Hunter's Moon

  Hunter’s

  Moon

  by

  Jay

  Heavner

  Canaveral Publishing

  Hunter’ Moon

  by Jay Heavner. All rights reserved

  First edition copywrite©2016 Jay Heavner

  Second edition copywrite©2019 Jay Heavner

  Canaveral Publishing, Cocoa, Florida

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, except where noted, are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, living or dead, places, or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any mean, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without permission from the author.

  Cover design by

  Fineline Printing, Titusville, Florida

  All of the author’s books can be obtained from Amazon.

  Braddock’s Gold Novels

  Braddock’s Gold

  Hunter’s Moon

  Fool’s Wisdom

  Killing Darkness

  Florida Murder Mystery Novels

  Death at Windover

  Murder at the Canaveral Diner

  Murder at the Indian River

  Dedication

  To my loving wife, kids and their spouses, and grandkids.

  Chapter 1

  The early morning night sky was crystal clear, and the temperature was a cool, damp 45 degrees. The Hunter’s Moon had been up all night shining brightly, illuminating the Appalachian hills. In the old farmhouse he had known as home since childhood, Tom Kenney tossed and turned the night away.

  This was far from the first time this had happened, but tonight was different. Usually, the nightmares from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, the ex-Army man had involved the horrible battle at Ia Drang, Viet Nam. Many brave young men on both sides died in the days of the battle. Nor were the night terrors about the tragic death of his first wife, Sarah, killed in an auto accident caused by a drunk driver. Nor was it about the suicide of his older son, Brian, who took his life on the one-year anniversary of his mother’s death over five years ago. The strain of this had sent the young man suffering from schizophrenia over the edge. No, tonight it was different. A new fear ran wild through Tom’s troubled mind. The incident that happened a month ago gnawed inside his head. Why did they let him live? Why didn’t they kill him? Why?

  Tom had been in and out of sleep the whole night. He rolled on his right side and looked at the bright red numbers on the small clock on the dresser, 4:15. How many times had he looked at that clock tonight? He rolled over onto his back and lay there, staring at the high ceiling of the old house. Joann, his second wife, lay sleeping next to him. She had a head cold and hadn’t been feeling well. Her stopped-up nose caused her to snore most of the night.

  Usually, this would have bothered Tom, but tonight the rhythmic noise had been a comfort. He needed someone there, even a snoring, sick, sleeping wife. The light from the Hunter’s Moon peeked around the curtain at the window in the dark bedroom. Tom was now wide awake and knew there would be no more sleep for him tonight. He got out of bed and walked to the window. Pulling the curtain aside, he gazed at the mountain, his mountain, bathed in moonlight. It called to something inside of him, and he knew he must answer. Many times in his life he’d found comfort among the rocks and trees there. Today would be no different.

  He felt the windowpane, and it was cool to his touch. He would need a jacket to fight off the chill this morn. Quickly dressing, he headed for the kitchen and grabbed two apples, two granola bars, and put water in the coffee pot. Today, even though he was in a hurry, he needed real coffee, and he needed his mountain. He waited as the coffee perked. It was then he heard the floorboard behind him creak. He turned with a start. Five feet away from him stood his young stepdaughter Miriah rubbing her sleepy eyes. She had an old rag monkey doll under her arm. “What wrong, Daddy? Bad dreams again?”

  Tom went over to her—picked her up in his strong arms, and tenderly said to her, “Yes, bad dreams again, honey, bad dreams.”

  She hugged him back and smiled at him. “We can’t have that.” She bowed her little head covered in long wavy brown hair and prayed, “Dear Jesus, help my daddy. Chase the bad dreams away. Amen.”

  “Amen,” repeated Tom. Though Tom was her stepdad, she loved him like a father, and Tom loved her, too. She had become the daughter he always wanted. He and his first wife, Sarah, had only boys. “Now,” he said as he put her down, “You get back to bed and tell Mommy I went up on the mountain when you see her in the morning.”

