In the Woods (12 page)

Harper scowled. ‘The fur is evidence, Ranger. Whether or not the killer put it there. You can't decide whether or not it's relevant—'

‘Harper!' Hank called.

Harper turned just in time to see Angela dart toward the body. Hank was behind her, arms out to catch her. Daniels spun around and grabbed her waist, but Angela was already on Phil, tearing the duct tape off his torso.

‘Phil!' She pawed at him, threw the cardboard to the ground, stroked his stiff hands and arms. ‘Phil,' she wailed, resisting and hissing when they tried to pull her away.

‘Mrs Russo.' Ranger Daniels kept his voice gentle. ‘Please back away.'

But she didn't. She kept fighting to get to her husband. ‘He's my husband – let me go.'

Harper took hold of her hand. ‘Angela, stop. You'll destroy evidence.' She glared at the ranger. ‘They need to have everything intact so they can find out who killed your husband.'

Angela stopped struggling and looked at Harper. ‘But we already know who killed him. I told you – Stan. Stan killed him.'

‘Why would Stan put a sign on him?' Harper asked.

‘I don't know. Maybe to make it look like it was the people from around here? I don't know why Stan does anything he does.' She went on, giving examples of Stan's inexplicable behaviors – marrying Cindi, for example.

Hank met Harper's eyes, shook his head.

‘Look.' Daniels checked his watch. ‘I hate to do this. If I had any staff at all, I wouldn't have to ask. But the sunlight's almost gone. And that explosion before sounded serious – the radio hasn't stopped with calls about it.'

‘Did you find out what it was?' Hank asked.

‘Not for sure. But people have been reporting a spout shooting up like a cloud and raining crap all over the old hunting lodge. I figure gas might have built up and exploded one of the old septic tanks, but just to be sure, I have to go out and take a look. I hate to impose on you civilians, but Captain Slader should be here any minute. Can you two stay and secure the scene, hold onto her until he gets here?'

Hank assured him that it was no problem.

‘When you say “secure the scene”, you mean protect all the evidence?' Harper eyed his pocket. She didn't mention the fur.

‘Yes, ma'am. Exactly.' He looked at her directly, unashamed.

‘We'll be fine,' Hank said.

‘He was jealous of Phil,' Angela went on, ‘that's why he did it. Stan just can't let go; couldn't stand to see me happy. He had to ruin it. You need to arrest him.'

Daniels walked off. Harper took a seat on a log between Angela and Hank, reached her hand into Hank's vest pocket, and, as Angela mumbled on, pulled out his flask.

By the time they found the stream, it was almost dark. Bob waded in, stripping off his clothes as he went. Pete knelt in the muddy bank, splashing water onto his forehead. It hadn't stopped bleeding. Nothing was going right, and he was getting creeped out. First, the explosion covered them with stinking crap; then they heard that scream. It sounded like somebody was having her guts pulled out. Bob had said it wasn't their business, and to ignore it. Pete wasn't sure he was right, but figured they'd be no help to anyone anyhow in their condition. Still, the scream repeated in his head. What could have happened that would cause that noise?

‘Get in the water.' Bob lay back between rounded rocks in the chilly knee-deep stream, letting it wash over him.

Slowly, Pete peeled off his clothes. They were trash now. Nothing would take the stench out of them, and even it if did, he didn't want those things on his body again. Hell, he didn't want them to be in the same town as him. Damn. Vest was new. He'd paid $59 for it at the Target store. All he had in his backpack was an old Flyers jersey and jeans. Not even any socks. He'd freeze his ass off.

Bob surfaced, shook water off his head. Shivered. ‘Come on. Get in here.'

‘It's fuckin' ice water.'

‘Standing there won't make it warmer. You got to get that crap off you.' He slid back, submerged up to his neck. ‘Don't be a damn pussy.' He grinned and, letting out a hoot, sprung up, grabbed Pete around the neck, and pulled him into the water.

Pete landed hard, hitting his knee on a boulder, and when Bob released him, he fell face first into the stream. Cold surprised him, enveloped him. It reached into his nose, down his throat, stretched through him like tentacles. He didn't mind it. In fact, spread out flat on stones and mud, he thought about staying right where he was. Going to sleep in the water. But something hooked into his armpit, dragging him up.

