In the Woods (4 page)

‘Tell me.' His voice was firm. ‘What ways?'

‘You already know about the lemon. The taste shocks me back into the present.'

‘So you didn't you have your lemon with you this morning?'

‘I did. In my vest pocket. But I didn't have time, Hank. I saw him and reacted.'

‘But you had a lemon ready to use?'

‘Of course.' She always did. She carried lemons the way other women carried lip gloss. Standard operating equipment.

‘What else works? Besides a lemon?' His eyes were steely, probing.

‘Why are you questioning me? Are you angry? You sound angry.'

Hank crossed his arms. ‘I'm not angry, Harper. I just need information. Tell me what else works?'

Harper sat rigid. She didn't want to argue with Hank, but he was pushing her on a topic she tried to avoid. Besides, they had to get going and alert authorities that a man had been killed. Why was Hank choosing this particular moment to discuss her PTSD? Damn. She saw the determination in his eyes. Resisting would be futile. She took a breath, rattled off her response. ‘I can inhale a sharp scent, like smelling salts. Or cause pain by biting my lip or jabbing myself with a sharp object – any intense sensory stimulation will help ground me in the present moment by shocking me out of the flashback. If I don't have any shockers to work with, I can use my own mind and concentrate on some physical aspect of the present moment. Like counting the tiles on a wall or—'

‘Okay, I get it. Why didn't anything work today?'

‘Because today, I came upon a dead body unexpectedly. It triggered a flashback so quickly that I was in it before I could try to prevent it.'

Hank looked away. Looked back at Harper. Met her eyes. Took her hand. ‘Okay. I need to understand this, Harper. The PTSD. You need to talk to me and be more open about it—'

‘I don't like to—'

‘Hold on. Don't interrupt. For much of the time we've been together, you've been the caretaker. You've been the tough one. And you've put your problems aside. But, Harper, you don't have to deal with them alone. I'm healthy again. And I'm your husband. It's okay to let me inside those walls.'

Harper didn't say anything, but she felt a heaviness lift, rising out of her belly, passing through her shoulders. She looked at Hank, but he'd become blurry. Damn. She puffed her nostrils, took in air. Blinked tears away. She was not going to get all wimpy and cry.

‘For now, though, for this trip, I think the best way to make sure another flashback doesn't occur is for you to stick close to me.'

Harper sniffed, nodded. ‘Fine.'

‘And keep your lemon handy.'

She nodded again, ready to go.

‘Somebody shot that guy, Harper. It might have been an accident, but just in case … I don't want you flashing back to Iraq if real bullets are flying.' Hank leaned over, kissed her, and stood, still holding her hand. ‘Ready?'

She felt like a bobble-head, nodding again. But finally, they were on their way.

The forest ranger called the Philipsburg police captain on a landline. Harper and Hank sat on a bench outside the ranger's station at the campground, waiting for him to arrive. A few people walked by, on the way to their RVs, the convenience store, the snack shop next to the ranger's office. A woman sat at a picnic bench, eating a pepper and egg sandwich, staring at them.

‘Why is she staring at us?' Harper nudged Hank.

Hank didn't turn his head to look. ‘Don't know. But who can blame her? We're pretty dammed hot.'

The woman chewed, watching them.

‘Seriously, Hank. She's bugging me out.'

‘Ignore her.'

Harper tried to ignore her. She looked at Hank's hands. She loved those hands. They were muscular, large, confident. Manly, with just the right amount of dark hair on the back, and sturdy steady fingers. She reached for one. It made her own hand look tiny.

‘Captain Slader should be here any time now.' Ranger Daniels stepped out of his office, checking his watch. ‘You want some water or soda pop?'

Hank stood. ‘I'm good. You want anything, Harper?'

‘No thanks.' She felt awkward, being the only one sitting. She got to her feet even though her left leg hurt from racing there from their campsite.

The three of them stood, arms crossed, staring at air. Almost two hours had passed since Harper had found the body. In Iraq, flies would have claimed the corpse by now. Here, she pictured crows tearing at its eyes, coyotes at its flesh.