  She nodded her little head, turned, and started out of the kitchen but stopped. She turned, smiled, and said, “Love you, Daddy.”

  Tom responded, “And I love you, too, little darlin’.”

  She turned again and disappeared out of the kitchen. That young lady had Tom wrapped around her little finger. He knew it and didn’t care. Right now, he needed all the encouragement and love available. He took a piece of notepaper and wrote a quick line to Joann telling her of his intent to go up on his mountain. He put it on the counter, filled his mug with coffee, found a bottle of water, and headed toward the back door. Carefully, he opened the door, stepped outside and closed it making a minimum of noise. He did not want to waken his sleeping wife, nor any other member of the family. As he walked away, he heard a questioning and challenging “woof” behind him. “Tripod,” he whispered. “It’s me.”

  With that, Tripod let out a satisfied ‘woof’ hopped up to him on his three good legs and did a little dance around Tom’s feet. “Tripod, be quiet. People are trying to sleep.”

  The dog looked at him knowingly and put his muzzle in Tom’s waiting hands. Tom rubbed the happy dog around his furry head, much to the dog’s delight. Tripod had replaced one of Tom’s two dogs that died recently. Miriah had found him more dead than alive, lying in a ditch along the main road on her way home from school. He’d been hit by a car and had a mangled rear leg. They took him to the county veterinarian who had advised them to put the injured dog down, but Miriah had pleaded for his life. Tom told the dog doctor to do what he could, and to everyone’s surprise except Miriah, the dog lived and recovered quickly. She just had a way with animals.

  Tom started up toward the bottled water warehouse behind the farmhouse with the dog following on all fours, well, all threes as was the case. Tom looked at the happy dog. “Okay, Tripod, you can come along.” He seemed to let out a knowing “woof.”

  Tom looked at the three-legged dog. He seemed to be content just as he was and did not seem to note his missing leg. Tom knew there was a lesson standing with him, but he was in no mood for a lesson right now. The events of that recent painful day crept back into his mind. Why, why did they let him live? Why didn’t they kill him? They told him they would; he knew they would. Why?

  The man and dog walked up to the old barn where Nacho, the Jerusalem donkey, called home. He was there standing next to Eeyore, the little burro taken from a passing, traveling circus by the sheriff. She’d been abused and was sick when the truck carrying her arrived at Tom’s zoo as Miriah called the barn. She worked her loving magic on the little beast who slowly recovered.

  The two members of the horse family walked over to the fence by the road that went up the hollow and through the gap to the big field that sat high between the knobs on this segment of Knobley Mountain.

  “Quiet, you two,” said Tom. “I got something for you.”

  Their ears perked up, and Tom pulled the two apples from his coat pocket and gave one each to the eager animals who gobbled them down. Tom rubbed their heads and necks, which calmed them. They dropped their heads and b
egan to graze on the weeds along the old farm road. Tom turned from the animals and with Tripod following, headed up the rutted two-lane path. The Hunter’s Moon was very bright, allowing Tom to navigate the road, which he knew like the back of his hand. The trees still clung to their multicolored autumn leaves. The moonlight filtered through them. Progress was slow up the steep road, and Tom was in no hurry. He needed to think, and the walk on his mountain brought some peace to Tom’s troubled soul.

  The first hint of daylight appeared above Middle Ridge on the eastern horizon. The lesser light, the Hunter’s Moon, would soon be disappearing behind the imposing landmass known as Allegheny Front, rising to form the western horizon. Between Tom’s location and the front were the North Branch of the Potomac River and river valley. Soon the sun would bath the hills with light, and the brilliant fall colors of the trees would shine. No place on earth had the variety of tree species to produce the kaleidoscope of colors found here in the Appalachian Mountains. The summer had been somewhat dry, but recent soaking rains had provided more than adequate moisture for the brilliant annual display.

