by T. F. Walsh
The smell of damp canvas overpowered all the other scents of the forest around her. Her backpack waited in a corner. Next to her head sat her canteen. She reached for it and lifted her head slightly to drink. It took several mouthfuls before the reason for the unfamiliarity hit her. She didn’t remember bringing her things inside the tent. Nor did she recall going to bed.
She sat up straight. A wave of dizziness overcame her from the sudden movement, and she nearly vomited. Dropping her canteen and closing her eyes, she pressed her temples. After several long minutes, she regained control and took another glance around in the greenish light.
All of her belongings were arranged neatly around the tent just so, as she had done many times on past camping trips. She sat in the middle of everything, wracking her sieve-like brain for any clue as to how she got to bed last night.
She remembered fishing, sitting by the fire. She strained to conjure more memory. Flashes of the attack returned to her. With every throb of her still-aching head, another moment of time returned.
She reached for her injured shoulder and found it encased in bandages. She unzipped and slipped out of her sleeping bag to examine the wounds she remembered receiving to her legs. They were also bandaged in long strips of cloth that looked ripped from a T-shirt.
Out of the fog of her dreadful headache and pieced-together memories, she concluded that she could not have done this for herself. Was the person who did this still nearby? The idea that someone lurked close sent chills down her spine.
Instinctively, she scanned the tent for her gun. She found it behind her pack. A look in the clip at the reassuring bullets soothed her, and the aches seemed to fade. The weight of the metal in her hand comforted her. As an afterthought, she pulled a shirt and shorts from her pack and changed gingerly.
She opened the tent flap, unzipping it slowly to minimize noise. Steeling her nerves, she stepped out of the tent and swept the clearing. Once sure the scene was clear, ever the detective, she scanned the area for signs to confirm what her shredded memories told her.
The ground to the right of the tent appeared dark, stained with blood, as did the large stump that stood there. The ground in front of the stump seemed sunken, as if something lay there for some time. Scuffed footprints marred the area around the depression. One area of dirt by the fire had a claw mark etched deep into the soil.
Lydia studied this mark. Ignoring the protest of the wounds on her legs, she stooped beside the now smoldering fire. By the way each line of the mark pierced the earth, she could tell it came from a rear right paw of a large carnivore — a large, hungry carnivore. She swallowed the panic and pinched her eyes closed against the memory of the beast bounding across the clearing. And a second one?
A memory flashed, another beast had pounced on her attacker.
Pivoting in place, she recognized signs of a struggle on the far side of the fire. Claw marks made by two animals had turned grass and dirt. Her heart pounded.
No sign of humans in the campsite. Someone had dressed her wounds. Although the act of bandaging wounds didn’t seem threatening, something about not knowing whose hands touched her made her feel violated.
Though faint, the recollection of fingers caressing her skin became so vivid Lydia almost missed the whispered voices coming closer. She raised her weapon and, still crouched, turned toward the sound.
A couple of uniformed officers made their way through the trees. Lydia holstered her gun, and with effort, stood and walked to the edge of the clearing to greet the men who, quite obviously, came to find her.
“Ahem,” she cleared her throat, struggling against the urge to yell at them to leave. She was fine and needed to investigate this more on her own.
“There you are,” said the man in the lead. Sergeant Adams. He closed the distance and shook her outstretched hand. “We’ve been looking all over for you, detective.” His voice held genuine relief.
His companion paced the perimeter of the campsite, his eyes taking in signs of the struggle. “There was concern that you were in danger,” he said, eyes still darting over the ground.
Lydia shifted her stance as he prowled around the evidence of the attack. It felt as though he was judging the layout of her sock drawer.
“Why?” she faced the man she knew. “Adams, this is my vacation. What’s going on?”
A nasal voice from behind asked, “Detective, were you attacked?”
“Last night an animal must have been hunting and decided that I would be easy prey.” Why she couldn’t give him a straight answer, she didn’t know. Aside from the annoying behavior of this officer, their presence brought her a sense of security. It irritated her that the force couldn’t manage twenty-four hours without her.
When the curious policeman returned to his study of her campsite, she asked Sergeant Adams, “Who is this guy? And what’s going on?”
“Detective Henson. Transferred in from Monroeville.” Adams lowered his voice and leaned closer to her. “He likes the uniform.”
She raised an eyebrow. The uniform itched; she couldn’t wait to ditch it when she made detective.
Adams shrugged. “Don’t ask me.” He took a breath, and the next sentence seemed to explode from him. “The Butcher’s body wasn’t in the house.”
“What?” Of course it was, she’d delivered the head shot. She saw him go down.
Adams’ gaze never left hers. “When the coroner arrived to remove the body, there was nothing there. Even in that kind of chemical fire, there would have been some identifying remains.”
“Of course there were remains. He burned up. Damn it, he was collapsed and on fire when I left that house. If there’s no corpse … ” She paced away. Then turning to face him she scowled. “Who would remove it? Who could have? No one would have had the opportunity.”
Now Adams cringed.
Henson stooped to glance inside her tent. “It’s our impression that he walked away on his own.”
