Bonus Scene
Mercury
It’s been a few days since Skippy was located and rushed to the hospital.
I’ve come back out to go back over the scene, looking for things that could’ve been missed.
I crouch down and scan the gravel road that she managed to drag herself up and onto.
My eyes clamp closed when I see her finger impressions in the dirt along with the blood that follows.
My mind replays seeing her in the hospital, her hands nearly shredded with her nails broken and bloody, most of her fingers splinted because of the damage.
I continue duck walking along her escape route, noticing that the tire marks are still fresh, and so are the footprints of the man who rescued her.
Now that I have her path in mind, I backtrack and head into the wooded area.
It’s still closed off with yellow tape, but that doesn’t stop me considering the cops currently overseeing the crime scene are nowhere to be seen.
When I first arrived, they were all standing in a circle, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee and contaminating the crime scene—they’re either amateurs or don’t give a fuck about preserving the evidence.
I know it’s been a few days since their ploy has been unearthed, but vital things could still be found so the fact that they’re nonchalant about the whole thing lets me know they think they won’t ever be caught.
I can see their reasoning since as far as we know, Skippy’s the first person who didn’t die at their hands.
Fuck knows how many actual victims they’ve had, but we’ll eventually figure that out as well, especially with Orbit on our side.
Stealthily, I follow the drag marks Skippy left until they turn into footprints that have the grass folded down from her running, and she was running, not walking.
There’s no doubt about that because of the way her tread changed.
The heavier the impact, the faster she was going.
Tiny scrapes of fabric caught on branches, along with the footprints, give me an excellent path to follow as I try to puzzle out what happened.
I begin looking upward and notice that there are blinds set up in the limbs.
They’re camouflaged to blend in as they sit and wait for their prey.
A cold shiver wracks through my body as I imagine being in her shoes, fleeing for my life.
“Fuck, I hate climbing,” I grumble as I scale the first tree to see if any evidence was left behind.
As my feet hit the plank boards that support the structure, those specialized cigarettes that Allen is known to smoke have been snubbed out and the filters are all that’s left of them, but the bite impressions I’m looking for are there clear as day.
“I’m coming for you, motherfucker,” I avow as a whimper from the other side of the clearing catches my attention.
“The hell is that?” I ask myself as I disembark from the tree, dropping to the earth’s floor, jarring my knees.
I hear the whimper again, and follow the sound, when I pull the shrubbery aside, my jaw drops.
A woman is laying there, curled in on herself with an arrow sticking out of her side.
“Ma’am,” I softly call out, not wanting to startle her and cause her to move.
“No more, please, no more,” she begs. Her clothes are torn and ragged, as though she’s been running. Cuts and gashes on her face and arms make it hard to see what she actually looks like, but right now, my first priority is to get her some help.