  Tripod, now ahead of him, stopped, sniffed the ground, and let out a snort through his nose. Tom looked at what had the dog’s attention. There were tracks in the soft dirt on the road, large tracks that Tom thought must have come from a huge dog, but in the darkness, it was hard to tell. They continued up the road, and the dog stopped again and sniffed at something. Tom bent down to see what the dog had found. Scat. It was not from a large dog but a bear. Tom heard recent stories of bears returning to the local woods, but this was his first for sure confirmation. If there was any question, what a bear does in the woods, Tom had undeniable proof.

  After the inspection of the bruin’s droppings, Tom and his three-legged companion continued up the old mountain road. The first rays of the sun were now peeking over the eastern hills. Soon the majesty of the Creator’s hand would be fully visible. Tom reached the high gap between two of the many knobs of Knobley Mountain. To anyone else, the knobs may have all looked the same, but not to Tom. This was his mountain. This was home. He stopped and looked around. To the east, Patterson Creek Ridge rose like a dinosaur back among the many hills. To the west, the sun’s long rays landed on Dan’s Rock, high on the top edge of the front. The colors were incredible. The maples were a bright orange or yellow. The oak’s colors varied by species. They ranged from scarlet and red to dark orange. Hickories showed a hue of yellows. Here and there, the fall colors were broken by the dark greens of several kinds of pine. Tom came up here to be refreshed in this open-air cathedral, and it was working. A scripture verse came to mind, “I look to the hills from whence comes my strength.” It made perfect sense when he was on his mountain.

  He took a seat on the large flat rock, pulled a granola bar from his pocket, and began to eat it. He offered some to the dog, but he was not interested in the crunchy, sweet bar. Tom pulled a plastic half-liter bottle of water, Knobley Mountain Spring Water, from his hip pocket and took a long drink. His companion hydrated himself earlier from the small spring in the gap.

  Tom’s mind drifted off to the new incident that led to his nearly sleepless night. It started out as just another day, nothing special, just another day. He had taken the truck into Cumberland and was making deliveries in the downtown area. His last stop was at the Cumberland Times-News office. He had backed the truck into the delivery area, unloaded the large order, and took it into the building. A clerk counted the order for accuracy and signed off. Tom then distributed the five-gallon bottles and 1/2 liter cases throughout the four-story building. Everything was routine until he got to the long corridor that led outside in the lower level. The lights had gone off, and he was plunged into total darkness. He heard a door open, footsteps approach and then a blow that knocked him unconscious.

  Sometime later, he awoke and found himself strapped soundly in a chair. Groggy, he looked around. The room was black, except for a single spotlight above him. He was in an island of light in a sea of night darkness. He noted an IV in his strapped-tight, right hand. A tube led to a fluid bag suspended from a pole, tied to the chair that confined him. Tom felt no pain. From this fact, he knew the fluid he was being given contained a sedative, a strong one, but strangely, his mind was remarkably clear.

  Off to the right, he heard a door open in the darkness. Two men walked in front of him. They were dressed in dark pants, white shirts, lab coats, and their heads were covered with white cloth sacks with crude eye holes cut in them.

  The shorter man spoke, “Good day, Mr. Kenney. I trust you are comfortable.” The voice was eerie and computer-enhanced. It sent chills down Tom’s back.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?” asked Tom.

  “Direct and to the point,” the enhanced voice spoke. “I like that quality in a man.”

  “Who are you, and what do you want?’ Tom asked again.

  “Why, I am your Benefactor, and you will provide me with information that I want,” replied the modified voice.

  “What information is that?” Tom continued.

  “Braddock’s gold. You know where it is, and I want that information. You were there at the farm on Patterson Creek when the two men died. You were there. You know where it is.”

  Tom smiled, “Yeah, I was there, or so they tell me. I can’t remember a thing that happened after I left my office that day. It’s locked in my head if it really is there. I’ve been fighting Post Traumatic Stress Disorder since I was a soldier in Vietnam. It’ll bury stuff in your mind, and you can’t remember.”

