In the Woods (15 page)

‘The authorities found a body, and on it was a message that clearly suggested our organization. What impression do you think that made on them?'

Josh's face was blank, unrepentant. How stupid could he be?

The captain stepped toward him, glowering. ‘You made it seem like one of us killed him, Josh. Do you not see that?'

Josh's face reddened. He pressed his back against the sofa. ‘They can't prove anything. Because that's not what happened—'

‘But it's what they'll think. The last thing we need is a murder investigation, a search warrant for the compound. And, in your consummate genius, you probably left your DNA all over the body, so they might well arrest you …'

‘No.' Josh was mad now, getting to his feet. ‘There's no DNA. I was covered, head to toe.' Josh met the chief's gaze with defiant eyes.

The chief faced him, reminded himself to maintain control. Not to look away. Not to back down.

‘I believe,' he continued in a quiet voice, ‘that we have all accepted the organization pact. If you recall, the essence of that pact says that we are sworn to combine our forces and act as a unit. You should have gotten approval before you started parading around in your monster costume. But aside from that, by moving that body and hanging the sign on it, you acted alone, impulsively, without thinking of the possible consequences to yourself and others, and certainly without the approval of anyone—'

‘Bullshit. This is still friggin' America, isn't it? I've got freedom of speech. I saw an opportunity, and I took it. I don't need anybody's freaking permission to hang a sign.'

‘Well, some here might say that, since that sign appeared to represent them, you do need their permission to hang it.'

Voices tittered, and tension mounted. But the chief didn't want a showdown with Josh. Not now, anyway. Right now, he needed unity and support, so he stepped back to the speaker's spot and waited for the group to settle.

‘Clearly, Josh intended no harm. But let's hope he'll think things through and bring them up for discussion next time he feels inspired.'

‘You think you're so smart, Chief?' Josh was still standing. ‘What have you done to get rid of the outsiders? Huh? At least I'm doing something—'

The gong drowned out Josh's voice. As it faded, people turned to the chief.

‘Those are important questions, Josh. We'll address all of them at the end of the meeting. For now, let's get back to our agenda and the matter of Philip Russo. No one knows who killed him, correct?' He waited for a response. No one answered. ‘Fine. Then how about the gas pipeline employee, name of Al Rogers? Anyone here kill him?'

Heads shook, no. Voices buzzed.

‘You guys can sit around,' Josh shouted. ‘I'm out of here.' He gathered up his bearskins and headed for the stairway leading out. A bunch of people – Mavis, Annie and Wade – called after him, but he stormed out.

The chief watched him go, relieved. The meeting would go better without Josh there. He was volatile and hot-headed, needed to be watched closely. The chief had seen men like him in the war, finding pleasure in violence, taking foolish risks, self-destructing. He'd have to keep an eye on Josh. An impulsive firecracker like that could start a blaze, burning the whole community down.

First thing Bob and Pete did at the campground was make use of the new shower facility. Pete scrubbed himself, lathered up and scrubbed again, would have been tempted to stay there all night if not for his empty stomach.

They got a couple of sweatshirts, a tarp and a fleece jacket out of the Impala's trunk, found a ten and a twenty in the glove box. Used most of it at the snack bar to buy cheesesteaks, curly fries and ham sandwiches to go. The place was mostly empty. A woman drank coffee alone at a table near the window. A couple of senior citizens were sharing a cherry pie à la mode. A young thing, maybe eighteen or nineteen, waited on them. Pete watched her hips sway, the freckles on her arms. The mischief in her eyes.

‘Keep your fly zipped.' Bob's mouth was full of fries. ‘We got more important things to do.'

Pete didn't answer, didn't want to get into an argument over a girl. Fact was he had to save his argument for the big stuff. After his shower, he was tired. All he wanted to do was eat and sleep – and, if the opportunity presented itself, get laid. He couldn't imagine going back out onto the trail and starting all over again, especially not now, in the dark. Bob's mind was made up, though. He was psyched, raring to go. Eating fast, breathing fast. Revving like a race car at a pit stop.

‘I've been thinking,' Pete started. ‘About tonight.'

