In the Woods (13 page)

Harper’s left leg was beyond aching. She dosed herself with ibuprofen, collapsed into a folding chair, and watched Hank light the propane stove. She missed Chloe. She wanted to go home. No, she wanted to
be
home.

‘How’s your back?’ she asked. Hank had seemed to limp less as they’d walked. Maybe the exercise had been good for him.

‘I took about a thousand pain pills. With a little wine and some sleep, I’ll be fine.’ He unfolded the stepping stool, set it up under the bear bag, reached up to untie it.

‘I’m not helping.’

‘I know.’

‘I’m too wiped out.’

‘I know.’

‘I’ll rally if you want.’

‘Just sit.’ Hank took their supplies down from the tree branch, opened the sack. Retrieved the wine first.

Harper couldn’t move. She leaned back, aching all over, watching Hank open the bottle and pour. When he brought her a plastic cup of Cabernet, she almost cried in gratitude.

‘I love you.’ She lifted the cup, a toast.

Hank bent over, kissed her. ‘Having fun?’

She managed a smile. ‘More than I can say.’

‘We should do this more often.’ He moved his chair close to hers and sat. Took her hand.

The sun was setting; the sky glowed pink behind the trees. The air was chilly, smelled crisp and sweet.

‘Think Chloe’s okay?’

‘She’s fine. We’ll call in the morning.’

He was right. It was no use thinking about Chloe. No use dwelling on the absence of chubby arms grabbing her thigh as they stood in the kitchen, or encircling her neck as they sat on the couch. Or a soft voice piecing together sentences to share her observations and opinions. ‘Codge chiz is best,’ she’d exclaimed the other day, eating lunch. Harper’s throat felt thick, her body disconnected. Cut it out, she told herself. You’re Army. You fought insurgents and survived. Surely, you can get through a weekend away from a two-year-old.

They sat quietly, listening to chirps and twitters. Creatures snuggling in for the night. Or emerging to prowl.

Harper swallowed wine. ‘You think the local people killed them?’

‘That trespasser sign makes it look that way.’ Hank swiveled, facing her. ‘But who knows?’

Harper didn’t answer. She didn’t know the people who lived around here. But she was pretty sure that, if she’d killed a man, she wouldn’t put a placard on his chest, incriminating herself.

‘What about Stan? You think he killed Phil like Angela says?’

Hank shook his head. ‘Hard to say.’

‘I don’t think it was Stan.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because if I were Stan and I was going to kill someone, it wouldn’t be Phil. It would be Angela.’

Hank chuckled. ‘You’re right. Then again, we have no idea what their history is. I have no idea who killed those guys. But if we get a chance, I’d like to talk to the other pipeline walker – the dead guy’s partner.’

‘Jim. His name’s Jim. Why? You think he did it?’ Harper hadn’t considered that possibility. But two men alone in the woods for months might get on each other’s nerves. Might even drive one to murder the other. She thought back, saw Jim talking to the ranger. Jim had been bereft about his co-worker; hadn’t seemed like a killer. Then again, Harper had learned that some killers could seem harmless – even friendly. An Iraqi woman flashed to mind, smiling, meeting her eyes. Putting a hand inside her robe. Disappearing in a white-hot blast … No. Harper shook her head, pushing searing wind away. Refusing to revisit the past.

Hank was talking. She’d missed a bit. ‘But I’d like to hear his take on the local folks and that Hunt Club. Their animosity level. From what the ranger said, it seems like until now, their pipeline protests have been pretty non-violent. At worst, they’ve slashed tires or written graffiti. Done mischief to discourage hunters and hikers. So it doesn’t make sense. Why would they escalate to killing people? What changed?’

Harper frowned. ‘I’m sure the authorities will look into it.’

‘But we can ask around, as long as we’re here.’

‘Hank—’

‘What? Think they’ll shoot us for talking to them?’

‘Are you crazy?’ Harper gaped at him. In the past, Hank had raged at her for seeking out danger, taking unnecessary risks. Diving head-first into peril. When had their roles switched? When had she become the cautious one? Again, Chloe popped to mind. ‘It’s not our job to solve the murders, Hank. We’re just weekend campers. Civilians. Besides, we don’t know which people are involved or where to find them—’

‘We can just chat with people in the area—’

‘Why?’ Her nostrils flared. ‘Why draw attention to ourselves? Why plunge into this? We aren’t here to solve murders.’

