The Last Rakosh

“About a mile back. Right near mile marker fifty-one-point-three, to be exact. We stopped but could not stay parked on the shoulder-we’d have had the police asking what happened-so we pulled in here.”

“We’ve got to find it.”

“Nothing I’d like better, although I have a feeling you’d prefer to see it dead.”

“Very perceptive.”

“An interesting area here,” Oz said. “Right on the edge of the Pine Barrens.”

Jack cursed under his breath. The Barrens. Shit. How was he going to locate Scar-lip in there-if that was where it was? This whole area was like a time warp. Near the coast you had a nuclear power plant and determinedly quaint but unquestionably twentieth century towns like Smithville and Leeds Point. West of the Parkway was wilderness. The Barrens-a million or so unsettled acres of pine, scrub brush, vanished towns, hills, bogs, creeks, all pretty much unchanged in population and level of civilization from the time the Indians had the Americas to themselves. From the Revolutionary days on, it had served as a haven for people who didn’t want to be found. Hessians, Tories, smugglers, Lenape Indians, heretical Amish, escaped cons-at one time or another, they’d all sought shelter in the Pine Barrens.

And now add a rakosh to its long list of fugitives.

“We’re not too far from Leeds Point, you know,” Prather said, an amused expression flitting across his sallow face. “The birthplace of the Jersey Devil.”

“Save the history lesson for later. Are you sending out a search party?”

“No. No one wants to go, and I can’t say I blame them. But even if some were willing, we’ve got to be set up in Cape May tonight for our show tomorrow.”

“That leaves me.”

If Scar-lip got too much of a head start, he’d never find it...which Jack could live with unless the drive to kill Vicky was still fixed in its dim brain. Seemed unlikely, but Jack couldn’t take the chance.

“You’re not seriously thinking of going after it.”

Jack shrugged. “Know somebody who’ll do it for me?”

“May I ask why?” Oz said.

“Take too long to tell. Let’s just leave it that Scar-lip and I go back a ways, and we’ve got some unfinished business.”

Oz stared at him a moment, then turned and began walking back toward his trailer.

“Come with me. Perhaps I can help.”

Jack doubted that, but followed and waited outside as Oz rummaged within his trailer. Finally he emerged holding something that looked like a Gameboy. He tapped a series of buttons, eliciting a beep, then handed it to Jack.

“This will lead you to the rakosh.”

Jack checked out the thing: a small screen with a blip of green light blinking slowly in one corner. He rotated his body and the blip moved.

“This is the rakosh? What’d you do- rig it with a Lojack?”

“In a way. I have electronic tell-tales on our animals. Occasionally one gets loose and I’ve found this to be an excellent way to track them. Most of them are irreplaceable.”

“Yeah. Not too many two-headed goats wandering around.”

“Correct. The range is only two miles, however. As you can see, the creature is still within range, but may not be for long. Operation is simple: Your position is center screen; if the blip is left of center, the creature is to the left of you; below center, it’s behind you, and so on. You track it by proceeding in whatever direction moves the blip closer to the center of the screen. When it reaches dead center, you’ll have found your rakosh. Or rather, it will have found you.”

Jack swiveled back and forth until the locator blip was at the top of the faintly glowing screen. He looked up and found himself facing the shadowy mass of trees west of the Parkway. Just as he’d feared: Scar-lip was in the pines.

But this’ll help me find it, he thought.

And then something occurred to him.

“You’re being awfully helpful.”

“Not at all. My sole concern is for the rakosh.”

“But you know I’m going to kill it if I find it.”

‘Try to kill it. The pines are full of deer and other game, but the rakosh can’t use them for food. As you know, it eats only one thing.”

Now Jack understood. “And you think by giving me this locator, you’re sending it a care package, so to speak.”

Oz inclined his head. “So to speak.”

“We shall see, Mr. Prather. We shall see.”

“On the contrary, I doubt anyone will ever see you again.”

“I’m not suicidal, trust me on that.”

“But you can’t believe you can take on a rakosh single-handed and survive.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Jack headed for his car, relishing the look of concern on Oz’s face before he’d turned away. Had he sounded confident enough? Good act. Because he was feeling anything but.

Jack hurried to the food area and bought half a dozen bottles of Snapple, plus an Atlantic City souvenir T-shirt, a ciggy lighter, and a newspaper. Then he moved his car to a far corner of the rest area by the RIDESHARE INFO sign and emptied the Snapple bottles onto the asphalt.

Shame to waste the stuff but it seemed Snapple was about the only thing that came in glass bottles these days.