In the Woods (26 page)

‘Those guys are jerks,' Daniels whispered. ‘Why'd you let them take charge?'

Slader didn't answer, just shook his head. Checking his watch again, he followed Daniels into the woods. Two-thirty-two. Shit. Ten minutes were too many. He hurried along the path with the others. Saw Hank up ahead.

‘So? What'd you find?' Slader tried to move things along.

‘Balled-up tissues.' Hank held out his hand, displaying a small white wad. ‘Harper left a trail.'

They moved on, the five of them. Hank in front. The state cops at his heels, Daniels and Slader lagging behind. Hank didn't wait for them; he pressed ahead, studying the ground. A few yards ahead, he knelt, picked up another wadded tissue.

Wow. Slader was impressed at Harper's ingenuity and presence of mind. And he was also pretty damned sure where all her cleverly placed tissues would lead: to all his friends and neighbors at the Hunt Club compound. Damn. If the state cops followed it there, that would be the end. Everything would erupt in who knew what violence.

Luckily, the state cops didn't have any idea where they were heading. They had no idea about the locals and their group, let alone about their rabid hostility toward outsiders. No, the cops still seemed convinced that the husband was guilty of foul play – after all, wasn't the guilty party always the spouse? All those true-crime shows on television were full of men who'd murdered their wives. The state cops already assumed that Hank Jennings had followed the script, doing away with his wife, making the footprints at their campsite and laying the trail of tissues himself. Slader thought he'd buy himself some time and prevent a catastrophe if he encouraged their suspicions.

‘Sergeant.' He gestured to him, indicating that he wanted to talk privately. And then he planted the lie. ‘I think you should know. I overheard Mr and Mrs Jennings having an argument yesterday.'

The sergeant kept his head down, nodding slightly. ‘You know what about?'

‘I wasn't paying much attention at the time, had a couple of bodies to deal with. But now, looking back, and with that blood at the campsite, I gotta say it was pretty heated.'

The sergeant nodded again.

‘And it occurred to me that a trail like this? Well, if I'd done away with somebody, I might very well plant it myself.'

A light flashed in the sergeant's eyes. ‘So how do you want to play this?'

‘Like I said, I've got to take off. You're running the show, so it's your call. But if it was me, I'd stop playing this game pretty soon and have a little conversation.'

‘Thanks, Captain.' The sergeant puffed his chest out and ambled over to Hank, who'd moved up the path with the corporal. ‘Wow.' He looked at the ground. ‘I'm amazed you could see that little tiny tissue, the way it was hidden under the leaves. I'd never had seen it. Would you, Corporal?'

The corporal hesitated. ‘Probably not, sir. I mean, no way.'

‘It's almost like Mr Jennings knew exactly where to look.'

‘Maybe he did,' the corporal suggested.

Slader kept quiet, letting the cops zero in on Hank so they wouldn't think of other possibilities. But those other possibilities plagued him. He kept seeing Phil Russo's body. Damn. Were the women dead, too? As soon as he was sure they'd stop following the trail, he'd go find out. Meantime, his blood pressure kept rising. He felt unsteady, and pain sliced his skull. Maybe he was having a stroke? Well, fine. If he died, he wouldn't have to worry any more. Not about missing women or shootings or explosions. Not about Mavis or Josh and their crazy Hunt Club. Or the city of Philipsburg and its outskirts, or fracking and polluting, or government encroachments, or the pipeline. None of it.

Slader rubbed his eyes, felt like a hatchet was buried in his forehead. He made himself draw a breath, smelled drying leaves, sweet air. Watched sunlight flicker through the trees. Felt his shoulders loosen. He loved these woods. Belonged there. Wouldn't mind dying there. In fact, he half hoped he would stroke out and die right then so he'd be relieved of his burdens.

When Daniels nudged him, he was startled, had lost track of the conversation.

‘Tell them that's crazy,' Daniels insisted. ‘They're saying he planted those tissues and they want to stop following the trail.'

Slader took a breath, kept walking, following the cops who were following Hank. Apparently, since he was still standing, he wasn't dying, wouldn't escape his troubles so easily. Daniels waited for a reply. He scrambled for an appropriate answer. ‘Well, I guess they're exploring all possibilities.'

