by Merry Jones
Good. He wanted to go back and take another look at him, afraid he’d been too hurried before and done a half-assed job. A cardboard sign? Well, cardboard had been all he’d come up with on short notice, discarded at some campsite. But it wasn’t enough. Maybe now that it was getting dark, he’d be able to do more, make the message clearer. Take out the eyes, or peel off some skin. Or wait – the head. Damn, why hadn’t he thought of that? He had his pocketknife with him, but he should have brought an axe. He could have chopped the thing off, stuck it on a stake. That would have scared the crap out of outsiders. And the bonus was, no matter what he did, no one would bother him about it. It wasn’t like he could get arrested – the Bog Man wasn’t human, wasn’t subject to their laws.
As he got close, he heard a woman talking. Damn. He wasn’t alone. The bearskins muted her words, but he knew she wasn’t far away. He stopped, peered through the trees. Saw the ranger and a woman make their way up the path. But right in front of him, a squirrel quivered on a branch, distracting him, smelling like fear. He watched it stand motionless, maybe a foot away, pretending not to be there.
If he reached quickly, he could scoop it up, feel its heart race and its body squirm. It had been a long time since he’d taken a small animal, and he’d never been able to do much before their hearts stopped. Maybe he could now? He considered it, but never made a move. Even with his ears covered with bearskin, he heard the scream, long, high-pitched, and full of terror. The squirrel scampered off as he stood still, savoring the sound.
Apparently his message had been clear after all.
Harper and Hank followed the scream. It led to Philip Russo. Or to his body. It was grotesque, propped up and tied to a tree trunk on a main trail, about two miles from the ranger’s office at the campground. A cardboard placard was duct-taped to his chest, the word TRESPASSER printed crudely in black marker.
Angela was a whimpering ball, collapsed at her dead husband’s feet. Ranger Daniels knelt beside her, trying to comfort her, listening to his radiophone. A voice was blaring, talking about the explosion. Describing a geyser fifty feet high.
Hank ran to help, relieving Daniels, offering Angela the flask of bourbon he kept in his vest pocket. But Harper stayed back, taking in the scene, rereading the placard. Had the locals killed Philip Russo? Why? Out of all the hunters and backpackers visiting that weekend, why Phil?
She walked along the path, examining the ground and the foliage, not sure what she was looking for. Noting two parallel lines, partially clear of leaves, leading to the tree. Probably Phil’s legs had dragged there. The ground around Phil’s body was disturbed, no doubt from the effort of tying him there. Harper walked around the body, looking at Phil. His eyes were open and vacant. And even though his mouth was distorted in a deadly grimace, his body seemed fairly undamaged. His hands were clean, unblemished. His clothes were unsmudged. She saw no sign that he’d been in a struggle. In fact, no wounds were visible at all, just the border of a bloodstain on his blue plaid flannel shirt, visible above the TRESPASSER sign.
Daniels was on his radio with someone else, raising his voice. ‘Because who else would leave a sign like that? It’s got to be the Hunt Club.’
A male voice answered him, but Harper couldn’t make out what it said. She circled the body again, looking above and around it. Just behind Phil’s head, she saw a small clump of brown fur caught on the bark. Harper leaned close, examining it. Odd. Was it from a bear? A raccoon? Why was it here, on this tree? Had Phil’s killer worn a fur coat?
‘Well, see for yourself, Joe,’ Ranger Daniels went on. ‘But it looks to me like your neighbors are behind this. And if they are—’ He stopped mid-sentence, listening to the response.
Harper was too far away to hear what was being said, but she knew who ‘Joe’ was: Daniels was talking to Captain Slader.
‘I didn’t say you could control them. But if it’s them, there’ll be hell to pay. The whole damned world will descend on this place and I promise you they’ll start a confrontation—’
More blurting from Captain Slader.
‘Well, hurry it up, can you? I’ve got to get up to that explosion. Which you wouldn’t know anything about, right?’
The captain’s answer was brief and gruff. Grumbling, Daniels stowed the radio in his vest. ‘You all right there?’ He turned to Angela.
