The chase started right before midnight, barely a mile outside Louisville city limits. Headlights darted through the backroads, an occasional angry gesture flashing from the window of a beat-up truck that refused to pull over. The registered owner, Chet Holloway, was ardently avoiding being hauled back to Lexington to face his overdue court date. Raylan had driven a long way to ruin Chet’s dream.
The brake lights ahead flashed once before the truck took a hard left, cutting toward an old rail bridge looming high above the horizon. Raylan’s GPS flickered, cutting up the screen, until he hit it with the heel of his palm. It settled, revealing he was about to cross Pope Lick Creek.
He’d heard the stories, same as anyone raised in Kentucky. The Goat Man. The voice that lured people up onto the tracks at Pope Lick Creek. An urban legend. Modern, born along with the railroad and kids passing time while sneaking a beer in the woods. Young compared to what they talked about back in the Appalachian hollers.
Holloway’s vehicle hit the underpass. Then something dropped onto its hood.
Raylan braked hard. Dust rose, making a fog in the beam of his headlights. For a moment, he thought debris had fallen from the tracks. Then the shape straightened.
Long, powerful limbs. Cloven feet. Thick patches of fur and horns curving back from a human face that narrowed into a muzzle. The eyes caught the light and glowed a muted shade of red.
It turned its head toward Raylan.
Man and myth held each other’s gaze for what might have been an eternity. Then the thing vaulted off the truck, and the clatter of hooves on asphalt faded as it loped into the trees.
Raylan watched it leave, then counted to ten before stepping out, hand hovering near his holster. The truck up ahead was still, driver’s door hanging open. As the Marshal approached, he found Chet Holloway pressed back against the seat, trembling and a few shades paler than his mugshot.
“You hit somethin’?” Raylan couldn’t resist asking as he pulled out the cuffs.
The man’s eyes darted toward the dark treeline. “It hit me.”
With a shrug, Raylan pulled Chet upright and marched him toward the car. “Musta been a deer.”
As Raylan drove off with his quarry, the trestle loomed high in his rearview mirror. He stopped glancing back and settled his gaze on the road ahead, right as something took a seat along the steel among the shadows, settling, waiting for the next set of headlights to pass below.
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