The Inn by William Patterson

along the path through the woods. One of them, little Julie Chen, had run home to her mother screaming and then Mrs. Chen had called the police.
    The kids claimed it was a body.
    A dead guy, they said.
    Richard had ordered the kids kept back. A group of curious adults had gathered by now, too, and Adam was holding them back as well while the chief made his way up the path.
    â€œIt’s right over there,” called one of the kids who had found whatever it was. “Just off the trail beside a log.”
    Richard could see something in the direction the kid was pointing. It looked like a clump of dark brown blankets from where he was standing. He continued toward it.
    What if it was a body?
    What if it was murder?
    There hadn’t been a murder in Woodfield since Richard had taken over as chief. The job was very different from his time working on the Boston police force, where he’d had to turn over a dozen dead bodies a year, all of them potential homicides until proven otherwise. During his years in Boston, Richard had seen his share of bloodshed. But since coming to Woodfield, his worst problems were those damn town meetings where everybody was fighting with everybody else. That and the occasional underage drinking down at the lake, or thrill riders going ninety down the old twisting back roads.
    Woodfield was a quiet, peaceful little village. But Richard knew it hadn’t always been so.
    Before he’d come to town, there had been a string of unexplained deaths. Many of them were out at the Blue Boy Inn, but not all. On slow days, Richard sometimes went through the cold case files, lifting the bulging manila folders down from the shelf and leafing through them. For such a small town, there were an awful lot of unexplained deaths.
    And from the looks of it, there had just been another one.
    Richard turned back toward his deputy. “Adam,” he called. “Get the EMTs here pronto.”
    He heard Adam make the call.
    The chief knelt down beside what from a distance had looked like a brown clump. It was brown all right. Brown, hardened blood. The corpse was lying on its right side and its clothes were all drenched in blood. The poor guy’s face was turned, pressed into the dirt, so Richard didn’t recognize him as a local. At least not right away.
    He felt for a pulse. He knew there wouldn’t be one, but he did it anyway. The guy was dead. And cold. Richard guessed he’d been dead for a while.
    â€œWhat is it, chief?” somebody called from the crowd.
    He wasn’t sure he could say exactly. From the looks of it, the guy might have been jumped as he walked down the path. Or maybe he’d been dumped here. But it was clear he must have been stabbed to produce so much blood.
    Richard took out his phone and snapped several pictures. Then, carefully, he turned the corpse on its back.
    That was when he recognized him.
    Holy shit.
    Roger Askew.
    He heard Tammy’s voice.
    Roger didn’t come home last night.
    â€œHe sure as hell didn’t,” Richard whispered.
    â€œHey, chief,” Adam shouted over to him. “The EMTs are on their way.”
    Richard nodded.
    His first thought was this was a drug deal or a gambling debt gone bad. Roger Askew had lots of enemies. It wasn’t going to be easy to find his killer.
    Richard was looking down at the corpse. Roger’s right arm was twisted under his body at an odd angle. All Richard could see was his shoulder. Gently, the chief reached forward to examine the arm. The odd angle might be a clue as to how Roger died.
    But as he felt under the cold, stiff body, Richard uttered a little sound in surprise.
    There was no right arm!
    It had been severed just below the shoulder. That was why there was so much blood.
    Richard stood up. The sun was dropping a little lower in the sky and the woods were filling up with shadows, strange twisting shapes cast by the bare branches of the trees. Had the arm been cut off for some