by Sarah Sutton
He could picture the hikers just waking up, boiling water for their morning coffee, packing up their tent only to be laid out again at their next destination. They would probably be talking, laughing even, and looking forward to the hike ahead of them that day. He grew more and more agitated at the thought. He hated it all—people hiking along the trail only to say they had experienced some taste of struggle, as if they even knew what that truly meant.
He gritted his teeth at the thought, as he stood outside in the green grass, surrounded by the woods. They had no clue what true struggle was, but soon they would know—he would make sure of it.
A barn stood just behind him and he turned toward it, slinking across the lawn until he reached the large doors and pushed them open. The two victims lay sprawled across the floor, next to the blue tarp he had wrapped them in days earlier when he had wounded them, knocked them unconscious, and transported them to where they now lay.
He had bound them and given them fractions of hope as he tended to their wounds and promised to let them go. But then he sent arrows to each of their limbs. The boyfriend had pleaded to let his girlfriend go, but each time, he sent another arrow through her until they both begged for death.
It had been two days since they finally bled out, and he could smell the scent as the early stages of decomposition settled in. He would have to move them, he decided, to make room for the next ones. And at that thought, he reached for his work gloves in his pocket and slid them on.
For any normal person, the smell would bother them, but not him. He liked it. It was a reassurance—the definitive effect of what he’d done. It was a reminder that he had succeeded, that they had been there for a period of time and he had not gotten caught.
He wanted to watch the body through each stage, through each week of them still not being found, of him still not being a suspect. He knew each time the smell deepened, he would feel more and more powerful.
He reached down and grabbed the woman by her arms, sliding her body across the wooden floor to the corner of the room. He then grabbed the man, sliding him as well—each time a streak of half dried blood tarnishing the floor. And then he stared at them for a moment before lowering his own body to the floor. He reached out for the woman’s long blonde hair, letting it drape over his palm before burying his face into it. It still had the scent of pine, and it caused a flurry of excitement to stir within him. He couldn’t wait to do it again.
He then stood up and moved to a box. He bent over, sitting on his heels as he reached inside, where dozens of compasses lay within. He grabbed hold of one and held it in his hand for a moment. Just like all the others, it was defective and he carefully moved the needle, pointing it to the southern point, where it remained no matter which way he moved it. He carefully placed it in his pocket and exited the barn—the smell still lingering in his nose—and looked off into the distance, to the forest.
Chapter Six
Twenty minutes later Tara stood at the first crime scene, with Warren, Sheriff Russo, and two other cops by her side. She was right. Just above the deep red stains on the forest floor stood a tree, its branches outstretched and winding in every direction—and dangling off of one was a compass. Underneath, the same engravings from the last scene were dug out in the tree as well. It was almost identical, except for one thing—the compass was pointing north, the way they just came from.
Warren and the other officers stood in shock, and Tara could see the fire in the sheriff’s eyes as he looked to his officers. He had mentioned that they had been patrolling the area around the clock, but now, they all knew that one of them wasn’t doing his job.
“Who was on watch early this morning?” the sheriff snarled.
One of the cops’ eyes fell to the floor, his face flushing a deep red, almost the same shade as his hair. He was clearly guilty. The other cop stood there quietly, looking between his friend and his boss, unsure if he should speak.
“Well?” the sheriff asked again, this time moving closer to the guilty-looking officer.
“I might’ve dozed for a minute. I’m really—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Sheriff Russo looked at the cop dumbfounded and threw his arms in the air. Tara could see the blood boiling through his skin as a vein pulsated on his forehead. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain his composure.
“How long?” he asked.
The cop’s eyes remained fixated on the ground. “It could’ve been about thirty minutes.”
The sheriff suddenly burst. “Thirty minutes?!” he screamed, his voice echoing off the trees until the forest fell again into silence.
He was about to open his mouth again. But suddenly, Warren placed his hand on the sheriff’s shoulder.
“Let’s focus on what’s important right now,” he uttered, as he pointed to the tree. “You got a map of the trail?”
The sheriff gave one last blazing glare at his officer before grabbing hold of a map in his pocket and handing it to Warren. They all knew the cop made a terrible mistake and would likely be suspended, but Warren was right—the mistake already happened and now they needed to focus.
Warren bent over, laying the map upon the ground, and motioned with his hand for Tara to come near. She sat on her heels next to him. He was beginning to trust her, letting her in on the workings of his mind, seeking her opinion, and she felt her confidence grow at the slow gain of his trust.
She stared down at the map, where the Appalachian Trail was marked with a long red squiggly line. It ran across fourteen states, all the way from Maine to Georgia. Sheriff Russo had already marked on the map where the two crime scenes were. One, where they now stood, and the other three miles north.
