In the Woods (24 page)

But nowhere was exactly where they'd have to come from. Because those four guys and the women they'd abducted had simply disappeared. Where the hell had they gone? What had they done with the women? Pete had seen them pass through a gate at the fence. But after he and Bob made their way over it, they'd found no sign of anyone.

‘Hurry up,' Bob whispered. ‘We're trespassing.'

No kidding.

‘They find us, we're dead.'

Pete didn't answer. He hadn't wanted to cross the fence in the first place. His body was wracked with burns and scrapes; he wasn't the one whose fingerprints were in the system. All he wanted to do was get back to the Impala and high-tail it home. But no. Bob had to have things his way. Always.

‘Where'd they go, anyhow?' Bob looked back at the fence. ‘They just dropped out of sight.'

‘I know. I don't like it.'

Bob stopped. ‘Hold on.' He looked at the shed. ‘You think they're in there?'

Was he kidding? The shed wouldn't hold six people. Unless they were all standing up, pressed like sardines.

‘Let's just get this done and go,' Pete suggested. ‘They're not in there.'

‘So where the fuck did they go? Are they watching us? We're like sitting ducks.'

Now? Bob was finally considering that they were completely exposed and utterly defenseless? Pete had the urge to dump Bob and run. He'd have trouble getting over the fence, but without Bob hanging onto him, he'd be able to move a lot faster. He pictured running back to the campground, getting into the Impala, flooring the gas – but damn. Bob had the keys.

‘Fuck it,' Bob said. ‘We're here. So let's do it. It's too late to turn back.'

They continued toward the shed, quickly, quietly. Pete didn't say anything, but he felt like telling Bob to go fuck himself. Bob was always bossing him around. Who'd put Bob in charge? When had he become a five-star general?

‘You're doing it again.' Bob let go of Pete's arm. ‘Will you stop your damned blinking?'

‘Yes, Your Fucking Highness.' Pete faked a bow.

They were at the shed door. Pete looked around to make sure no one was watching as Bob pulled it open. Their backpacks were right inside, zipped up tight.

And behind the backpacks were other interesting items. Rifles. Boxes of ammunition. Shelves and shadowy forms.

‘Check this out.' Bob stepped into the darkness. ‘Jesus, I think it's a rocket launcher.'

Pete squinted, saw a mini refrigerator. Did they keep food here?

‘Shhh.' Bob held up his hand.

There were voices outside. Distant, but coming closer.

‘Shit.' Pete peeked out. Saw a half dozen people coming from the gate, heading toward them.

‘Get away from the door.' Bob yanked him inside. He reached around for a rifle, handed it to Pete. Took one for himself.

‘They're not loaded,' Pete whispered.

‘They won't know that.'

They stood silently, waiting to be discovered. Listening as the people passed by. Hearing only snippets.

‘… Josh had the right idea, taking that guy.'

‘… make example … all out war …'

‘… we're taking heat for those bombs anyhow.'

Bob and Pete held their breath, clutching unloaded rifles. But the people didn't stop at the hut. They walked past it, and then, abruptly, their voices disappeared.

‘Take a peek,' Bob whispered. ‘Where are they?'

Slowly, Pete put his eye to the crack at the door. No one was outside.

He opened the door another inch, saw open space between the shed and the mound of rocks and dirt. No people.

They'd simply disappeared. He stuck his head out a little further. No one was there. Just that mound. Which was a pretty odd formation. Wasn't natural. Someone had constructed it. Maybe to camouflage an entrance? But an entrance to what? Obviously something underground. Like a secret compound? Really? What the fuck was going on?

He turned to ask Bob what he thought, but stopped. More voices. Another gaggle of people coming toward them. Five of them, all women. He stood away from the door, clutching his rifle. The shed was tiny, the walls close. Pete closed his eyes, feeling trapped. Listening to Bob breathe.

When the women had passed, Pete picked up his backpack, opened the door a little for light. He was going to unzip it and look inside, make sure their stuff was all still there.

‘What are you doing?' Bob pushed the door shut. ‘They'll see you.'

‘No one's out there. We need to grab our stuff and go.'

