Chief pulled into Dobbs’s drive at 2:45. He noticed the truck was already gone and hoped Moss knew what he was doing. After cutting off the Chevy’s engine, he made his way to the front door and knocked loudly on the sturdy oak. His knock was answered shortly after.

“Bob, come in.”  Chief noticed the shotgun in Dobbs's left hand.

“How long ago did Mort leave,” Chief asked entering the cabin. 

“Around eleven-thirty.”

“Damn,” whispered Chief, shaking his head. “That idiot. What’s he up to?”

Just then, both his children emerged from the back room.

“Chief!” yelled Kelly and ran to him. He knelt down and hugged her.

“You behaving yourself?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Only Coach won’t let us out and we done already finished all our homework.”

Chief glanced at Dobbs.

“Mort’s suggestion. He thinks there’s a possibility Fred’s watching the cabin. Said he may have been planning our every move. He also said something to the effect that whatever Fred had planned, he had already started.”

“I think he’s right, Frank.”

Chief regarded his children. “Joe, Kelly, will you two excuse us, please?”

They nodded and left the foyer. Chief watched as they retreated into the back of the cabin, then, followed Dobbs to the kitchen to be out of earshot of his children. “We found Hank. He was beat up badly and left for dead.”

“My god,” whispered Dobbs. “Is he going to make it?”

“Don’t know yet. He’s got a long way to go.”

“What about the boy, Huey?”

“He’s the one that led Hank out there. He’s taking orders from his father, now.” Chief took a heavy breath and faced the kitchen window. “I’d hate to think we’ve lost that boy, Frank.”He returned to Dobbs. “Fred told Hank, before he left him to die, he plans to kill the boy... as soon as he is no longer useful.”

“That’s it then,” Dobbs said quietly. “Fred's completely gone, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. His own son. I can’t believe it...So what’s Mort up to?’

“He’s got a new theory he said he wanted to check out.”

“And it is?”

Dobbs expression sharpened when he looked at Chief.

“What?” Chief asked.

“On the table.”

Chief crossed the kitchen and removed the drawing from the table. Dobbs watched as the recognition made its way across his face. “You’ve got to be kidding,” Chief said, whipping around to face Dobbs.

“He said to make sure you got that. To tell you that’s where he went.”

“His note was vague, but insinuated that there was some connection.”

“He wasn’t sure. Said he wanted to check it out.”

“Alone?” Chief’s voice took on an edge. “Where the hell did he come up with this?”

“From me,” a small voice spoke behind him. Chief turned.

“From you?” he asked his daughter.

“It’s the tree from my dream, Chief,” Kelly explained. “Remember, the one the bird was in when it dropped the Major on me... and the one Sam was ... was ... stuck in.”

There were tears in her eyes as she choked out the explanation.

“I see,” Chief whispered softly. “Come here,” he said and lowered himself level with the child. She came to him and he put his arms around her. “It’s all right, pumpkin.  Have you ever seen this tree before?”

“That’s what Mr. Mort asked me, Chief. But I don’t remember. Just in the dreams.”

Chief nodded. “It’s all right. Don’t worry, baby, we’ll figure it out.” He hugged her a little longer then let her go. “Kelly, Coach is right about you and your brother staying inside today. I know it will be difficult for you, but I don’t want you to leave this cabin for any reason, okay?”

She nodded. Her eyes were filling again, but with fear instead of tears.

“I don’t mean to frighten you, honey. But I’m not going to tell you there is nothing to be afraid of, either. You understand?”

“Yessir,” she choked out.

“You’ll be perfectly safe here with Coach. I want you to listen to him, all right?”

Again she nodded.

“Good. Try and make this easy on him, okay, pumpkin. He’s doing me a tremendous favor.”

“I understand, Chief.”

He hugged her again and sent her back to the other room. Then he turned back to Dobbs. “I really do appreciate this, Frank.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s no trouble.”

“If there’s ever anything–” Chief noticed the look in Dobbs’s eyes. “There is, isn’t there?”

This time Dobbs turned to the window. “Billy’s run off. I haven’t been able to look for him." 

Chief met him at the window and also gazed out. “What do you mean he’s run off? I thought he always spent time alone in the woods.”

Dobbs turned to face Chief.  “If you could have seen him this morning, Bob.”

“What happened?”