Lydia stared. “That’s ridiculous.” She cut an angry glance at the detective. “And get out of my tent.”
“Detective, I think it would be better if you got all the details from the chief.” As Sergeant Adams spoke, he placed his hand on her shoulder.
Lydia flinched as fire erupted and ran the length of her arm. She wilted with agony. Both policemen reached to support her.
“The hospital should be your first stop,” Henson said from behind.
Adams squinted as he looked her over. “I think he’s right.”
They walked Lydia to a boulder and helped her sit. “What are you doing?” she demanded when they ducked inside the tent.
“Packing,” came the reply. It wasn’t like she could do it, so she bit her lip while they packed her gear. She let her bare feet play with tufts of grass that sprouted around the rock.
How could the Butcher have escaped a fire, gotten past two trucks of firefighters and all the neighbors gawking at the show? Someone was wrong, must have missed something. Jesus, must I do everything?
The officers stacked her things on the ground and collapsed the tent. While they worked, they stepped on and scuffed traces of struggle from the night before. She’d told them an animal had attacked her, so they had no reason to keep the area pristine. Yet it took all the control she could muster to keep from shouting when Adams stepped on the claw mark she’d examined so closely a few moments earlier. He covered the fire with a bucket of dirt.
Her feet seemed fine as she gingerly slipped on socks and hiking boots. She refused to let her co-workers tie her shoes for her, so she stretched with care and slowly completed the process.
The hike back to the parking lot proceeded with uneventful slowness. Lydia used a long stick to help her navigate the terrain. At the start of their trek, she ached deep into her core. However, as they progressed, her movements became more fluid. She was r
elieved she didn’t have to rely so heavily on her stick.
Once at the cars, Sergeant Adams told her they would take her car to the hospital. She almost insisted on going to the station first, but dismissed the idea in favor of having time to pick Adams’ brain.
“What makes you think he walked out on his own?” she asked as they pulled out of the lot and onto the quiet highway, gritting her teeth at the bump.
The countryside sped past the window. She shifted in her seat. “Adams.”
“Yes?” He didn’t look at her. He knew she wanted details and didn’t intend to tell her anything.
“Just tell me if you did a sweep of the house.” They didn’t just take the MT’s word for it.
He cleared his throat. “One of our guys entered when the MT came up empty. CSI swept the house, but the chief wants you to go over it. We posted guards at the house till you get there. No one will tamper with the scene.”
Lydia crossed her arms. Her perp escaped surrounded by cops, firemen, and a crowd of bystanders, and they thought a couple of guards would keep people out? It wasn’t Adams’ responsibility, it was hers. She never should have attempted a vacation.
• • •
One benefit of being a detective was that she received a high priority at the hospital. Because they had radioed from the car on the way, the triage nurse ushered her right into a room. After another argument, Sergeant Adams consented to return to the waiting room. Despite his concern, he was a coworker and she didn’t want him trying to help her undress.
She slipped into a gown placed on the bed by the nurse who took her vitals. She noticed again how much easier she moved now. While stretching and bending to test this, the doctor knocked on the door and entered. Embarrassed by her rather compromising posture, touching her toes, Lydia straightened and climbed onto the bed.
The doctor grinned and looked at the chart in her hand. “Hi, I’m Doctor Dora Anuszkiewicz, but you can call me Dr. Dora. So, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Lydia recounted what she could about the attack. She treated it like a police report, leaving out her emotions. She also didn’t mention the other animal that seemed to rescue her. That memory seemed too far–fetched to have happened. While Lydia spoke, the doctor placed the clipboard on a nearby counter and listened to her heart and lungs.
“All right, let’s take a look at these wounds of yours.” She eased Lydia back onto the exam table and cut away the bandages on her shoulder. “We should probably start you on an antibiotic. Being as an animal attacked you, I think a rabies vaccine as well. You don’t have a fever … ” She stared at the shoulder.
The doctor leaned in for a closer look. Lydia could feel breath on her neck. Her hand clenched to control the sudden urge to forcibly stop the doctor’s breathing.
The doctor moved to look at the bandaged leg, this time cutting away the blood soaked wrappings without saying a word.
When she had the leg exposed, the doctor stood back and drew a tired hand across her face. “Detective, how long did you say you were in the woods after the attack?”
“About twelve hours. The attack happened last night.”
“Did you use any ointment or cream when you bandaged these injuries?”
“I, ah, don’t know. A friend did it. It was hard to pay attention. Why?” Lydia pushed onto her elbows to take a look at her leg. She gasped.
Nothing. Nothing was wrong with her leg. The skin appeared as whole and healthy as when she last showered, and showed no sign of the raw pink of a new scar, much less the oozing bloody mess she expected. With disbelief, she glanced at the pile of blood–soaked bandages next to the tray, then at her impossibly healed leg. She rubbed her thigh. No ache, no soreness.
Suspecting what she would find, she reached for her shoulder and discovered it intact as well. Moving her gaze to the doctor, she asked, “Okay, how did this happen?” It wasn’t a dream, the bandages proved that.