  The short man stiffened, and he pointed his finger at Tom. “You will give us the information, or you will die. My assistant here has a lethal dose of morphine waiting for you if we don’t get that information.”

  “I don’t know. It’s just not there,” pleaded Tom.

  The short man paused for a moment and spoke to Tom, “Then you will die.” He nodded knowingly to the big man next to him who had said nothing. The big man stuck the syringe into the IV and injected a clear fluid slowly.

  “I really don’t know, I really don’t know,” he pleaded again.

  Soon the clear fluid took effect, and Tom lost consciousness.

  The next thing he remembered was awakening in the hospital with Joann sitting beside his bed. He was alive. Why didn’t they kill him? Why did they let him live? He couldn’t stop them. Why?

  Chapter 2

  Back on the mountain, Tripod, who had been lying next to him sleeping, stirred, rose, stretched out his legs with his rump in the air, and then yawned. He gave a little snort, one that Tom was used to. He never had a dog who snorted as much as Tripod.

  Tom felt a giggle in his coat pocket. His phone was on vibrate mode. He looked at the number. Joann was calling, and it jiggled two more times before he could hit the green on button. “Hello,” Tom answered.

  “Hello yourself, you big and handsome lug. I saw your note, and Miriah told me you went up on the mountain.”

  Tom asked, “Are you feeling better? You looked so peaceful there sawing logs with that cold and all—I didn’t want to wake you. Figured the extra sleep would do you good.”

  “Thank you for letting me sleep, and what do you mean I was snoring, you big lug? And oh, did I say I love you?” “And I love you too, honey,” Tom replied. “You feelin’ better?”

  “Yes, much better and hungry. I could eat a bear.”

  “Come on up here, and you may see one.”

  “No! Did you see one? Are they really here?”

  Tom responded, “I didn’t see one, there was definitely one here. You know what they say. Does a bear chip in the woods? This one did in the old road coming up here. Have you had breakfast?”

  “Yeah, I had some cereal and Florida orange juice. Why?”

  “Well, I thought maybe you could fix up a picnic basket, bring it up here, and we’d have lunch here on the mountain. What do you think? Are you up to it?”

  Joann was quiet for a couple of seconds. “Yeah, I
think so. What do you want in this picnic basket?”

  “Oh, some fruit, Knobley Mountain Bottled Water, of course, veggies and sandwiches.”

  “Anything else you can think of or need?”

  “No, that sounds good. What time shall we rendezvous?”

  “How’s 11:00 sound to you?”

  “Good, up at your thinking spot?”

  “Yup, see ya there at 11:00. Love you.”

  “I love you, too. See you there. Bye.”

  The phone clicked off—Tom was alone on the mountain with Tripod, who was back asleep. Tom looked around him. A jet was passing overhead and left a white contrail behind it. The sun was high in the eastern sky and warming up everything, including Tom. He was on his mountain, and he was comfortable here. He took off the jacket and laid it on the ground next to him. No sooner had he laid it down, then the pocket began to move. The phone was vibrating. Someone was calling. Probably Joann wants to know if he needed mustard or mayo on his sandwich. He pulled the jiggling phone out of the jacket, looked at the number on the screen. Strange, 000-000-0000 it read. Not Joann, but who could it be?

  “Hello, who is this?”

  “This is your Benefactor, Mister Tom Kenney. You remember me?” said the creepy, computer altered voice. A chill went up Tom’s back. His Benefactor. That was the name the man with the white lab coat and the sack on his head had used. He was the one who kidnapped Tom and told him he would kill him if he did not tell him where the gold was. And then he didn’t. Why had he let him live?

  “We need to talk,” said the computer-generated voice, “now.”

  Another cold chill went up Tom’s back after he heard the computer altered voice in his ear. He stood stunned. How did he get my number? And then it came to him. He’d had his cell phone with him when he was kidnapped in the basement of the newspaper office in nearby Cumberland, Maryland. Tom was dumbfounded. He continued to stand there, mute.