This last one she killed had brought others and she could only hope that in time they’d leave her alone. But now these two boys had moved into her territory, cutting through the forest without thought or direction, coming closer and closer to her home. She didn’t like it.
She would have to send a message.
As clouds float over the canopy of trees filling the thick, dark sky with the strong scent of rain, she leaves them, escaping their stink and filth. She pads through the woods until she finds a path and squats at the base of a large tree, pushing her toes into the soft earth.
Now she must wait for her prey.
She closes her eyes and separates the layers of sound. While the others find the forest peaceful and relaxing, she hears a beautiful symphony of noise. Trees creak; leaves rustle in the wind. Squirrels chatter and insects scratch around her, while above a woodpecker beats out a rhythm. A chickadee and a swallow have found themselves a copse of nearby birch, while a seagull squeals high above in the sky. Somewhere behind her another bird she can’t quite identify flits over the forest floor, and she spies the flash of a critter, likely a marmot, scrounging for roots ahead of her. She breathes deeply, quietly, not wanting to intrude upon the music that surrounds her.
A crow—that damn fiend—arrives to pester the rest.
She tunes it out, closing her eyes and turning her head toward another utterance, a rough pat pat pat coming through the trees. A raindrop hits her cheek and then another and another. The shower sweeps in, silencing all other sounds. It doesn’t hinder her pleasure but rather adds a new percussive movement played against every surface in the forest.
She tilts her head and sticks out her tongue, drinking the water from the sky. Eyes closed, she feels the rain running through her swollen braids and across her face to stream down the front of her shirt.
She rocks slowly back and forth taking it all in.
Crick.
Her heart skips a beat and she draws her knife.
Snap.
Her quarry is approaching and patience is the key to a successful hunt.
Years of practice have honed her skills. The first few times were brutal and difficult and, younger then, she had hurt herself as much as the animal. She used to make a much larger mess, but now she’s careful and efficient. She keeps the animal pure with a quick kill and other animals stay away because less blood sprays than it used to.
She opens her eyes. In one smooth thrust, she digs into the chest of the young white-tailed deer at the end of her knife. Its front legs buckle as she pushes through the muscle of the animal and into its lung. It snorts in pain, and after a hard shove, the creature is on its side.
The rain pours into her eyes, but she doesn’t break focus. She pushes her knee into the deer with all her weight, pulls out the knife and slices through the muscles of the neck until she cuts through the jugular vein. The beast’s short, panicked breath puffs against her arm as it looks up at her, squirming under her hold, blood spurting out, thinning as the rainwater washes it onto the mossy forest floor. The deer blinks once, twice, then its eyes glaze over though they remain open. It is still.
She waits until she’s certain the animal is dead, then rises, catching her breath. Steam rises from the passive creature as its flesh cools in the soft rain.
But she’s not done.
She kneels again, taking it by the throat with one hand to pull its head back and expose the neck. The knife plunges in again. A back leg kicks, likely a nerve spasm—she ignores it. The tough tendons and vertebrae resist the knife at first, but she is strong. She tears off the head and tosses it aside; it lands with a splat on the wet ground beside her. She rises up and carves a line from throat to underbelly and without pause reaches into the animal and pulls out its organs. The entrails reek, but this doesn’t stop her.
Standing in the pouring rain in front the carcass, stained to the elbows with blood, knife in hand, she looks at her workmanship. She bends down to sort through the mass of guts, picks up the heart in one hand and reaches for the head with the other. She’ll be back for the meat shortly. First she must let the boys know they are no longer welcome.
chapter 72
It’s a long, rainy afternoon for Charlie and me—and an even longer night.
Although the tree provides reasonable cover, water drips on us constantly. Fallen spruce needles dig into our arms and clothing. We empty out Charlie’s backpack and open it wide to use as something of a cover, but we’re both cold, although much less so than if we were each shivering alone.
We talk very little and sleep even less. I drift in and out but never feel like I fully fall asleep. Mom and Dad will be freaking out that we’re not home, I’m sure, so for some time, I worry that someone might be looking for us and that we’ll miss them. so I keep waking at every little sound.
Charlie’s restless too; he never stops moving in his attempt to get comfortable. Finally, he settles and I think he’s fallen asleep because he’s mumbling quietly, whispering what sounds like “selfie,” but I’m sure that can’t be right.
At some point, I open my eyes and find Charlie solidly asleep. It’s dark and the steady roar of the rain is gone. The only sound is the soft patter of water dripping off the leaves. There’s a crunch crunch of an animal moving around our tree and I hope it doesn’t plan to poke around underneath. I stay still and barely breathe, waiting until I hear it move off. It’s only then that I relax and try to get back to sleep.
chapter 73
Charlie’s movements wake me. It’s morning. I follow him, blearily scrambling out from under the tree. Although the sun’s not up yet, we can see enough to tell there isn’t a cloud in the sky. Charlie checks his phone. 4:30 a.m.
“I didn’t even know this time existed,” he says.
