Max Helsing and the Beast of Bone Creek Page 8

  “Nope. How hard can it be?”

  Max spent the next few minutes losing his change and mind simultaneously, mistakenly pouring Syd’s money into the machine at every opportunity. Even the reporter was observing Max’s antics, apparently finding the boy’s drama more entertaining than interviewing the horde of hunters. Finally resorting to reading the instructions on the machine, Max carefully fed the remaining coins into the slot and made the call. Moments later, Jed answered and Max recounted what had occurred since they’d arrived in Bone Creek.

  “I’m gonna have to look into this, Max,” said Jed. “Ain’t heard much about monstrous activity in the White Mountains. Gimme the night to research things and I’ll see what I can turn up.”

  “Get Wing on it too. He’ll find you all the latest rumors and supernatural news from the Weird Web. If there have been any strange sightings in these parts recently, Wing will find them.” Max paused for a moment. “This is unusual for New Hampshire, right? Y’know, bigfoot. I’m not taking crazy pills, am I?”

  “Sasquatch activity is recorded in most of the United States, although particularly prevalent in some areas more than others. Most infamously you’ve got the Pacific Northwest, top of the heap being Washington State. Then there’s plenty of bigfoot sightings in California, Oregon, even across the country, way down in Florida, where you’ve got all that swampland. Great place for a cryptid to hide out. But New Hampshire? That’s a new one on me.”

  “This one was no killer, Jed.”

  “So you say.”

  “And there’s the other stuff,” said Max. “The rock drake, the water nymph, the brownie. That’s more than just a coincidence, right? Something’s going down in Bone Creek; I can feel it.”

  Jed chuckled down the line. “You sound like me now. Listen, can you get back to this phone sometime in the morning?”

  “I’ll try to. Won’t be easy. Whedon’s got us all on lockdown back at the lodges. He’s only brought us to town today for shopping, but it seems like every crazy with a hunting license has descended upon the town since yesterday.”

  “You be careful. I don’t just mean about the monsters, son. It’s the people you oughta be worried about, especially those weekend warriors.”

  “I’m way ahead of you, Jed. We’ll be keeping our distance. How’s Eightball?”

  “He’s fine. Pining for you, though. Lots of excess drool and more gas than usual. He’s been sleeping on your bed, poor pup.”

  “Oh, man, you promised to keep him out of my room, Jed! It’s gonna take ages to get his stink out of my sheets! And the slobber stains too!”

  More chuckling from Jed.

  Max growled as he caught on to what Jed was finding so funny. “He hasn’t been on my bed, has he?”

  “Nope.”

  “You haven’t allowed him in my room either.”

  “Correct.”

  “You really are a meanspirited old devil, aren’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Take care, Jed. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Somehow.”

  Max hung up, stifling a smile. It was good to hear his mentor’s voice.

  “Couldn’t help but hear you talking about the bigfoot there, Sport!”

  The speaker was behind Max, making him start with surprise. He and Syd turned to find the reporter stepping out from the bushes beside the pay phone. How long he’d been there, Max couldn’t tell, but it was clear he’d been eavesdropping on his conversation.

  “Guess you couldn’t,” said Syd, “what with hiding in the shrubbery there and listening in on a private phone call.”

  “Hey, hush now, Precious—I was talking to Sport, here.”

  Max had never seen Syd lost for words, but the reporter had succeeded in achieving that very phenomenon.

  “The name’s Lyle Cooper. Write for Grapevine—you may have heard of us?”

  He held a card out to Max, which the boy didn’t take. Cooper reached out and popped it into the breast pocket of Max’s jacket.

  “You’re a real piece o’ work, you know that?” said Max, batting Cooper away and taking Syd by the arm. He tried to step around the man, but the shiny-haired journo remained in their way, blocking their route. “You gonna step aside? Or do we call the police? ‘Journalist Stalker Harassing Minors’—that’s going to make a swell story, isn’t it?”

  “I tell you what will make a swell story, Sport,” said Cooper, his white teeth shining bright as he pulled a roll of bills out of his jacket pocket. “Whatever you can tell me about the Beast of Bone Creek. Word is you kids are staying in the lodges on the river, real close to where those folks went missing.”