“I don’t know,” the doctor admitted. “I’d like to get a sample — ”
They both jumped at a knock on the door. When the doctor stepped back, Adams came into the room. “Sorry. Are you almost ready to go? Chief needs us. Now.”
Lydia slid off the table and slipped on her pants under her hospital gown. “Ready.” She had no intention of playing guinea pig. There had to be a logical explanation for what happened. Though, happily, she didn’t have to think about it. She turned from the door and away from Adams, removed the gown, and put her shirt on. “Thank you, Doc,” she said, ignoring the stunned expression on the doctor’s face.
“Detective Davis,” Dr. Dora said with outstretched arms, as if to stop her. Her coat flapped, and for some reason its every movement grated on Lydia’s senses.
“I’ll let you know if there are any other problems.” Lydia walked to the door.
“You at least need to start those rabies shots. Just wait a second.” Knowing the doctor probably spoke from experience, Lydia stopped and pressed her head to the doorjamb. As the doctor passed, Lydia longed to reach out and shove that irksome white coat. Thankfully, it moved on too quickly, robbing her of the chance.
Adams paced in front of the room, obviously anxious to get going.
Lydia raised an eyebrow. “So you talked to the chief?”
He gave her a blank look.
“Sounded pissed?” she asked.
He let out a breath in a huff and started walking again. “Henson got back and the chief was irked that I didn’t take you to him first.” After a couple of circuits, he stopped. “So?”
“So … what?” She was anxious to leave, too, but her lips twitched upward at his agitation.
“So did they have to stitch you up? Did they give you meds? How bad is it?” He looked at her leg with concern.
“I’m fine, actually,” she said in the most nonchalant tone she could muster. She couldn’t begin to explain to herself how she’d healed, so she couldn’t begin to explain it to someone else.
“Are you telling me you fought off a wild animal without even a scratch?”
“It’s healed up well.” She avoided his look of disbelief. “They said I just need to take it easy. Ya’ know, no mountain climbing.”
The sergeant let out another huff and continued pacing. She hid a grin by glancing down the hallway for someone to come give her the shot and release her.
Just as Sergeant Adams looked about ready to hunt someone down, a nurse arrived with a syringe and a prescription note stating when Lydia should return for the second shot in the series. The injection hurt, but she tried to ignore the pain.
“Ok, let’s go.” the sergeant led the way out of the hospital. Lydia kept up with his brisk pace; she couldn’t wait to be out of there.
“Good grief, I thought we would never be able to leave,” he said. When they got to her car they both paused at the driver–side door. “I guess you want to drive.” Another pause and he handed her the keys. Of course she wanted to drive.
As she pulled out of the hospital parking lot, Adams plugged in the siren and set it on the dashboard.
Lydia did not say a word while they flew along city streets. She suspected the chief had treated him harshly for taking her to the hospital before the precinct. The chief didn’t like his orders disobeyed, and as the emergency room took about two hours, they were late.
However, Adams had made the right call, and she doubted it would turn into a formal reprimand. As they neared the precinct, Lydia mulled the case. Perhaps they already had a lead.
Chapter 5
The office of the chief of police had not changed in the twenty-four hours since Lydia last stood in it. However, Chief Fairweather now showed considerably more strain. It appeared as though he hadn’t slept, and she reasoned it had something to do with the fact that in the thirty seconds it took for her to walk to his office, his secret
ary answered the phone five times.
“You look fine,” the chief bellowed when Lydia entered. “Your corpse got up and left.” He grabbed papers from his desk and tossed them at her. “Horse shit. That’s what it is.”
She looked at the papers in her hands. The first report, an official statement from the coroner’s office, revealed technicians found no human remains at the scene. The second, from the fire department, stated no casualties resulted from the fire. It’s what she expected to see, so the irritation that rose startled her.
As she sifted through the pages, the chief said, “I want you to go out there and find where the hell he went. Fine–tooth comb, you hear me?”
She bristled at the insult. “I am always thorough.” She dropped the reports on his desk.
“Fine. Whatever.” He waved his hands dismissively. “Next time, I want you to bring him in. I don’t care if he’s still on fire. Cuff him and bring him in,” he said leaning on his desk and staring into her eyes.
“Yes, Chief.”
“Good. Get out.” He sat, picked up the phone and started to dial.
She smiled slightly and left. All in all, she got off easily. If her injuries had still existed, he would have been more sympathetic. Not enough to tell her to go home, but he would have assigned Adams to go with her.
She went directly to her office and called the firehouse that had responded to the fire. No one answered, so she left a message. Hungry, she opened the top left drawer of her desk and pulled out a granola bar. Absently chewing, she grabbed her crime scene bag and headed to her car.
• • •
Very little remained of the house after the fire. Two-by-fours, remnants of the frame, protruded from the rubble like ribs from a carcass. The manicured lawn and flower garden that hid the sinister nature of the occupant lay trampled and muddy. Where once this house blended so nicely into the neighborhood, now it and the land around it seemed a disturbing scab on the quiet street.