by Celia Roman
That took the wind outta my sails. I dropped the paper to my side, my mad near about forgotten. “I do not.”
“Yeah, you do. Look, I’ve been out in the field all day. Some fool nearly shot his foot off trying to climb out of a stand. I just saw the paper an hour ago when I got back from the hospital. And no, I didn’t see it last night, either.”
Well, shoot. There went that theory. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Sorry?” A dry laugh escaped him, hardly bigger’n a sigh. “One of these days.”
The way he said it set my innards to knotting up again. “I am sorry, Riley.”
“Forget it.” His arms relaxed and reached out to me, and next thing I knowed, he hauled me in and tucked me close against him. “When are you going to trust me?”
My mouth gummed up right then, miring the words in my throat. I trusted him. Sure, I did. He was my feller, weren’t he? I cooked for him and spent dang near ever free second I had with him, and let him kiss me…
I swallowed. No, I didn’t let him. Why’d I thunk it that way? Weren’t no letting with Riley Treadwell. If I weren’t a willing participant, he never woulda laid a hand on me.
So I trusted him. I did.
Even in my own mind, the reassurance sounded weak. Well, I reckoned that was something I was gonna have to work on.
His hands rubbed slow circles over my back, up and down, real slow and warm. “You eat yet?”
I shook my head against his chest, the only communication I could manage.
“Want to drive into town or maybe go to my place?” he asked.
That unstuck them words good. “Missy’s got a pot roast going.”
“Yeah?”
I laughed. He always perked up at the mention of good food. “C’mon, Riley. Let’s get you fed before you plumb starve to death.”
“I never said I was starving,” he said, but it was a token protest and we both knowed it. We walked up the trail together hand in hand, laughing and carrying on. By the time we reached the top, we was almost on an even keel again.
Whilst we was cleaning up supper, Libby called with a reminder about Grampa Walkingstick’s birthday party. It was coming up pretty quick, I realized with a start. On Sunday, as a matter of fact, and I weren’t hardly prepared for it.
I would be by then, though I hadn’t the foggiest idea what to get him.
Showing up was probably the biggest present I could give, but I weren’t hardly forgiving of the way he neglected me and Daddy all them years whilst his wife, that ol’ she-cat, seeded bad blood amongst us all. Good riddance to her, I say, even if the scars along my side still burned and twinged. My heart hurt just thinking on that night in the deep wood, but I knowed deep down I’d had to do it, if for no other reason than self-defense.
Water under the bridge.
Riley seen me home and left after sneaking in enough kisses for me to understand right clear that he forgive me for my nonsense, and I fell into bed trembling and fuzzy minded from the doing.
Dang him.
I woke the next morning with a clear purpose in mind: Go hunt down that new crime scene and suss it out good. I whipped up some from-scratch biscuits and stuck ‘em in the oven, then fried up some country ham from the freezer and brewed up a fresh pot of coffee. Had to use my spare thermos. Deputy Franks still had mine, and I hoped he felt guilty about the entire situation from the top of his capped head to the tips of his clumsy toes.
Weren’t him I should be mad at. Like as not, the good sheriff was behind the cover up. Couldn’t blame ol’ Todd for protecting his job by gluing his lips shut. Naw. I decided then and there to place that rancor where it belonged, smack dab at the feet of Chip Treadwell.
Sometimes I just hated that my feller belonged to one such as him. We couldn’t help our relations. I learnt that firsthand, didn’t I, starting about the time I turned twelve. Riley’s kin weren’t his fault, but I sure didn’t like having the sheriff as my beau’s daddy, no sirree.
I arrived at the newest crime scene not half an hour after packing hot ham biscuits into a cooler. Hadn’t been hard to figure out where it was. The other two’d been close together. No reason to think this’un weren’t near to them, and sure enough, I found it on the first try, about half a mile this side of Lily and Ferd’s campsite.
Was hard to miss, truth be told, in spite of the lack of patrol cars standing guard. Yellow police tape hung across a narrow gap in the winter bare wood. I spotted it right off, parked, and near about regretted the bribes I cooked all the morning long.
