Nightman: A Paul and Sarah Manhart Cryptozoological Adventure Book 2

By J. Allen Denelek

Something evil is prowling the vast forests of upper Vancouver Island, and it’s not human. A rogue sasquatch that has learned to enjoy hunting humans is on the loose and only one man, self-styled “bigfoot tracker-Jake Verity, knows about it and the danger it poses. Obsessed with killing the beast before it can find its next victim, Verity turns to the world’s foremost–and only–husband and wife team of cryptozoologists, Paul and Sarah Manhart, to help him find the creature and end its reign of terror once and for all. Unfortunately, none of them expect the monster to be as cunning and dangerous as it turns out to be, resulting in a struggle for survival that will pit Paul and Sarah against an abomination of nature more determined and more evil than anything they have ever encountered before. An exciting novel based on conjectured Sasquatch behavior!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adventures Unlimited Press
• Release date: Mar 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781939149084

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Pain shot through the old man’s chest, making him certain his sixty-year old lungs were about to burst, but he had no choice but to keep running–and hard. To stop–to pause for even a moment–would mean his death.

The man flung himself faster through the nearly impenetrable sea of green that encircled him, running with a speed he never imagined himself capable of. Fortunately, he was on a fairly steep downhill slope where he could use momentum and gravity to give him the speed of an Olympic sprinter. Had it been level or uphill, he would have been dead already.

Tearing through the thick underbrush at such a pace was not without its risks; twice his boots had caught on a moss-encrusted log, sending him sprawling to the soft forest floor, but each time he quickly regained his footing and continued his relentless race out of the dark and suddenly dangerous forest. He had only a single destination in mind: to make it to the logging road–just a few hundred yards ahead. It was his only chance for survival.

As he ran, he knew it was gaining on him. He could hear it–not more than a few hundred yards behind him now–moving with an agility no creature that size had a right to. He had started with close to a half mile head start on the thing; in the five minutes it had taken him to make his way to the bottom of the mountain it had almost entirely erased that advantage.

The sound of wet lumber snapping as the creature burst through the tree line sent another charge of adrenaline through the man’s exhausted frame, giving him the impetus he needed to keep going. It was only another fifty yards, he believed. Any further than that and he was certain the beast would have him.

It was going to be close as it was.

Clearing a final fern-entangled log with the dexterity of a teenager, he emerged onto the deserted logging road that knifed through the forest like a badly healed scar. He quickly spotted his dilapidated pickup sitting forlornly at the edge of the road as though dutifully awaiting its master’s return and raced for it, determined not to fail now that he was so close to salvation.

He reached the truck just as a wave of nausea swept over him but he fought though it as he pulled himself into the cab with a single fluid motion. Jamming the key into the worn ignition, he silently prayed it would start on the first try for a change and was rewarded with a factory-fresh growl of power as the ancient engine roared to life. He caught a glimpse of the creature charging onto the road not more than thirty feet behind him through the cracked driver’s side mirror and desperately jammed the truck into gear. Punching the gas hard, the old truck fishtailed hard to the right just as the beast reached the tail gate, and he instantly felt a rush of satisfaction pour through his aching frame as the machine bounded out of the creature’s grasp. Careening onto the road in a swirling cloud of dust, he glanced once more through his rear view mirror to see the animal standing on the edge of the road, its eyes burning with an almost maniacal hatred. Within seconds it was lost to view around a bend and the man at last permitted himself to take a deep breath. Willing his heartbeat back to something approaching normal, he permitted himself a brief smile as he realized that he had bested the creature.

The sense of vindication lasted only a second, however, as suddenly the creature’s guttural scream of rage tore through the still, warm air, filling him with a sense of terror he had never felt before. An eternity seemed to pass before its angry cry faded in the deepening shadows of the forest, leaving in its wake the usual stillness of the forest air and a deep fear indelibly etched upon his heart.

It would be weeks before he would enjoy a full night’s sleep again, but at least now the man knew about the creature and just how dangerous it really was. Even better, he knew it had to be killed before it could kill again.