Hank had her sitting up, faced away from the body. Her skin was a greenish gray, and she was mumbling, hugging herself.
Harper motioned to Daniels. ‘Ranger? Want to look at this?’ She pointed to the clump of fur.
His radio was blaring again, a static voice asking him to respond. He answered as he stepped over to Harper, told the voice that, yes, he knew about the explosion, and no, he didn’t know what had blown, but yes, he’d be heading up there soon. Then he looked at the wad of fur for a long moment, rubbing his jaw. Finally, he reached out and plucked it off the tree.
‘Wait – don’t you need to bag it?’
His eyebrows raised. ‘Why? It’s just fur.’
‘But it might be evidence.’ Harper reached for the hand he held it in, but he raised it over her head. ‘What are you doing?’
‘There’s fur all through these woods, ma’am.’ He wadded it up and stuck it into his pocket. ‘It doesn’t mean a thing, other than some animal scraped against some bark. Probably trying to scratch its back.’
‘Or maybe the killer left it.’ Harper stood straight, hands on hips, but Daniels leaned down and lowered his voice.
‘Ma’am, you’re not from around here. Trust me, whoever did this to Mr Russo was not a raccoon or a bear. A tuft of fur has nothing to do with this investigation.’
‘Ranger,’ she began, but Daniels leaned closer, whispered into her ear.
‘Okay. Between you and me, I can think of another possibility.’ He looked around, making sure no one was listening. ‘Somebody might have planted that fur on purpose.’
Harper blinked. ‘Why?’
‘To make it look like it was that Bog Man who killed him. To scare people away from the woods.’
What? Was he joking? Harper looked him in the eye. Daniels seemed completely serious. Still, she wasn’t going to back down. ‘So,’ she whispered, ‘that fur would be evidence that they tampered with the crime scene. It needs to be preserved.’
‘Ma’am, I’m not going to make things worse than they are. There are folks who believe that the Bog Man is real as the nose on my face, who would panic if they thought he was killing hunters. And there are others – mostly Hunt Club people – who just feed the rumors, hoping to scare outsiders away. Thing is, I’d bet my pickup that some local stuck this fur here out of mischief. For the express purpose of distracting us from the real evidence and making it look like the creature killed him. Either way, that piece of fluff is staying with me.’
‘No one would believe that a creature—’
‘Really? You never heard of Big Foot? Yeti? Sasquatch? Half man, half something else? People come from all over the world to search for them. If publicity gets started about this fur, nobody’ll be scared away. It’ll be the opposite, like with Sasquatch and the others. Freaks’ll descend here from all over the planet, searching the bog.’
Harper scowled. ‘The fur is evidence, Ranger. Whether or not the killer put it there. You can’t decide whether or not it’s relevant—’
‘Harper!’ Hank called.
Harper turned just in time to see Angela dart toward the body. Hank was behind her, arms out to catch her. Daniels spun around and grabbed her waist, but Angela was already on Phil, tearing the duct tape off his torso.
‘Phil!’ She pawed at him, threw the cardboard to the ground, stroked his stiff hands and arms. ‘Phil,’ she wailed, resisting and hissing when they tried to pull her away.
‘Mrs Russo.’ Ranger Daniels kept his voice gentle. ‘Please back away.’
But she didn’t. She kept fighting to get to her husband. ‘He’s my husband – let me go.’
Harper too
k hold of her hand. ‘Angela, stop. You’ll destroy evidence.’ She glared at the ranger. ‘They need to have everything intact so they can find out who killed your husband.’
Angela stopped struggling and looked at Harper. ‘But we already know who killed him. I told you – Stan. Stan killed him.’
‘Why would Stan put a sign on him?’ Harper asked.
‘I don’t know. Maybe to make it look like it was the people from around here? I don’t know why Stan does anything he does.’ She went on, giving examples of Stan’s inexplicable behaviors – marrying Cindi, for example.
Hank met Harper’s eyes, shook his head.
‘Look.’ Daniels checked his watch. ‘I hate to do this. If I had any staff at all, I wouldn’t have to ask. But the sunlight’s almost gone. And that explosion before sounded serious – the radio hasn’t stopped with calls about it.’