‘Are you crazy? What should we say when we walk into the next bunch who comes in the gate? Obviously, they're having some kind of meeting out here.'

‘But where? Are they going underground?' Pete pushed the door again, just a little, letting in some light. He noticed a light switch on the wall. The hut had electricity, a mini fridge. He was about to flip the switch on, see if the lights worked, when Bob shoved the door closed again.

Pete gritted his teeth, pushed it open.

‘Dammit, Pete. Close it, the way it was.'

Okay. Enough. Pete was done. ‘Fuck you, Bob. I'm out of here.' Pete opened the door and, ignoring Bob's frantic whispers, started out of the shed. Two guys walked toward him, deep in conversation. Not looking his way. He darted back into the shed, not daring to close the door.

He stood in the shadows, waiting for them to pass, watching the ground outside the door. Not paying attention to indentations or markings, staring at them without seeing them.

Only after the men had passed and he was slumping on the floor to rest did the markings take on definition. Pete realized what he'd been looking at.

‘I told you to stay in here. What the fuck's wrong with you?' Bob scolded. ‘You'll get us killed.'

Wordlessly, Pete grabbed Bob's shoulder and pointed outside.

‘What?' Bob resisted. Until he looked down and saw the ground.

The footprints were unmistakable. More than twice the size of a human's. How had they not noticed them when they'd approached the shed? But there they were, clearly defined, pressed into the dirt.

The monster they'd seen in the night had been here. Might still be nearby. Might even be kept here by the locals – that would explain the barbed wire fence. Bob and Pete might have walked right into its lair.

‘Shit.' Bob sank to the floor, leaning against the wall. ‘Shit shit shit.'

Pete sat beside him. His whole body hurt. He didn't give a damn about destroying the fossil fuel companies or blowing up the pipeline or becoming famous or changing the world. All he wanted to do was go home.

A parade left the snack bar, two by two. Ranger Daniels led ATF agents, state cops, gas company and pipeline people. Media. Hank and Captain Slader. Daniels carried a folded stretcher.

As they passed, Sylvie ran up to the news anchor. ‘Did you read my report?'

The woman didn't stop, seemed not to recognize her.

‘I gave it to you yesterday, remember? All about the Bog Man?'

The newswoman's photographer answered her. ‘Of course. Thank you. It's great. We'll be in touch.'

Sylvie walked along with them, not giving up. ‘Be careful out there. Don't underestimate him. He's unpredictable. They're saying another man's missing. Seems like the Bog Man's taken another one.'

Another reporter overheard. ‘The Bog Man?' he asked. ‘Who's that?'

The first newswoman winked at her photographer, nodded at Sylvie. ‘This woman has all the details,' she told the reporter. ‘We talked to her yesterday, got all the background. You might want to spend some time with her and catch up.'

Sylvie latched onto the new reporter, telling him about the Bog Man. She was still talking when the group reached the end of the campground parking lot where the trails into the woods began.

Daniels divided the group up, sending the ATF, pipeline and gas company people toward the blast sites. He was taking the state cops, the captain and Hank to the spots where the bodies had been found, right near Hank's campsite.

They set off, the captain following along, hearing Daniels complain about having to send the ATF and pipeline investigators off on their own. About how short-staffed he was. About the lack of control he had over what went on in the park. About his need to do four jobs because of budget cuts.

‘Tell you what,' he said to anyone listening. ‘Half the trouble we're having now wouldn't have happened if I'd had rangers out there patrolling the woods. We wouldn't be talking about bombers and explosions, that's for sure.'

Slader didn't comment. Daniels was a whiner, as far as he was concerned, grumbling about how impossible his job was. How he had two deaths and two explosions to deal with, plus an injured woman. How he had to deal with the local population, too, and assure them that they and their properties adjacent to the park were safe. How was he to do it all? Daniels didn't stop, just went on like a little girl. Slader wanted to deck him. He had his own problems, and nobody heard him bellyaching, did they?

At one point, Hank approached him. ‘Captain, with everything that's happened, my wife and I want to get home. As soon as Ms Russo's ankle is attended to, we'd like to finish giving our statements and take off. This afternoon, if possible.'