The only question was when and how would he do it.

And whether he would survive the attempt.

I

The forest was quiet.

As far as Jake Verity was concerned, it was too quiet.

Usually the forest was a cacophony of sound: birds screeching, the rasp of dry brush being caressed by the breeze, the gentle wind winding its way through the highest reaches of an ancient fir–but all of that was absent today. Instead a sodden, almost menacing stillness hung over the sea of majestic firs and redwoods of Vancouver Island, as though something bad had happened in these woods and the forest was ashamed to admit it.

Jake continued to work his way through the choking underbrush, careful not to get too far ahead of his three companions. Even at sixty years of age, he was in considerably better shape than the men he was with. In fact, though they averaged a full two decades younger than himself, it was all they could do to keep up.

That was to be expected, however. Years of tramping around these endless mountains had given Jake stamina a cougar would envy which, when combined with a knowledge of the area second to none, made him one of the most experienced trackers on Vancouver Island. That’s why he was so often called upon to lead the search-and-rescue teams looking for those occasional souls who managed to get themselves hopelessly lost in the vast greenery of the island. It was a responsibility he enjoyed, though, for in taking point, he was often the first to spot their missing hiker, and there were few things in life more satisfying than playing a role in saving a person’s life.

Of course, it also meant he was often the first to arrive at the scene of a tragedy–whether it was a plane crash or an unprepared hiker victimized by the elements–but, for every dead hiker he found, there was a missing child rescued which, in Jake’s book, more than tipped the balance in his favor.

Today, though, he felt an ominous heaviness in his spirit, as though this search was destined to end in a body recovery rather than a rescue. He couldn’t be sure how he knew that, but he seemed to have a sixth sense for that sort of thing. All he could do was press on and hope that today, somehow, his hunch was wrong.

Verity carefully worked his way around a massive cluster of Douglas firs toward the top of a small ridge, where he planned to stop and take a moment to scan the horizon. With visibility in the dark forest often limited to a couple dozen yards, any time he could find high ground and scan the surrounding area was to his advantage. It gave him an opportunity to learn the lay of the land–how the valley flowed between two hills, where the game trails were, if there was a river nearby. All were important landmarks, for they allowed him to get inside the head of his quarry–to effectively put himself in their place as they worked their way through the thick underbrush looking for the path of least resistance. In fact, that’s how he normally located his subjects. He just imagined himself lost and then set out in the direction he imagined they would have tried. It rarely failed.

This had been a bad summer for Jake’s tracking skills, however. Over the course of the six years he had been with Vancouver’s volunteer search and rescue division, this was the first time he could remember searching for so many lost hikers–nearly double what it would be in a normal year. More distressing, it was the first time he could remember experiencing so little success. Since April they had found just three out of the nine overdue hikers they had been sent off to find–a dismal success rate of just thirty-three percent. Considering that most years they managed to locate around ninety percent of their subjects, this year was the worst on record, and Jake had absolutely no idea why. It was as if people were simply walking into the vast Canadian wilderness and abruptly disappearing off the face of the earth without so much as a backpack to mark their demise. It was spooky.

But Jake was more hopeful about finding something this time. This wasn’t a case of a lone hiker turning up a week late. These were three Seattle-area businessmen on their annual pilgrimage to the island’s rugged interior whose schedule was as predictable as the tides. These guys had busy lives to get back to; even a couple of hours overdue was cause for concern, and they had not been heard from in almost three days. Fortunately he and his team had the advantage of knowing that the three had a favorite spot on the west shore of Bonanza Lake they regularly camped at, which should make their job a little easier. Though these guys supposedly came to the same general area to do a little fishing, in reality they came to get away from the pressures of urban life and get pleasantly inebriated in the midst of the grandeur of nature. As such, they weren’t going to stray far from one spot–assuming they were in any condition to do so. That would make them much easier to locate than the free wandering nature children the SAR teams normally searched for. Their commitment to convention was Jake’s biggest ally, and he intended to make full use of it.