  Max stared at the roll of bills. There had to be two hundred dollars there, and then some.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, following Syd as she barged past the reporter. “We saw nothing.”

  “Yeah?” said Cooper, pursuing the two as they made their way back down the street in the direction of the school bus. “I heard your little chat on the phone back there. Who were you talking to?”

  The man continued to call after them as they hurried back to the bus.

  “Better I pay you for that information than find out about it myself. Because I will, Sport. I promise you that. Lyle Cooper always gets his scoop!”

  THIRTEEN

  THE BRITISH ARE COMING

  “This is too easy,” said Boyle. “I want a moving target, a real animal to aim at. Not a butt-ugly fake warthog!”

  Max’s mind was elsewhere as they made their way along the trail, stopping intermittently to fire arrows at rubber animals that were placed strategically around the forest. This was field archery. Each mannequin bore a multi-colored target, the bright yellow bull’s-eye marking the kill shot. There were five kids in their group—Max, Syd, Boyle, Ripley, and Shipley.

  “Why have you and I never gone on a date, Perez?”

  Max tripped as he walked along, and heard Syd’s gasp of horror. Boyle carried on.

  “Why do you keep giving me the cold shoulder? I cannot for the life of me see the appeal in hanging around with Helsing.”

  Max winced as he felt the older boy flick his right ear from behind. He bit his lip and walked on. He made a point of staying out of the conversation; Syd was more than capable of handling Boyle. Better, if anything. Instead, Max scanned the maze of firs, eyes flitting from one trunk to the next, scouring the dark places between. His sense of unease was constant now.

  A distant gunshot echoed through the forest. The sound of birds taking flight followed. It wasn’t the first gunfire they’d heard recently.

  “Hunters?” said Shipley. “You think they found bigfoot?”

  Max hoped to goodness they hadn’t found the Sasquatch.

  “You’re quiet, Helsing,” said Boyle. “Wet gives? Some-thing dampened your spirits? Water you thinking?”

  His friends laughed in unison, clearly appreciating Boyle’s river-related puns. The bully’s grating guffaw was like a knife down Max’s spine. He yearned to take a swing at him, but Whedon’s threat was still ringing in his ears.

  “Hey, Helsing.” Another shove in his back. “I’m talking to you.”

  “Leave him alone, Boyle,” said Syd, but the bully ignored her, planting a booted foot on Max’s rump. He fell forward, sprawling in the bracken.

  “You know what makes you and me different, Helsing?”

  Max turned back to the bully, his fuse snapped.

  “Besides halitosis and chronic body odor?”

  Max saw the look of shock on the faces of Boyle’s friends, but he also spied Syd’s smile. Boyle snarled.

  “You’ll never have a chance with Perez.”

  “What are you talking about?” Max’s astonishment was shared by Syd.

  “You’re like a kid brother to her,” said Boyle. “You could never bag
a date.”

  Max laughed. “Bag a date? She’s my friend. Not that you’d know what one looks like, Kenny.” Max pointed at Ripley and Shipley. “You’ve bought Tweedledum and Tweedledee here through intimidation. They’re lapdogs. Flunkies. And they’d drop you like a hot potato if your dad lost his job tomorrow.”

  Boyle looked to his friends, but they’d suddenly taken a keen interest in their bootlaces, the undergrowth, the trees. The bully stepped up to Max and smiled.

  “Tell you what, Helsing,” he said, jabbing Max in the chest with a finger. “Seems we’re both bickering over the same thing here.”

  “We are?”

  “Perez,” said Boyle with a casual wave of the hand in her direction. “So here’s what we do. You and I each take a shot at the next target. Whoever gets nearest the bull’s-eye wins Perez.”

  “Say what?” said Syd, suitably shocked.

  “Yeah,” said Max. “What she said.”

  “Whoever wins,” said Boyle, “gets the girl. At the very least, I’m expecting a kiss.”

