There was a wild animal in the forests of Boone.

The moon cast its tired light over the woods, but the animal steered clear of even that meager illumination… the shadows were its refuge, and it scurried from cover to cover so that it might remain unseen. It watched the kindling of the blaze, saw the arrival of the six—was almost sighted, in fact, but the shadows proved a faithful ally. Days later, with eyes wide and trembling, it camped by the shack in the deep forest until it watched its own damnation, all the while wondering if it could stop it—but it was a muted, clinical wondering. It never actually tried, nor did it mean to.

Then came the shootout, the car, the struggle, and, at long last—the 7th device. So close all along… and now, so very far away.

It raised its hands, noting the cold metal bracelets that affixed it to the table…

There was a wild animal in custody of Boone PD.

He sat in the holding cell, handcuffs chained to that stained table. He was bruised, and he was bloodied, but it was the hollow look to his single unpatched eye that made the police chief squirm.

"You know what we've arrested you for?"

The boy's head twitched—whether in a nod of yes or no was unclear.

"You'd better get talking… start at the beginning."

The boy locked gaze with the chief, an expression of fear on his face.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"It doesn't have a beginning," the boy said. His voice was breathy, heavy with emotion the Chief couldn't read.

"Start with Trent, then," the Chief commanded. "What happened that night?"

The boy's one eye searched the empty table, replaying memories he'd relived a thousand times. "Can you hear it?" he asked, look still distant.

The Chief heard only the scratchy hum of an AC unit in need of replacing. "Hear what?" he asked.

"The music," the boy said, before he suddenly began to buck and writhe against his restraints. The Chief stood instinctively, hand lowering to his weapon, but he could see that the cuffs held the thrashing boy firmly to the table. He was trembling with rage now—or was it sorrow?—but his struggling was a futile thing, and soon the boy realized it, and he slowed back to a fevered rocking. "Can you hear it?" the boy again asked, clattering weakly against his restraints. With the pained look on his face, and the tears that welled in his unpatched eye, the question was perhaps the most pathetic thing the Chief had ever heard.

Offering no answer, the Chief backed out of the room, head shaking in pity. A job for the shrinks, then—and if they couldn't get useful info out of him, the courts would still have their day.

"I need them!" the boy shouted from behind the now-shut door. "Please, I'm drowning!" And then came broken, quiet weeping that had every officer in range listening with downturned eyes. Of the five in the immediate vicinity of the holding cell, only one, Nora Campbell, had any idea what had happened… and she wouldn't dare tell the rest, for she knew how crazy it would all sound.

The Chief wanted the beginning? She understood why the boy said there was none… or maybe, it's that there were too many. In a way, it started six days ago: July 11th, 1981. In another way, it started as far back as the turn of the century, or it started as recently as yesterday. But the beginning that troubled her the most? The fourth of May, 1973.

For on that night, two men sat in an idling car, the older writing his secrets in a cramped, arthritic scrawl. That was the night of the great and terrible favor… the night of so many questions at long answered.

It was, in essence, a righting of Nora's greatest personal failing.

That was the night the hunt formally began.