Warren reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pen, placing it atop the location of the first crime scene. Tara already knew what he was doing. He was marking the directions that the compasses pointed, trying to visually see it all. She continued to watch as he drew an arrow, pointing it north up the trail. He then moved the pen to where the second crime scene was marked, and drew another arrow, pointing south. When done, he tilted his head back, looking at it as a whole, and so did Tara. It was clear the compasses were pointing to each other.
The sheriff and the two cops moved closer and looked down at the map as well.
“What do you think it means?” the sheriff uttered over their shoulders.
But as Tara stared down at Warren’s carefully drawn arrows, she didn’t have a response. She wanted it all to mean something, to be a clue, but seeing the compasses point to each other was not what she expected. She focused on the map for a moment longer, and a thought struck her. Maybe it was pointing to the next crime scene. Maybe her original theory was right. After all, the arrow was pointing in the direction the killer was moving, since he did come back to the first scene.
The trail did not run perfectly north to south. It ran in a somewhat diagonal line, northwest to southeast, but maybe the compasses showed which way he was bound, north or south. She tried to work out the details in her head. If she was right, then the compass placed at the first crime scene pointed to the second, and the one found there pointed not to the first crime scene, but past where they stood.
“I suppose it still could be pointing to the next crime scene,” Tara finally said out loud.
Warren slowly nodded his head, his eyes still locked on the map.
“It’s possible,” he said. “But this could also be a distraction.”
It was a thought that Tara hadn’t considered, and at the mention, she realized they didn’t yet have enough evidence to prove her theory.
Warren’s eyes moved up to the engravings in the tree and Tara knew he was trying to make sense of those too.
“Maybe the sun is a clue that he strikes at daybreak,” Tara suggested, and Warren nodded.
“‘They Never Leave’ could mean that they never leave the forest alive,” he added.
Suddenly the sheriff’s phone rang. He picked it up quickly a
nd spoke briefly before turning toward Tara and Warren.
“The victim’s father just arrived,” he said. Tara knew he was referring to the victim found on the porch, since he had mentioned it earlier that he was coming. “He’s at the station now if you want to have a word with him.”
***
The victim’s father sat in front of them in a small room at the police station with a picture of his daughter tightly in his grip. His hands were caked in car grease and he wore a blue button-down with his name sewn into it. He was a mechanic of some sort and had clearly left in a hurry.
“Does she have a boyfriend? Or any siblings she might’ve been in contact with?” Warren asked.
It was the second time he had asked that question, but just like the last few times the man attempted to speak, no words could leave his throat, becoming trapped in the vibrato of emotion. This time, he looked down at the picture in his hands and let the emotion overcome him.
Tara knew he needed a moment. He needed to let the wound bleed. He was feeling its realness for the first time, and Tara knew firsthand how paralyzing that feeling was. When she lost her mother, she had gone through an array of emotions. As first she thought maybe it wasn’t true but then reality would hit her in waves, pulling her deep into a sea of unknown, and each time she would lose her breath.
She watched him stare at the picture of his daughter but his eyes were looking past it, deep into the depths of disbelief.
“No,” he finally managed. “She just had me. No siblings, no boyfriend.” He took a deep breath. “My wife died of cancer ten years ago.” He cupped his face with his hand and let out a muffled cry. “My baby girl.”
He was completely broken and in some way, it lifted a strange feeling within Tara. She couldn’t tell if it was just deep empathy or the tug on a deep forgotten wound.
She finally got up, grabbing hold of a box of tissues and placing them in front of him. His gaze remained transfixed on his daughter, and she felt another painful tug as she pulled her chair closer and stroked his back for a moment. His body shook with pain.
“We’re going to find who did this,” she said to him.
The man nodded as his bottom lip quivered.
Warren leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and readying himself to try again. “I know this isn’t easy,” he began. “But can you tell us when you spoke to her last?”
The man nodded. “Ye-yesterday morning.”
His voice cracked as he said the words, but the clarity of response caused both Tara and Warren to suddenly lean forward even more.
“Did anything seem off to you?” Warren asked, now sitting at the edge of his seat. “Did she ever mention anyone? Maybe someone she met on the trail?”
Again, the man shook his head, and Warren’s body relaxed again in disappointment. “No one,” he said. “And she always seemed happy when I spoke to her.”
“Did she ever mention a compass? Or engravings on a tree?”
The man looked at Warren in confusion. “No.”
Warren sat back into his chair. “How often did you two speak?” he asked.
“We tried to every day. It depended if she had cell phone service, but she checked in pretty regularly, sometimes just a text.”
Tara listened intently as she gained the impression that he and his daughter were close. But as close as they seemed, Tara knew that any daughter would keep some things to herself—especially a possible love interest.
“Do you know if she stayed at any campsites?” Tara finally asked. She knew it would be the prime place to meet someone on such a solo adventure.
“I was just keeping track of where she was on the trail. I’m not too sure what campsites she stayed at.”