The top of the ridge leveled off to a broad, tree-choked plateau and Jake stopped to give the others a chance to catch up. The moment’s respite also gave him the opportunity to appreciate the beauty of Vancouver Island’s largely unspoiled scenery for the millionth time. He loved his mountains and his forests, as inhospitable as they sometimes could be. They were a part of him or, more precisely, he was a part of them. As if confirming that belief, far overhead Jake watched a lone eagle wheel in the sunshine, circling as if contemplating making a pass at him. He knew it wouldn’t, of course, for they were kindred souls and they both knew it.

Well, which way, Jake? Bill Matchusek, the local constable and head of the SAR team, puffed as he finally reached the top of the ridge. Though eleven years younger than Verity, he carried an extra twenty pounds that he seemed incapable of losing, and was now paying for it with each step he took. He had proven himself a competent, calm and good-natured fellow, however, and Verity liked the mountie immensely. He smiled at the man, noting the lone bead of sweat rolling down the long, well-defined bridge of his nose.

The lake’s over that way, Jake replied, nodding toward the bright, clear waters barely discernible through a thick grove of hemlock. I’d be willin’ to bet they pitched their tents at the bottom of that bluff there. It’s only a few hundred feet to the water’s edge and it’s out of the wind.

Sounds good to me, Bill replied between gulps of air. Let’s take a breather first though, okay?

Jake nodded and sat down on a massive, fallen log. He shouldn’t set such a grueling pace, he thought as he waited for his friend to catch his breath, and silently decided to slow it down a little.

Why you figure these guys come to this same spot, Jake? Bill asked after a moment, apparently feeling like talking.

Jake shrugged. Beats me why people do anything, nowadays. Just like it here I guess.

Bill nodded. I s’pose, but why here, I wonder? What’s so special about this particular spot? These guys would have to be in pretty good shape to make the hike all the way around to this end of the lake. There’s a nice little campground on the north end right off the highway that would have been far easier to get to. Only real diehards would make the trek to the west side.

Don’t exactly sound like something three well-heeled businessmen would do, does it? Jake agreed. But nowadays . . . who can tell? For all we know they might be triathletes.

Jake knew why Matchusek pondered such things: Jake knew the forest but the constable knew people. Many searchers considered such things trivial or even irrelevant, but to Bill, understanding your quarry was everything. It was those imponderables that were often important, and considering the vast expanses they had to cover, that could mean the difference between finding your missing man or coming up empty-handed.

I’m gonna head on down a ways, Jake announced, tired of waiting. See if I can get a bearing on where they might have made camp. I’ll give you a holler if I find anything.

Bill only nodded as Jake started off toward the lake below, too intent on bringing his heartbeat back to something approaching normal to object to Verity’s insistence on always going off on his own. It was standard SAR procedures to stay together, but Jake often flaunted the unwritten rule, preferring instead to work alone, away from the mindless chatter most of his associates indulged in to break the boredom and tension. A man needed to think out here. You couldn’t find an oil tanker in this jungle, much less a missing man, if you didn’t.

Jake was careful to stay within the boundaries of the natural trail pounded out before him, just as the missing campers would have done. No one tried to bully their way through thick underbrush if they didn’t have to, especially not carrying sixty pound packs. If they had come to this side of the lake as they had in years past, this was the way they would have come.

Verity moved cautiously through the thick brush, his eyes searching intently for anything that didn’t fit among the lush greenery. It was easy to miss things in the forest; he grimly remembered the light plane they found a few years earlier. It was so well concealed by the shadows and the vegetation that he had almost tripped over it. He still shuddered when he recalled the grisly sight of the plane’s eighteen year-old pilot and his girlfriend mashed into the instrument panel. Just a young, dumb kid trying to impress his girlfriend and he ended up flying his Cessna right into the hillside at full throttle. He didn’t sleep well for a month after that one.