  “Listen up, Boyle,” said Syd, her rage simmering. “I ain’t some prize that’s on offer. And I sure as hell won’t ever be claimed by a creep like you. The only kiss you’ll be getting is from my fist, and I don’t give a damn who your daddy is.”

  Max placed a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back.

  “Let’s do this,” whispered Max.

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “I’ve never been thinking clearer, actually. Let him think he’s gonna win you—”

  “MAX!” Syd protested, but he interrupted her tirade.

  “Hear me out, Syd. We both know you’re not an object to be fought over, but this is a great opportunity to get him off our backs for good. I want to wager something else the other way. I’ve got a plan, I swear.”

  “But what if he wins?” she hissed.

  “Hey,” said Max, sticking two thumbs up and aiming them at his chest. “This is me you’re talking to.”

  Syd shook her head as Max turned back to Boyle.

  “We’ll take that wager,” said Max. “But I don’t want to win this maiden’s fair hand. She fell for me hard long, long ago.”

  “Don’t push it, numbnuts,” growled Syd.

  “If I win, you get off my back. Permanently. And I don’t mean just me. You quit bullying. Period.”

  Boyle didn’t even hesitate. He spat on his hand and held it out. Max slapped it with his palm, and the deal was done. The two boys took their places, standing side by side. Through the trees, down an incline, and partially obscured by bushes was a life-size rubber dummy of a stag. At the center of its broad chest, Max spied the target, as big as a dinner plate, the bright yellow circle marking the bull’s-eye.

  Boyle stepped up to the mark, nocking an arrow in his bow. “Pucker up, Perez. This kiss better be good.”

  Boyle let fly, the missile hurtling through the forest, straight toward the fake deer. The beast juddered as it was struck in the chest. The arrow had found the bull, narrowly missing the red ring that surrounded it.

  “Boo-ya!” shouted Boyle, going nose to nose with Max. “Beat that, Helsing!”

  Max turned his spit-flecked face away. “Say it, don’t spray it, dude.”

  Boyle was clearly a competent archer. What he didn’t know, though, was that this wasn’t the first time Max had held a bow. Jed had long ago converted the unremarkable-looking garage at Helsing House into a training arena, with all manner of archaic weapons decorating the interior walls.

  Max brought the bow up, arrow set, string drawn taut across his cheek. He allowed himself to breathe once, twice; third time was the charm.

  The arrow took flight.

  The kids went up on their toes, peering over the bushes and down the incline toward the stag. The second arrow quivered beside the first, a touch farther toward the center of the bull’s-eye. That is, dead center. Max turned to a stunned-looking Boyle as Syd high-fived him.

  “So, about our deal, Kenny—”

  They all heard the unmistakable twang of a bow, followed by a resounding thud as a third arrow found the target. All heads turned that way, as Max and Boyle both peered through the trees at the peppered stag. The final arrow had also found the bull’s-eye, splitting Max’s in two, the severed parts curling away like a freshly peeled banana skin.

  Booted footsteps sounded in the forest behind them as a towering figure emerged from the shadows. The young man was as big as a brick outhouse and clad in black biker leather, looking every inch the Terminator on steroids. A gigantic longbow was slung over one shoulder, while an enormous ax head poked up from across his back. Syd was already smiling before he spoke.

  “Robin Hood.” Abel Archer smiled, winking to the girl. “He’s got nothing on me.”

  Some folk rubbed Max the wrong way. Whedon was high on the list. Boyle also had a divine ability to set Max’s teeth on edge every time he opened his mouth. But there was one person who made Max prickle with irritation like no other, whenever his lantern-jawed chin loomed into view: Abel Archer.

  “Now then, my dear sweet things,” said the smooth-voiced Englishman. “Who here has anything useful to tell me regarding the Beast of Bone Creek? There’s a shiny dollar in it for you.”

  Sure enough, a silver dollar appeared between the thumb and forefinger of a black-gloved hand. Archer played it across his fingers. He was only a few years older than Max, but Archer had years of monster hunting under his belt, many of which had been kills. That wasn’t Max’s way. Where possible, the boy from Gallows Hill tried to relocate and protect many of the monsters he encountered. Archer shared no such interest.

