In the Woods (11 page)

The chief went back to the kitchen, poured yet another drink.

Damn, the locals were rising up. Three hours until the meeting. And who knew what might happen before then? It was time to take charge. Finishing his drink, he reached for the phone, punched in a number.

‘Mavis? Stay put. I'm coming over.'

Before she could talk, he hung up.

Shit. Literally. Pete had it in his eyes. Mucky stinking cold black soup, all over him. Under him. Around him. He blinked, trying to see. Raised a slimy wet hand to smear the stuff off his face. His hands came away blood-streaked. Where was he? What the hell had happened?

Cautiously, he lifted his head up off the ground and looked around. Everything was splattered with the stinking stuff – bushes, weeds, fallen leaves. And Bob.

Bob was there, lying still as a log. Where the fuck were they?

‘Bob?' Pete started to say, but stopped. When he opened his mouth to talk, crud seeped in, starting him gagging.

When he finished puking, he was on his knees. He looked over at Bob. Bob hadn't moved. Christ.

‘Bob?' he managed. His voice sounded dim and far away.

Bob didn't answer. The silence was long and thick. Why didn't Bob answer? Oh God. Was he dead? Pete strained to remember what had happened. Where they were. Why couldn't he remember? He crawled to Bob, his hands slipping in slime, and he saw something hanging out of his vest pocket, a drenched paper. He pulled it out, unfolded it, his map of the pipeline. He blinked at it, finding jagged shards of memory. The pipeline. They'd come to blow it up. He remembered finding the place where it passed through the old campground. He remembered putting the device together. And waiting for the moment to set it off. Had they done it? Blown the thing up, destroying the pipeline? Making history? He couldn't remember.

‘What?' Bob's voice was dim, like an echo, but it sounded mad. He was flat on his back, covered with muck. Blood trickled out of his ear, his nose. He didn't move. Just lay there, moldering.

Maybe they were both dead. This could be hell, the smell, the crap all over. The ringing howl in his ears. The cracking pain in his head. The bomb – they must have done it. Actually blown up the pipeline. The explosion must have sent them flying, knocked them out. He looked down at the map. A red drop landed on it. Splat. Pete stared at the drop, then up at the sky, trying to see where it had come from.

‘Fuck.' Bob still didn't move. ‘What happened?'

Pete touched his forehead. His cruddy hand came away with red smears. Blood. He looked at Bob. ‘I'm bleeding.'

Bob didn't say anything.

‘Bob? You okay?' His voice sounded muffled, as if filtered through a feather pillow.

‘I'm fuckin' ducky.'

Pete could hardly hear him. Why? Damn – had the explosion blown his ear drums? Made him deaf?

‘Chrissakes, Pete.' Bob pushed himself up on an elbow. ‘Would you stop doing that thing with your eyes?'

Really? He was half deaf, covered with crud and bleeding, and Bob was on him about blinking too fast? ‘I'm bleeding.' He put his head down for Bob to see. ‘Take a look. Is it bad?'

‘Can't tell.' Bob let out a groan as he sat up. He held his head in both hands and paused before trying to stand. ‘Shit. We gotta get out of here.'

Pete didn't move.

‘Come on. Get your ass up.' Bob bent one leg, put weight on it. Steadied himself.

‘What happened? Did we get the pipeline?'

‘You think this is what they pump through the pipeline?'

‘Fuck. Then what did we blow up?'

‘You want to discuss it? Now? Here?' He pushed himself up onto his feet. Wiped wet clods off his sleeves, plopping them onto the ground. ‘Pete? What's wrong with you? Get the hell up. They'll be coming from all over the park to find out what blew. We gotta go.'

Pete looked around, tried to stand. Slipped in some muck and, falling, reached for Bob, grabbed his arm. Pulled him down with him. They both landed hard, with a splat. Bob sat in a puddle of crud, glaring and silent.

‘Sorry,' Pete muttered. He fumbled around, got on all fours, trying to balance enough to stand.

Bob got up and held out a hand, pulled Pete to his feet.

They stood for a second, winded from the effort. ‘Let's go.' Bob turned and headed for the woods, grabbing their backpacks on the way. They'd been shielded by a tree, were still pretty clean.

‘Where we going?' Pete trudged after him.

‘Out of sight,' Bob said. ‘Then someplace to get this stinking shit off.'