‘Did you find out what it was?’ Hank asked.
‘Not for sure. But people have been reporting a spout shooting up like a cloud and raining crap all over the old hunting lodge. I figure gas might have built up and exploded one of the old septic tanks, but just to be sure, I have to go out and take a look. I hate to impose on you civilians, but Captain Slader should be here any minute. Can you two stay and secure the scene, hold onto her until he gets here?’
Hank assured him that it was no problem.
‘When you say “secure the scene”, you mean protect all the evidence?’ Harper eyed his pocket. She didn’t mention the fur.
‘Yes, ma’am. Exactly.’ He looked at her directly, unashamed.
‘We’ll be fine,’ Hank said.
‘He was jealous of Phil,’ Angela went on, ‘that’s why he did it. Stan just can’t let go; couldn’t stand to see me happy. He had to ruin it. You need to arrest him.’
Daniels walked off. Harper took a seat on a log between Angela and Hank, reached her hand into Hank’s vest pocket, and, as Angela mumbled on, pulled out his flask.
By the time they found the stream, it was almost dark. Bob waded in, stripping off his clothes as he went. Pete knelt in the muddy bank, splashing water onto his forehead. It hadn’t stopped bleeding. Nothing was going right, and he was getting creeped out. First, the explosion covered them with stinking crap; then they heard that scream. It sounded like somebody was having her guts pulled out. Bob had said it wasn’t their business, and to ignore it. Pete wasn’t sure he was right, but figured they’d be no help to anyone anyhow in their condition. Still, the scream repeated in his head. What could have happened that would cause that noise?
‘Get in the water.’ Bob lay back between rounded rocks in the chilly knee-deep stream, letting it wash over him.
Slowly, Pete peeled off his clothes. They were trash now. Nothing would take the stench out of them, and even it if did, he didn’t want those things on his body again. Hell, he didn’t want them to be in the same town as him. Damn. Vest was new. He’d paid $59 for it at the Target store. All he had in his backpack was an old Flyers jersey and jeans. Not even any socks. He’d freeze his ass off.
Bob surfaced, shook water off his head. Shivered. ‘Come on. Get in here.’
‘It’s fuckin’ ice water.’
‘Standing there won’t make it warmer. You got to get that crap off you.’ He slid back, submerged up to his neck. ‘Don’t be a damn pussy.’ He grinned and, letting out a hoot, sprung up, grabbed Pete around the neck, and pulled him into the water.
Pete landed hard, hitting his knee on a boulder, and when Bob released him, he fell face first into the stream. Cold surprised him, enveloped him. It reached into his nose, down his throat, stretched through him like tentacles. He didn’t mind it. In fact, spread out flat on stones and mud, he thought about staying right where he was. Going to sleep in the water. But something hooked into his armpit, dragging him up.
‘Pete?’ Bob pulled his head up by his hair.
‘Get off me.’ He pushed Bob away, coughing. His voice cracked like ice.
‘You okay? I was just messing—’
‘Yeah.’ He coughed some more, sat up on the pebbles, letting water swirl past him. ‘So was I.’
‘Shit. You had me.’ Bob slapped the back of Pete’s head, crouched beside him in the stream. ‘I say we burn our clothes.’
‘Yeah.’ It made sense.
Bob splashed water on his arms, rubbed the backs of his hands. ‘I think it’s off me, but I keep scrubbing anyhow. I’ll probably never feel clean.’
Pete coughed some more, rinsed his face, raised an arm to his nose and sniffed. Didn’t smell anything, just autumn air, water and trees.
They stayed where they were, shivering, listening to the water and the woods.
‘So what’s the deal? Did we mess up? Or do they actually pump shit through the pipeline?’ Bob finally said.
‘Christ, I don’t know.’
‘Because that sure wasn’t natural gas.’
No, it wasn’t. Not that Pete had ever actually seen natural gas. But he knew it wasn’t what had burst from the ground.
‘Map must be wrong,’ Bob said.