He shook his head again as he looked back down at the picture, rubbing his thumb hard back and forth against the image, reminding Tara that his moment of composure could soon come to a close.
“Do you know where she was when you spoke to her last?”
He wiped a few tears off his cheek. “Yeah…she mentioned she was leaving Hanover.”
His words sent a jolt through Tara’s body and she suddenly looked back at Warren, only to be met with the same question in his eyes.
“Did she decide to head back home after Hanover?” she asked, wondering if maybe she decided to head back up to Maine, which would explain the location of her body.
“No, why? She was heading to Pennsylvania.” The man looked up as his thumb paused in motion.
A silence fell around them and Tara looked from the man to Warren, who suddenly opened his mouth.
“Sir, your daughter was found about six miles north of Hanover.”
The man scrunched his face into confusion.
“But that doesn’t make sense,” he said. “She was moving south.”
Tara’s mind raced, visualizing each piece of the puzzle for what it was and forcing them together until one of them fit. It was what the sheriff mentioned earlier, that the first two victims were spotted at a camping store in the same town.
“Do you know where she stopped in Hanover?” Tara asked.
The man sniffled as he leaned his face onto his fist.
“Yeah, she mentioned she needed a new water jug. I think she stopped at some store to get one.”
Tara looked at Warren, but he was already out of his chair. They now had a lead.
Chapter Seven
“I think this is it,” Warren said as he pulled up on the side of the road and looked over at one of the stores.
Tara saw a large wooden sign hanging over the entrance with BAKER’S OUTDOOR GEAR etched into it. It was the only camping store in town, and named after the owner and man the sheriff mentioned he already interviewed, Tom Baker.
Moments later Tara and Warren stood in the store while the bells atop the closing door behind them settled into a hum. The aroma of fresh leather and new merchandise surrounded them, but not a single person.
“Just a minute!” they heard coming from the employee-only section of the store, followed by hurried footsteps and then the emergence of a middle-aged man. “Sorry about that,” he said. “We just opened up, I was checking the inventory.” He placed his reading glasses onto the counter and then looked up, realizing for the first time who they might be. “How can I help you?”
“Are you Tom Baker?” Warren asked.
“Yes, that’s me.”
Warren flashed his badge. “We’re with the FBI, we just wanted to ask you a couple questions.”
“Ask away, but I already told the police all I know.” He sighed as he took a seat behind the counter and started counting money in the register.
“It won’t take long,” Warren said as he placed pictures of the three victims onto the counter. “Do any of these people look familiar to you?”
The man looked down, his eyes moving from one image to the next, before back and forth between two of them. “I already told police this,” he said, agitated. “They came in here, the couple, but it was brief.”
“And her?” Warren slid the image of the third victim closer to him.
The man shook his head. “I already told police I’ve never seen her before.” He held his gaze on the image for a moment longer before lifting his head. “I’m sorry, I wish I could be more help.”
A silence fell around them and Tara took the moment to scan the walls, searching for any sign of a surveillance camera. In the corner of the ceiling, her eyes fell upon one.
“Do you sell compasses here?” Warren continued his questioning as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag containing one of the compasses. The man nodded skeptically as Warren placed it down on the counter in front of him. “Do you sell ones that look like this?”
The man glanced at it briefly before shaking his head. “Not ones made of brass,” the man replied.
“Do you know where someone could’ve bought this?”
The man shrugged before putting on his reading glasses. He sighed once again as he bent down cl
oser to the object. “It’s hard to say, you can really buy these anywhere online nowadays.”
The edge of Warren’s mouth curled in disappointment as he reached for the compass on the counter and put it away. Tara nudged his arm. He looked startled, but then she pointed at the camera and he saw it too.
“You mind if we take a look?” he finally said.
***
Tara peered at the monitor, with Warren next to her side, carefully dissecting the moving images on the screen. After spending some time rewinding through the video footage, they were finally able to lock down the first two victims. But, just as the shop owner explained, there was nothing eventful from their visit. They came in together, early morning, purchased a few unordinary objects, and left. There were no suspicious customers at the time, no unusual behavior. It was just as anyone would expect.
They carefully observed the footage in the days that followed—customers coming and going, the shop owner assisting them—but again, nothing curious caught their eye, and they continued to fast-forward until they reached the prior day’s footage.
“Stop,” Warren commanded, causing Tara to immediately pause. “There,” he said as he pointed at the corner of the screen.
Tara narrowed her eyes. A woman with long brown hair stood by the entrance to the store, wearing the same brown hiking boots with red laces Tara saw only hours earlier—it was unmistakably the third victim.
“Fast-forward a bit,” Warren said, and Tara did so until she paused again and let the video play. The woman walked toward one side of the store, surveying the water jugs carefully lined along the wall. Tara studied her movements. There was nothing unusual about her behavior, and it was hard for Tara to grasp that this was the same woman whose body made her nauseated when she caught wind of its scent that very morning.