In the Woods (7 page)

Bob broke into a grin. ‘YEE HA!' He ran around, waving his arms, hooting. ‘We fuckin' found it!'

Pete scratched his palms, wincing.

‘Come on, Pete. Stop carrying on. What's wrong with your hands?'

‘I think it's poison ivy.'

‘No shit. Well, never mind. Show some jubilation.' Grinning, Bob opened his backpack and pulled out a bag of weed. ‘We found the spot. This is celebration time. Where's the paper?'

‘You have it.' Pete folded the map, stuffed it into his pocket.

‘No, you do.'

Pete looked in his pack, dug deep, taking out their explosives, wiring, beer, blasting caps, beef jerky, matches, walkie-talkies. He was pulling out rope and flashlights when Bob said, ‘Oops, you're right. I got the paper.'

They smoked for a while and feasted on beef jerky. Then, feeling mellow, they decided to set up their devices.

‘You should have brought more food.' Bob wrapped explosives in wire.

‘Me? Why me? Were your legs broken?' Pete messed with a walkie-talkie, took another hit on the joint. Maybe marijuana would stop his itching. He'd heard that it helped cancer patients – so why not poison ivy?

‘Dude. Seriously, I'm frickin' starving.'

‘You just think you're hungry because you're fuckin' stoned. You just smoked a pile of weed and ate about a ton of beef—'

‘I could eat a frickin' antelope.'

Pete closed up his tool kit, chuckling. ‘Who knows? When these little darlings go off, they might roast an antelope or two.'

‘I'm not kidding. I could go for some curly fries. Or no – wings. Christ, I could do with some wings.'

Bob went on, listing various foods he could eat while he and Pete set up the explosives, connecting them to the blasting caps and the walkie-talkie that would act as a detonating device.

When they were finished, Pete blew cool air on his hands. They were red and blotchy, and the itching was making him crazy.

‘We're ready.' Bob beamed.

‘Just a second.' Pete went to the toolbox, took out a hammer, started pounding on one of his palms.

Bob watched. ‘What the fuck are you doing?'

‘Killing this itching motherfucker.' He pounded it again, winced, cursed.

Bob picked up his backpack, rooted around, took out a first-aid kit. Handed Pete a tube of something. ‘Use this.'

‘What is it? Shit. You had this all the time?' He rubbed cream on his swollen, now bruised palms. Felt the itching fade, could almost see it wither and die.

Bob rolled another joint, lit it, took a hit. Passed it to Pete before taking two beers out of a backpack. Opening them, he handed one to Pete, sat against the trunk of a tree, took a pull at his beer and another hit on the joint. ‘We've done it. We've really done it.'

Pete took a seat beside him. ‘Now all we have to do is wait for the perfect moment, press a button, and cover our asses.'

Bob chugged beer. Looked into the distance. ‘I could do with a nice thick steak.'

Pete smirked. ‘Seriously, dude. This is our moment. No, no. I mean this is the moment right before our moment. Once we move onto the next moment, this one will be gone, completely in the past, and we'll already have blown that thing to bits. So, right now, let me ask you this: in this last moment before our moment, if you could have anything in the world you wanted, what would it be?'

Bob swallowed beer and turned to Pete. ‘What would I want?'

Pete nodded.

‘That's a heavy question.'

‘I know.'

‘You mean not just like a steak. You mean like eternal life? Or Halle Berry? A billion dollars? That sort of thing?'

Pete closed his eyes. He felt smooth and light. As if he could lift off the ground and float.

‘You mean like a sailboat? Or maybe – how about I could be president of the world? Shit. That would be intense.'

Bob went on, naming things he might want while Pete drifted, lulled by the light breeze, the chirping of insects, the rhythm of Bob's wish list, and the smoke from the joint he occasionally lifted to his mouth. This was a moment to savor, full of anticipation. Wow, what a great word, anticipation. He'd never really appreciated it before. But it really did say it all, didn't it? It captured the best of everything – that feeling right before the first bite of a burger. Right before sliding his dick inside a pussy. And now, right before making the phone call that would change the world, taking him to the apex of his life. At least, of his life so far. Anticipation. He was drenched in it. He almost wanted to stop time, to soak in this hot, wet moment forever.