‘Pete?' Bob pulled his head up by his hair.

‘Get off me.' He pushed Bob away, coughing. His voice cracked like ice.

‘You okay? I was just messing—'

‘Yeah.' He coughed some more, sat up on the pebbles, letting water swirl past him. ‘So was I.'

‘Shit. You had me.' Bob slapped the back of Pete's head, crouched beside him in the stream. ‘I say we burn our clothes.'

‘Yeah.' It made sense.

Bob splashed water on his arms, rubbed the backs of his hands. ‘I think it's off me, but I keep scrubbing anyhow. I'll probably never feel clean.'

Pete coughed some more, rinsed his face, raised an arm to his nose and sniffed. Didn't smell anything, just autumn air, water and trees.

They stayed where they were, shivering, listening to the water and the woods.

‘So what's the deal? Did we mess up? Or do they actually pump shit through the pipeline?' Bob finally said.

‘Christ, I don't know.'

‘Because that sure wasn't natural gas.'

No, it wasn't. Not that Pete had ever actually seen natural gas. But he knew it wasn't what had burst from the ground.

‘Map must be wrong,' Bob said.

‘It's not wrong. It's from the plans for when they built it. You must have taken us to the wrong spot. To that old hunting lodge.'

‘Fuck if I did—'

‘Well, if you didn't, then explain what the fuck happened.'

‘Why are you asking me? How should I know? And stop fucking doing that blinking thing.'

An ache rose from Pete's belly, a surge of rage and disappointment. And hunger. They'd eaten all their supplies, and now Bob was getting into one of his nasty, scrappy moods. Well, it wasn't Pete's fault that the day hadn't gone as planned. All he wanted was to eat and get warm.

‘Okay, we better get going. But we got to lie low.' Bob stood. ‘We got to get dry, get dressed, get these clothes burned and get going. People around here aren't going to be happy with us. And if they dig through the mess and find any parts of our device, they'll have Homeland Security, the ATF, the FBI, and half of every other government agency looking for our asses.' He spit, a contemptuous punctuation mark, and waded out of the water.

The sunset glowed amber and rose, but it was fading. The sky was almost dark. A sliver of moon peeked through the trees. Teeth chattering, Pete got out of the water, the pebbles harsh on his feet. Bob had already gathered sticks and twigs for a fire. Pete stood dripping, feeling useless.

‘Matches?' Bob didn't even look up.

Pete opened his backpack, pulled out a bunch of stuff, including his spare jersey and pants, before he found not only matches, but rolling paper and the baggie with the rest of their pot. For the first time in hours, he smiled. His momma had been right: even in the worst of times, pleasure could be found in small things.

Mavis lived all the way out near Philipsburg, a ten-minute drive at sixty. The chief went at eighty. When he got there, she was just putting the ‘closed' sign in the window of her beauty shop. She saw him pull up, opened the door. Stepped onto the porch. Said his name.

He took his hat off as he walked up to her, planted a kiss on her cheek. She accepted it as routine. Waited for him to talk.

‘I hear you've been talking to people.'

‘Damn right.' She was exactly his height. When she looked at him, their gazes just about collided. ‘They're killing folks. And I heard a bomb went off—'

‘Who told you that?'

‘Lots of people. Everyone knows.'

The women had their own network. Mavis's shop processed information faster than the Internet.

‘So why are you here? I haven't heard from you in, what? Three weeks? So I doubt you dropped by for a social call. I guess you've come here to get me to tell my people to wait this out.'

The chief sighed, looked at his shoes. ‘How've you been, Mavis? I've been meaning to call—'

‘Stuff it.' She checked her fingernails. Dark blue with rhinestones.

The chief stepped close enough to feel her body heat. ‘Can we step inside?'

She gazed at him, blinked. Let out a breath. ‘Oh, what the hell?' She turned, led the way in.

The walls were lined with mirrors, two stations with scissors and supplies. Beyond that a sink for washing hair, a table for manicures, some chairs and sinks he couldn't figure out. Mavis led him through to the back stairs, up to her living room, which adjoined her bedroom and kitchen.

‘Drink?'

He ached for one, but said no. He was here on official business.

