He wasn’t sure exactly what he hoped to find where he was going, but something inside of him told him that he needed to go look.
Following the road as it wound out of the subdivision, he passed several clusters of cars parked in front of the model homes, the big “Open House” banners hanging above the garages. He paused at the stop sign on Woodmen Road, and then turned left, heading into the foothills at the base of the cloud covered Rockies. The windshield wipers batted back and forth, pushing the driving snow into thin piles to either side of the glass.
His neighborhood fell behind him as he accelerated, the road narrowing to wind up into the increasingly thick forest. He hadn’t been up this far on the road in a long time, but it appeared as though nothing had changed. Trunks passed like cornrows as the car rocketed down the slick road until he finally slowed and stared off the road to his left, intently looking for the gap in the trees that he knew still had to be there.
He hadn’t thought about that night in a long time. Repression was, indeed, a wonderful thing. It was amazing how the mind had defense mechanisms that could keep painful memories from haunting a man. His parents had tried to set him up with some therapy after the accident, but the psychologist had been far too concerned with his relationship with his mother, and the psychiatrist had wanted nothing more than to prescribe him pills. He had gone through the motions, obligingly attending the minimum number of sessions. Fortunately, his own brain had taken over, pressing the memory into a tiny little box that it hid in the recesses of his mind, only opening it once or twice a year when he made conscious connections with dates or associated memories. But he had never once, since that night, driven back up into these hills.
He slowed the car, pulling to the side of the road. There was a barren patch directly to his left, on the other side of the road. The scrub oak had grown up around the splintered trunks of the trees, the tops of the new growth of pines barely visible above. The ice-covered lake was barely visible in the field beyond, the powdered snow on the surface glittering beneath the weak light that permeated through the intense cloud cover.
Scanning the road, he pulled a u- turn, parking on the shoulder, the barren limbs of the scrub oak scraping against the side of the new car. He pulled the keys from the ignition and sat there for a moment, turning them over and over in his hands. A dull ache arose in the back of his head, his heart rate accelerating. Closing his eyes, he focused on his breathing, rhythmically drawing the air in and blowing it out, trying to soothe his nerves. Sighing, he opened his eyes and stared down the desolate road in front of him, his left hand pulling on the door handle.
The cold air raced into the car as he climbed out, dropping down into the thick snow. Shaking his keys a couple times, he thrust them back into his pocket and walked around the back of the car to the gap in the trees. He pressed through the rugged brush, the limbs snagging on his clothing as he forced his way through, clambering over the fallen trunks of the dead trees that littered the ground.
Passing through the last row of brush, he stepped out into the field. If he hadn’t known that there was a lake there, he may never have seen it. There was barely a dimple in the middle of the sea of snow that filled the opening in the trees. Trudging into the meadow, his right foot suddenly sunk a good foot into the snow and he tumbled forward, bracing himself on his right hand. Ice-cold water filled his shoe, instantly soaking into his sock and chilling the blood in his foot.
An image of car tires bending outward as they caught on the lip of a thin stream, tossing the car into the air, filled his mind. He could hear his own cries echoing in his head, and the metallic crunch of the crumpling car landing on its roof.
Rapidly shaking his head, he ran his fingers roughly through his snow-covered hair, looking down at his feet for a moment before turning his attention back to the lake in front of him.
They had never found Matt’s body. The car had been pulled from the water early the following morning, but there had been no one inside. Police had hacked the majority of the ice from the lake and had dredged it for four days. They had even sent divers down there, but they hadn’t come up with so much as an article of clothing.
The bottom of the lake consisted of a layer of mud atop thin silt, a very sticky, treacherous surface that would allow for anything to sink deep within it. Matt’s body had most likely fallen out of the car when it rolled onto its side before being pressed down into the soft earth. That’s what the cops said anyway. How the ground had stayed soft beneath the ice cold waters of the frozen surface was a mystery to him, however. But the decision provided him closure, and that was all he needed to begin the arduous process of getting on with his life.
He could hear the gurgling of the river at the far side of the lake as he stared across the sea of ice. Shaking his freezing foot, he began to walk again, moving around the edge of the trees in the nearly circular meadow.
His heart pounded as he fought with the memories that flooded his head. He could see Matt’s face, his eyes pleading, opening his mouth to cry for help, his lungs filling with that first mouthful of the icy water, the panic wrenching his face. He could see Matt reaching out, his fingers spread wide, trying to grab for him, begging for him to pull him from the car. His face disappeared into the darkness, the car slipping from the ice and disappearing beneath the surface.
Sniffing, he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and continued his walk around the lake. The running water from the river was much louder now, the rippling waves appearing from out of nowhere right in front of him. Ice had formed in triangular shapes behind the tops of the large boulders that cracked the surface from beneath, small clusters of ice floating down the rough surface. It was an intense shade of blue, flowing thick like molasses from the crystallized water.
The river was barely twelve feet across, but it looked to be close to five feet deep. It was connected to the lake from somewhere beneath the ground, the water level of the lake being held static by the influx from the water table beneath.