Ranger Daniels took a short cut, leading them along a narrow trail back to the clearing where Angela had last seen Phil.

‘What kind of footwear's he got on, ma'am?'

‘Footwear?' Angela frowned. ‘Hunting boots.'

‘What's his size, ma'am?'

She bit her lip, concentrating. ‘I never asked him. Ten? Ten and a half?'

‘Never mind. With all the leaves falling, there won't be many clear prints around here anyhow.'

As they walked, Harper and Hank lagged behind, occasionally calling Phil's name. Angela didn't call out. Occasionally, she repeated herself. ‘I don't get it. Where could he be? I left him right at the edge of the field, hunting rabbits.'

‘If he's hurt or wandering around lost, ma'am, we'll find him. I've got two other teams looking.' Daniels sounded confident.

‘How can you be sure? There are, what? Like four hundred thousand acres of woods around here?'

‘We don't have to cover all of them—'

‘We should get dogs. Do you have any of those sniffing dogs?' Angela picked at the dried mud under her fingernails. It was all over her. On her pants, in her cuticles. ‘Dogs could follow his scent.'

‘I don't have dogs, ma'am. But I know the woods. We won't have to search the whole state park. Just the areas where he could have gotten to.'

‘No, you're right. He couldn't have gone far. He wouldn't. He's not outdoorsy. Phil's a city guy. Honestly, he's not even a city guy. He's more of a homebody guy, doesn't have a lot of flair or natural instinct. Oh God, what was I thinking? I shouldn't have brought him up here. He was a complete newbie. What if they shot him like they shot that pipeline worker?' Angela didn't stop talking. Kept picking at her fingernails.

‘We have no evidence of anything like that, ma'am.' Daniels kept moving.

Harper called out, ‘Phil? Phil Russo?'

No answer. She and Hank walked side by side, peering into the forest. Harper watched the shadowy spaces between trees, listened for sounds beyond Angela's grating voice. Heard the usual insects chattering, birds calling. Leaves rattling on branches overhead or crunching under their boots. But more than anything, even louder than Angela's voice, she heard the bellowing silence of a lost man.

‘He should be right where I left him,' Angela went on. ‘He shouldn't have wandered off. I told him, I warned him to stay here until it was time to meet me. Why couldn't he for once listen to me?'

Harper's jaw tightened. Angela didn't seem able to take a breath without talking. She made herself tune out Angela's voice, redirected her focus by calling out for Phil. Watching for him. Taking notice of the pigments of the autumn leaves, the light beaming through the trees. Hank's wide shoulders. The pulsing ache in her leg. Anything that wasn't Angela's cloying continuous chatter.

Finally, they reached the clearing and separated, searching the area independently. Just steps from the path, Harper stopped and backed up, took a closer look at a vine. At first glance, she'd thought it was speckled. But no. It wasn't speckled. Splattered on its leaves were reddish-brown spots. Teardrop shaped, kind of horizontal. The color and texture of dried blood.

‘Hank,' she called.

Hank stepped over. As soon as Angela saw them talking, she rushed over, followed Hank's gaze. ‘Oh God. Is it blood?' She held her stomach. ‘It is, isn't it?' She turned in a circle. ‘Phil?' She yelled into the trees. ‘Phil? Can you hear me? Phi-il?'

Hank and Ranger Daniels huddled by the vine, examining its leaves. Harper was sure it was blood spatter, but they'd stepped all over the ground below, obliterating whatever footprints or other markings there might have been.

Angela began wailing. ‘Oh God. He's not answering me. They've killed him …'

‘Ma'am,' Daniels began, ‘we don't know that.'

‘For all we know, that's squirrel blood.' Harper's voice was abrupt. ‘Or wait – is this where I found the gas worker?' She looked around, as if unsure.

Hank shook his head, pointing. ‘No, he was over there, closer to the main trail.'

Harper rolled her eyes at him. Why had he said that? Now Angela would start again.

‘What?' Hank asked her.

Harper lowered her voice and mouthed. ‘I'm trying to calm her down.'

‘Well, how was I supposed to know that?' Hank answered aloud.

‘To know what?' Angela asked.

‘That it's probably animal blood.' Harper glared at Hank.

