symphony of scents. Only one, though, compelled him forward. And gradually, as he walked, he identified it: the smell of the dead guy.
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
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
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