Oh, well. More for me. Maybe I’d get right ambitious after having a look-see and take some to Riley, just to cement the forgiving.
The morning was a dew damp chill in my nostrils. I sniffed, hoping to ease the cold, and wound up getting a good whiff of blood and death and the dank musk of a cave.
It’s here, that voice screamed, louder’n I ever heard it. I winced as I slammed the IROC’s door shut and tried to shake off the urge crawling under my skin to move, run, hunt.
Something cracked deep in the woods.
I took off at a flat run straight toward the police tape, following instinct more’n reason. That crack had sounded an awful lot like somebody, or some thing, stepping on a dead branch. I wasn’t alone out here. Maybe whoever else was out there was just like me, curious as to the doings, or maybe it was something else, something worse.
Say, something what could poke a hole straight through a growed man’s chest.
I ripped right through the cautionary tape, breaking it, and headed toward the cracking sound I’d heard. Air whipped past me, seeping through my jacket, but I was hot on the trail and hardly noticed the cold.
And it was cold. Weak sunlight filtered through the trees, warming the woods a mere fraction above freezing. My breath wisped outta me in short huffs as my boots pounded along the ground. The trail was short and narrow, and ended, like most around here did, on a campsite. Only difference? Blood and gore and debris was strewn around, marking the bare dirt and stone ringed fire pit with the signs of violence.
I ignored all of it, too focused on finding whatever was out here with me to note much. Ahead of me, bare barked oaks stood at rigid attention amongst poplar and beech and the green fringed limbs of evergreen pines. Leaves rustled not twenty feet out, and narrow shoulders clad in plaid ducked behind a tree.
A man, then. Oh, I was just itching to find out who.
I sprinted ahead on a burst of energy I was afraid to question, weaving around trees and laurel as I tracked him. His scent hung in the air, sawdust and liquor and the faint aroma of fresh brewed coffee, and memory jangled in my head, warring with the instinct clamoring at me. I knowed that scent, that build, but where from?
The answer arrived soon enough. I rounded a monstrous oak, and there he was hunched over, sucking frosty air into his lungs quick as he could. I skidded to a stop near about on top of him, reached out a claw fingered hand, and snagged the collar of his worn, flannel shirt.
The man looked up and scowled at me. “Dagnabbit, Sunny. What’re you doing?”
I yanked him upright, grinning like a devil come to claim his due. “Looks like it’s time for some payback, Harley,” I said, and had the deep pleasure of watching ol’ Harley Jimpson’s wrinkled skin pale to ghost white.
Chapter Fifteen
Harley reared back and nearly broke my grip on his shirt. “Whatever I did, you deserved it.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, sarcasm thick in my voice. “I deserved being throwed to a danged ol’ man-sized catfish.”
“Belinda was the one what put me up to it.”
“Didn’t mean you had to go along.”
His scowl deepened the wrinkles on his forehead above bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. I had him there and he knowed it.
“What’re you up to out here anyhow?” he asked.
“Don’t play dumb, Harley. Ever body in God’s creation knows what I’m up to.” I dug my fingers in good, leaned forward a mite, and let just a little of M
ama’s crazy seep into my eyes. “Question is, what’re you doing out here? You and Belinda up to your old tricks again?”
His gaze skittered away from mine and his shoulders hunched under his thick flannel shirt. “I was just curious, is all.”
I snorted. “You’re a crappy liar.”
Right about then, a terrible crashing noise drifted to us, like a bear lumbering through the woods at a dead run. Hunh. Somebody musta seen my car, probably the guard what was supposed to be posted on the roadside ‘til the investigator cleared the crime scene. If my luck held, it was Deputy Franks running toward us. Him, I could persuade into ignoring my presence whilst taking Harley in at the same time.
I stepped around the tree, dragging a struggling Harley with me, and when I saw who was a-coming, my heart sank plumb down to my knees.
Sheriff Treadwell.
I sighed. Oh, well. My luck was never that good to begin with. No reason to think it’d turned now.
I stood my ground, chin thrust out, shoulders straight, and refused to back down when he stomped up to me and jabbed a finger toward my chest.
