Finest Hour (12 page)

Without looking up, she said, “Someone’s been here recently.”

“Yep.”

“Which means we’re not alone.”

“Nope.”

She stood up and looked around.

“Do you think they’re dangerous?”

He shrugged. “They’re farmers. How dangerous can they be?”

“Farmers aren’t dangerous?”

“You ever heard of a farmer robbing a bank or blowing up an airplane?”

She thought for a moment.

“No, not that I remember.”

“There you go.”

Without saying another word, he turned and started around the curve. Samantha took one last look at the garden and followed after him. As soon as they cleared the bend, the Natural Bridge came into full view.

So awe-inspiring that George Washington had once carved his initials into the limestone wall, the natural gorge towered two hundred feet into the air. Whatever beauty the portal had once held, however, was now lost with its defilement. Four corpses hung from the rim like piñatas waiting to be thwacked with heavy sticks. Ravens and hawks flocked around the bodies, squawking with delight as they picked at the flesh.

Tanner and Samantha approached, staring up at the bodies. While it was hard to be sure, two of them appeared to be men, and the other two women. Rope had been used not only to hang them but also to bind their ankles, legs, wrists, and arms.

“Why would someone tie them up like that?” she asked, her mouth hanging open.

“Our modern world’s equivalent of gibbeting, I suppose.”

“Gibbeting?”

“Sometimes governments would display the bodies of pirates or other criminals to ward off would-be offenders. It’s been going on for thousands of years.”

She made a pained face.

“That’s awful.”

“I’m sure the folks who were tied up felt so too.”

“Do you think these people were criminals?”

“No,” he said, tightening his grip on his shotgun. “I think they were victims.”

“I don’t know about you, but I definitely don’t want to have a picnic staring up at them.”

He nodded. “Let’s go on a little further.”

They continued along the Cedar Creek Trail. As they passed under the bridge, they stepped over scatterings of plump maggots that had fallen from the bodies overhead. Samantha did her best to keep her eyes on the trail, partly to keep from squishing any of the maggots, but mostly to keep from seeing what had become of the corpses.

Once they had passed the bridge, the trail turned to the right, splitting off from the creek and leading into a thick growth of trees. Further ahead, they saw a thin trail of white smoke rising into the sky.

“Someone’s up there,” she said, pointing.

Tanner nodded. “Stay alert.”

They continued until they arrived at a campsite that consisted of a large dome-shaped hut covered in dried grass, several simple open-air stalls, and a corral constructed from interwoven branches. Wisps of white smoke rose from the top of the dome.

“What kind of place is this?”

He pointed to a black and white marker beside the trail:
Monacan Indian Living History Exhibit
.

“Indians live here?”

“More likely reenactors.”

“Do you think they’ll mind our being here?”

“Only one way to find out.” Tanner stepped over the small homemade fence and called out, “Hello! Anyone here?”

No one answered, and there were no signs of movement.

He approached the hut and squatted down next to the three-foot-high door. It looked like a mini portcullis, only instead of iron bars, it had been constructed using interleaved branches. Samantha came up behind him and peeked over his shoulder.

Inside the hut were two raised homemade cots topped with pine needles, a fire pit surrounded by a ring of stones, several animal skins hanging from branches, and an assortment of clay pottery. Everything looked like it might have back in 1612 when Captain John Smith first discovered the camp. The only thing out of place was a large green duffle bag leaning against one of the cots.

“No one’s home,” she said.

“Not anymore, no. But by the look of the fire, someone was here a few minutes ago.”

She stood up and looked around.

“Maybe we scared him off.”

“Maybe.” He reached for the gate.

“What are you doing?”

“There’s a military bag in there.”

“So?”

“So, I want to know who we’re dealing with.”

“But you can’t just break into his house.”

“It sounds so illegal when you say it like that.”

“It
is
illegal.”

Tanner pulled the gate aside and duck walked his way into the hut. Samantha said something under her breath and then hurried in after him. The inside of the dwelling smelled like smoke, but there was also the faint odor of rotting meat. They stood up, careful not to hit their heads on the framing of branches that crisscrossed the structure.

Samantha walked over and pressed her palm down on one of the cots. The needles were pokey, and she couldn’t imagine anyone actually sleeping on them.

“With all the empty houses in the world, why would anyone want to live like this?”

He shrugged. “It’s no worse than camping.”

“Exactly! There’s not even a toilet.”

“Toilets are overrated.”

“No,” she countered, “I’m pretty sure they’re not.”

He knelt down and held his hand over the fire pit. The fire had been recently snuffed out, but the embers were still red-hot.

“Definitely here a few minutes ago.”

Samantha stepped closer to one of the animal pelts and stroked the thick brown fur.

“What do you think these are from? Deer?”

He looked over. “Those are dog skins.”

She jerked her hand away.

“Dogs? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Yuck.”

“I don’t have a problem with someone ridding this world of a few wild dogs. Do you?”

She hesitated. “I… I guess not.” She leaned around and inspected the fleshy side of the hide. “How do they make the skins so smooth?”

“Come over here, and I’ll show you.”

She came over and squatted next to a wooden structure that poked up at a forty-five degree angle. A short pot sat beside it, buzzing with flies.

“What’s in that?” she said, pointing to the pot.

“Scrapings.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m guessing that’s as nasty as it sounds.”

“Once the skin is removed, it’s either stretched out on a frame or slipped over a fleshing beam like this one for cleaning.”

“A fleshing beam? That sounds like something out of a horror movie.”