A flash of something blue through a gap in the underbrush suddenly caught his eye. Anything that seemed out of place was usually significant, for it often meant something artificial, which translated into something left by humans. He pushed his way through the brush to get a closer look.

It was a small patch of heavy plastic, torn on three sides, impaled upon a bit of brush. He moved toward it slowly, like a cat gingerly pacing a mouse, and picked it up. Blue nylon. Waterproof. Likely part of a tent, he decided. A good chunk of one too–at least a square foot of the stuff. Big enough that whoever owned the tent would notice.

It was unusual to find a loose piece of tent material like this, Jake thought as he moved through the brush, studying the ground for more pieces of the puzzle. His perseverance was instantly rewarded when he soon spotted a larger piece of what looked to be the same material a few yards away, tightly wrapped around a sapling where the wind had carefully deposited it.

Wind generally comes out of the northwest, Jake thought as he looked in that direction for a possible source for the material. In the distance he could just make out a thicket that looked like it might make a decent site for a campsite and he headed for it.

A moment later Jake stepped into a small clearing nestled amongst a trio of evenly spaced firs and immediately knew he had found what he had been searching for. Unfortunately, Jake could feel no pride at the accomplishment for he was too stunned by what he saw.

It was the lost hikers’ campsite to be sure—or, at least what was left of it. Someone—or something—appeared to have torn it to pieces, leaving ripped pup-tents, shredded sleeping bags, and a scattered collection of cooking utensils, coolers, and fishing gear scattered over half an acre of forest floor. What especially impressed Jake was how the tents had been torn apart; they’re built to handle hundred mile an hour wind gusts but these looked to have been ripped apart as though they were made of crepe paper. Not sliced or cut–as with a knife or claws–but ripped apart with sheer, brute force.

Jake’s first thought was that this was the work of scavengers–a bear, most likely, or maybe raccoons–but he dismissed the idea immediately. Animals turn things over and generally make a mess; they don’t normally tear nylon tents apart and rip sleeping bags to shreds and scatter the mess thirty feet in every direction.

Bill, you better get down here! I think I found something! Jake shouted back up the trail toward his three partners, just then coming into view a few hundred feet down the trail. He noticed the men break into a slow jog and waited for their arrival.

A moment later Matchusek, followed closely by Ray Sanders and Don Oswald–the other two SAR volunteers–came bounding into the clearing. All three men stopped at the edge of the encampment and stared in bewilderment at the mess.

Shit! It looks like a god damned tornado went through here,

Don said through his oversized teeth. Oswald was the youngest of their group and a man who always seemed to get excited whenever they found something. Jake thought he was a bit on the ghoulish side for that, but he was a first–rate tracker and a man of infinite energy, and so they endured his obnoxious personality. Still, he could at least pretend to be horrified rather than so damned enthusiastic about it.

Looks like some animals got here before we did, Ray Sanders opined. Ray had been on the SAR teams longer than any of them, and Jake respected him as a levelheaded fellow. For some reason, though, Ray didn’t seem to like him much, though Jake was damned if he knew why. Maybe it had something to do with his vigor in leading the searches that made Ray look old in comparison.

Maybe, Bill replied, though I’ve never seen scavengers tear up a campsite like this. They just throw things around, not tear stuff to pieces. Any sign of our hikers, Jake?

Not that I’ve seen, Jake replied, suddenly realizing what such a badly torn up campsite might mean for their campers. But then I haven’t looked around yet.

Okay. Let’s split up and do a sweep of the area, Bill said. Stay within shouting distance in case anyone finds something-got it?

The trio nodded in unison.

I’m gonna head down to the lake, Jake said. That’s where they’d probably be if they weren’t here at the camp.

Sounds good, Bill replied. Ray, why don’t you and Don work your way farther up the trail while I look around here some more?

The four men began heading off in different directions, with Jake working his way toward the sparkling waters of the lake just a hundred yards down the trail, trying hard to shake the feeling of foreboding that suddenly had him in its grasp. Something evil was afoot, he thought. He didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he was positive the condition of the encampment was a sign that the missing campers had met with foul play.

