Fatalis

Chapter Forty

Only once in his life had Malcolm Gearhart gotten to a point of frustration and rage that was so absolute that he lost it. That was when Company A, 3rd Reconnaissance Battalion, 3rd Marine Division, was in action against the Vietcong near Danang. Gearhart, his best buddy Emanuel "the Man" Slatkin-"of the Brooklyn, NY, Slatkins," as he was proud of saying, always pronouncing his home state En-Why-and three other men were part of Lieutenant Leonard Ax's advance party that had deeply penetrated heavily controlled enemy territory. The Vietcong suddenly opened fire from six different concealed positions, cutting off the five men from the main party. When Lieutenant Ax was cut down at the start, Slatkin took over the deployment of the remaining troops, organizing a base of fire while managing to kill four Vietcong and silence an automatic weapons position on his own. While Gearhart concentrated on the killing, that short little pecker Slatkin kept everyone's spirits up, kept them fighting, and helped keep them alive until the main body could cut through, drive the Vietcong back-the bastards usually didn't like to hang around for a fair fight-and get them the hell out.

That was when Slatkin stepped into a Hanoi Two-Fuck. They called it that because first you got screwed in a figurative sense; and second you literally got fucked when a thin, sharp eighteen-or-so-inch stake, usually bamboo but sometimes steel, attached to a horizontal arm, came slashing at you from camouflage hiding and penetrated your belly. Penetrated with such incredible force that it came out your back and dragged you with it, pinning you to whatever was behind you. Often, it was another soldier.

There's a moment, just before the Hanoi Two-Fuck impales you, when you know it's coming. It's a moment filled with the worst sound in the world: a click that means you stepped on the hidden trigger, like a tiny landmine, that launches the arm. Even keeping your foot on the trigger won't save you. Once it's sprung, it's sprung. Dropping won't save you either because the stake conies too fast and will still get you in the chest or head.

Gearhart was to the right of Slatkin. about three feet away, when they heard the click. They looked at each other. They knew what the sound was, though for a second they weren't sure which of them was going to get two-fucked. The ground was thick with vines and rocks and it was impossible to know whether you'd stepped on the trigger or not.

They just stared into one another's eyes for what seemed like forever until the Two-Fuck came shrieking from behind some goddamn plant and, covered with leaves, smashed through Slatkin. Two-Fucks were often set up in pairs, since the instinct of a soldier was to go to his buddy and the Cong could get two for the bloody price of one. So all Gearhart could do, all anyone could do, was watch as Slatkin was dragged back, his toes lifted off the ground, his heels digging through the ground, and was whammed into a tree.

They had to leave Emanuel Slatkin of the Brooklyn, En-Why, Slatkins hanging from the tree there while they searched the ground for the other Two-Fuck and disarmed it. Fortunately, Slatkin only lived for about a half minute after being skewered. But during those thirty seconds, Gearhart screamed inside with a helpless pain that he'd never experienced before or since. Only after he was sure the man was dead did he let it out. And there were times he thought he was still screaming, still wanting to punish the fucking Cong. Or any one or thing that killed with that kind of cold sadism.

Like now.

Standing by the fifth wheeler, looking again for anything that might tell him who or what was behind this, Sheriff Gearhart was getting close to popping-very close. He hadn't been able to finish the job in Vietnam or in Los Angeles, but he was damn well going to finish the job here. The job he was supposed to be able to do better than anyone else.

People were dying in increasing numbers, a prowler was still out there, and he wasn't getting anywhere. His lab team was still at the beach, so he'd had to request a forensics unit from nearby Ventura County in order to get this site sampled before it rained or the wind blew away clues or camera crews arrived and saw them doing nothing here except scratching their asses while they looked again for footprints or tracks that just weren't here.

And then there was the problem of failing to apprehend this thing before it spilled into another county. Not only would Gearhart lose control of the manhunt to the state police or-worse-the National Guard, he'd lose face. Even when he came home from Vietnam, there was nothing Malcolm Gearhart had been ashamed of personally.

As the sheriff was about to get on the radio-again-and ask for another update from Thomas Gomez and his lab team at the beach, stones suddenly struck the top of the RV and the ground around it. He looked up at the mountainside to the north. Ground appeared to be giving way somewhere near the top, dropping rocks and dirt.

It could be nothing. It could also be the killer.

Gearhart switched the radio from Gomez's frequency to the frequency of the helicopter.

"Officer Russo!" he said to the woman flying the chopper.

"Sir?"

"Take yourself up about two hundred feet," Gearhart said. "Ride the spotlight along this side of the northern peak to the top. I want to see if there's anything there."

"Yes, sir," Russo said.

A moment later the spotlight was crawling from the center of the campsite toward the northern rim.