“Think of it like an ironing board,” he said, resting his hand on the wooden structure. “It holds the skin flat so that the flesh can be scraped off. If you don’t do that, the whole thing will rot from the inside out.”

She drew back. “With maggots?”

“Oh, yes.”

She cringed. “Okay, then what?”

“After the skin is scraped, the blood and dirt are washed off with a little water. My guess is that whoever lives here probably carries the hides down to the river for cleaning.”

“And then they’re hung up to dry?”

“Stretched and dried.” He stood up and walked over to the hides hanging near the fire. “Once they’re dry, the hair can be removed.”

“But why take off the fur? Wouldn’t it help to keep you warm?”

“Sure, if all you’re after is a warm blanket. But if you’re making a jacket or boots, you have to tan both sides to make it more durable.”

“By exposing it to the sun? The same way we tan?”

“Different kind of tanning. This type involves either chemicals or, more traditionally, the oil from the animal’s brain.”

She squinted at him. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. Believe it or not, nearly every animal has a brain perfectly sized for tanning its own hide.”

“I can’t believe anyone would think to smear an animal’s brain over its skin.”

“Actually, the brain is boiled and mashed in water until it looks like soup.
Then
it’s smeared over the hide.”

She raised both hands and made a disgusted face.

“No more. Please.”

“The oil from the brain helps to preserve the hide. Once that soaks for a day or two, a stick or a rope is rubbed across the skin to soften it. After that, the hide is smoked to keep it from soaking up water and growing hard again. It’s all pretty cool, really.”

“If you can get past the fact that you’re mashing up brains, maybe!”

He chuckled. “Yeah, that helps.”

“How did you learn all that stuff, anyway?”

“I spent a summer at a hippie commune up in Oregon. People there were into all kinds of back-to-nature stuff.”

She snickered. “Why would you go to a hippie commune?”

“Free love,” he said, holding up two fingers in a peace sign.

She looked a little confused.

“Shouldn’t all love be free?”

He pressed his hands together and gave her a little bow.

“Spoken like a true Beatlemaniac.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to look around the hut.

“Do you think that whoever lives here is a hippie too?”

“No,” he said, standing up and walking over to the duffle bag. “I think he’s a soldier.”

The canvas duffle was a dirty olive-drab color, with sergeant stripes sewn onto its shoulder straps. He rolled the bag over. On the underside was a small hand-drawn illustration of a triangle with a knife stabbing up through the base. It took him only a moment to recognize the insignia as that of Delta Force.

Tanner carefully set the bag back where he had found it. It wasn’t his way to go digging through another man’s belongings, especially one as dangerous as a Delta Force soldier.

“What are these from?” Samantha asked, picking up a small flap of leather drying on a rock near the fire. “Squirrels?”

He stepped closer and examined it. The skin wasn’t like any he had seen before. It had three large holes, which made it nearly useless for anything larger than a coin purse. He reached over and rubbed his fingers across the skin. It was thinner than animal hide and remained a little tacky on the back side. His gut clenched as it dawned on him what it was she was holding.

“Put it down, Sam.”

“Why?” She flipped it over a couple of times. “What is it?”

He took it from her and tossed it onto the hot embers.

“What did you do that for?”

“Come on,” he said, turning toward the door. “We’re leaving.”

“What? Why?”

Without another word, he squatted down and shuffled out through the small entrance. Samantha quickly followed.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “What was that?”

Before answering, he took a moment to quickly survey the camp. Everything was quiet. No one was lying in wait, at least not that he could see.

“That skin was from a woman’s face.”

“What!” She stared at her hands and then anxiously wiped them on her pants. “Why would anyone cut off a person’s face?”

“To serve as a trophy.”

“A trophy is something you win at a swim meet, not a woman’s face!”

Tanner was too busy studying the trees to say anything more.

She turned and followed his gaze.

“Do you think he’s watching us?”

“Could be. The boys in Delta Force definitely know a bit about reconnaissance.”

She looked back at the hut.

“I told you we shouldn’t have broken into his house.”

Tanner shrugged it off. “If old Leatherface is as crazy as we think, he’d have come for us anyway.”

She brought a hand to her face.

“Do you think he wants to… you know… cut off
my
face?”

Tanner clenched his fists. “It doesn’t matter what he wants.”

“Why not?”

“All that matters is what we allow him to take.”

Chapter 8  

Once Leila had put a safe distance between them and what was left of the Ravagers, she pulled the F150 to the side of the road.

“Everyone all right back there?” she asked, climbing out of the truck and hurrying around.

“We gave better than we got,” Mason said as he lowered the tailgate and hopped down.

Bowie followed his lead, coming around to press against Leila like he hadn’t seen her in a week.

She pushed by the dog and reached out to briefly hold Mason’s hand.

“You live a dangerous life, Marshal Raines.”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

“How is it that you’ve escaped death for so long?”

“Simple. I stopped running from it.”

“What does that mean?”

“When the Angel of Death comes for me, I’ll be ready. Until then, I’m going to fight the good fight, one battle at a time.”

“Are you saying that you don’t feel fear?”

“Of course, I do. I’m only human. My hands shake, and my heart pounds. But my spirit, if you believe in such a thing, refuses to cower to the inevitable.”

“You have such faith.”

“On the contrary, I have very little faith. I’ve seen women stoned because of the clothes they wore and men forced into pits to be burned alive. There’s no cosmic justice out there, no divine hand of intervention that protects the weak. It’s up to us to press back the tide of evil. We can expect no help in the matters of man. It’s a hard fact, but one that I readily accept.”