had come up with the brilliant idea of rappelling down the frozen waterfall. The lieutenant had given the plan the thumbs-up and two snowmobiles had been anchored in the frozen runoff at the brim of the falls. A pair of jaw-clenching deputies had rappelled down, armed with battery-powered saws. Now they were in the process of trying to disentangle the human skeleton from the root matrix. The body had been under the tree a long time, long enough for roots to invade every gap and entwine around bone, suffusing it. Time had welded it to the tree, and their handsaws were jumping around on the swollen wood like bugs on a hotplate.
What they needed was an experienced lumberjack, someone who would throw a harness around the root ball, lop the whole thing off and then hoist it to safety. But that would mean wasting even more time, and time was not something they had in abundance out here; white flakes had begun to fall from the sky again and this time tomorrow the root system would be crusted in a foot of hardening snow.
Distantly, somebody hollered for attention.
The hunter swept his rifle sights across the scene.
The shout had come from a female deputy standing a little way back from the drop-away, in the disturbed soil area where the tree had once stood tall. She was holding an object up in the air and gesturing at the barrel-chested lieutenant to come take a look.
The hunter adjusted the focus on the scope, bringing the object into sharper detail.
It was a woman’s purse, dangling on a leather strap from the end of the deputy’s metal wand. Faded brown leather, with leather tassels and what looked like a sunflower design stitched into one side. Distinctive. It was caked in soil, but otherwise better preserved than its owner.
He’d seen the purse before, he remembered with a jolt. He knew whose purse it was, knew the implications that came with its discovery. And he knew it would mean an unplanned trip into town to share the bad news.
Chapter Eight
T he encounter with Meeks leaves me prickly. The one thing I value is my privacy. I cherish it. These days I make a big deal out of it.
I walk off my edginess, boots cemented with slush, legs leaden by the time I get to the house on Prescott. The exercise has me thinking about my brother when we were kids:
“Will you quit whining?” Aaron asked, a lifetime ago, as he prepared to embark on his daily five-mile jog into the National Forest and back.
It was a brilliant summer’s day, the world split equally into green and blue. Aaron was sixteen at the time, with the clean-cut looks of a poster boy and the toned body of an Olympian. Shorter than me, but solid.
“Exercise is good for you, little brother.” He grinned, showing healthy teeth, as if to confirm it.
“It’s hard work,” I argued. It was a puny reason. All I had. It fit in with my weedy physique.
Aaron continued to grin at me with the winning smile of an athlete at the top of his game. My brother walked or ran everywhere , always had. He participated in every sport played in Harper, excelling in all. His energy levels were phenomenal, enviable. Unlike me, he had the stamina of a marathoner. I tried my best, but I was not the sporty type. I didn’t have the genes for it. Even at thirteen, I preferred my sports from the comfort of an armchair .
“Trust me, Jake. You’ll live longer.”
But not forever. That was my point. No one does. Not even my super-healthy, fitness-freak brother.
The house on Prescott is thawing out. Musty odors of drying plaster. Creaks of warming wood. I spend the next six hours sleeping restlessly, unable to find comfort or stop my mind from replaying the morning’s events. It’s like this now, and has been since my release from prison. It’s difficult settling down without someone else’s metronomic breathing to regulate my own. The irony is, in the early days of my incarceration, that very same stranger’s breathing used to keep me awake.
When I do sleep I dream of death.
What they needed was an experienced lumberjack, someone who would throw a harness around the root ball, lop the whole thing off and then hoist it to safety. But that would mean wasting even more time, and time was not something they had in abundance out here; white flakes had begun to fall from the sky again and this time tomorrow the root system would be crusted in a foot of hardening snow.
Distantly, somebody hollered for attention.
The hunter swept his rifle sights across the scene.
The shout had come from a female deputy standing a little way back from the drop-away, in the disturbed soil area where the tree had once stood tall. She was holding an object up in the air and gesturing at the barrel-chested lieutenant to come take a look.
The hunter adjusted the focus on the scope, bringing the object into sharper detail.
It was a woman’s purse, dangling on a leather strap from the end of the deputy’s metal wand. Faded brown leather, with leather tassels and what looked like a sunflower design stitched into one side. Distinctive. It was caked in soil, but otherwise better preserved than its owner.
He’d seen the purse before, he remembered with a jolt. He knew whose purse it was, knew the implications that came with its discovery. And he knew it would mean an unplanned trip into town to share the bad news.
Chapter Eight
T he encounter with Meeks leaves me prickly. The one thing I value is my privacy. I cherish it. These days I make a big deal out of it.
I walk off my edginess, boots cemented with slush, legs leaden by the time I get to the house on Prescott. The exercise has me thinking about my brother when we were kids:
“Will you quit whining?” Aaron asked, a lifetime ago, as he prepared to embark on his daily five-mile jog into the National Forest and back.
It was a brilliant summer’s day, the world split equally into green and blue. Aaron was sixteen at the time, with the clean-cut looks of a poster boy and the toned body of an Olympian. Shorter than me, but solid.
“Exercise is good for you, little brother.” He grinned, showing healthy teeth, as if to confirm it.
“It’s hard work,” I argued. It was a puny reason. All I had. It fit in with my weedy physique.
Aaron continued to grin at me with the winning smile of an athlete at the top of his game. My brother walked or ran everywhere , always had. He participated in every sport played in Harper, excelling in all. His energy levels were phenomenal, enviable. Unlike me, he had the stamina of a marathoner. I tried my best, but I was not the sporty type. I didn’t have the genes for it. Even at thirteen, I preferred my sports from the comfort of an armchair .
“Trust me, Jake. You’ll live longer.”
But not forever. That was my point. No one does. Not even my super-healthy, fitness-freak brother.
The house on Prescott is thawing out. Musty odors of drying plaster. Creaks of warming wood. I spend the next six hours sleeping restlessly, unable to find comfort or stop my mind from replaying the morning’s events. It’s like this now, and has been since my release from prison. It’s difficult settling down without someone else’s metronomic breathing to regulate my own. The irony is, in the early days of my incarceration, that very same stranger’s breathing used to keep me awake.
When I do sleep I dream of death.
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