In the Woods (13 page)

Daniels sloshed ahead, hoping that Captain Slader and the cops would find out who was behind the killings and stop them before anyone else got hurt. Otherwise, with the Hunt Club armed and ready, the woods could become a war zone. Distracted by his thoughts, he almost slipped off the edge of the blasted-out ditch.

Steadying himself, he aimed his light down into it. Saw muck and stones, stuff he didn't want to look at. The ground under his boots squished. Okay, enough. He'd done his job. He'd checked and found nothing dangerous or suspicious. He could go.

Turning, he waved his light around, noticed a couple of trees not far from the hole. The lower branches were stark and bare, stripped of colored leaves. He stepped closer, saw the scorching. Damn. The branches had been burned. Which didn't make sense if the explosion had been from the pressure of built-up gases.

Daniels looked around, scanning the area. Because of the muck, he hadn't noticed right away, but the ground cover had also been charred. He squatted, looking closer. Sensing trouble.

Okay. He wasn't an expert on explosions. Obviously, there had been lots of heat. If the pressure of the built-up gases had been enough to cause an explosion, wouldn't it have generated enough heat to sear nearby plants? He wasn't sure. Had no experience with an event like this. Wasn't acquainted with the properties of old septic tanks or methane gas that had been confined too tight. Probably, everything was in order, though; he might as well head home and clean the hell up. He'd have to throw the boots out, as they were soaked from the puddles. Nothing would get crud like that out of old leather.

Flashlight guiding him, Daniels headed back to the trail. A few steps away, it lit up something flat and silvery. He stopped, crouched to see what it was. Didn't want to touch it. Took a ballpoint from his pocket and poked at it. Saw it was just a swatch of silver duct tape.

Duct tape? Why would duct tape be found in the residue of the old latrines?

Maybe it hadn't. Maybe some hunter or camper had littered, dropping it before the blast, so it got mixed in with the detritus. That had to be it. Even so, it crossed his mind to mark the spot in case investigators wanted to see it. But why would they? It was nothing. A piece of tape.

He stood, eager to go. The light was fading. Passing the charred trees, he waved his flashlight around one more time, didn't think about the odd-textured bump in one of the trunks. Walked on.

But the bump bothered him, wasn't right. Didn't have the texture of bark. Damn, he wanted to leave. The stink of the air hung still, chilly. The sun was all but gone. He could just ignore it.

Or he could go back, take a quick look and then take off. Fine. Daniels spun around, plodded back to the tree. Shot his light on the trunk and found the bump. Stepped closer. What the hell? Something was jammed there – actually penetrating the bark. It was smooth plastic with a jagged edge. Damn if it didn't look like the casing of a walkie-talkie.

At twilight, sitting cross-legged near the lake, Bob had an epiphany.

‘We got a problem,' he announced.

Pete got it. ‘Yeah.' He nodded, impressed by the sheer depth of the observation. He took a long hit, passed the joint back to Bob.

‘Water,' Bob said.

‘It's okay. There's more in the car.' Pete let the smoke out of his lungs. ‘We'll go get some.'

‘No.' Bob inhaled. Held in the smoke.

‘No?' Pete giggled. It seemed funny that Bob said he wanted water, and then said he didn't want to go get it.

‘No, no. The problem.' Bob's voice was slow, his words dragged. ‘The problem is water.'

What? Pete had no idea what Bob was talking about. But he sure was hungry. Maybe they'd left some beef jerky back in the car. Or some money to get a burger somewhere. With curly fries.

‘See, the thing about water is …' Bob took another hit, pausing to let his lungs absorb the dope. ‘The clothes are soaked with it. They won't burn. If we start a fire, the clothes will probably douse it. That's a problem.'

Pete wasn't entirely listening, was thinking about ketchup.

‘So the fire's not a good idea.'

Wait, what? No fire? Pete looked at the pile of twigs they'd gathered as kindling. He'd been looking forward to watching flames in the dark. Seeing the fire devour their stinking clothes. He leaned back against a tree trunk, disappointed.

They sat silent for a while. Pete wondered if there was a pizza place anywhere around. ‘I gotta eat something soon.'

‘Yeah.'

‘So? Let's go.'

‘We can't just leave this stuff.'

‘Why can't we just make a little fire and see if the clothes will burn?'