Loud caws from a group of crows filled the air as Scott rounded the back side of the lake, treading the fifteen foot wide patch of ground the separated the frozen like from the ice-edged river. Lost in his own mind, he walked straight ahead, traversing the flattened buffalo grass beneath the packed snow on his way toward the line of trees ahead. The wind gusted through the open gap, blowing a mist of snow from the dancing branches at the upper canopy of the trees. Ducking his head, he held his hand up in front of his face to attempt to block the onslaught of flakes as he ducked through a thin opening in the trees. Pressing through the bare branches of the scrub oak, he appeared right in the center of a cement path in the middle of the woods.
The calling of the crows was far louder in the middle of the trees, echoing down the snowy path. Following the calls, Scott walked aimlessly, trying to make some sense of what he had seen that morning. He didn’t know for sure what he expected to find out here after all this time. Surely he knew that he wasn’t going to drive up there and find Matt’s body lying on the bank of the lake, or something completely obvious like that which the cops had somehow missed in their hurry to wrap up the investigation. It was gnawing at him from deep within: how had the hat turned up in his house after all of these years?
Whatever the answer may be, and he certainly didn’t have the slightest clue, even more troubling was how had it gotten into his house? He had been sitting right there at the table and had only moved from the paper long enough to start a pot of coffee. He had turned his back for maybe thirty seconds, if that. Who could possibly have skirted his security system and rushed into the kitchen without alerting him and exited before he knew that they were there? No one. And of that fact he was sure. But even more worrisome than that was the question that got to the root of the problem, the reason that he had driven up here and now wandered through the woods. Why?
There appeared to be close to twenty large-bodied, black birds bouncing along the path in front of him, right at the bend. They cawed and fl
apped at one another, fighting over what seemed to be chunks of food dangling from their long black beaks. Their glossy feathers glittered as they bobbed their heads, frantically trying to tilt their heads back and swallow their meals whole before another wrenched it from them. What looked to be a long dark shadow covered the ground, all of the crows staying neatly within its confines.
As he approached, the shadow appeared to take on depth, cutting through the snow. His brow furrowing, Scott could see that the legs of the crows were dyed a deep red, so dark that it bordered on black. The long strands of meat hanging from their battling beaks oozed with the red fluid, tiny droplets flying through the air as they swung the pieces around their heads in an attempt to gulp them down. As he grew closer the shadow took on the same color as the legs of the birds, the snow melting beneath the crimson stain.
His footsteps padded on the soft snow, startling the birds to flight. They landed in a cluster ten feet back watching him closely as he walked up to where they had been feasting. The red fluid had melted through the snow in a large patch covering the width of the sidewalk and back into the trees beyond. Shreds of flesh and the tattered remains of the insides draped over the bare, bony branches of the scrub oak. It looked as though a large animal had exploded from the inside. The crows couldn’t have brought down whatever this mess had been. They were merely scavenging the remains.
There were no other tracks surrounding the mess, not even the small canine tracks of the coyotes that wandered these hills. Scott had heard tales of mountain lions in the foothills, even coming into people’s houses while they slept, but all of those reports had been far to the south at the base of Cheyenne Mountain. He had never heard of one in this area, and besides, feline tracks of that size would be unmistakable in the fresh snow.
Kneeling in front of the red-drenched bushes, he began to inspect the mess, the pungent stench of the festering sludge accosting his senses. Breaking off a small branch, he pried one of the tattered pieces of flesh from the shrub, dangling it in front of his face so that he could try to figure out what kind of animal it had been. But it was strange; every dead animal he had come across, regardless of the state, always had large sections of fur lying about. But there wasn’t a shred of fur anywhere, nor were there any bones to be seen. He couldn’t think of any animal that could eat the bones, or, for that matter, even make the effort to carry them off to its den without dragging the rest of the carcass.
There was a snap behind him, followed quickly by another, and then the sound of rustling shrubbery. Leaping to his feet, Scott whirled staring into the wall of foliage. A gloved hand appeared, forcing back the barren branches of the oak. A figure, clothed in black, appeared through the criss-crossing limbs, standing there momentarily while he watched Scott from the shadows.
“Hello?” Scott said, craning his neck to try to get a better glimpse of whoever lurked beyond.
The figure just stood there, the whites of his eyes almost glowing from the shadows. Scott could feel the stranger’s stare: inspecting him, sizing him up from the tips of his toes through the top of his head. His stomach began to flutter, the nerves in his lower back tingling. The urge to take flight raced up from the back of his mind, just as the figure stepped forth from the bushes.
It was an older man; his silver hair matted beneath a black stocking cap pulled down over the tops of his red ears. The tip of his nose almost glowed from the cold and he sniffed it constantly. His expressionless, pale face was worn thick with lines, his eyebrows furrowed. A navy blue down jacket covered his torso; his legs swathed with denim.