‘Really?' Daniels tilted his head. ‘But why would he plant the trail? That's a lot of trouble to go to—'

‘People will go to a lot of effort if they have something to hide.' After all, he ought to know; he was going to a lot of effort himself right now.

‘What?' Daniels' mouth hung open. ‘No, we need to keep tracking. In case Harper left the trail, we've got to give this the benefit of the doubt. Follow it. See where it leads. We might be able to find the women.'

‘Yes.' The captain spoke slowly, as if his point were obvious. ‘But, if she didn't leave it, the trail might have been deliberately constructed to lead us in the wrong direction, wasting time so we can't save anybody.' There. That justified slowing Hank down, didn't it?

Up ahead, the sergeant puffed his chest out with authority. ‘Mr Jennings,' he called. ‘Wait up. We want a word.'

But Hank didn't stop. He seemed to have found a rhythm to the clues, and he moved along the path, stopping every five or six yards to look for another tissue. Collecting them as he went.

‘Jennings, I said stop!' The sergeant didn't like being ignored. He quickened his pace, closing in on Hank.

‘Sorry,' Hank called, not even slowing down. ‘I can't stop now.'

‘Jennings. Stop where you are. That's a police order.' The sergeant waited.

Hank stopped. ‘Why are we stopping? We've got to find my wife.'

The sergeant and the corporal caught up to Hank, stood in front of him, putting a temporary halt to his tracking.

‘This is nuts.' Daniels' hands were on his hips.

Slader lowered his voice, spoke confidentially. ‘Okay. These two aren't the brightest cops in the force,' he said. ‘Even so, we need to let them do their jobs. Which means questioning Hank and figuring out what he's up to.'

‘Maybe he's not up to anything. Maybe he just wants to find his wife.'

‘I agree, Daniels. But they can't just let him lead them all over the forest without being confident that he's legit. I'd be obliged if you'd stay with them and make sure they stick to procedure.'

‘Procedure? I'm not sure I'm qualified—'

‘Just don't let them shoot him. You'll be fine. But I've got to split. I've got a guy in custody, can't keep him there much longer.'

Daniels looked up the trail and saw the state cops badgering Hank. ‘Captain, before you go – don't you want to intervene?'

‘They're just blustering. If I call them on it, they'll pump it up even more just to prove they can. Better if I let them be,' he said. And before Daniels could reply, he waved goodbye, reversed direction and took off back toward the campsite.

When he was out of sight, he veered into the woods, moving parallel to the others, hustling to the Hunt Club compound. His face was flushed, his blood careening through his veins. He kept his gaze straight ahead, not daring to look into the trees, afraid of what he might see. Slader raced through the woods, praying that the locals had a trace of sense left. Or at least that he wasn't too late to pound some into them. He checked his watch again. Two-fifty-five. Damn.

Angela had quieted down, seemed to be asleep. Jim sat on the floor, leaning against a wall. He'd finished his chili and a roll, half a bottle of water.

‘You should eat,' he told Harper.

‘I tried. I can't.'

‘You should eat anyhow.'

He was right. She knew that. In combat situations, it was necessary to maintain your strength. Eating was essential, even when you had no appetite. She picked up her container of chili, a spoon. Looked at it, saw clots of red sauce, clumps of beans. Scooped some up, made herself chew. Fought the gag reflex. Swallowed. Repeated the process.

‘So, your husband. You really think he's coming?'

‘Yes.' She hoped so. ‘Should be soon.'

‘You left a trail?'

‘Yes.' This guy kept asking the same questions, making her repeat the same information, over and over. She thought of Chloe looking at a picture book, heard her small voice repeating the same sounds, again and again. ‘Cow moo. Doggy woof. Piggy oink. Kitty meeeow.'

Harper closed her eyes, pushing the memory away.

Jim leaned forward, whispering. ‘What if he doesn't show up? How can you be sure he found the trail?'

She couldn't. ‘He'll find it.'

‘What if he doesn't? Or he does but they stop him? We need a back-up plan.'

A back-up plan? She'd love one. She'd been trying to find one ever since she'd landed there. ‘I agree.' She looked around the chamber. ‘Any ideas?'