‘It’s not wrong. It’s from the plans for when they built it. You must have taken us to the wrong spot. To that old hunting lodge.’
‘Fuck if I did—’
‘Well, if you didn’t, then explain what the fuck happened.’
‘Why are you asking me? How should I know? And stop fucking doing that blinking thing.’
An ache rose from Pete’s belly, a surge of rage and disappointment. And hunger. They’d eaten all their supplies, and now Bob was getting into one of his nasty, scrappy moods. Well, it wasn’t Pete’s fault that the day hadn’t gone as planned. All he wanted was to eat and get warm.
‘Okay, we better get going. But we got to lie low.’ Bob stood. ‘We got to get dry, get dressed, get these clothes burned and get going. People around here aren’t going to be happy with us. And if they dig through the mess and find any parts of our device, they’ll have Homeland Security, the ATF, the FBI, and half of every other government agency looking for our asses.’ He spit, a contemptuous punctuation mark, and waded out of the water.
The sunset glowed amber and rose, but it was fading. The sky was almost dark. A sliver of moon peeked through the trees. Teeth chattering, Pete got out of the water, the pebbles harsh on his feet. Bob had already gathered sticks and twigs for a fire. Pete stood dripping, feeling useless.
‘Matches?’ Bob didn’t even look up.
Pete opened his backpack, pulled out a bunch of stuff, including his spare jersey and pants, before he found not only matches, but rolling paper and the baggie with the rest of their pot. For the first time in hours, he smiled. His momma had been right: even in the worst of times, pleasure could be found in small things.
Mavis lived all the way out near Philipsburg, a ten-minute drive at sixty. The chief went at eighty. When he got there, she was just putting the ‘closed’ sign in the window of her beauty shop. She saw him pull up, opened the door. Stepped onto the porch. Said his name.
He took his hat off as he walked up to her, planted a kiss on her cheek. She accepted it as routine. Waited for him to talk.
‘I hear you’ve been talking to people.’
‘Damn right.’ She was exactly his height. When she looked at him, their gazes just about collided. ‘They’re killing folks. And I heard a bomb went off—’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Lots of people. Everyone knows.’
The women had their own network. Mavis’s shop processed information faster than the Internet.
‘So why are you here? I haven’t heard from you in, what? Three weeks? So I doubt you dropped by for a social call. I guess you’ve come here to get me to tell my people to wait this out.’
The chief sighed, looked at his shoes. ‘How’ve you been, Mavis? I’ve been meaning to call—’
‘Stuff it.’ She checked her fingernails. Dark blue with rhinestones.
The chief stepped close enough to feel her bo
dy heat. ‘Can we step inside?’
She gazed at him, blinked. Let out a breath. ‘Oh, what the hell?’ She turned, led the way in.
The walls were lined with mirrors, two stations with scissors and supplies. Beyond that a sink for washing hair, a table for manicures, some chairs and sinks he couldn’t figure out. Mavis led him through to the back stairs, up to her living room, which adjoined her bedroom and kitchen.
‘Drink?’
He ached for one, but said no. He was here on official business.
She got him a beer anyhow, poured herself a glass of white wine, and took a seat on the faded pink sofa. Crossed her legs.
‘Really, I’m not lying. It’s been on my mind to call you.’ He set the beer on the coffee table.
Mavis scowled, leaned over and moved it onto the doily. ‘Not on the wood. It’ll make a ring.’ She sipped her wine.
‘I like your hair that color – it’s pretty.’
‘Screw you. It’s the same color it’s been for months. I know why you’ve come down here, but you’re wasting your time. We’ve already decided we’re going on patrol.’
‘You’re what?’ Really? He wanted to slap her pretty, overly made-up face. By what right, under whose authority had her little circle of misfits, dykes and spinsters decided anything? But the chief didn’t react, didn’t slap or even shout. Good leaders remained composed, and he was the club’s elected leader. He forced himself to speak calmly. ‘There’s a meeting tonight. Your people should be there. Because the whole reason we made this organization was so we’d coordinate and cooperate. We’re far more powerful if we all work together, not each go off on our own—’
