as any,” he said.
“I suggest we keep the dog leashed first pass, then give him his head if nothing excites him.”
“Let’s do it.”
But Gunner had his own thoughts on the matter. A sound rose from his throat, more “yo” than “hot damn.” All eyes snapped his way.
The dog’s head was forward and low. His eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere over Strike’s shoulder.
Ramsey reached down to unhook the leash. “Go.”
Gunner trotted forward, nose probing needles to his left and right. Approximately ten feet southeast of our position, he took one last sniff, exhaled loudly, and dropped to his belly at the base of a pine easily double the size of its neighbors.
“That’s his alert.” Ramsey was already moving.
I was right on his heels. Behind me, I heard Strike grunting as she clawed her way upright.
Drawing close, I scanned outward, following the trajectory of Gunner’s snout. Saw nothing.
While Ramsey praised the dog, I ran my eyes slowly over the ground. Ran them back. Still saw zip.
False alarm?
An icy breeze lifted a few strands of my hair. Branches shifted ever so slightly. A sliver of light cut the canopy and fell on the brown shag covering the earth. From deep in the thickly meshed needles, I saw a wink of red, there then gone.
Swapping latex for woolen gloves, I inched forward and dropped to my knees by the tree. Moving gingerly, I scooped handfuls of needles and set them aside.
As with Strike’s key chain pine, a plexus of roots radiated outward, dark and woody, like a primordial hand clawing the forest floor. Wedged in a hollow below one knuckle was a red and yellow mass about the size of a peach pit.
Rotten fruit? A dead rodent or bird?
I poked at the mass with a gloved finger. It felt hard.
I pulled out my Nikon, jotted info onto an evidence marker, and shot pics from several angles. Documentation complete, I returned the camera to my pack. Throughout, Ramsey and Strike watched in puzzled silence.
Gripping with a thumb and fingertip, I tried to rotate the mass right. Felt movement. Maybe. Rotated left, then right, over and over. Slowly, reluctantly, the knuckle yielded its grip and the thing slipped free.
I placed the little mass on my palm. It was semitranslucent, red and yellow on one end, brown on the other. When I flipped it, two soil-crusted knobs were visible on the underside.
I pulled a magnifier from my pack and brought the knobs into focus.
Felt my heart throw in a few extra beats.
“What is it?” Strike asked.
I was too shocked to answer.
“F inger bones?” Strike sounded confused. Understandable. I was confused.
“More than bones.” Still studying the glossy mass on my palm. “I may see two partial fingertips.”
“Inside that goo.”
“Yes.”
“It’s pine tar.”
Ramsey’s comment caused me to look up.
“Pine trees ooze sap, especially along their bases. Over time, the stuff turns rock hard.”
“Like amber.”
“Given a few thousand years, yeah.”
Of course. Pine sap would be bacteriostatic, exclude oxygen, and provide a barrier against scavenging, conditions favorable to the preservation of soft tissue. I’d once had a case in which a large node of pine sap was inadvertently collected along with human remains. Embedded in the node was a perfectly preserved mouse head. Hanging outside it was the rest of the skeleton.
Like the phalanges poking from the mass in my palm.
“So she falls here following an attack, or her body ends up here after being thrown from the overlook. One hand lands at the base of the pine.” Strike gestured toward the tree. “Over time the sap oozes up, or drips down, whatever the hell it does, and encases a couple of fingers.”
Strike’s scenario sounded sadly realistic. But I was only half listening. As I sealed our grisly find into a Ziploc, my eyes were already scanning for more.
—
The sun was low when we finally quit. Didn’t matter deep in our loblolly sanctuary. There was no more reangling of
“I suggest we keep the dog leashed first pass, then give him his head if nothing excites him.”
“Let’s do it.”
But Gunner had his own thoughts on the matter. A sound rose from his throat, more “yo” than “hot damn.” All eyes snapped his way.
The dog’s head was forward and low. His eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere over Strike’s shoulder.
Ramsey reached down to unhook the leash. “Go.”
Gunner trotted forward, nose probing needles to his left and right. Approximately ten feet southeast of our position, he took one last sniff, exhaled loudly, and dropped to his belly at the base of a pine easily double the size of its neighbors.
“That’s his alert.” Ramsey was already moving.
I was right on his heels. Behind me, I heard Strike grunting as she clawed her way upright.
Drawing close, I scanned outward, following the trajectory of Gunner’s snout. Saw nothing.
While Ramsey praised the dog, I ran my eyes slowly over the ground. Ran them back. Still saw zip.
False alarm?
An icy breeze lifted a few strands of my hair. Branches shifted ever so slightly. A sliver of light cut the canopy and fell on the brown shag covering the earth. From deep in the thickly meshed needles, I saw a wink of red, there then gone.
Swapping latex for woolen gloves, I inched forward and dropped to my knees by the tree. Moving gingerly, I scooped handfuls of needles and set them aside.
As with Strike’s key chain pine, a plexus of roots radiated outward, dark and woody, like a primordial hand clawing the forest floor. Wedged in a hollow below one knuckle was a red and yellow mass about the size of a peach pit.
Rotten fruit? A dead rodent or bird?
I poked at the mass with a gloved finger. It felt hard.
I pulled out my Nikon, jotted info onto an evidence marker, and shot pics from several angles. Documentation complete, I returned the camera to my pack. Throughout, Ramsey and Strike watched in puzzled silence.
Gripping with a thumb and fingertip, I tried to rotate the mass right. Felt movement. Maybe. Rotated left, then right, over and over. Slowly, reluctantly, the knuckle yielded its grip and the thing slipped free.
I placed the little mass on my palm. It was semitranslucent, red and yellow on one end, brown on the other. When I flipped it, two soil-crusted knobs were visible on the underside.
I pulled a magnifier from my pack and brought the knobs into focus.
Felt my heart throw in a few extra beats.
“What is it?” Strike asked.
I was too shocked to answer.
“F inger bones?” Strike sounded confused. Understandable. I was confused.
“More than bones.” Still studying the glossy mass on my palm. “I may see two partial fingertips.”
“Inside that goo.”
“Yes.”
“It’s pine tar.”
Ramsey’s comment caused me to look up.
“Pine trees ooze sap, especially along their bases. Over time, the stuff turns rock hard.”
“Like amber.”
“Given a few thousand years, yeah.”
Of course. Pine sap would be bacteriostatic, exclude oxygen, and provide a barrier against scavenging, conditions favorable to the preservation of soft tissue. I’d once had a case in which a large node of pine sap was inadvertently collected along with human remains. Embedded in the node was a perfectly preserved mouse head. Hanging outside it was the rest of the skeleton.
Like the phalanges poking from the mass in my palm.
“So she falls here following an attack, or her body ends up here after being thrown from the overlook. One hand lands at the base of the pine.” Strike gestured toward the tree. “Over time the sap oozes up, or drips down, whatever the hell it does, and encases a couple of fingers.”
Strike’s scenario sounded sadly realistic. But I was only half listening. As I sealed our grisly find into a Ziploc, my eyes were already scanning for more.
—
The sun was low when we finally quit. Didn’t matter deep in our loblolly sanctuary. There was no more reangling of
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