  “No takers, chaps?” he said, showing the coin once more to the kids.

  Boyle slapped it out of Archer’s hand, and only the Brit’s lightning-quick reflexes stopped it from flying into the undergrowth.

  “Who invited Harry Potter?” said Boyle, sneering at Archer. Boyle was a good six inches shorter than the Brit. Max had seen just how tough Archer was, and knew a freckle-faced grunt from Gallows Hill would provide no contest to the giant should he choose to take him down.

  “I seem to have upset you, young fellow,” said Archer. “Do accept my sincere apologies if we’ve got off on the wrong foot. Perhaps it was my crass offer of monetary compensation for any pertinent titbits I could elicit from your traveling companions? Maybe that’s what’s got your knickers in a twist?”

  Boyle didn’t answer. He was still trying to process Archer’s words and translate them into American English.

  “Abel,” said Syd with a smile.

  “Ms. Perez,” said Archer, bowing his head politely. “Radiant as ever.”

  Max took hold of Archer by one enormous bicep and pulled him away. “Hey, Boyband. Let’s you and I have a chat, okay?”

  “Adieu, my carrot-headed acquaintance,” said Archer, saluting Boyle casually as Max hauled him back into the undergrowth. “Until we next cross wits!”

  “Wow,” said Max when the two got a bit of distance from the others. “I never thought I’d see the day where you and I had something in common.”

  “What’s that?” asked Archer, tousling his fashionable mane of hair. “Monster hunting?”

  “No. An enemy in Kenny Boyle.”

  “Yes, he’s an odious little weasel, isn’t he? How does one tolerate his company?”

  “One doesn’t,” said Max. “Look, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Could ask you the same thing,” said Archer, leaning against a tree as he took in the scenery. “Last time I saw you I was saving your bum in Gallows Hill. How did you end up here in the wilderness?”

  “It’s a school trip.”

  “You came bigfoot hunting on a school trip? That’s a bit rich!”

  “No!” said an exasperated Max. “That all happened since we
got here.”

  Archer nodded as he peered around the tree, back toward the huddle of teens who were watching the pair suspiciously. Only Syd didn’t have a look of concern. Truth be told, she looked rather pleased to see Archer, much to Max’s annoyance. He had no reason to be jealous, but somehow the stupid Brit had managed to charm his friend with his stupid hair, stupid good looks, and stupid accent.

  “Seems you’re a trouble magnet then, Max,” he said, plucking a twig from a tree branch.

  “Must be, if you’re here.”

  Archer opened his jacket, revealing not only rows of knives and smaller weapons, but also black cord snares and tripwires.

  “Sasquatch is quite the draw for any hunter. Especially if monsters are one’s specialty.”

  “So you’re here on a trophy hunt?”

  Archer leaned forward and put an arm around Max’s shoulder. It felt like someone had laid a log across his back.

  “I’ve got a client who alerted me to this sighting.”

  “The story only broke this morning!”

  “I’m nothing if not on the ball,” said Archer with a smile. “Got here as quick as my Harley could bring me. There’s a whole host of hunters turned up in town.”

  Max sighed. “I saw them. Weekend warriors, Jed called them.”

  “The amateurs, sure, but there are some hard-core pros among them too. I’ve gotta bag this furry fiend before anyone else does. It won’t be an easy one.”

  Max snapped his fingers. “Here’s an idea: why don’t you not hunt it, and if there is a Sasquatch in Bone Creek, you can leave it alone?”

  Archer’s smile slipped. “You seem to be forgetting the first rule of monster hunting, Max. The clue’s in the job title: monster hunting. These are killers. We kill them before they kill any of us. Like those poor saps who were camping on the riverbank.”

  “We don’t know they’re dead yet,” Max cut in. “They could be lost anywhere in the White Mountains.”

  “You know as well as I that those two are dead.”

  Max was shaking his head, but a grim part of him suspected Archer was right. It was preposterous to believe they’d simply gotten up and gone for a stroll in the middle of the night, leaving everything behind. Bigfoot might not have been the culprit, but something wicked was at play in the woods.