No, they weren’t. But why were they there again? Something about spending time together? Reconnecting with each other and with nature? Recapturing romance? Well, that sure wasn’t happening. Harper wanted to leave. To go back to Ithaca. To hop on her Ninja and roar past familiar places. To read a story to Chloe, kiss her pudgy cheeks and tuck her into bed. Harper closed her eyes, felt them burn. Damn, her wine cup was empty.

‘Steaks?’ Hank got up, opened the cooler that held their food.

‘I want to go home, Hank.’

He took out two New York strips. ‘We will.’

‘No, I mean now.’

‘Now?’ He looked at her. ‘Tonight?’

Realistically, they were both too tired to pack up and hike back to the car in the dark. ‘Tomorrow. First thing.’

Even in the dim light, he met her eyes, studied them. He didn’t say anything. Harper could hear his thoughts. He wasn’t ready to go home, was debating the pros and cons of arguing, anticipating what she’d say. Weighing compromises. Trying to consider her feelings. ‘Fine. If you want to go, we’ll check in with the ranger, give the cops our statements, and take off.’

Really? No resistance? He’d just given in? ‘Thank you.’ Harper leaned back, felt her shoulders unwind.

While the steaks grilled, Harper made a salad. They ate quietly, too tired to talk. While they cleaned up afterward, she moved stiffly with cramping muscles. Finally, the bear bag had been hung from a branch and their teeth brushed with bottled water. They crawled into their tent, rolled into their double sleeping bag. Harper melted into Hank’s arms. They made love gently, floated into slumber. Harper’s sleep was heavy and dreamless. And it ended prematurely, deep in the night.

At first, she thought the grating noise was Hank’s snoring. She shoved him, but the sound didn’t stop. Drifting up to consciousness, Harper heard Hank breathing softly, not snoring at all. She propped herself onto her elbow, listening to a repetitive, harsh scraping.

Coming from just outside their tent.

‘Hank.’ She nudged him.

Hank didn’t stir.

‘Hank,’ she whispered. ‘Somebody’s outside.’

No response. No surprise. When he was tired, Hank slept like the dead.

But what was that sound? Who was out there? Harper slid out of the sleeping bag, crawled to the zipper, peeked out the netting at the top of the tent. Saw darkness.

‘Hank,’ she tried again, pushing his legs.

Hank rolled over, oblivious.

Harper reached for her flashlight, peered out through the mesh again. Heard more scraping. Slowly, silently, she unzipped the front of the tent, just enough to open a slit. The moonlight cast shadows, altering appearances. Changing familiar shapes into hulking night creatures. She gazed out, identified the lump of tarp covering their folded chairs and stove. It was undisturbed. She lowered the zipper to open the tent more and widen her view.

The grating sound stopped. She held still and waited, heard nothing. Opened the zipper enough to poke her head out of the tent. Looked around. Felt the chill of night.

Saw no movement, no intruder.

‘Hank,’ she repeated. Early in their relationship, he’d responded to her every movement, waking up to see if she wanted anything, to make sure she was okay. Now, she couldn’t rouse him with a fire alarm.

Never mind. Whatever was out there seemed to have wandered off. Harper sidled back to the warmth of the sleeping bag. She wasn’t even halfway in, though, when she heard a deafening crash. What the hell? She froze, alert, listening. Replaying it in her mind: a crack, a whoosh and a thud.

Hank hadn’t even stirred. Harper didn’t even try to wake him up. She grabbed their rifle, unzipped the tent and dashed out into night. Hunkering low, she scanned the area, crept toward the source of the sound. Trees hovered darkly around her, their limbs outstretched, blocking the moonlight. Branches reached out, sharp and menacing, and the ground under her bare feet scraped harsh and uneven. She clutched Hank’s Winchester and shivered, sensing danger. Crouching, inching forward, Harper prepared to face an intruder, maybe a band of militia members. Maybe a bear.

Wait. Speaking of a bear, where was the bear bag? She looked around, didn’t see it. She turned, and – damn. The branch that had held their sack of rations too high for bears to reach was no longer attached to the tree. It lay flat on the ground, torn from the trunk.

Harper didn’t move. She looked from the stump on the trunk to the fallen branch. It was sturdy, thick. How could it have broken off the tree? Healthy branches didn’t just drop off tree trunks, not without hurricane-force winds or the help of a saw. And yet, there it was, lying in the dirt. What the hell had happened?