Bob didn't answer. He sat up straight, his body announcing the arrival of another idea. ‘How about,' he pointed through the trees, ‘the stream?'

The stream? ‘You want to dump our clothes there?'

‘Oh.' Bob frowned, considering it. ‘Maybe. But I was thinking we could wash the clothes really good so they don't smell. Then we can take them with us.'

Wet clothes? Bob wanted to carry sopping wet clothes? Bob got up, started picking up the stinking things and strolling toward the water.

‘Hey, wait.' Pete followed. He was cold, and his hands were starting to itch again. ‘After this can we get something to eat?'

Bob kept walking. ‘After this, we return to “Go” and roll the dice again.'

Say what?

‘From start. From square one. From zero. We rethink everything, make a new plan, begin again.'

Begin again? Now? ‘I can't begin anything on an empty stomach.' Bob was pissing him off, moving slow, talking slow. Acting like he was the boss. Pete wanted to run into a pantry, tear open a box of Fruit Loops and have his way with it. Or maybe Captain Crunch. He scratched his palm.

‘Here's what I think,' Bob went on. ‘First, we got to go back to the car and take everything out. Take inventory. See what's left. Pack it up again with a new detonator, whole nine yards. Regroup. Then we got to recheck the location. Get it right this time. Set up camp close to the spot, wait for the right moment in the middle of the night. And do what we came here to do.' Bob plopped the soiled garments into the water. Used a stick to swish them around. And around. And around.

Pete watched, captivated. In the dim light, he could see the water swirling, silver and black, and the clothes bobbing up, pillowed with air. He crouched, entranced, forgetting about cereal.

Sometime later, Bob stood, dragging the sopping clothes out of the lake. Sniffing them. Holding them out for Pete to sniff.

‘That's okay, I'm good.' Pete backed away with his hands up, refusing.

‘They don't smell too bad.' Bob twisted them, wringing out water. Handed some of them to Pete. They started walking toward the trail, carrying wet laundry, heading back to the Impala.

‘So, you think that snack bar's still open?' Pete asked.

‘Hope so. I could eat a bear.'

Pete was deciding what animal he was hungry enough to eat when he sensed movement in the trees nearby. He stopped. Listened. Heard a rustle. ‘You hear that?'

Bob looked at him. ‘What?'

Pete looked into the dark woods. Something – or someone – was out there. ‘Give me your flashlight.'

Pete turned it on, aimed into the trees. Saw nothing. He moved the light around, examining shadows and shapes. Finally, he gave up. Used it to light up the dirt path ahead.

‘Christ.'

The footprints were gigantic. Wide, with ape-like toe prints. They pointed away from the stream, went from the muddy banks to the trail where they disappeared in the fallen leaves. Bob and Pete stared at them.

‘Oh, man,' Bob said.

‘Big Foot?' Pete asked.

‘Get serious.'

‘What else could make footprints like that?'

Bob thought for a minute. ‘Maybe a mutation. From all the gas leaks and chemicals and fracking pollution around here.' He started walking again. ‘That settles it. We gotta get this done right, tonight, and take out that pipeline before it poisons anything else.'

They moved faster, talking and planning all the way back to the Impala. They had a lot to do, and it would be harder to do it in the dark.

Harper's left leg was beyond aching. She dosed herself with ibuprofen, collapsed into a folding chair, and watched Hank light the propane stove. She missed Chloe. She wanted to go home. No, she wanted to
be
home.

‘How's your back?' she asked. Hank had seemed to limp less as they'd walked. Maybe the exercise had been good for him.

‘I took about a thousand pain pills. With a little wine and some sleep, I'll be fine.' He unfolded the stepping stool, set it up under the bear bag, reached up to untie it.

‘I'm not helping.'

‘I know.'

‘I'm too wiped out.'

‘I know.'

‘I'll rally if you want.'

‘Just sit.' Hank took their supplies down from the tree branch, opened the sack. Retrieved the wine first.

Harper couldn't move. She leaned back, aching all over, watching Hank open the bottle and pour. When he brought her a plastic cup of Cabernet, she almost cried in gratitude.

‘I love you.' She lifted the cup, a toast.

Hank bent over, kissed her. ‘Having fun?'

She managed a smile. ‘More than I can say.'