There are two large black garbage bags, split open and spread between the branches of our tree to provide cover from last night’s rain.
“Charlie, was this you?” Even as I ask, I know he didn’t have any in his backpack.
“I’m resourceful, but even I can’t pull a garbage bag out of my ass.” He points behind me. “And I’m guessing you aren’t responsible for that?”
I turn and see what he’s looking at: the severed head of what I’m pretty sure is a deer, staring wide-eyed, hung by the antlers in the branches of a nearby tree. On the ground below it is its heart.
A chill runs down my back. “Um. Time to go?”
“No argument here.”
We leave immediately and I look at the shadows of the trees to try and get a sense of where the sun is. I point. “That’s the direction of the cabin, so the lake”—I shift my arm to the east—“must be over there.”
Charlie shivers, “And the warm sun, correct?”
I nod.
“I vote we head for the lake.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” At least we could go back to my original plan and follow the shoreline back to civilization.
The walk over uneven land hasn’t gotten any easier, especially now that the ground is soaked from the rain. We battle through trees and over and around fallen logs; branches jut up and redirect our path more often than not. The leaves, grass and moss are heavy with moisture and it doesn’t take long until our feet are as wet and cold as the rest of us. A large bog blocks our progress and we travel further north to get around it.
As we struggle along, the sun rises high in the sky and the air is heavy with humidity. My clothes have started to dry out from the rain, but I’m drenching them again with sweat, I’m grimy from the less-than-ideal sleeping accommodations, and I can feel my endurance waning. But I can’t stop thinking about what we found this morning.
Charlie beats me to it. “How do you think those bags got there?”
I glance over at him. “I’m more concerned about the severed deer parts.”
“Couldn’t it have been a bear?”
/>
I shake my head. “Bears don’t hang their leftovers from trees like offerings. This thing was only missing a bow and a card saying Happy Birthday.”
He thinks about this. “So then why the bags and the head?”
I don’t have an answer for this. Charlie retreats into his thoughts, his attention diverted from the situation at hand. It’s unsettling that something this unnatural is happening out in these woods. Maybe we are dealing with aliens.
I also can’t seem to escape the nagging thought of something Charlie had said yesterday: that he’d been at the games I’d played and attended the same parties as me. How had I not seen him? How many times had he been around without me realizing it? Had I really been so oblivious?
“Charlie?”
“Hmm…?”
“I don’t hate you.”
He chuckles and leans against a tree, taking a break. “Really, Shepherd. We’re at the ass end of nowhere. We’ve got someone or something decapitating deer for our viewing pleasure, and you’re worried about whether or not I think you hate me?”
Sounds pretty stupid when he puts it like that, but I press on. “Well, I don’t.”
“All right,” he nods. “Well, thanks.”
“I’m serious.”
“Okay, great to hear.”
“And I’m sorry about what I said to you yesterday.”
“What a relief.”
“Come on, man.” Charlie’s never one to make things easy.
“What do you want me to say? You’re forgiven.” He places a hand over his heart.
Now he’s just pissing me off. “You know what? You’re an asshole too.”
“That makes us two assholes.”
“Fine, we’re a couple of assholes, lost in the woods—”
“With some batshit crazy person leaving animal remains—”
“Right. Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I tell him.
“Oh, so you’re saying you want me to be lost in the woods with a psycho who leaves severed heads as gifts?”
“No—! Not you… us—”
“You like being stalked?”
“No—” I finally get it: he’s messing with me. Again. “You really are crazy!”
He smiles. “There you go, Shepherd. Now you truly understand me.”
I toss my head back. “You— I just—” He’s waiting for me to finally explode. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
He smirks. “Tormenting you? Of course.”
I sigh and finally laugh. “Charlie, you’re aggravating! And I am truly thankful that you’re lost here with me!”
“Thank you, but it looks like you’re wrong about us being lost.”
I look to where he’s gesturing and see open sky through the trees. We step out onto a ridge. Down below us is the lake shining in the sun.
chapter 74
We slip back into the trees and descend the ridge, thankful that the lake isn’t far away. We crest another hill and go down again, and the trees open onto long grass and bushes. We shove through them, brambles and branches scratching our arms, and it doesn’t take long before we’re at the edge of a small, sandy bank that drops into the lake. We jump right in with our shoes on. The cold water feels awesome against our hot skin.
I try to get my bearings. I think we’re somewhere between Old Fire Tower Road and the cabin, but beyond that I have no clue where we came out. We slog through the shallow waters, skirting fallen logs, water splashing around our pant legs. By this point, it appears Charlie is long past caring about leeches or other creepy crawlies, but I don’t draw attention to the possibility in case it changes his mind about being out here.
A short while later, we see a boat out on the lake, but they’re too far out to notice us. Soon, another boat passes by, followed by a few more, and eventually we flag down a couple of early morning fishermen, Americans who’ve travelled north to catch jackfish.
“You boys lost?”
“I don’t suppose you can take us to Dyson’s Point?” I ask.