Jake arrived at the edge of the quietly lapping waters of the massive lake and quickly noticed the contents of a spilled tackle box, along with a neatly trimmed pole, lying on the rock-strewn beach thirty feet away, which he judged to be damned unusual. No one would just drop their pole and tackle like that–at least not without good reason.

Jake walked over to the spot and picked up the pole. It was an expensive one by the looks of it. Not something a person would be likely to abandon or forget about, he decided as he studied the forest behind him.

Suddenly he spotted something bright orange lying just inside the edge of the forest beneath the base of an oversized fern and slowly walked toward it. A second later Jake felt his heart drop when he realized it was a coat wrapped around the body of a man, lying face up in the foliage, his vacant stare demonstrating him to be quite dead.

Jake stood over the corpse, studying it closely. The guy was maybe in his late forties, Jake decided–with a full head of hair and a massive moustache–that he guessed to be dead only a day or two. Lying spread eagle on his back, he appeared largely unscathed, he noted, though his neck, protruding out of his torso at an acute, unnatural angle, suggested that something most unusual had happened to him.

Jake hated death. It had taken so much from him: A wife, a son, his parents, two brothers, a host of friends. He hated what it did to families–and especially what it did to him–and now it had found him again.

He called back up the trail for Matchusek and the others and waited, unwilling to get any closer to the body. He’d be damned if he was going to touch anything if he didn’t have to. That’s what the SAR leader was for

Don Oswald was the first to arrive. What ya find, old timer? he asked enthusiastically as he emerged from the forest just yards away. Jake only nodded toward the unmoving figure lying in the shadows. Don spotted the body, took a few tentative steps toward it, and stopped.

You’re a regular corpse magnet, ain’t you, Verity? Seems every time we take you with us, we come up with a body.

Jake was just learning to dislike the man more with each passing minute when Bill Matchusek arrived. What ya find, Jake? Verity again nodded at the still figure beneath the tree. Matchusek walked over to it and stood looking down at the man.

Damn, Bill said with a note of resignation. I was hoping the guys had just run off. Looks like I was wrong.

What do you think killed him? Don asked, trying his hardest to suppress his excitement. I mean, look at the way his neck’s all bent to one side like that! Weird.

I dunno, Bill admitted. "His neck sure looks broken though.

I guess he coulda just fallen awkward and landed on it wrong, but damned if it don’t look like his head’s been wrenched! Let’s see if we got any identification," Matchusek said as he bent down to examine the body more closely. Jake tried to look elsewhere— anywhere else—while Don drew closer, obviously fascinated by the process.

Matchusek didn’t show it, but this was the part of his job he truly loathed. He hated touching bodies–he could never feel really clean for weeks afterwards–but sometimes it was necessary. Fortunately, the search went quickly and a moment later he stood up, the dead man’s red nylon billfold in his hand.

Roger McKenzie. Seattle address, Matchusek read from his driver’s license in his most clinical voice, not wanting to give the man any more humanity than was absolutely necessary. It was hard enough to deal with a corpse without becoming emotionally involved. A part of you knew it was a flesh and blood human being, probably with a wife and kids, but think about it too much and you eventually lose that detachment required to do a job like this.

Forty-seven bucks in cash. Credit cards, Bill said, continuing the inventory. Doesn’t appear to be anything missing.

Jake noticed the flash of a family portrait in the wallet and turned away, not wanting to see more. It would be so much easier if everybody they found turned out to be a loner with no family or friends but, of course, they almost never were.

"Well, that’s one of ‘em, Ray Sanders, who had since arrived on scene, said quietly. Should be two more of ‘em around here somewhere."

Matchusek shrugged. No idea.

Jake pointed toward the nearby fishing tackle and pole laying along the edge of the lake. Looks like the guy just dropped everything and ran.

But ran from what? Bill asked.

I wonder if one of his buddies did him in? Oswald enthused. All three of them turned to look at him.