“You’re trespassing,” he spat out. “I ought to arrest you right now for interfering with a criminal investigation.”
“I was biding my time at the roadside, waiting for a deputy to show up ‘til I heard this’un in the woods.” I shook Harley again, none too gentle. “You wanna haul somebody in, might as well be somebody what deserves it.”
The sheriff’s mouth thinned into a flat line. He stared at me for a beat and a half, then shifted his flinty gaze to Harley.
In true Jimpson style, Harley blanched and started babbling. “I was minding my own, taking my early morning constitutional, when Miss High and Mighty here run up on me and threatened to tear me limb from limb.”
I glanced at him, only half amazed at the garbage spewing outta his mouth. “I don’t threaten, Harley. I do. You want, I can demonstrate.”
“Let him go,” Sheriff Treadwell said.
“No,” I said, flat and hard. “Him and Belinda Arrowood was the ones what brung harm to me and Riley out on Greenwood Cove. Or did you forget that?”
He met my flat with pure granite. “I don’t forget anything where my son is concerned.”
“Then maybe you can remember as how Belinda’s fingerprints was found all over the campsite where Lily and Ferd was murdered,” I shot back. “You reckon maybe this’un had something to do with that?”
“I will not discuss an ongoing investigation with the niece of my prime suspect.”
I spat on the ground at his feet. “That’s what I think of your investigation.”
His mouth twisted into a cold smile. “I do believe that’s assault.”
“And?” I shoved Harley forward and let go. “Here’s your prime witness. Have at it.”
“Hey, now,” Harley said. “Ain’t no call for pushing.”
“Two counts of assault.” Sheriff Treadwell snagged Harley’s arm, holding the slippery rascal in place. “Dating my son won’t earn you any leeway.”
“Neither does the truth, apparently.” I crossed my arms over my chest and exhaled as much mad as I could. Getting het up weren’t gonna help me nor Fame neither one. On the inhale, that funky musty smell tickled my nose. My head swung around like a hound dog catching a scent. “Something’s out there, waiting for us.”
Sheriff Treadwell’s gaze followed mine and his free hand reached automatic like for the gun strapped to his waist. “Where?”
I sniffed real good, trying to pinpoint the origin, and got a schnozzle full of two men’s aftershave. “Can’t tell.”
“Try again.”
I backed up a coupla steps, tested the air, shook my head. Maybe I’d imagined it.
Instinct stirred and whispered disagreement, and just like that, it hit me.
“Caves?” I asked.
Sheriff Treadwell jerked his chin to the north. “That way. Why?”
“That’s where it’ll be.”
Him and Harley both stared at me, one like he was pondering what I was up to, t’other like he seen a ghost and weren’t too keen on seeing it again.
I shrugged. Weren’t no never mind to me if they believed me.
I pivoted toward north and let instinct guide where my feet landed. Behind me, Harley whimpered. No telling what the sheriff had done to him. Something deserving, I hoped, maybe a little too hard.
“Sunshine,” Sheriff Treadwell said. “You can’t go off on your own.”
“Watch me.”
“This is my investigation. You need to go home.”
I snorted. As if. “Go away. I need to pee.”
“Really?” Harley said.
I near about rolled my eyes, would’ve if the trail was better. As it was, I didn’t dare look away from it, lest I lose my footing. “You coming or not?”
“Let me take him back to the car and lock him up,” the sheriff said, and on cue, Harley squawked a protest.
I ignored ‘em both. Let ‘em follow or not. Whatever urged me forward was growing stronger with each footstep through the sparse underbrush. I needed to go see what was out there, needed to figure out why, to understand what was going on here, not just for Fame, but for me, too.
I needed to know. Didn’t they understand that?
Whether they did or not, I never could ken. The sheriff’s low curses reached my ears right about the time leaves crunched behind me. I broke into a steady jog, breathing deep and steady of the crisp mountain air. There it was, that faint hint of mustiness, underlain by the scents of dirt and rock. Wind stirred the leaves, carrying rotting vegetation along its eddies, and the scent was gone again.
