

It was as he pondered this that a car came into view and he followed with his weary eyes, watching it indicate to leave the freeway and turn off onto the road that led up to the glen. He noticed it because in all the days he had been travelling no cars had gone in that direction. They had all come down from the glen. And he noticed it because it seemed familiar to him.

As it climbed up the hill it came within a hair’s breadth of Vincent and like a slap in the face, he was met with Catherine’s emotions slamming right into him leaving him stunned and incapable of movement. When the car had passed he stood watching it, the dust from its tyres swirling in its wake, before he cried out her name at the top of his voice, “CATHERINE!” And began to run after the quickly disappearing car.

There was no option now, he had to return to the glen, to Catherine’s cabin, some four days away, closer probably now that he didn’t need to hide so much, but uphill nonetheless. And what was more he had to go by way of the road, for what would happen if they should reach the cabin, search and find him gone, and come away again? If he missed them, if they missed him, he’d have to go back to the freeway and from among the many finally choose a road that he hoped would lead him home.

“How long are we going to stay up here Peter?” Catherine asked on the second day after they had arrived the previous morning.

“As long as it takes. We’ve a big area to cover. And we can take consolation that the police so obviously did not encounter anything suspicious or we’d have known about it by now. But we also have to remember that that goon was killed by bears that could so easily attack us too. So we must stick together Cathy, not only to stay safe, but because two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

“Won’t that mean hunters arriving to track and kill the bears. Since they have killed a man that is?”

“Usually yes, but apparently its been considered that the fellow sustained an injury that had considerable blood loss. The bears were only doing what bears do, homing in on the scent of blood. One of the reasons women on a menstrual cycle are told to avoided such places where bears and cougars roam.”

“I didn’t know that.” Catherine sounded worried and Peter giving her a sidelong glance asked, “You aren’t on one at the moment are you?”

Wide eyes she nodded, “Its almost finished though, so don’t worry.” If this had been anyone else but her own GP Catherine would never have answered the question.

“Then you’d best make certain that you are well padded when we go out and stay close to me. It’s possible that until you can wash them, the scent will remain on your jeans. Better still would you have the courage to stay at the cabin while I took a look around outside?”

“Only if you didn’t go far.”

Peter shook his head, “What would be the use of that? We may need to search further a field, perhaps even take our knapsacks and set up under the stars for one night at least. Is that asking too much of you, honey?”

As he had been speaking Catherine felt the old familiar knot of fear spreading through her body, and she nodded unable to speak.

“Well then we will probably be up here for quite some time, and there are some roads we could drive along to search. We could go slowly and keep stopping to call his name. We’ll do that until your period has finished, only just remember if you get the call of nature to try to hold it until we get back to the cabin. It wouldn’t be advisable to do it under a bush, that would be like telling the bears its dinner time.” He tried to make light of it by chuckling, but Catherine just shuddered. So much had happened around these parts just lately and all of it to do with blood. There was no way she would pee outside, she would hold herself until it became painful if the need be. She’d only just escaped with her life the last time, so she wasn’t about to take any more chances of staying alive. It was incredible that she had decided to come back at all.

“I can’t believe I’m back here and that’s the second time I’ve said that this year. I think dad will sell the place after this. All those treasured memories gone.” She said sadly, tears gathering on her lashes.

“Not gone honey, memories can’t go. You’ll still have them.” Peter standing beside the window looked out. He loved the place too.

“I know but this place conjured up those I had forgotten. We loved coming here Peter, it was the place we both felt closest to mom.”

Peter nodded understanding at last. Of course, Caroline and Charles had brought Catherine to the glen often. It would be a shame if Charles should sell the cabin. Perhaps they could find some new memories that would override the horrors they had experienced enough to keep them returning to the glen. But he doubted it. He knew what that kind of experience did to the mind, and he was the last person to encourage them to do any different. After all he had been unable to return to the building where his surgery had been, preferring instead to sell it, have someone else remove its innards and move into another practice elsewhere. For he would never again have been able to look behind the desk where his receptionist had sat, and not see her severed body lying there.

“How well do you know Vincent, Peter?” Catherine surprised him with her question.

“Well I’ve known him since the day he was first brought to the tunnels. He was found abandoned you know?”

“Yes, he told me. But what about the person he is, do you know much about him?”

Peter thought it an unusual question since Catherine and Vincent had written to one another for years. They ought to know a great deal about one another…but then there would have been a lot that Vincent couldn’t have told her.

“I know he frightened you honey. But Vincent is what he is, and he has had to fight his own brand of demons all his life.”

“He’s possessed?” Catherine asked with surprise.

