He wasnât familiar with the sound of shots fired in the woods; quite possibly, the sound had rebounded off trees, bouncing and ricocheting in all directions, so he couldnât really be sure where it was coming from, let alone how far away.
Even so, that crack had alarmed him. Had sounded as if it had come from a copse of trees not far away, toward the south end of the clearing. He looked that way, hoping he wouldnât see a bloodied deer or, worse, a hunter gutting it. Would the guy gut it right there, in the woods? Phil didnât know about the gutting process. Didnât want to. Hunting, he decided, was not for him. It was barbaric, the whole sport â even calling it a âsportâ was barbaric. It was not a game; it was killing, pure and simple. And calling the victims âgameâ â as if killing them were somehow playing â that was twisted, too. Phil scanned the area where he thought heâd heard the shot. Didnât see any animals, dead or alive, but under a tree on the ground, he saw a patch of blue.
Blue. Not flowers. A solid patch like fabric, the color of his shirt.
He stared at it for a few seconds, curious. Nothing in nature would be that color and size. Wary, clutching his rifle, he moved closer, watching the blue patch. As he got closer, it became more defined. It wasnât entirely blue; it was plaid, much like the blue and gray plaid of his own shirt. Something cold rippled up his spine, but he kept going, keeping his eyes focused on the plaid fabric until he got close enough to see, among clumps of Devilâs tails and Japanese stiltgrass, the arms and hands of the man who was wearing it.
Oh Christ. Half the shirt was drenched with blood.
Phil stared, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The man must have been shot. Oh God, thereâd been a terrible accident. Phil ran to the guy; maybe he was still alive. He could do CPR, stop the bleeding. He looked around â maybe someone was close enough to go for help. Sure enough, up ahead in the early-morning light, half-hidden by the trees, he saw a figure, holding a rifle.
âHelp!â Phil shouted. âThereâs been an accident. A manâs been shot â help!â
The person stepped out, faced him, raised the rifle and took aim.
For a moment, Phil didnât understand. By the time he did, it was too late to run, let alone to use his rifle.
The stream was icy cold. Harper didnât mind. She spread a towel over a flat rock, sat down and sponged off. The chill of the water stirred her. She watched it rush over pebbles, run over her feet as if in a hurry. The surface rippled in the early light, reflecting silver, blue and gold. Harper dipped her sponge into the water, washed her face, her neck. She thought of Chloe, wondered if she were awake yet. As she washed her feet, she hesitated. Something moved in the trees, and she sensed that she was being watched. But that was unlikely. She and Hank had camped off by themselves, away from the campgrounds. No one was around. Maybe it was a hunter.
Harper squinted into the woods, saw only trees, tangles of vines and weeds, speckles of colored leaves. A bird flittered off a limb. A squirrel leapt off a trunk. But no hunter. Nobody was lurking in the woods, watching her. Harper dipped her sponge in the stream again, soaked it.
The water was clear, but Hank had warned that it wasnât clean. Heâd brought bottled water because he thought the streams were probably polluted. Something to do with fracking, not that Harper completely understood what that was. All she knew was that it involved cracking rocks deep under the earthâs surface to get fossil fuels. And that it was controversial. Those opposed to it blamed fracking for everything from pollution to fires to explosions to earthquakes. Apparently, fracking had been done upstream and a pipeline had been built through the forest. While they were here, Hank was going to take
Even so, that crack had alarmed him. Had sounded as if it had come from a copse of trees not far away, toward the south end of the clearing. He looked that way, hoping he wouldnât see a bloodied deer or, worse, a hunter gutting it. Would the guy gut it right there, in the woods? Phil didnât know about the gutting process. Didnât want to. Hunting, he decided, was not for him. It was barbaric, the whole sport â even calling it a âsportâ was barbaric. It was not a game; it was killing, pure and simple. And calling the victims âgameâ â as if killing them were somehow playing â that was twisted, too. Phil scanned the area where he thought heâd heard the shot. Didnât see any animals, dead or alive, but under a tree on the ground, he saw a patch of blue.
Blue. Not flowers. A solid patch like fabric, the color of his shirt.
He stared at it for a few seconds, curious. Nothing in nature would be that color and size. Wary, clutching his rifle, he moved closer, watching the blue patch. As he got closer, it became more defined. It wasnât entirely blue; it was plaid, much like the blue and gray plaid of his own shirt. Something cold rippled up his spine, but he kept going, keeping his eyes focused on the plaid fabric until he got close enough to see, among clumps of Devilâs tails and Japanese stiltgrass, the arms and hands of the man who was wearing it.
Oh Christ. Half the shirt was drenched with blood.
Phil stared, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The man must have been shot. Oh God, thereâd been a terrible accident. Phil ran to the guy; maybe he was still alive. He could do CPR, stop the bleeding. He looked around â maybe someone was close enough to go for help. Sure enough, up ahead in the early-morning light, half-hidden by the trees, he saw a figure, holding a rifle.
âHelp!â Phil shouted. âThereâs been an accident. A manâs been shot â help!â
The person stepped out, faced him, raised the rifle and took aim.
For a moment, Phil didnât understand. By the time he did, it was too late to run, let alone to use his rifle.
The stream was icy cold. Harper didnât mind. She spread a towel over a flat rock, sat down and sponged off. The chill of the water stirred her. She watched it rush over pebbles, run over her feet as if in a hurry. The surface rippled in the early light, reflecting silver, blue and gold. Harper dipped her sponge into the water, washed her face, her neck. She thought of Chloe, wondered if she were awake yet. As she washed her feet, she hesitated. Something moved in the trees, and she sensed that she was being watched. But that was unlikely. She and Hank had camped off by themselves, away from the campgrounds. No one was around. Maybe it was a hunter.
Harper squinted into the woods, saw only trees, tangles of vines and weeds, speckles of colored leaves. A bird flittered off a limb. A squirrel leapt off a trunk. But no hunter. Nobody was lurking in the woods, watching her. Harper dipped her sponge in the stream again, soaked it.
The water was clear, but Hank had warned that it wasnât clean. Heâd brought bottled water because he thought the streams were probably polluted. Something to do with fracking, not that Harper completely understood what that was. All she knew was that it involved cracking rocks deep under the earthâs surface to get fossil fuels. And that it was controversial. Those opposed to it blamed fracking for everything from pollution to fires to explosions to earthquakes. Apparently, fracking had been done upstream and a pipeline had been built through the forest. While they were here, Hank was going to take