They moved through the woods, orienting themselves. They were looking at the map, figuring out where they were, deciding which way to go to get to the creek when the woods rang out with a sharp, high-pitched scream.

The Bog Man lumbered along on his new legs, tall as a grizzly. He walked stiff-legged, working his prosthetic extensions, swinging his huge feet. He was a marvel of engineering, coordinated and balanced. And fearsome. The hides around his head altered sounds, muffling those of the woods, enhancing those under the bearskin. His amplified breath sounded primitive and hungry; his heartbeat pounded out danger. He was a beast, towering over the other creatures. The only one of his kind. Alone.

In fact, he was beginning to realize how truly alone he was. The Hunt Club was just a herd of sheep, cowering together, passive and weak. They didn't understand how dire their situation was. And they sure didn't see the significance of his work. Most of them thought he was just a jokester who liked playing pranks. Hiram snubbed him like he was nobody, just a mechanic from the auto repair shop. And the chief was even worse, acting like he was some kind of a pervert ever since that trouble, even though that was what? Like fifteen years ago? Fact was the chief was threatened by him, trying to hold him back. But guess what? He didn't give a damn what the chief or any of them thought. He was on his way, just getting started. He chuckled, thinking of the guy who'd spotted him that morning, the way he'd stood frozen, gaping. And then, the way he'd taken off like his ass was on fire.

The Bog Man pushed his way into the trees, feeling mellow. Must be how a coyote felt after he'd eaten a doe belly. Lifting his legs, crushing plants, he realized that his senses were keener. Not just his ears, but his eyes and nose were sharper. And without being conscious of it, he'd been following a scent. Something animal. Primal. It tugged at him, leading him through the woods as surely as if it had taken him by the hand. Not that it was the only smell pulling at him. No, there were scents all around him, opening like a hooker's legs. Odd how he'd never paid much attention before. But the bearskins had a strong odor. And the trees, the soil, the drying leaves. And something warm – maybe deer? He inhaled, sniffing. Trying to separate and identify each strain in a symphony of scents. Only one, though, compelled him forward. And gradually, as he walked, he identified it: the smell of the dead guy.

Good. He wanted to go back and take another look at him, afraid he'd been too hurried before and done a half-assed job. A cardboard sign? Well, cardboard had been all he'd come up with on short notice, discarded at some campsite. But it wasn't enough. Maybe now that it was getting dark, he'd be able to do more, make the message clearer. Take out the eyes, or peel off some skin. Or wait – the head. Damn, why hadn't he thought of that? He had his pocketknife with him, but he should have brought an axe. He could have chopped the thing off, stuck it on a stake. That would have scared the crap out of outsiders. And the bonus was, no matter what he did, no one would bother him about it. It wasn't like he could get arrested – the Bog Man wasn't human, wasn't subject to their laws.

As he got close, he heard a woman talking. Damn. He wasn't alone. The bearskins muted her words, but he knew she wasn't far away. He stopped, peered through the trees. Saw the ranger and a woman make their way up the path. But right in front of him, a squirrel quivered on a branch, distracting him, smelling like fear. He watched it stand motionless, maybe a foot away, pretending not to be there.

If he reached quickly, he could scoop it up, feel its heart race and its body squirm. It had been a long time since he'd taken a small animal, and he'd never been able to do much before their hearts stopped. Maybe he could now? He considered it, but never made a move. Even with his ears covered with bearskin, he heard the scream, long, high-pitched, and full of terror. The squirrel scampered off as he stood still, savoring the sound.

Apparently his message had been clear after all.

Harper and Hank followed the scream. It led to Philip Russo. Or to his body. It was grotesque, propped up and tied to a tree trunk on a main trail, about two miles from the ranger's office at the campground. A cardboard placard was duct-taped to his chest, the word TRESPASSER printed crudely in black marker.

Angela was a whimpering ball, collapsed at her dead husband's feet. Ranger Daniels knelt beside her, trying to comfort her, listening to his radiophone. A voice was blaring, talking about the explosion. Describing a geyser fifty feet high.

Hank ran to help, relieving Daniels, offering Angela the flask of bourbon he kept in his vest pocket. But Harper stayed back, taking in the scene, rereading the placard. Had the locals killed Philip Russo? Why? Out of all the hunters and backpackers visiting that weekend, why Phil?