‘You remember, I told you two that you should camp here at the campgrounds. I warned you about hikers getting lost, accidents happening out in the woods.'

‘We didn't get lost, Ranger Daniels,' Harper answered. ‘And this man would have been killed regardless of where we'd stayed.'

Daniels looked into the distance, widened his stance. ‘You know, I probably shouldn't say this. I don't want to stir things up. But the thing is I feel responsible for you two. You're strangers here. You're not familiar with the area.'

‘That's right.' Hank cocked his head.

‘Well, some people live here, year round.' He said that as if it made sense.

‘Okay.'

Daniels looked around. ‘Most of those people are fine folks. But some of them have issues – and I won't say they're wrong. Their people have been here for a couple of centuries. And they don't like outsiders.'

Harper digested that for a moment. ‘Are you saying you think the dead guy was killed by someone local?'

The ranger looked down at her. He was Hank's height but he seemed immense. ‘All I'm saying is that some of these people are very protective of the land. They don't want others messing with it. Not the government with their hunting and mining licenses, or the energy companies with their fracking and pipelines. Not seasonal hunters. Not weekenders like yourselves. It's best to leave their part of the woods to them—'

‘Wait a second,' Hank interrupted. ‘You work for the government, don't you? And this is a state forest. Owned by the government. So you're aware that, no matter how long their families have lived around here, they don't own the land. So they have no right—'

‘I don't believe I said anything about legal rights, Mr Jennings. I'm just being real. These people are a tight community. Some believe that outsiders are taking away their rights and their heritage, and they're protecting what they see as their birthright.' He leaned close to Hank, lowered his voice. ‘They're good people, mind you. But they're well prepared for catastrophes. Anything from a tornado to an invasion. They have provisions and weapons. And not all of them, but a good number, have lately become convinced that outsiders are conspiring to move in and throw them off the properties they have left.'

Harper watched Hank's reaction. He was meeting Ranger Daniels' eyes, kind of wincing. ‘Are you talking about some kind of militia?'

‘Sounds like survivalists,' Harper said.

‘And you're saying they think we're part of some invasion?'

‘I'm just pretty protective of the area where you say you found the body.'

‘So you think they shot this man.'

The ranger didn't answer; just then, a police car pulled into the parking area, splattering through old rain puddles. The captain had arrived.

Captain Slader was a lithe, thin-lipped man with dark, bushy eyebrows, graying hair and a salt-and-pepper mustache. He said they could talk on the way to the body and asked Hank and Harper to lead the way. His arrival had drawn the attention of some campers, though. About a half dozen clustered across the road, eyeing them.

‘What happened, Joe?' A leathery woman holding a coffee mug ambled over, joining them.

‘Nothing you need to worry about, Sylvie,' the captain said.

‘Don't condescend to me. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't something to worry about.' Her voice was raspy. She walked beside the captain, craning her neck to look up at him. ‘Somebody die?'

‘Sylvie, this is none of your concern.'

‘Hell if it isn't. If it's out there hunting people, we have a right to know. We don't want to be next.'

The captain stopped; so did Ranger Daniels, Harper and Hank.

‘I've told them it's just made-up rumors,' Daniels said.

‘We know better,' Sylvie insisted. ‘It's back. That hiker saw it. And the footprints – you saw them yourself …'

‘Sylvie, stop.' The captain spoke gently. ‘You're getting yourself all riled up. If something's out there – and I'm not saying there is or there isn't – it's best you tell people to stay away from the area near the bog. Stay where you know it's safe—'

‘Oh, come on, Joe,' Ranger Daniels broke in. ‘You'll start a panic. Sylvie, I told you there's nothing to worry about, and there isn't.'

‘And I showed you the articles. Did you read The Sasquatch Genome Project? They've found evidence, scientists have. From fourteen states and Canada. Not just footprints, either.'

‘Sylvie. This isn't the time.' The ranger tried to brush her off.

‘Then when is the time, Ranger? When the creature kills again? The articles prove it's real. They found samples of hair, skin, blood and bones—'

‘Not now.' Daniels tried to move away, but Sylvie moved along with him.