“Oh no, not possessed. I don’t mean it that way, though there are some that might argue that point.” Catherine’s eyes grew anxious, and Peter walked toward the couch, “Come sit here with me, let’s talk about this.”

Catherine followed him eager and yet nervous about knowing, and sitting alongside Peter on the soft blue couch waited for him to begin.

“It can’t be easy having two varying spirits inside you. Imagine how it is, honey. You probably feel a bit like your father and a bit like your mother, that doesn’t mean that you have their life force, their spirit within you, but rather that their DNA that created you made you also like them. Imagine then, how that must be if the two sides of you weren’t of the same mould, that is the same human match. What if your father was animal and your mother were human, or vice versa since no one rightly knows. Imagine that kind of pull upon your person. Well poor Vincent has had this battle every day of his life. It is commendable that the human factor over rides the other in the main, but there have been times when the other factor has overruled and Vincent has become impossible to handle. Usually these times result in terrible fevers that come upon him, scaring Father witless that Vincent’s heart will give out.”

“I know that he hurt his brother Devin was that one of those times?”

“Fast and furious yes. It didn’t last long, but long enough for Devin to become injured. Vincent was young then incapable of holding back, but he has grown up these past nine years learned to control himself. But it’s not been easy and there are times when things happen that he did not foresee and reacted badly to. The thing is honey, when these things occur he takes them so much to heart. Sees his animal side ruining what he had, snatching from him people that he cared for. It scares him honey, and he has this self-loathing for the person he is inside. Sometimes he is almost like a split personality but it is not a medical term or an illness its just part of who he is. He can no more control that aspect of himself than we can call the moon down out of the sky. Having said that, I don’t mean he can’t control the ferocity that he feels within from time to time, but he can’t tame it either. There are times when holding it in just becomes too much and he lets rip. If he had been ordinary like you or I, that might have resulted in a temper tantrum or hitting out at something, but with Vincent it can be lethal, like a lion in full attack.”

“What happens then?” Catherine asked nervously.

“Well if there are people about, they restrain him. But as I say in the past this has only occurred when he has been ill, has a fever or a vision. As far as I know there have only been two occasions when he physically hurt someone.”

“Oh? Who was that other? I knew about Devin.”

Peter wasn’t sure he should tell her. If Vincent hadn’t then there might be a reason for that. “I’m sorry honey, I’m not at liberty to tell. Maybe you should wait and see if Vincent will tell you. It didn’t happen that long ago, he might well feel incapable of talking about it. Don’t push him. If he wants you to know he’ll tell you in his own good time.”

Catherine’s mind was racing. It hadn’t happened long ago. What, a year, around about then? Her thoughts flew to that missing letter, the one he had written when he had been crying. Had that been why he wanted to retract it? Had that been why he hadn’t wanted her to know? But he had wanted her to know he had just assumed that she hadn’t wanted to know him after reading it. But she hadn’t read it, and if only she could find it…”Thank you Peter,” she jumped up and headed for her bedroom, if the letter was anywhere it would be somewhere in there.

Surprised, Peter replied, “You’re welcome honey.” And watched her beat a hasty retreat. He wasn’t certain why she had jumped up like that and gone bounding off to her room, but then he had always found women hard to understand. And it was that time of the month after all so he shouldn’t be surprised.

Once in the bedroom Catherine closed the door and thought back to that day almost six months ago when she and her father had first come up to the glen for a vacation. It seemed an age ago now, but since it had only been herself that had frequented the room then she was certain that anything lost would still be in there.

So, she had placed it on top of the bedside cabinet. Of course, that was empty now, save for her travelling clock. And she had put the others into the drawer. She opened it not that she expected to find it there but rather to retrace her actions of long ago. And then her father had called her for breakfast and they had gone riding, and she had decided to read the letter upon her return. Of course that never happened and when she had hastily packed her things, it was possible…

Quickly she dropped to her knees and peered beneath the bed scanning the murky depths for any sign of paper noticing instead that there was a thick wad of dust that tickled her nose and she held back a sneeze. Then squinting she noticed that in one corner the wad of dust piled a little higher and she reached in, belly flat against the floor, wriggling until half of her was under the bed and grasped whatever it was, jubilant when it felt like paper!

Pulling it free and dusting it down Catherine recognised the familiar handwriting and knew she had found what she had been searching for. Then came the guilt of knowing that she ought not be reading this, Vincent had asked for it back…but then she reasoned that since that time she and Vincent had almost become lovers…and if she was to understand him better surely she should be allowed to know what it had been he had originally wanted to tell her. Besides he wasn’t around to ask and supposing she never saw him again…so what harm was there? That decided she felt a little better and curling up in her mother’s favourite rocking chair Catherine started to read...

To be continued in part ten.