Chapter Sixteen #2
Holler watches him go, then looks back at me. “If I shoot Bambi because y’all are horny and stupid, I’m charging him for shells.”
I choke.
“Shut up in there,” Whiskey shouts from the hallway.
“I said what I said.”
Wren giggles.
Five minutes later, I’ve traded Whiskey’s shirt for jeans, a sweatshirt, and boots from the bag I brought back from my house. Whiskey has pulled a dark shirt beneath his cut, his pistol is holstered at his hip, and he’s carrying two flashlights.
I take the second flashlight from him. “You planning to tell me to stay here?”
His mouth opens, and I can practically see the order forming. Then he catches himself. “Would it work?”
“No.”
“Then I’m conserving energy.”
That’s progress, and I’m smart enough not to point it out until he can change his mind.
Holler settles onto the couch with Wren tucked against his side and the shotgun within easy reach.
“Don’t be long.”
Whiskey bends and kisses Wren’s forehead. “Lock this behind us.”
“Daddy.”
“Humor me.”
She does.
The night air hits cold and damp the second we step outside.
Recent rain hangs in everything, dripping from leaves and collecting along the porch rail.
Grass darkens our boots almost immediately, and the woods beyond the yard seem thicker than they did earlier, trunks packed close enough that our flashlight beams get swallowed after twenty feet.
Whiskey sweeps his light toward the tree line. “Stay where I can see you?”
I glance at him.
He notices. “What?”
“That was almost respectful.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Fuck off.”
I grin. “Better.”
We cross the yard together.
He shakes his head, but I catch the reluctant smile. I like making him laugh, which is another thought I don’t need at four thirty in the morning.
The tracks begin near the maple where Wren left the apples. Normal deer prints at first, small and fresh enough that the soft edges haven’t collapsed into the wet dirt yet.
I crouch and angle my light across them while Whiskey’s beam joins mine.
“Deer,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Told you.”
“Congratulations.”
“Feel like I deserve more.”
“For identifying the most common hoofprint in Kentucky?”
“Praise is important in relationships.”
I look up slowly.
His flashlight stops moving.
“What?”
“Relationships?”
He clears his throat. “General sense.”
“Coward.”
“Investigate your deer.”
I smile. I look back down before I enjoy that too much.
Another print sits farther ahead, then another, the stride lengthening as the trail leaves the open yard and disappears beneath the trees. I follow with Whiskey beside me.
About twenty yards in, things get strange.
The hoof marks are still cloven, mostly, but beside several are tiny punctures pressed into the wet earth, three or four clustered marks at a time. Some are followed by shallow drag lines while others stop abruptly beneath crushed leaves.
I crouch again, wet vegetation soaking through one knee of my jeans.
Whiskey squats beside me. “What?”
I angle the flashlight. “Either your deer has orthopedic issues or something else made these.”
He studies the impressions. “Ugly raccoon.”
I turn my head. “You’re really committed to that raccoon theory.”
“I’ve seen huge raccoons.”
We follow the trail deeper. Wet leaves stick to my boots, low branches grab at my hair, and the air smells like mud, bark, rain, and something sharper where our shoes crush weeds underfoot.
Then something red catches my flashlight.
An apple peel lies beside a root.
I pick it up carefully between two fingers. “Whiskey.”
He comes closer. “Apple.”
“Wren’s?”
“Could be.”
Another piece lies several feet ahead, with a third beyond it. They aren’t scattered in a pile where an animal stopped to eat. They make a broken line through the leaves.
Whiskey’s humor disappears.
“Could be an animal carrying it. Something with thumbs.”
“Yeah.”
Neither one of us sounds convinced.
I move another few yards before something pale catches on a thorn bush and reflects my flashlight back at me.
I stop. “Don’t touch.” I pull a pair of nitrile gloves from my jacket pocket.
His eyebrows lift. “You just carry those?”
“Cop.”
“Sexy.”
That shuts me up longer than I’d like.
I carefully pinch the fabric loose from the thorn. It’s thin, cheap material, white or maybe cream, torn raggedly along one side. A narrow line of gold stitching runs near the edge.
Whiskey leans close enough to see without touching it. “This ain’t deer.”
“No shit.”
I rotate the fabric beneath the light and inspect both sides for anything obvious. Blood, hair, dirt inconsistent with the woods, anything trapped in the threads.
Nothing I can see.
“No blood.”
“Good.”
“Could be trash.”
“Could.”
“Could’ve been here months.”
Whiskey studies the cleaner edge. “Don’t look like it.”
I hate when he’s observant. It makes it harder to pretend he’s just a pretty criminal.
“I need a bag.”
Whiskey reaches into his pocket and produces a sandwich bag.
I stare at him.
“What?”
“Wren snacks.”
I laugh. “Criminal mastermind carries Ziplocs.”
“Preparedness.”
I slide the fabric inside and seal it.
Then something moves between the trees.
Every muscle in me tightens as Whiskey’s flashlight stops beside mine. I swing my beam toward the movement and catch eyes first, low between two trunks.
Then the head rises higher than I expect.
A narrow face. Legs too long beneath a body that looks painfully thin. Wet hide catches silver under the flashlight, and along its back runs an uneven dark line that rises in short jagged points.
Spines.
For one startled second, I forget to breathe.
The thing turns its head. Light catches one eye before it slips behind a tree and disappears into darkness.
“Did you see that?”
Whiskey answers immediately. “Deer.”
I spin toward him. “That deer needs medical attention.”
“Still deer.”
“It had spikes.”
“Branches.”
“They moved with it.”
“Sticky branches.”
“Whiskey.”
“I ain’t calling it a monster.”
“I didn’t say monster.” I stare back into the woods, but nothing moves where the animal disappeared.
Then something white flashes farther downhill.
Not horizontal.
Vertical.
A person.