His eyes darted left to right, right to left. ‘Only thing I can come up with involves her.' He indicated Angela. ‘We can tell them she's dying. When they come to look, we take one of them hostage. Or we can trap that woman next time she brings food.' He watched Harper, looking hopeful.

Harper nodded, but didn't comment right away. She didn't see the need to remind him that they were unarmed. That their captors had major weapons and could drop a tear gas bomb. Or shoot anyone not hiding behind the hostage. Or simply abandon the hostage. What would they do then?

She didn't want to rob him of hope, but was pretty certain that taking a hostage would be futile, probably self-destructive. Even so, she didn't have a better idea.

‘Let's wait a while,' she said. ‘Give Hank a chance to bring the cavalry.'

Jim nodded. He was jumpy, twitching. Probably feeling closed in, panicky.

‘Where are you from?' Harper tried to distract him.

‘Wilkes-Barre. You?'

‘Ithaca.' She was about to ask if he was married, but a loud gong reverberated above them. Jim and Harper held still, listening. Upstairs, footsteps clattered, voices buzzed, furniture scraped.

‘What's going on?' Jim stiffened.

Harper wasn't sure.

The gong sounded again. What did it signal? A meeting? A battle? Lunch? Something was going on, though. She looked up at the air vent in the ceiling. If she could get close enough, maybe she could hear through that.

She dragged a cot under the vent. Asked Jim to help her lift the one Angela didn't occupy. Together, they stacked the cots, one on top of the other. Harper looked up at the ceiling, down at the cots. The legs were spindly, not stable or secured. But she climbed up onto the top one, standing under the vent, hearing commotion and jumbled conversation.

‘You okay?' Jim stood beside her, shifting his weight, worrying his hands.

The gong blared again, followed by an authoritative voice. ‘Let's settle down,' a man said. ‘This is an emergency meeting.'

‘Where's the chief?' a woman asked. ‘We can't start without him.'

‘Hell if we can't,' someone shouted. ‘He should be here. If he's not, it's our right to go on without him. We've got to move.'

‘Let's have everybody's attention,' the voice said. ‘Order. We have urgent business.'

‘What are we going to do with the prisoners?' a woman asked.

‘That's easy,' a man answered. ‘I say we make examples of them. Stake 'em up like the first guy.'

Really? Harper's jaw clenched.

‘Can you hear them?' Jim asked. ‘What are they saying?'

Harper held a finger to her lips. ‘Shh. Wait.'

‘You're fucking nuts, Ax. We can't just kill them. Cops and ATF are crawling all over the place.'

‘Besides, we didn't kill that first guy. Josh found him dead.'

‘It had to be Josh, no matter what he says. Because if it wasn't, then who killed him?'

‘Statistically, isn't it always the spouse?'

‘Yeah, that's what they say. Had to be his wife.'

The talking went on, but Harper stopped listening. She stood on the top cot, staring at Angela, and considered what she'd just heard.

The gash on Angela's head had stopped bleeding quite a while ago. Her hair was matted and crusty around the wound, and she lay still, eyes closed. Harper thought back, replaying what Angela had said and done. Seeing her stumbling into their campsite in the morning, looking for her husband. Her pants had been covered with mud. Harper hadn't thought about it then. But where had that mud come from? It had to have been from the bog. But why would Angela have been near the bog? She hadn't left Phil near there; he'd been on higher ground in a clearing.

But Stan had been camped near the bog. Could Angela have gone there to see him? No, of course not. They hated each other. Harper recalled their ugly confrontation. Besides, Angela had been surprised to see Stan, angry that he'd take his new wife to their old camping site.

‘What?' Jim asked. ‘Why are you frowning? What are they saying?'

‘Sorry. It's not them – just something I remembered.'

Jim fidgeted. ‘Well, what's going on? Can you hear them?'

Harper tuned back in to the meeting upstairs. A man was talking.

‘… must be working for the frackers. You saw the testing stuff, Moose and Ax. Spread out by their tent.'

‘Yeah, I saw it. They took soil, water, who knows what all. I saw the two of them yesterday, collecting samples and testing stuff.'

Harper bit her lip. Damn. They were talking about her and Hank.

‘So, obviously, those two aren't out here to camp. You're saying they're gas company people?'