‘We should do this more often.' He moved his chair close to hers and sat. Took her hand.

The sun was setting; the sky glowed pink behind the trees. The air was chilly, smelled crisp and sweet.

‘Think Chloe's okay?'

‘She's fine. We'll call in the morning.'

He was right. It was no use thinking about Chloe. No use dwelling on the absence of chubby arms grabbing her thigh as they stood in the kitchen, or encircling her neck as they sat on the couch. Or a soft voice piecing together sentences to share her observations and opinions. ‘Codge chiz is best,' she'd exclaimed the other day, eating lunch. Harper's throat felt thick, her body disconnected. Cut it out, she told herself. You're Army. You fought insurgents and survived. Surely, you can get through a weekend away from a two-year-old.

They sat quietly, listening to chirps and twitters. Creatures snuggling in for the night. Or emerging to prowl.

Harper swallowed wine. ‘You think the local people killed them?'

‘That trespasser sign makes it look that way.' Hank swiveled, facing her. ‘But who knows?'

Harper didn't answer. She didn't know the people who lived around here. But she was pretty sure that, if she'd killed a man, she wouldn't put a placard on his chest, incriminating herself.

‘What about Stan? You think he killed Phil like Angela says?'

Hank shook his head. ‘Hard to say.'

‘I don't think it was Stan.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because if I were Stan and I was going to kill someone, it wouldn't be Phil. It would be Angela.'

Hank chuckled. ‘You're right. Then again, we have no idea what their history is. I have no idea who killed those guys. But if we get a chance, I'd like to talk to the other pipeline walker – the dead guy's partner.'

‘Jim. His name's Jim. Why? You think he did it?' Harper hadn't considered that possibility. But two men alone in the woods for months might get on each other's nerves. Might even drive one to murder the other. She thought back, saw Jim talking to the ranger. Jim had been bereft about his co-worker; hadn't seemed like a killer. Then again, Harper had learned that some killers could seem harmless – even friendly. An Iraqi woman flashed to mind, smiling, meeting her eyes. Putting a hand inside her robe. Disappearing in a white-hot blast … No. Harper shook her head, pushing searing wind away. Refusing to revisit the past.

Hank was talking. She'd missed a bit. ‘But I'd like to hear his take on the local folks and that Hunt Club. Their animosity level. From what the ranger said, it seems like until now, their pipeline protests have been pretty non-violent. At worst, they've slashed tires or written graffiti. Done mischief to discourage hunters and hikers. So it doesn't make sense. Why would they escalate to killing people? What changed?'

Harper frowned. ‘I'm sure the authorities will look into it.'

‘But we can ask around, as long as we're here.'

‘Hank—'

‘What? Think they'll shoot us for talking to them?'

‘Are you crazy?' Harper gaped at him. In the past, Hank had raged at her for seeking out danger, taking unnecessary risks. Diving head-first into peril. When had their roles switched? When had she become the cautious one? Again, Chloe popped to mind. ‘It's not our job to solve the murders, Hank. We're just weekend campers. Civilians. Besides, we don't know which people are involved or where to find them—'

‘We can just chat with people in the area—'

‘Why?' Her nostrils flared. ‘Why draw attention to ourselves? Why plunge into this? We aren't here to solve murders.'

No, they weren't. But why were they there again? Something about spending time together? Reconnecting with each other and with nature? Recapturing romance? Well, that sure wasn't happening. Harper wanted to leave. To go back to Ithaca. To hop on her Ninja and roar past familiar places. To read a story to Chloe, kiss her pudgy cheeks and tuck her into bed. Harper closed her eyes, felt them burn. Damn, her wine cup was empty.

‘Steaks?' Hank got up, opened the cooler that held their food.

‘I want to go home, Hank.'

He took out two New York strips. ‘We will.'

‘No, I mean now.'

‘Now?' He looked at her. ‘Tonight?'

Realistically, they were both too tired to pack up and hike back to the car in the dark. ‘Tomorrow. First thing.'

Even in the dim light, he met her eyes, studied them. He didn't say anything. Harper could hear his thoughts. He wasn't ready to go home, was debating the pros and cons of arguing, anticipating what she'd say. Weighing compromises. Trying to consider her feelings. ‘Fine. If you want to go, we'll check in with the ranger, give the cops our statements, and take off.'