She got him a beer anyhow, poured herself a glass of white wine, and took a seat on the faded pink sofa. Crossed her legs.

‘Really, I'm not lying. It's been on my mind to call you.' He set the beer on the coffee table.

Mavis scowled, leaned over and moved it onto the doily. ‘Not on the wood. It'll make a ring.' She sipped her wine.

‘I like your hair that color – it's pretty.'

‘Screw you. It's the same color it's been for months. I know why you've come down here, but you're wasting your time. We've already decided we're going on patrol.'

‘You're what?' Really? He wanted to slap her pretty, overly made-up face. By what right, under whose authority had her little circle of misfits, dykes and spinsters decided anything? But the chief didn't react, didn't slap or even shout. Good leaders remained composed, and he was the club's elected leader. He forced himself to speak calmly. ‘There's a meeting tonight. Your people should be there. Because the whole reason we made this organization was so we'd coordinate and cooperate. We're far more powerful if we all work together, not each go off on our own—'

‘You weren't really thinking of calling.' She turned, facing him. Was she pouting?

‘I was. It's just – I've been crazy busy.'

‘A call takes two minutes. Nobody's so busy they can't find two minutes if they want to.'

He reached a hand onto the back of her neck, under her hair. Fondled the downy skin there, the way she liked it.

Mavis frowned, slapped his hand away. ‘You think you can have me any time you want, don't you?' She swallowed wine, eyeing him. Her eyes didn't flash, didn't smile. Was she mad? Just playing with him? He couldn't tell.

He shrugged.

‘See? That's what I mean. You're so damned sure of yourself, you cocky asshole. You think I just sit here, day after day, waiting for you? That I got nobody else to spend time with? That I'm that much of a loser—'

He leaned over, quieted her by pressing his mouth on hers. He really didn't have time for this, but Mavis smelled tired and flowery. And it had been almost three weeks. The chief knew how to make her moan, and Mavis knew her way around a man. Her bra was off and his pants unzipped when, as if on cue, he got a call he wished he never answered.

A second body had been found, tied to a tree. Damned Josh. Whether he'd killed the guy or not, he'd put him on display, created a spectacle. State cops were already rolling into the campgrounds. And if that wasn't bad enough, that explosion had blown away what was left of the old hunting lodge. The locals were steaming.

He left in a hurry, promising Mavis that he really would call, leaving her sputtering mad. He was halfway to the campground before he realized that, damn, Mavis had never actually agreed to bring her people to the meeting that night, much less to hold them back from going out patrolling with their armaments and making things even worse.

Daniels smelled the site a good ten minutes before he got there. And when he got there, he was glad he'd worn his old boots. The sun was almost setting; he used his flashlight to enhance the light. But there was no question as to what had happened.

A gaping hole marked the spot where the old latrines had been. And the contents of the tanks underneath covered everything – trees, the caved-in, splintered lumber of the old lodge. Damn. Probably a methane build-up. Had to be. Old gases, expanding and confined, nobody flushing them out. Sooner or later, something had to give.

He trudged ahead, shining his light here and there, careful not to slip or trip. Hell, that would be something, falling here. The stench was enough to choke a man, made his stomach queasy. He told himself that he could leave, that there was nothing more to see, especially not in the dimming light. No foul play had occurred. He'd have to make a report, call the environmental people to check it out and arrange a clean up, since it was a public health hazard. What a mess.

He trudged ahead, pondering how strange life was. How nothing had happened for months, and then, in a span of hours, two men had been killed and the old latrines had blown to hell. He doubted he'd ever get over the shock of finding that poor guy, Russo. The sight of him, eyes wide open, mouth contorted in a grim grin. His body propped up, labeled with a TRESPASSER sign. What had set the locals off? Had something happened that he didn't know about? But even if they'd been riled up, why had they gone and killed people? The bloodshed was hard to grasp. Even though the locals had their Hunt Club compound and trained for battle like a militia, they were mostly good folks. It made no sense that they would wake up one day and, unprovoked, go out and kill a pipeline walker. Even though he worked for their sworn enemy, he'd personally done nothing to hurt anybody. And that poor rabbit hunter? That made even less sense. Why would they mess with him?