Savage Run

9

Because the snow had finally melted and backwoods mountain roads were opening up to four-wheel-drive vehicles, fishermen were starting to work the streams and spring creeks in the Bighorns and Joe Pickett needed to check licenses and limits. Most of the streams were still high and muddy and wouldn’t clear and level out for another month, but local flyfishing guides were already placing clients at deep pools and beaver ponds. Mayfly hatches, the first sign of summer for flyfishermen, had begun. And if there were fishermen and — women, that meant there were licenses to check. Fishers used the Hazelton Road for access to the streams, which is how Joe found himself once again near the site of the exploding cow. He wanted to see the crater again, for reasons he wasn’t quite sure of.

Joe approached the crater along the same path he had taken two weeks earlier with Sheriff Barnum and Deputy McLanahan. Because of the heavy foot and gurney traffic of the EMTs, forensics teams, state Department of Criminal Investigation (DCI) agents, curiosity seekers, and dozens of locals trooping back and forth from the road to the crime scene, the path had become a trail. It was churned up and easy to follow.

He wanted to visit the site again in the daylight and, possibly, resolve the impression he had that night of being watched. As he approached the crater he hoped that something would put that lingering suspicion to rest.

This kind of thing had happened to him before. There had been a turn on the road near the foothills of the mountains that had, for months, given him an uneasy feeling whenever he drove by. There had been something in an aspen grove that troubled him. The evening hours as the sunset lengthened shadows and a certain stillness set in unsettled him. Finally, he had stopped his truck and walked up the grassy draw. As he neared the trees he drew his weapon because the ill feeling, whatever it was, got stronger. Then he saw it and for a brief, terrifying moment, he was face to face with the Devil himself. Within the thick stand of trees stood the gnarled, twisted, coiled black figure of. a single burned tree stump.

The distance to the crater through the trees seemed shorter than it had that night, and he was surprised how quickly he was upon it. Within and around the crater, Joe knew there would be nothing to be found that hadn’t already been examined, tested, or photographed. The official conclusion of the joint report filed by both the Sheriff’s Office and DCI bore out Barnum’s original theory-that Stewie Woods had accidentally set off explosives because he was unfamiliar with them. They also found out that the woman who was with him was actually his wife of three days. A Justice of the Peace in Ennis, Montana, had come forth with the marriage certificate.

He slowly circled the crater. The dead cattle had long been removed. Fallen pine needles had begun to carpet the exposed earth of the hole. A few pale blades of grass were the first soldiers to reclaim the ground. The exposed roots that had looked so white and tender that night had hardened or thrust themselves back into the earth.

If he looked at the trees and branches in the right light Joe could still see dried blood, but rain, insects, birds, and rodents had cleaned nearly all of the bark. Years from now, Joe thought, passing hikers or hunters might remark on the depression in the trail, bypass it when it filled with rain. But there would be nothing remarkable about it.

So far he hadn’t seen anything that could make him forget or explain that feeling he’d had of being watched.

Squinting, Joe tipped his head back. The explosion had cleared a passage in the spruce trees through which he could see the sky and two lone clouds. High in the tree above him was a stout branch that had been stripped of bark. Joe stepped into the crater for a better look. Something about the color of the dead branch didn’t look right. Exposed dead pine turned a cream color. This branch, angled up from the trunk in the shape of a fishhook, was coffee brown. The branch was thick enough to support a big man. Especially if the man were skewered to the tree by the force of an explosion.

Joe crossed his arms and shook his head. There was no way what he was thinking could be possible. Even if it was, he thought, there was no way that all of the people who had been there since the explosion would not have seen it. Someone, at some point, had to look up.

He left his daypack and holster at the base of the tree and started to climb. Dime-sized scales of bark snagged at his shirt and jeans, but there were enough sappy branches to provide footholds and handholds. He climbed until he was just below the dead branch and found a protruding knot he was able to rest a boot on. Hugging the trunk, he raised himself up until he was eye-level with the dead branch. His other foot was suspended in the air, so he wouldn’t be able to maintain his position long. Already, the quad muscles in his thigh were beginning to burn.

The branch, close up, was certainly dark enough to have been stained with blood. But what he hoped to see was proof-dried rivulets or strands of fiber from clothing. He saw neither. Pulling himself even tighter to the tree with one arm, he reached out with his free hand and tried to break the branch, to no avail. Using his fingernails, he tried to chip off some of the stained wood so he could have it tested. But the branch was hard and he had no leverage to splinter it. His leg began to quiver and his calf and thigh muscles screamed. To relieve the pressure, Joe grasped the dead branch to balance himself. He pressed his cheek to the trunk of the tree.

Suddenly, there was percussive flapping above him. The sound frightened him and nearly made him lose his grip. He looked up at a huge black raven that had just landed inches from his hand. The raven looked down at him with sharp ebony eyes and sidestepped along the branch until one clawed black foot touched Joe’s hand. The bird stared at Joe and Joe stared back. He had never seen a raven this close, and it was remarkable how inert and shiny the bird’s eyes were. Its beak was slightly hooked on the end and was the color of dull black matte. Its feathers were so black that they reflected blue, like Superman’s hair in the comics.

Then the raven struck, burying its beak into the back of Joe’s hand. Reflexively, Joe let go, which shifted his balance, and his boot slipped off of the knot. He clearly heard the hum of his shirt on the bark as he dropped and he felt his trouser cuffs gather up beneath his knees. A live branch that had been welcoming on the way up hit him under the arm on the way down and knocked him backward where he fell cleanly for a moment, then crashed through another branch, then landed hard on his back at the base of the tree with his knees wrapped around the trunk like a lover.

When he was able to breathe normally, Joe opened his eyes. Small orange spangles floated through the sky along with the clouds. He did an inventory of his limbs and found that nothing was broken. His back ached, his hand was punctured and bloody near the knuckles from the raven, and his shirt and pants were disheveled and torn. The insides of his legs were rubbed raw and his shins were scraped. But he was all right.

He rolled to his feet and stood up warily. He had landed on his hat so he retrieved it and tried to restore the smashed-in crown. Painfully, he looked back at the dead branch. The raven was still there, and stared coldly back at him.

“You okay?” someone asked from the other side of the crater. The voice startled Joe, and he turned toward it. “You really made a lot of noise coming down out of that tree. We thought a tree was falling over or something.”

It was Raga and Tonk, the two campers he had met the week before. They had just emerged from the pathway in the trees. Both wore daypacks.

“I’m fine. You’re still here?” Joe asked. “Weren’t you going to Canada or somewhere?”

Raga leaned forward on a walking stick. “Been there and back.”

“Where’s the woman who was with you?” Joe asked.

Raga and Tonk shared a conspiratorial glance, but didn’t answer Joe’s question.

“Did you hear about Hayden Powell? The writer? His house burned down in Washington state,” Raga said, his eyes cold. “This time, they found the body.”

Joe had heard the name Hayden Powell somewhere, but was not familiar with him or Tonk’s story.

“Charred beyond recognition,” Tonk added for emphasis.

“So first there was Stewie, then Hayden,” Raga continued, his tone fused with deliberate irony. “I wonder who will be next?”

Joe clamped his misshapen hat on his head. “You folks like conspiracies, don’t you?”

Raga sneered and gestured toward the crater. “The people who did this will come back. I hope you’re ready for them when they do.”

Joe tried to read the faces of the two men. Raga was still sneering, Tonk nodding in agreement with what Raga had just said.

“Do you know something you should tell me?” Joe asked.

Raga slowly shook his head no. “They’ll be back here,” he said simply.