She replayed the sounds that had awakened her. The cracking must have been the final break from the tree. But before that – the scraping? Had it been a saw? Had someone sawed the branch? She looked closer at the stump. The break was jagged. So no saw. Then what? A memory floated to mind. She was maybe ten, climbing a tree to retrieve a kite. Crawling out on a limb that gave way under her weight.

Maybe that’s what had happened here. Maybe what she’d heard had been the branch shaking, the leaves rattling, under the weight of some creature – probably a bear. Had it been going after their supplies? If so, it hadn’t succeeded; their bear bag lay flattened under the branch. Harper contemplated tugging it out, rescuing the contents of their cooler – what was in there? Eggs? Salami? Cheese? Yogurt? She put a hand on the branch, testing its weight. It was solid, too heavy to lift, but if she put down the rifle, she’d probably be able to drag it and rescue their supplies.

The air moved behind her, and Harper held still, aware that she wasn’t alone. The perpetrator might be watching, maybe still intending to steal the food. Slowly, she looked into the darkness. Saw no one. Maybe it wasn’t the bear watching her. Maybe it was just night creatures – foxes and owls. She looked back at the branch, their crushed bag. Damn, why couldn’t Hank get up and help her? She should go shake him awake.

Or she could leave the damned stuff alone and go back into the cozy tent and sleep. They were leaving in the morning anyhow, wouldn’t need the food. And the cooler was probably smashed, the eggs broken. It would be a mess to deal with.

Fine. Harper backed away from the branch. She looked up at the trunk again. Had it been a bear? Would a bear be smart enough to figure out how to snap a tree branch? Well, it must be. Because what else could have been heavy enough, powerful enough to do it? The back of her neck tickled. She turned, looked behind her.

At first, she didn’t see it standing among the trees, watching her. But then it moved slightly, shifting its weight.

The thing had to be over seven feet tall. It stood erect on two legs, like a man. Its body resembled a bear or an ape, covered, head to toe, with fur. And, with a high-pitched, piercing trill, it started walking in Harper’s direction.

Harper watched in disbelief. What was this animal? Not an ape, not a bear. Not a human.

That woman from the campground – Sylvie – popped into her head, scolding, ‘I warned you. It’s the Bog Man.’

The Bog Man? Ridiculous. There was no such thing. Even so, Harper had no idea what else it could be. And it was coming closer.

She had to stop gawking and do something. She squared her shoulders, inhaled deeply, and commanded, ‘Stop.’

It didn’t stop. It moved steadily out of the shadows, coming closer.

Finally, her training kicked in. Even as she doubted what she was seeing, she reacted reflexively, automatically, as she would with an insurgent. She reached for the Winchester, positioned herself, and aimed, prepared to shoot if she had to. Except – wait – what was she doing? This creature hadn’t attacked her. And if it was the Bog Man, which it couldn’t be, but if it were, then it was a rare, unknown life form, like those elusive Yeti, Big Foot, Sasquatch things – it needed to be protected and studied, not shot.

The creature halted, looked up at the moon, and let out a long, ghostlike wail. Its fur gleamed, fangs glistened in the moonlight.

‘Hank!’ Harper called, knowing that he wouldn’t wake up.

The creature faced her, raised its arms to its chest, gorilla-like, and roared. Harper forgot to breathe. Her limbs felt limp and slow, the rifle flimsy. The creature approached, eyeing her, panting. Oh God. It wasn’t real, couldn’t be. Had to be a huge, deformed bear. That’s right, just a bear. In fact, maybe none of this was happening – maybe it was a dream, brought on by stress and exhaustion.

On the other hand, if it was only a dream, shooting it couldn’t do any harm. Maybe she should flip the bolt on the Winchester and shoot.

The creature stepped closer, and she smelled animal fur, unwashed and stale. Its head wasn’t like a bear’s. But also not like a human’s. It watched her, hesitating, releasing so shrill a cry that Harper’s ears rang. Then it came running.

Harper took off into the woods.

It was right behind her. She could smell it, feel its heat. Harper’s jaw tightened. She dashed behind a wide tree trunk, whirled around and, in a single motion, lifted the rifle, flipped the bolt, and aimed at the spot where the creature had to be, ready to fire.

And waited.

No creature appeared. But it had to be there, couldn’t have just vanished. She listened for movement, heard none. Was it hiding, waiting for her? Cautious, clutching the rifle, she stepped back toward the tent, searching for the thing, sensing its presence. Maybe it had run away. Maybe she’d scared it off.