The captain couldn't care less what Hank and his wife would like. But he didn't want to get into a discussion, so he simply said he'd do what he could. As Hank hurried ahead, Slader lagged behind, watching and listening. Assessing the state cops, wondering if they'd heard what Hank had said. What they'd thought about his request. Both walked in silence, not revealing anything. Not making small talk. They were strictly business, which might mean they'd be eager to push him aside and take over the investigation. Slader hoped so. Maybe he could slip away right after he briefed them.

Up ahead, Hank picked up his pace. ‘Harper?' He ran up the trail. ‘We're back. Ready to go?'

Seconds later, Slader followed the others into the campsite. Saw Hank standing next to a half-folded tent, shouting Harper's name.

He got no answer.

The captain looked around. Saw the tent flattened on the ground. A half-empty pot of oatmeal congealing on the stove. An open first-aid kit on the ground near a log. A bunch of scientific stuff – looked like soil and water samples – along with water bottles, canned soup and other supplies spread out on a tarp beside the tent. And a Winchester lying in a clump of weeds.

What he didn't see seemed more significant. He didn't see Harper Jennings or Angela Russo with a broken ankle.

He didn't see anybody at all.

Dammit. Slader clenched his jaw. He had a pretty good idea what had happened. Fucking Josh had happened. Of all the locals, Josh was the biggest worry. He'd taken it upon himself to start trouble, and now he'd gone and collected more outsiders. It had been bad enough that he'd messed with the guys from the pipeline. But now he was taking weekenders? The captain could only imagine the women's reactions, screaming in terror as a Sasquatch came galumphing into the campsite, believing that he was real. Because, honestly, the first time he'd seen that get-up, even he'd been convinced. Real bear fur. Custom-made prosthetic limb extensions that allowed for balance and flexibility.

But forget Josh's ape suit – the man had become a liability. This time, state cops were involved – state cops who knew that two women were missing, who would call in reinforcements, who would instigate an all-out search and bring in the FBI. Christ, the situation was worse than he'd feared, and evolving too fast. Spiraling. He'd hoped to rein everyone in at the meeting, organize modest symbolic efforts, synchronize events, but, because of Josh, it could be too late. Slader crossed his arms, leaned against a tree. Josh was an idiot, overstepping his authority, unable to foresee the consequence of his actions. And he'd probably gotten the locals prematurely into an all-out war.

The state cops began to question Hank. ‘When did you last see your wife?' the sergeant asked. ‘Where exactly was she? How did she seem when you left?'

The corporal stooped beside a rock. ‘Sergeant?' he called. ‘You need to see this.'

Slader went over, too. Looked at the rock. Saw blood on it. A significant amount of blood. He watched the sergeant study the thing. Watched him look, narrow his eyes and squint at Hank. Slader knew the look. Knew what the sergeant would be thinking. Having seen blood, the sergeant would no longer trust Hank. In fact, might doubt Hank's whole story.

Hank didn't seem to notice what the cops were doing. No longer yelling for Harper, he was kneeling near the tent, examining the ground.

‘Look here,' he called the others over. ‘See? I found four or five distinct shoe prints.' He pointed them out, one by one, moving across the campsite, pointing out impressions on the ground. ‘And look, a bunch of them – at least three – go off this way down the trail.'

The state cops exchanged glances. The captain watched, knowing that they didn't buy a word Hank was saying. They figured he'd planted the tracks, and they were going to let him keep going just to see where he'd lead them. Probably to his wife's body.

Slader didn't think the cops were right, but he also had doubts about his own theory. The campsite was orderly with the tent laid out, supplies neatly arranged. If Josh had been there, all that would have been trashed. Besides that, Josh's outfit was bulky. He'd have had trouble taking two people at once – especially when one of them had a Winchester around. Most confusing, though, were the footprints. Josh always acted alone, deliberately leaving one clear gigantic set of Bog Man prints. But, if this site had been trampled by several pairs of normal-sized feet, then – damn. What had happened? The captain's stomach wrenched, insisting that he might not want to know.

Daniels' radio squawked. Slader overheard Penny from the snack bar say that some hunters had come in, complaining that their campsites had been vandalized overnight. They'd found big footprints, and one guy swore he'd seen a huge Big Foot creature.