“Where’s that?”
Once the fishermen help me get my bearings, I guide them back toward our cabin. Charlie is unaccustomedly quiet on the trip. We stop at the main landing where we are greeted by a couple of police officers.
“Anthony Shepherd? Charles Wolfe? Come with us.”
It takes us both a few minutes to understand that we aren’t so much in trouble as we are the centre of great concern—with good reason. Last night, Mom and Dad issued an all-points bulletin for us, and when some boaters found our canoe half submerged in the middle of the lake early this morning, the police expected the worst. Our arrival at the dock comes as a major relief.
Even though we’re nearly dry except for our feet, the cops offer us blankets and take us in their patrol car back to the cabin. Mom and Dad look like they haven’t slept all night, and as they hurry to us, I can tell they’ve been crying. I hug them both and my parents pull Charlie into the circle too. He seems to tolerate it. Heather runs up the path from the lakeshore and gets between me and Charlie in the family hug we’ve got going on.
Of course, the police want to know what happened. We tell them how we pulled to the shore to rest and do a bit of exploring. How when we got back, the canoe had floated away and we tried to walk back to the cabin before the rain hit—and it’s all true, with only a few details missing, like the fact that we might’ve found the actual place where Terry drowned. Since, to them, we’re no longer just a couple of dumb kids who stumbled across a corpse but two teens with one too many run-ins with the law over the last few days, they question our actions. Why did we go canoeing? How far did we go? Where were we in relation to the site where we found the body? Why did we pull into the beach that we did? What did we do at night?
The questions continue for half an hour, and while Mom and Dad sit beside us, they stay quiet; more than anything, I’m sure, because they want to know the answers themselves. We push through the interrogation, and although Charlie answers some of the more loaded questions, I’ve grown accustomed to telling half-truths and can even sense how he might respond to them sometimes. Eventually, the cross-examination ends and the officers leave, happy not to be dragging the lake for a couple of teenagers who got lost in a storm. We thank them for their help—even Charlie shows his appreciation—and they go on their way.
Now, Charlie and I are left with the biggest challenge—dealing with Mom and Dad. Surprisingly, they go easy on us. Heather doesn’t even have harsh words for Charlie. The two of us find ourselves amid an eerie calm as we wait for the bottom to drop out, but it never does. Frankly, I’m not upset by this fact and hope that if I don’t poke the beast, I can escape the wrath.
Charlie, though, is strangely quiet for the rest of the day and is unusually attentive and helpful around the cabin. He sets the table, helps clear it, and silently dries the dishes while Dad washes. In the evening, he sits with us by the fire and roasts marshmallows before going up to bed early, and when I decide to do the same, I find him reading Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms.
“You okay?”
He nods without looking up from the book.
“You thinking about this morning?” I ask.
“No, not really.”
“You sure?”
“Yup. Do you mind letting me read?”
“Sure.”
I climb into the bottom bunk and lie down. At some point, he turns out the light and I’m left in the dark wondering what’s going on.
chapter 75
Sunday morning arrives and I drag myself out of bed to the fragrant smell of coffee and bacon. When I step into the kitchen, I find everyone awake, including Charlie.
“Good morning,” Mom says, beaming.
“Morning.”
“We didn’t think you were getting up,” Dad says.
/> “Well, sleeping under a tree in the rain the other night was less than exceptional.”
“You have a greater appreciation for your mattress?” Dad asks, trying to be funny, but it’s too early to have a sense of humour.
“Uh-huh,” I mumble, grabbing a fresh cup of coffee.
Charlie pipes up. “About that… can we have tea time?”
Everyone stares at him.
“Well, not tea time, but maybe coffee time?” he clarifies.
“Charles…?” Mom’s not sure how to proceed.
“We typically…” Dad’s speechless as well.
“I understand all that. It’s just you guys haven’t said anything and I think we should talk about it.”
What does he think he’s doing? For once, we’re not in trouble.
He takes a seat at the table and waits expectantly until Mom and Dad comply. Now it’s only me and Heather standing and I don’t really want to plunk myself into this situation.
Charlie looks over at my sister and I’m not entirely shocked when she pulls up a chair, clearly eager to see whatever’s about to go down. I resign myself to the fact that I’m not going to win this one and sit down too.
“What’s on your mind, Charles?” asks Mom.
“Well, first I want to take full responsibility for us getting lost,” says Charlie.
Mom and Dad exchange looks with him before Dad says, “That’s good of you to say, but it seems you’ve been doing that a lot.”
“What Ben means to say is that Anthony is responsible for his own actions and hasn’t been accepting that fact,” says Mom.
Great, Charlie, now look what you’ve done!
“You can’t keep apologizing for Tony,” Dad adds. “He’s as much to blame for what’s happened as you.”
They wait for me to respond and I feel a bit clueless. Finally I say, “You’re right, it hasn’t been all him.” I hope that’s enough, but they seem to want more. “It’s definitely not only Charlie’s fault.”
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