‘Yeah, me, too. We got to go through the stuff in our packs, take inventory. Study the map here, where there's light.'

Pete looked around, trying to figure out what to say. He wanted to suggest that they wait until morning, but didn't want Bob to get pissed at him. He had to make it be Bob's idea to wait. Maybe he should talk about the effects of sleeplessness. Like pilots – how they made more errors, crashed more when they were tired. The same kind of mistakes could happen to them.

‘Bob,' he started. ‘I've been thinking—'

A young couple entered the shop, laughing, talking too loud, interrupting. Pete turned to look at them. Thought they didn't go together. The guy was scruffy, unshaven, wearing grubby jeans. The girl, though, she was shimmering. Clothes fresh from a catalogue. Lip gloss, eyeliner, the whole nine yards.

‘Shit.' Bob turned away from them.

‘What?'

‘Don't you recognize her? That's what's her name. The eleven o'clock news. Shit. I didn't think the press would get here till tomorrow.'

The news team ordered black coffee, sat at a table, huddled over notes.

‘You think they're here about us? The bomb?'

‘Why else would they be here?' Bob covered his mouth with his hand. ‘It's got to be us. Nothing newsworthy ever happens out here.'

The woman sitting near the window stood and walked over to the news reporter. ‘Finally,' she said. ‘I've been waiting for months.'

The news reporter glanced up. ‘Excuse me?'

‘I've called every news station in Pennsylvania at least twenty times. Finally, someone listened.' Her voice was raspy, her hands pressed together. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much for coming out …'

The reporter stiffened, shifted in her chair. ‘Yes. No problem.'

‘I'm Sylvie Donavon – but you must know that. From my emails.'

The reporter stared at her. The guy with her said, ‘Maybe she wants an autograph.'

‘No, no,' Sylvie said. ‘I mean, of course I would. But see, I'm the one who contacted you. I have first-hand information.'

Pete nudged Bob, nodded toward Sylvie. ‘Uh-oh.'

‘First hand? You were there?' The reporter lit up, nudged her companion.

‘Yes, you bet.'

Bob swallowed, whispered, ‘Shit.'

‘You've seen the actual bodies?'

Bodies? There had been bodies? Oh God. Pete's eyelids went crazy, began blinking fast.

‘Bodies? Well, not an actual body. But I've seen its footprints. They're half as long as I am tall.'

‘Sorry, what?'

What? Pete and Bob stared at each other, ready to bolt.

‘The Bog Man – I emailed you about it.'

‘The Bog Man?' The newswoman's left eyebrow rose.

‘He's like Big Foot, only he lives right here in Black Moshannon. A while back, he took a hiker, and now they're saying he's taken someone else. You can interview me if you want. I'll give you all the background you need. He's our very own Sasquatch—'

The scruffy man leaned back in his chair. ‘How about this, Ma'am? We're on deadline now, but maybe we'll talk about a feature later. Why don't you write down your name and contact information, and let us get back to you.'

Pete chuckled. ‘Bog Man?'

Bob shook his head, went back to his fries.

‘No, see. You already have my contact info. I'm the one who broke the story—'

‘The Bog Man story.' The news lady smirked.

‘Yes, that's right. I sent emails to all the—'

‘How about you write it all down for us.' The man spoke clearly, as if to a child. ‘Any facts and events that might help us with the story. Just to be sure we have everything.' He sent Sylvie off to get paper and a pencil.

Bob swallowed his last bite, wiped his mouth. Motioned to Pete that he wanted to get going. But Pete shook his head, nodded toward the news team. He was trying to listen in on their conversation, to find out what they knew about the bombing. Their voices were low, though, and he could only hear snippets:

‘So what's the connection … Philip Russo and Al Rogers?'

‘… coincidence?'

‘No way. Two men killed on the same day? … plus that explosion …'

‘… no story, just an old septic tank … Gases …'

‘… where's that ranger? … need to scoop … two shot, plus explosion …'

‘I just told you … that explosion was nothing.'

‘… good visuals … sensational copy …'

Bob's eyes narrowed. ‘Let's get out of here.' He got up and went to the door.

