Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(65)

“Because the nearest place is the lodge, and the lodge is southeast from us right now. Right?”

The kid’s got a good sense of direction and spatial awareness. Good. “And what’s in your backpack?”

“Trail bars, flashlight, water, map, my first-aid kit, and a book,” he says. “I know you didn’t tell me to get the book.”

“Good man. Nothing wrong with a book. Let’s find a good spot to sit and read.”

I have a light pack with me too: compass, food, water, map of the area. And a slender volume of Garrison Keillor, but I don’t tell him that yet. I also have my Glock 9 mm and a hunting knife, a pocket fishing kit, and insulating blankets in case we get stuck out here for the night, because one thing my time in Afghanistan taught me was don’t go if you’re not ready to face what’s out there.

And though this ought to be friendly territory, I never assume anything. Gwen and I are alike in that.

We’ve followed the game trail about thirty minutes when I pick up the smell of something dead. It’s strong and sweet-sour in the back of my throat. Connor gets it, too, and covers his nose. “What’s that?” he asks. “Is it a skunk?”

“Hope so,” I say. But it isn’t. The wind shifts, and the smell’s gone. I check the direction the leaves are bending. The breeze has quartered, so I make a turn off the path to find the smell again. It hits me like a pan in the face: hot, greasy, sickening. Not a skunk, alive or dead. This is something bigger.

We’re off the path. I stop. “Connor, check the map,” I tell him. He obediently pulls it out of his pack. “Mark where we are right now.”

He does, and I check it. We’re close to Wolfhunter River, which is an offshoot of larger waterways; these days it’s more of an oversize creek, but it’s likely dangerous in flood stages. We passed over it on the way to the lodge. The sky is blue and empty of clouds, but flash flooding can happen miles upstream, and it’s nothing to mess around with.

“Are we going to find it?” he says. “The dead thing?”

“Do you want to find it?”

He has to think it over, but then he nods. “Yeah.”

“You know what we find might be terrible, right?”

“I know,” he says. And I’m sure he does. He’s old enough to Google and turn off the parental controls without Gwen noticing. He looks up at me. “It’s the right thing to do, though. I mean, it might be an animal, but what if it isn’t? There are people missing.”

Gwen’s going to hate me for it, but I’m not about to treat this brave kid like he’s made out of glass. “Okay,” I tell him. “Mark the trail on the map as we go.” I take the marker out and swipe it along the trunks of trees as we go; they’re heavy here, but the underbrush is fairly light, and we’re able to push through. We startle birds that take off in a rush of wings and cries, but it’s almost lost in the thrashing hiss of the trees. It’s getting darker in the cover, and for safety I stop Connor and get him to take out his flashlight while I retrieve mine. The halogen beams slice the gloom like scalpels. I widen the output on mine. It doesn’t go as far, but I like to see what’s coming on the sides.

It’s still and silent, except for the sound of the trees and now-distant birdcalls. No traffic sounds. No planes overhead. The farther in we get, the more isolated we are, and I start worrying about wildlife. Dead bodies attract scavengers. Particularly bears.

But we don’t have to go far, and we don’t see a bear. Just a small, dappled bobcat that slinks silently away the instant I spot him.

The smell continues to increase in intensity, but I don’t initially see the body—or at least recognize it for what it is. It’s by the bank of the Wolfhunter River, and the green water laps at the edges of the thing lying there. I think for a second, It’s a deer, because it’s unnaturally shaped and splayed and dark even in the glow of our combined light beams.

But a deer doesn’t wear sandals. Or have braces on exposed white teeth.

“Get back,” I tell Connor, and I step in front of him. “Ten feet back, right now.”

“That’s—” He sounds shaken. “That’s not—that’s not a body, is it?”

“Connor, do as I say. Walk back ten feet. Don’t look.” I cover my nose and mouth with the bend of my arm and walk a little closer. She’s not dressed, except for the shoes. He made her walk here, I think. Maybe she begged to keep her shoes on, and he allowed that small mercy. I don’t see any sign of other clothes scattered nearby. I can’t tell how she died, what she might have looked like, or even what race she might be; the body’s so bloated and distorted it looks like a Hollywood monster prop. She has—had—blonde hair, though. Tufts of it have been pulled out and are caught on bushes nearby, and strands wave gently in the river water. Animals have been here, and I rise quickly when I realize how many maggots are around the body. An army of them, squirming. Flies everywhere.

Her eye sockets are empty, staring straight up at the dark trees, as if she might be searching for the sky.

“Sam?” Connor sounds even shakier. “Sam?”

I move back to him. He’s clicked his flashlight off, and he’s breathing too fast. I turn him toward me.

“Connor, I need you to listen to me. Deep breaths, okay? This is a good thing. It’s good we came here and found her. Now we need to go back and call the police.”