She walked along the path, examining the ground and the foliage, not sure what she was looking for. Noting two parallel lines, partially clear of leaves, leading to the tree. Probably Phil's legs had dragged there. The ground around Phil's body was disturbed, no doubt from the effort of tying him there. Harper walked around the body, looking at Phil. His eyes were open and vacant. And even though his mouth was distorted in a deadly grimace, his body seemed fairly undamaged. His hands were clean, unblemished. His clothes were unsmudged. She saw no sign that he'd been in a struggle. In fact, no wounds were visible at all, just the border of a bloodstain on his blue plaid flannel shirt, visible above the TRESPASSER sign.

Daniels was on his radio with someone else, raising his voice. ‘Because who else would leave a sign like that? It's got to be the Hunt Club.'

A male voice answered him, but Harper couldn't make out what it said. She circled the body again, looking above and around it. Just behind Phil's head, she saw a small clump of brown fur caught on the bark. Harper leaned close, examining it. Odd. Was it from a bear? A raccoon? Why was it here, on this tree? Had Phil's killer worn a fur coat?

‘Well, see for yourself, Joe,' Ranger Daniels went on. ‘But it looks to me like your neighbors are behind this. And if they are—' He stopped mid-sentence, listening to the response.

Harper was too far away to hear what was being said, but she knew who ‘Joe' was: Daniels was talking to Captain Slader.

‘I didn't say you could control them. But if it's them, there'll be hell to pay. The whole damned world will descend on this place and I promise you they'll start a confrontation—'

More blurting from Captain Slader.

‘Well, hurry it up, can you? I've got to get up to that explosion. Which you wouldn't know anything about, right?'

The captain's answer was brief and gruff. Grumbling, Daniels stowed the radio in his vest. ‘You all right there?' He turned to Angela.

Hank had her sitting up, faced away from the body. Her skin was a greenish gray, and she was mumbling, hugging herself.

Harper motioned to Daniels. ‘Ranger? Want to look at this?' She pointed to the clump of fur.

His radio was blaring again, a static voice asking him to respond. He answered as he stepped over to Harper, told the voice that, yes, he knew about the explosion, and no, he didn't know what had blown, but yes, he'd be heading up there soon. Then he looked at the wad of fur for a long moment, rubbing his jaw. Finally, he reached out and plucked it off the tree.

‘Wait – don't you need to bag it?'

His eyebrows raised. ‘Why? It's just fur.'

‘But it might be evidence.' Harper reached for the hand he held it in, but he raised it over her head. ‘What are you doing?'

‘There's fur all through these woods, ma'am.' He wadded it up and stuck it into his pocket. ‘It doesn't mean a thing, other than some animal scraped against some bark. Probably trying to scratch its back.'

‘Or maybe the killer left it.' Harper stood straight, hands on hips, but Daniels leaned down and lowered his voice.

‘Ma'am, you're not from around here. Trust me, whoever did this to Mr Russo was not a raccoon or a bear. A tuft of fur has nothing to do with this investigation.'

‘Ranger,' she began, but Daniels leaned closer, whispered into her ear.

‘Okay. Between you and me, I can think of another possibility.' He looked around, making sure no one was listening. ‘Somebody might have planted that fur on purpose.'

Harper blinked. ‘Why?'

‘To make it look like it was that Bog Man who killed him. To scare people away from the woods.'

What? Was he joking? Harper looked him in the eye. Daniels seemed completely serious. Still, she wasn't going to back down. ‘So,' she whispered, ‘that fur would be evidence that they tampered with the crime scene. It needs to be preserved.'

‘Ma'am, I'm not going to make things worse than they are. There are folks who believe that the Bog Man is real as the nose on my face, who would panic if they thought he was killing hunters. And there are others – mostly Hunt Club people – who just feed the rumors, hoping to scare outsiders away. Thing is, I'd bet my pickup that some local stuck this fur here out of mischief. For the express purpose of distracting us from the real evidence and making it look like the creature killed him. Either way, that piece of fluff is staying with me.'

‘No one would believe that a creature—'

‘Really? You never heard of Big Foot? Yeti? Sasquatch? Half man, half something else? People come from all over the world to search for them. If publicity gets started about this fur, nobody'll be scared away. It'll be the opposite, like with Sasquatch and the others. Freaks'll descend here from all over the planet, searching the bog.'