I’m not sayin’ that’s what happened. It’s just that we only got one dead hiker and there’s no sign of either of his buddies. Makes you wonder, that’s all. Maybe they got in a fight or somethin’ that got outta hand and one of ‘em accidently broke the guy’s neck. Then they just panicked and ran.

And then his buddies decided to cover up their crime by tearing up the camp site, Ray added with a note of condescension in his voice. I think you’re onto somethin’ there, Don! Oswald shot Ray a look of contempt. You got a better idea? All right, Bill interrupted. Let’s not jump to conclusions here. First we need to determine if his friends aren’t still around here someplace. Let’s spread out and see if we can find ‘em.

The men nodded and began searching the area more carefully, aware that if there was one body, there was a good chance there’d be others.

It was Ray Sanders who had the honor of finding the second corpse just ten minutes later, not more than a few hundred yards from the first body. He was off the main trail, entangled in a thicket of bushes, suggesting that he had been frantically trying to bulldoze his way through the thickets. Because of that he had a number of scratches and light cuts on his arms and face, but other than that, he also appeared largely unscathed.

Only the fact that his head hung at an awkward angle, signifying that it was broken, gave any clue as to the cause of death.

Damn, Oswald said, sounding suddenly less enthusiastic than before. Looks like he died the same way as the other guy, Bill. That is truly bizarre."

The four men stood studying the corpse for a moment, trying to imagine what could have happened. One guy trips and breaks his neck, that’s an unfortunate accident. Two guys do it a hundred feet apart and it’s no longer anything but murder.

Smart money says these guys were both offed by their buddy, Oswald said with a note of certainty. Only thing that makes sense.

I s’pose, Bill said softly. Guy would have to be awfully upset to kill his two buddies like that, though. Looks like he chased this guy for a ways before catching him.

Could’ve been a drunken brawl that got outta hand, Oswald tried. Drunken guys can get real physical when they’re pissed. Maybe, Bill grunted, but I doubt it. This doesn’t look like the results of a drunken squabble. I see no evidence of bruising or the normal signs of a bar fight. It looks like they were just run down and killed quickly.

Maybe someone else entered the camp and killed these guys, Ray said, intent on adding his own hypothesis. Like some sort of serial killer or something like that.

Bill nodded. Have to be quite a monster to pull off something like this, though–and it wouldn’t explain why he tore up the campsite.

Aren’t we getting’ ahead of ourselves here? Oswald asked.

"I mean, we haven’t even found the third guy yet. And I say we won’t, either, making him our key suspect by default. In fact, I bet he just panicked and made a beeline out of the area."

But why trash the campsite then? Ray asked.

I dunno. Maybe to make it look like a bear attack. Who knows? No man is strong enough to shred nylon pup tents like that, Jake objected. "I don’t care how big or powerful he is. Hell, I even saw some torn up sleeping bags. Who in the world is even capable of doing something like that?"

I know, Bill said. Nothin’ about this makes sense. We can figure it out later, though. Right now, we just need to keep lookin’ around to see if we can’t find that third guy–or at least some sign of what might’ve killed the other two.

I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Jake said, eliciting a look of curiosity from the group.

What d’you mean? Bill asked.

Jake didn’t answer but merely nodded at the canopy of branches overhead. Almost as one, the other three men looked up into the broad branches of the massive Douglas fir that hovered over them like some prehistoric dragon. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the shadows the massive tree generated, but once they did, they all saw what Jake was staring at and swallowed hard.

There, some thirty feet over their collective heads, the third camper hung upside down from a giant limb like a fruit bat, his arms extended out from his body, his face contorted in a mask of fear. What Jake found most disturbing about him, however, was his legs. As though made of rubber, they were wrapped entirely around the branch with the feet securely wedged into a Y shaped hollow at the base of the branch. Only legs in which the bones from the knees down had been pulverized into dust were capable of bending back over themselves that way.

For once, even Oswald had nothing crude to say.

Looks like whoever killed this guy is trying to make a statement, Ray Sanders said in a tone just slightly louder than a whisper.