Dobbs turned to the table where the picture still rested ominously on the Formica tabletop. “That damn picture.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We had Billy draw the tree from Kelly’s description. She said she didn’t draw well enough... He was halfway through with it when he just went crazy, Bob. I never saw him like that. Fear...Anger. I don’t know what happened. Mort asked him if he had ever seen the tree before.... Well, it incensed Billy,” Dobbs broke off and stared at Chief. “I never saw him so angry. Hell, I’ve never seen him with an ounce of anger in him before, Bob.... but this morning. He grabbed the half-finished picture from Mort and slammed himself into a chair and finished it on his own, without any help from Kelly. After he was through he stormed out, slamming the door behind him...I haven’t seen him since. I’m really worried.”

“And you couldn’t go after him because of my children,” Chief said softly.

“I thought he’d be back by now.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for him, Frank. When I’m through with Mort, we’ll look for Billy. Don’t worry, though, I’m sure he’ll come back on his own.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“The picture angered him?”

“Yes. And frightened him.”

“And he was able to finish it on his own... Jesus Christ, Frank! How old was Billy when he stopped talking? Nine wasn’t it? Thirteen years ago?”

“Mort came to the same conclusion, Bob. You think it’s possible?”

“He was setting up the trail that day, Frank, for the hounds’ training. The tree was only a mile from the trail... Damn. They probably threatened him to keep quiet."”

"And Billy's solution would be to keep quiet about everything? Never talk again?"

Chief smiled and nodded. “I better get going and find Mort before he gets himself killed.”

“I have Bailey and Millie harnessed in the kennel. Mort has Gaylord with him. They’ll be able to find each other.”

*  *  *  *  *

The tree stood like an anomaly: a large banyan, looking more like a specter, among the indigenous cedar, oak and elm. Halfway up its trunk the hole could still be seen. Dried copper flakes dusted its edges. Moss touched the flakes and rubbed the substance between his fingers. The dried blood fell like a fine powder to the ground. Images of the boy they had found impaled to its trunk thirteen years ago flooded his memory. He had been on many cases involving the destruction of human flesh, as well as spirit; many cases involving children. Always he had been able to keep his distance; always been able to adjust his emotions to suit the task at hand. But that case had been different. He had found himself being caught up in the tide of ritualistic murder, dismemberment, torture and sacrifice. Dr. Jonas. The man was pure evil.

He had run across the doctor’s handiwork in Denver when Moss had found young Jeremy Green, Jonas’s second known victim, wandering the banks of Cherry Creek, three blocks from Moss’s apartment. Because of his work on the Denver Squad, he was offered a position on the Bureau of Investigation’s team assigned to the serial killer’s case. 

To get inside the lunatic was a scary trip indeed, even back then. Jonas had left a trail of bodies from Boulder to Carson City.  Mort had been close, almost too close. The process of familiarizing himself with the killer, and his methods, almost destroyed the BOI agent. His obsession with Jonas, and his allergic reaction to authority had caused him to be transferred to the southeast quadrant, a step down in his career. However, the transfer also gave him a second opportunity to bring the doctor to justice. Only here, in Middleton, the case evolved even further. Jonas hooked up with a benefactor, Barrymore Bartlett, whose own accomplishments in murder had eclipsed Jonas’s murder spree. Here Moss and Broden had unearthed a conspiracy, a murder pact between the two men, suggesting even further involvement with its cultish overtones. 

Now, looking at the tree, he felt he had come full circle. The past and present meshed into a fine fabric of time and space. Gaylord sat at his feet, also staring at the tree. The dog seemed nervous. Was this case related? Or was that something Moss wanted? To have another stab at his theory- that Jonas and Bartlett did not act alone; that the sacrifices and ritualistic murder was cult spawned activity, not the abuses of two conspirators. And that Jonas sacrificed himself to diffuse Moss’s investigation into that possibility; allowing the rest of their brethren to scurry back into the shadows.

Jonas had been waiting for the authorities to show. He had readied a boy, his final sacrifice, for slaughter the instant he was brought down. A soul to give in offering the minute Jonas’s final destination was reached–the price of dominion in hell.

But the evidence Moss compiled was not sufficient according to Perkins, the Regional Director of the BOI (Bureau of Investigations). Both killers had been taken down; there was no reason to continue the investigation. The case was closed. When Moss pushed his point, a little too far, Perkins fired him. The charges: undermining the authority of a superior, insubordination, and threatening a superior with bodily harm.