Angela began wringing her hands. ‘But what if it's not? What if those crazy local club members shot Phil? That could be Phil's blood—'

‘Now, calm down, ma'am.' Ranger Daniels had joined them. He put an arm on Angela's shoulder. ‘The lady's right. It's probably deer blood. Think about it. It doesn't make sense that anyone around here would shoot him. Nobody here has a beef with your husband—'

‘So? They shot that gas man for no reason—'

‘No, see, here's the thing: you got to stop jumping to conclusions.' He withdrew his arm. ‘We don't know for sure that the local organization shot him. But if they did – and that's a big if – it's different. The locals have been feuding with the gas company and the pipeline people for years—'

‘Ranger Daniels?' Harper interrupted. Her left leg was throbbing, and Hank's limp was pronounced. She wanted to stop talking and get something accomplished. ‘Should we take a sample of these leaves? Could they be evidence?'

Angela wheeled around. ‘Evidence? So you don't think it's deer blood. You think it's Phil's.'

Harper didn't answer her. She kept her eyes on Daniels, who scratched his ribs, considering the question.

‘Oh. Yes, why not. I suppose we should.' He took what looked like an old payroll envelope from his vest pocket, plucked some stained leaves from the vine. Stuffed them inside. Marked the envelope with a pen, stuck it back into his pocket.

Harper looked at Hank; he shook his head, telling her to let it go. Procedures were apparently relaxed out here.

Angela fretted, worried her hands, turned in circles. ‘Oh God, oh my God,' she panted.

‘You okay, ma'am?' Daniels asked. ‘How about we sit a minute. Drink some water.'

‘But if that's Phil's blood, where's Phil?' Her skin had turned ashen.

‘All we know for sure is that your husband isn't here, ma'am. So we need to take a minute to regroup and figure out how we'll proceed.' He guided them to a fallen tree trunk, took a seat. Gestured for the others to join him.

‘How can you sit down and rest? My Phil could be lying hurt somewhere—'

‘Give it a break, Angela.' Harper used her most commanding lieutenant's voice. ‘Just sit down and be quiet.'

Angela looked startled, but closed her mouth and took a seat. They all drank water. Harper rested her aching leg. For a full minute, nobody spoke. Even the insects seemed to quiet down.

Harper took out a bottle of ibuprofen, handed some capsules to Hank, swallowed a few and rubbed her sore thigh. Hank reached over, helped her massage the muscles. She closed her eyes, almost moaning at the soreness. Enjoying the silence. But it ended sharply.

‘What did you mean they'd been “feuding”?' Angela's voice was a hook, latching onto Harper's nerves and yanking them.

Daniels drank water.

Angela pressed him. ‘You said the locals and the gas people have been—'

‘It goes way back.' Daniels wiped his mouth. ‘From the beginning, the locals were against having any kind of pipeline go through here. They didn't like fracking and wanted the land to be left pristine. But the government caved, and the gas company got its way. They destroyed the old campground – ran the pipeline right through it. In fact, that's how come we got our new grounds – brand-new cottages and shower facilities. New ranger station. Everything state of the art.'

‘I remember the old campgrounds,' Angela said. ‘They were a mess.'

‘These are nicer, for sure.' Daniel smiled. ‘So anyway, we moved the campground and everything was fine. Until they started the fracking. After that, people around here started having problems. Wells got contaminated. Folks still can't drink their own water – it's discolored, tastes bad. It burns their mouths, gives them headaches. Some can't even shower at home – the steam burns their lungs. The water's been so bad that fish died in the rivers and creeks.'

‘My my.' Angela tsked.

‘Oh, but that's not the worst of it. The locals really lost it when a drilling rig exploded.'

Harper was appalled. ‘Exploded?'

‘Yes, ma'am. It was bad. The explosion blew away the old hunting lodge. Killed a guy who was staying there.'

Harper looked at Hank. Hank's face was completely neutral, didn't register the slightest surprise. Didn't he find this information the least bit disturbing? Unless … Of course: Hank was a geologist. He would have already known about all these fracking problems. In fact, he probably knew more about them than the ranger did. Damn. Was that why he'd suggested this spot for their trip? Was that the real reason he'd brought her here? Pretending that he wanted a romantic getaway, but really doing research on fracking, collecting water and soil samples?