I pushed on, heading north toward the caves as the hair on the back of my neck stiffened. It was close, whatever it was, close enough for me to feel. I stopped long enough to work Daddy’s knife outta its sheath, then hopped into a full blown run.
“For the love of God,” Harley muttered.
“Hush it,” Sheriff Treadwell said.
The words barely registered. I was deep in the hunt, ever sense focused on the monster I was sure I’d find. Faster I went through ever denser wood. I skirted a laurel thicket, lost the scent, doubled back and nigh on mowed the two men down whilst trying to find it again.
There, that teeniny voice cried, and I was on the move again, hunting like the cat I shoulda been.
Up ahead, a sheer rock face rose outta the forest, easy to spy now that we was close and the sun shone on it, lightening the dull granite to a sparkling gray. The scent growed stronger, thicker, and I caught a new scent mingling with the old: human blood, same as what was spilled in the crime scene not far from here. How I knowed that was beyond my reckoning, but know it I did with as much certainty as I ever held. Whatever killed the person in that campsite was up ahead, and I was past ready to deal with it.
Outta the corner of my eye, I caught movement along the rock face. On instinct, my gaze shifted and zeroed in on that point. The granite rose high like a mountain cut in half, and was interspersed with the milky white of quartz. Rust stains splashed down where rain carried red clay mud down the rock aeon after aeon, and tiny saplings struggled to take root where dirt clung to the crevices.
Nothing stirred, not even the wind.
The skin of my nape tingled and my heart skipped and stuttered. I clapped a hand to the back of my neck and rubbed, uneasy of a sudden. Something was out there. I could feel it under my skin, in the blood pounding through my veins.
Sheriff Treadwell stepped up beside me, one hand on the hilt of his gun, the other wrapped around Harley’s quivering arm.
“It ain’t right,” Harley murmured, so low I could scarce hear him. “It just ain’t right.”
I had to agree. Something was off here, something primal and dark. Goosebumps popped up on my arms under my clothes, and it weren’t from the cold. My breath was still coming fast from the run out here, sweat dotted my forehead, and my limbs felt loose and limber, like a noodle cooked just right.
The sheriff said, just as soft as Harley, “I don’t see anything.”
“But you feel it, don’tcha?” I said.
He shifted beside me, restless under the hard stare he was aiming at the rock face. “We need to get back to the road.”
I eyed him close. He been a cop for long as I could remember, since before Riley was borned, that was for sure. Now, folks can say what they want about small town cops, but you side with the law long enough, you’re bound to develop a feel for things, much like I developed an instinct over the past few years where monsters was concerned.
Though I suspected my instinct was helped along by whatever I inherited from my daddy’s kin, them what walked on four furry legs now and again.
The sheriff’s instinct was probably telling him to go get backup. Mine was a-telling me to wait, watch, listen. Patience, it said, not in that new voice I hadn’t gotten used to yet, but in something akin to the voice my daddy used to use when he taught me how to track.
Wait for it, Sunny. You’ll see.
I returned my gaze to the rock face and, starting from the point where I coulda sworn something moved, I begun a slow, studied sweep of it, near about memorizing the rifts and whorls and variations. A thin trickle of water dribbled down, caressing the rock in a random trail from top to bottom where it hung in dripping icicles off a narrow jut. Moss clung to the shadowed places, deepening the folds, and grass grew out of slices carved into the rock face over weathered millennia, brittle now on the cusp of winter.
A cave interrupted the pattern, creating an abyss within nature’s bas-relief. My hand tightened on the hilt of my knife. Was that where the thing we was hunting rested its head now? Was that where we’d find the bones and blood of them what was lost to the living?
Harley yelped as Sheriff Treadwell jerked his gun outta its holster and pointed the tip ahead and to the left.
My gaze whipped around and focused on where he was aiming, and there it was, a twitch along the rock, like a section got up and moved. Only this weren’t no rock. It was large and rough and narrow, maybe as tall as the sheriff, and it raised a thin limb and pointed straight at us. Danged if it didn’t look like whatever was on the end of that gnarled limb was elongating.