Sergeant Moss circled the tree. He looked for any sign of disturbance to the ground or the surrounding area. Close to the edge of the tree line in the back Gaylord had found a scent; one he recognized as the scent he had been hunting, day after day, for the last few weeks. But this time it was fresh. His nose to the ground, he strained at his lead, pulling Moss farther and farther into the woods. They walked along a soft pathway, still raw, not yet worn with vegetation strewn across it in threatening clumps. Ten minutes into the heavy thicket brought Moss and the two hounds to an eroded side of a hill. Grasses clung to deep cracks in a solid wall of limestone. Towards the bottom, thick brush knotted in clusters along the base. The hounds insisted on leading him into this thicket. They pulled as far as possible against their leads and disappeared into the weeds.

Moss followed close after, ducking low to avoid the brush, and found he was encircled in rock. The weeded entrance disguised that of a cave, or a short tunnel. The opening was dark and grew darker with every progressive step. Halfway down the narrow stone hollow, Moss’s foot bumped a cylinder. He reached down and picked up a wooden torch. There was a strong scent of charred wood. Moss pulled loose a matchbook from his breast pocket. Two stiff jerks on the leashes brought the dogs to his side. They sat quietly as he lit the match and then lit the torch. The flame filled the cavern with flickering light and prancing shadows. It lit up the walls revealing shapes painted on the stone. Bingo. Moss had seen these shapes before on countless young bodies, in the form of scar tissue. Some he remembered from the bleeding body of Charlie Stevens. Moss drew his gun from his holster and followed the dogs farther into the cave.

The long narrow tunnel led into an alcove. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, water dripping rhythmically off their tips to splash in shallow pools below. Moss held the torch high above his head to get a better look. The dogs pulled at his side, noses entrenched in the smell of their quarry soaking the very atmosphere. Their tails wagged faster, jackknifing the rest of their bodies with them, as they whined at the scent.

Above, the ceiling rose at a sharp angle, continuing forever upwards. The walls around him were sheer, smooth, and impassable. Again the strange paintings adorned them, but the paint was pealing and lacked care. The cave had been unused until its recent inhabitant.

Towards the back, next to what looked like a cave-in, sat a crate. Moss moved close to take a better look. It was filled with empty whiskey bottles- Vanderburgh’s stash. At its right were various cooking utensils: a pot, metal cup, spoon, knife, skewer, etc. None of which were mentioned as items brought by Huey. Someone else was helping the “tiger.” Across from this corner was a pile of small animal skeletons. Moss recognized the squirrel, rabbit and opossum frames.

Moss went over every inch of the cave, taking mental notes of its dimensions, contents, structure, etc. He sat down on a nest of grass and dried leaves and stared out into the emptiness, his back against the wall. He let his mind wander, concentrating on the smells and sounds of his surroundings, and the things that belong to the tiger. He concentrated on the very atmosphere, attempting to get a mental line on the killer. To crawl inside the tiger’s pelt for just a little while and get a sense of what was going on in his head. Moss sat that way for twenty minutes, aware only of the cave and its atmosphere, letting that atmosphere soak into his very soul.  He, in a sense, became the tiger... surveying its world. Seeing life from its perspective as the world was reduced to shadows and shapes of blood-red. Moss felt himself break into a cold sweat, seduced by the wild sense of being that was the tiger. It’s purpose: violence and death. It’s needs: human consumption, and survival. Moss’s breath came in spurts... he grabbed his head in agony as rage took hold like a fever. 

The dogs suddenly looked up from the ground and towards him. They growled, then barked violently, breaking Moss’s concentration.

“It’s all right, boy,” Moss told Gaylord as the dog stared at him, his teeth barred and his hair standing at his shoulders.

At the soothing tone Moss used, the dog dropped his pretenses and wagged its tail.

“Jesus,” Moss whispered. “We have to get out of here–”

As he said it the second dog turned to the entrance and growled. Gaylord joined in, both dogs holding their position; Their stance aggressive and protective of Moss. Moss also turned towards the entrance, his revolver out and ready, expecting Fred Blackney to emerge. Instead, his diligence was rewarded with loud rumblings and spurts of dust billowing from the cave tunnel. Moss was up in an instant, grabbing the leads as he went. He arrived at the entrance just in time to see the avalanche block his escape. Boulders crashed all around him, many rocks broke free to smash down upon him, pummeling him to the ground with their weight.

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