Matchusek only shook his head in disgust as he pulled a radio from his backpack and began transmitting. While he called the main headquarters back in Port McNeill to report the triple murders, Jake jogged to the edge of the lake to expel the contents of his stomach.

Damn, he hated death! he told himself while his body spewed more of his breakfast into the cool, clear water of Bonanza Lake. He hated everything about it, and now he hated this place, too.

But Jake knew deep down inside that it wasn’t the corpse in the tree that was making him sick with fear; it was the realization that he knew what had done this. There was only one thing that was capable of carnage on this scale, and if he was right, there would be more bodies hanging from tree limbs before it was through.

For the first time in his life, Jake was afraid of his woods, and if he was right about his hunch, he had every reason to be.

They all did.

II

What kind of topping you want on the pizza, hon? Sarah called out from the kitchen. Pepperoni or sausage?

Paul Manhart barely glanced up from his computer. That’s three nights in a row, babe. How about somethin’ else?

Well, I think we still got some of that tuna casserole I made last week. I was saving it for Barney, but if you want it I can— Pizza’s perfect. I love pizza, Paul replied quickly, smiling contentedly to himself as he stroked the keys of his laptop. From across the room he could hear Sarah chuckle as she began dialing the number for the local pizza parlor. Despite their combined scientific and academic talents, neither could cook worth a damn, and so their meal fare revolved around soup, microwave dinners, fast food and an occasional restaurant. Fortunately, they had the money for it.

Paul Manhart leaned back in his chair and let his mind wander for a moment, contemplating just how much his life had changed in the fourteen months since he’d met Sarah Underhill.

Before then, he had led the carefree life of the bachelor scientist, living in a tiny, book–cluttered apartment in a run–down area of Tampa. He had been lonely back then–terribly lonely, the truth be told–but he was too preoccupied with his work to realize how miserable he really was. As Tampa’s foremost cryptozoologist–roughly the equivalent of being the finest lumberjack in all of Libya–he lived in a sort of self–imposed exile then, escaping from the banality of life into a world of his own creation. Science was his religion then, research the only God he knew, and he lived a life of monkish servitude to both. It was a comfortable, predictable, quantifiable existence in which he even managed to find a sort of odd contentment from time to time, though a part of him knew he was more existing than really living.

It might have been worth it if he had something to show for it, but despite his impeccable credentials in zoology and primatology, as well as extensive knowledge in a half dozen other disciplines, he had accomplished very little in his thirty-nine years on earth. He had a few articles in fairly prestigious magazines to his credit, some expensive but essentially fruitless experience looking for yetis and sea serpents, and an extensive computer library archive he’d managed to compile over a decade and a half, but other than that, Paul Manhart didn’t matter. He lived only to consume data, store it in his computer’s vast reserves of memory, and dream of doing something with all of it someday.

Then he met Sarah Underhill and everything fell into place.

She was everything he wasn’t and, in some ways, many things he’d always wanted to be. She brought spontaneity to Paul’s drab life, gave it color, dimension, meaning and even a little fun. She taught him how to appreciate the beauty of the world around him without having to classify every leaf and insect, and how to love when he thought that was one lesson he was fated never to learn. In effect, Sarah Underhill had somehow managed to save him from that most insidious enemy of all: himself.

Looking around the spacious apartment they had shared for the last eight months, Paul marveled at the wonderful and positive transformation it represented. Under Sarah’s guiding hand, it was neat and orderly, with everything precisely in its place, yet it managed to be so without losing its warmth. With just the right mix of knickknacks and exotic curios adorning the walls and festooning bookshelves, Sarah had somehow managed to make their apartment both homey and intriguing at the same time. Of his old life–his pre–Sarah existence, as he liked to call it–only his many books, a few curios he’d acquired over the years, and his collection of exotic fish remained, the latter now housed in a spectacular, back–lit glass tank large enough to snorkel in. Transferred from their previously tiny tank, his little brood of sea life, now joined by dozens of other newly