Pete rooted in his pocket, took out some money for a tip. The senior citizens had stopped eating pie and were leaning their heads together, whispering, eyeing the news lady. Sylvie sat at her table by the window, writing madly on a yellow pad. As Pete passed, the waitress lifted a hand. Her fingers fluttered in a wave, and she whispered good night. Her voice was like velvet.

Damn.

Someone was jostling her. Pushing on her head? Oh God – that creature? Harper tried to resist, shoving and twisting.

‘Harper?'

She opened her eyes.

‘Thank God.' Hank's face was a dark oval hovering over her. ‘You're conscious.'

She looked up, saw tree branches silhouetted by the night sky. What had happened? She started to get up.

‘No, don't move. Stay still.' Hank touched her forehead.

‘Ouch.' She pushed his hand away.

‘Hurts?'

Yes. It was tender. She opened her mouth to ask a question, but wasn't sure what it was. Maybe why Hank was frowning? Or where the creature was? Or why her head hurt?

‘Hank,' she began. ‘What happened …?'

‘You fell. You went down hard and hit your head. What the hell were you doing, Harper? Running off barefoot like the hounds of hell were after you – where were you going?'

She remembered running, being chased.

‘A gunshot woke me up.' Hank's voice was harsh. ‘Was that you? The rifle was gone – I found it back there on the ground. Did you shoot something?'

Had she? Harper remembered being shoved to the ground, the Winchester firing, flying from her grasp. The memories came in a hodgepodge, flooded her mind. She looked around. Was the creature still there? Watching them?

‘Hank, we have to get out of here.' She tried to get up, but he wouldn't let her.

‘Hold on.' He checked her forehead. ‘You need to take your time.'

‘I'm fine.'

‘If you say so.' Hank reached under her hips and around her shoulders, lifting her.

‘Stop – I can walk.'

‘No, you just fell. And it's dark and you're barefoot.' He hoisted her into his arms, carried her back to the tent.

Hank's arms were sturdy and steady. Harper felt childlike, cradled against his chest, trying not to tremble. Struggling to process what had happened. Had she really just seen – just barely escaped from the Bog Man?

‘Our campsite's all torn apart.' When Hank talked, his chest vibrated. ‘Was it a bear? Is that what you were trying to shoot?'

She leaned against him; his body warmed her.

‘Why didn't you wake me up? What were you thinking, going after a wild animal by yourself in the middle of the night?' He went on like that, exasperated and worried, until they were back at the tent. Then he set her down and lit their camp light. Examined her scrapes. While he searched for the first-aid kit, Harper huddled beside the tent, staring at Hank's collection of soil and water samples. They'd been knocked over, scattered across the ground. She couldn't stop shivering. Without the heat of Hank's chest against her, she was unbearably cold.

The others had stayed in their suffocating meeting, gabbing at each other. But the Bog Man wasn't able to waste time like that. He was awake, energized. Moonlight brightened his way as he stomped along trails, leaving well-defined footprints. Entering campsites. Tossing around equipment. Working tree branches until they gave way. Scattering supplies and the contents of bear bags.

The longer he prowled, the more alive his senses became. He'd been listening to his heartbeat, the rush of blood through his veins. And he picked up sounds around him, too. Even through layers of skin and fur, he heard the light steps of a fox, the flapping wings of an owl. The skittering feet of prey.

Sometimes he heard whispers and touches. Bodies thumping together.

Sometimes, the breathing he heard wasn't his own.

It was disorienting, all the smells and sounds, all the movement. Creatures skulked and hid, chased and fled. They killed and died, ate and were eaten. The night cloaked a world he'd known about but never been part of. Until now.

The moon was bright, almost full. Heart pounding, blood roaring, the Bog Man moved on among the trees, leaving footprints, noticing some already carved into the ground. Wait. Had he already walked this way? He didn't think so, but there they were, his footprints, huge and deeply defined in the dirt. He must have doubled back at some point. No big deal. He walked on.

When he came to a campsite, he stopped, confused. Damn. Clearly, he'd been walking in a circle; the place had already been torn apart. Camping chairs lay broken, the bear bag torn down, supplies scattered. What was wrong with him? How had he become so disoriented?