‘—one hundred and eleven different specimens with DNA that's almost human but doesn't match any known animals. It's proof, whether you want to believe it or not.'

‘If you're worried, Sylvie, do like I said. Stay away from the bog area. I think that's easy enough to do.' The captain turned away, motioned for Daniels to accompany him into the woods.

Sylvie trailed after them. ‘They found DNA in Denmark, too. It's all in those articles. Just read them.'

Daniels stopped and put his hand up, spoke in a gentle tone. ‘Slader and I've got business to take care of, Sylvie. Tell your friends to calm down. This isn't about your Bog Man.' He nodded to the group across the street and took off after the captain.

Hank took Harper's hand, gave it a squeeze. She squeezed back, a silent confirmation that she'd been listening to this strange exchange, and they walked along, following the ranger and the captain. As they entered the woods, Harper looked back over her shoulder. Sylvie was standing alone in the road, holding her coffee, watching them leave.

‘What was that?' Hank asked.

‘Nothing,' Daniels said. ‘Just people getting spooked.'

‘It's not nothing.' Captain Slader scowled. ‘I saw the tracks.'

‘Tracks?' Hank asked.

‘Some folks have it in their heads that there's a big scary ape creature prowling out near the bogs.'

‘And there might be something to it.'

The captain's stride was long. Harper struggled to keep up. Her left leg ached, and they'd just started the hike.

‘A couple of local hunters say they saw it,' Slader went on. ‘And last week, a hiker got lost out near the bog and said it came after him.'

‘The guy was half-drunk, half-delusional from being alone in the woods all night.' Daniels pushed a branch out of the way, held it back for Harper.

‘Daniels here is skeptical. But I keep an open mind,' Slader said. ‘The hunters who reported it were locals. They live around here and know the woods. I trust them. They said it might be violent or rabid, and people should steer clear of the bog area.'

Rabid? Harper glanced at Hank. What were these people talking about? A rabid ape-creature from the bogs?

Daniels shook his head. ‘I know the fauna here, Joe. There's no such animal—'

‘How about we leave the locals to deal with it?' Slader suggested.

‘I just said there's nothing to deal with.' Daniels bristled. ‘If there were, the forest service would take care of it.'

Slader stepped over a rock. ‘You're right. Let's just forget the whole idea.'

Slader changed the subject to the body. Where had Harper found him? Did she know who he was? Was he armed? What did he look like? Had she seen anyone else around? Was she sure he was dead?

‘Captain,' Hank cut in. ‘My wife is Army. She saw some heavy combat in Iraq. If she says a guy is dead, he's dead.'

Harper felt her face heat up. Slader and Daniels slowed and looked her over, reassessing her. She was short for a soldier. Only five feet, three-and-a-tiny-bit inches. A pint-sized blonde. Not typical military.

‘Iraq?' Slader an eyebrow rose. ‘Grunt?'

‘She was a lieutenant.'

Slader's eyebrows rose.

Daniels let out a low whistle. ‘She outranks you, Joe.' He grinned. ‘Captain was just a lowly sergeant.'

‘Sergeants run the Army,' Harper replied.

Slader's face had reddened; his smile seemed forced.

‘Anyway, I'm sure he was dead,' Harper went on, didn't want to get into combat conversation. ‘The bullet hit his heart, went in through his back.'

They walked a few steps before Slader resumed his questioning. Had she been alone when she'd found the dead man? What had she been doing? Had she heard anything unusual?

Harper answered concisely, trying to recall the facts without revisiting – or reviving her flashback. Talking about one brought up memories of the other, though. She slid her hand into her vest pocket, clutching her lemon, just in case. She answered the captain as well as she could, omitting the parts about the insurgent attack and stepping over the body of the boy with no face.

By the time they got back to their campsite, Harper's leg was throbbing. She asked if they could stop for a moment so she could take ibuprofen.

‘Leg hurt?' Hank asked.

‘Are you okay, ma'am?' Daniels asked.

‘War injury.' Hank took a bottle of pills from his pocket and set up the folding steps under the bear bag.

Slader watched. ‘Did you serve, too?'