“I’m sorry if I startled you,” the man said, looking straight through Scott at the mess of innards strewn across the path.
“My fault,” Scott said. “I didn’t have any idea that this was private property until I came across this walking path here.”
“What business do you have back here?” the man glowered.
“You know, I’m really sorry. You must be from the old folks home out there, and I’m…”
“Do I look decrepit to you?” the man asked, his face pinching tightly. Scott thought for a second the old man was going to try to start something physical, but suddenly his face lightened, as did his voice. A thin smile crossed his lips. "I’m not that old…”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“I know, I just had to hassle you a little. You probably startled me far more than I did you.”
“I don’t know about that,” Scott said, shaking his head. He stared down at his shoes, bright red snow crusted over the toes of his sneakers.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt your breakfast,” he said, nodding.
“I was just finishing.”
“The name’s Harry Denton,” the man said, offering his gloved hand. Scott shook the man’s hand, brushing the dampness from his hand onto his pants.
“Scott Ramsey.”
“I thought that’s who you were,” the man said, his smile fading. “From what I’ve seen, there aren’t any coincidences in these woods.”
“What do you mean?” Scott asked, suddenly uncomfortable.
“I pulled you out of that car in the lake years ago. A little less hair and a few new wrinkles, but your face is still the same.”
“Really?” Scott said, flabbergasted. “I never had the opportunity to thank you for that.”
“No thanks needed. You would have done the same.”
“I don’t know…”
“You have to give yourself more credit than that,” Harry said, pausing. “What brings you back here today?”
“I’m not really sure,” Scott said.
“Like I said, nothing’s coincidental around here.”
Scott stared at the man as he walked past, inspecting the remains that littered the path.
“What kind of animal do you think that was?” Scott asked leaning over Harry’s shoulder. “My initial thought was that it might have been a dog or something, but I couldn’t see any bones. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
Harry turned and faced Scott. All of the color had drained from his face.
“I have,” he said softly, turning and pressing through the mess into the scrub oak.
Scott stood there for a moment, watching the man disappear into the foliage as he debated whether or not to head back to his car.
“Sweet Jesus,” he heard Harry utter.
Stepping into the undergrowth, he clambered through the thick mass of branches, popping into a tiny clearing beneath the needle-covered limbs of a cluster of pines. Harry was standing at the base of one of the trunks, inspecting the ground. Walking around him, Scott followed Harry’s gaze to the blood-soaked ground.
A pile of crimson bones rested against the trunk of the tree, stacked neatly. There was no doubt that they were human. A savagely stripped ribcage sat beneath a cracked pelvis; the long bones of the arms and legs laid neatly over the top. The feet rested in the palms of the bloody, cupped hands. All of the flesh had been stripped away, only the severed tendons protruded from their former connections of the hastily-defleshed bones.
“My God,” Scott whispered, his stomach twisting in knots. He turned from the pile, staring off into the woods as he drew in several large, slow breaths.
“God give me the strength,” Harry whispered, staring through the canopy into the cloud cover.
“That’s a person,” Scott said, turning back to Harry, but unable to steer his attention from the pile of bones from the corner of his eye.
Harry just nodded.
“We need to call the police,” Scott said, rational thought finally entering his head.
“It won’t do any good.”
Harry walked around the trunk of the tree, ducking beneath the low-hanging branches. He scanned the ground, looking for something, exactly what, he wasn’t sure, but he knew there had to be something. There would be some sort of message, a calling card that had been left for him.
“Look,” Scott said, following him around th
e trunk. “Whoever this is… was… was murdered. I’m going to go call the police.”
“Come here,” Harry said, gesturing with his hand. “Look at this and tell me if there’s anything the police can do.”
Scott shoved back a thick branch, the soft needles pressing into the skin on his hand as he followed Harry’s voice. Why was he so trusting of this old man? He didn’t know him from Adam. For all he knew it could have been this guy who had slaughtered this person, why else had he been out there?
Shoving his hands into his pocket, he pulled out his car keys, sliding each of the keys between his fingers, the keychain pressed firmly in the palm of his clenched fist. He stared down at his knuckles; the keys protruding like long, jagged claws. The muscles in his arms tensed in anticipation.
“Stop right there,” Harry said, his back to Scott. He held out his open hand. “Look at this.”
Scott peered past Harry. A thin line of blood traced a line through the pristine, untouched white snow, leading to the center of another small clearing. Right in the center of the patch, Scott saw something that would forever be burned into the backs of his eyelids, something that he would see for the rest of his life every time he closed his eyes and settled into the darkness.
There was a face staring up at him from the ground, the hair matted flat with blood. The eyelids were peeled back, the dark eyes staring up into the upper reaches of the tree. The man’s severed neck had been planted into the snow, and unlike the rest of the bones, the skull was still covered with its original flesh. The mouth hung slightly askew, parted to allow for the swelling tongue. The pale, almost bluish, flesh was littered with spatters of blood like freckles.
Scott inched forward, fixed intently on the face.
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