“Could be from Powys,” Dalton says as we stare at the intestine.
I shake my head. “We found Powys’s body the day I got here. This hasn’t started to rot, and it still looks pliant.”
“Pliant,” he repeats, and then nods as if deciding this is indeed the best word. The length of intestine isn’t fresh, but it’s not dried out, either, as it sways slightly in the breeze, the smell of it bringing those scavengers running.
“Hastings, then?” he says.
“I’ll need to take it back to Beth to confirm it’s even human. I’d guess it is, if they nailed it up here. But it’s always possible it’s…”
I trail off. Dalton is turning, with that look on his face that tells me he’s caught some noise, and sure enough, I hear it two seconds later. I could say his hearing is sharper, but I think it’s just better attuned to sorting out what belongs in a peaceful forest and what does not. This does not. I have no idea what I’m actually hearing, only that it sends cold dread up my spine.
The sound comes from the edge of the clearing. We follow it, Dalton with his gun out, and …
And nothing. I still can hear the sound, a cross between a groan and a mewl, and it’s right here. Exactly where we’re standing. Except there’s nothing in sight except trees.
The sound comes again. Dalton’s gaze goes up.
“What the hell?” I say as I follow his lead.
It looks like a sack. It’s attached to the trunk and to one tree limb and resting partially in the crook between two more branches. In other words, it’s wedged up there as best it can be.
The noise comes again. And the side of the sack moves.
“There’s, uh, something in it,” I say.
“Yep.”
“Something hurt.”
“Yep.”
“We should go back to town and get—”
“Nope.”
Before I can say anything, Dalton is shimmying up the trunk. I used to be quite the climber in my tomboy youth, but scaling an evergreen is tough. He clearly has practice.
As I watch him, I see his point in not going back to town. What would we get? A ladder? A hydraulic lift? The animal in that bag is hurt badly enough that it can’t claw or bite its way out. I can tell now that the dark shadow on one side is actually blood. That’s what brought the scavengers. Then, realizing they hadn’t a hope in hell of getting to it, they’d tried for the nailed-up intestine.
Dalton is up there now, examining the sack. He reaches out and gives it a tentative push. Then, “Fuck.”
“Heavy?”
“Yeah.”
“We can switch places,” I say. “I’ll lower it for you to catch, but…”
“It’s too heavy. Going to be tough enough for me to do it. You stay back. We have no idea what’s inside.”
“I don’t think it’s in any shape to attack. It isn’t even reacting—”
“Doesn’t matter. I lower. You stand clear. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
He takes a few more minutes to evaluate. Then he pulls out a knife and cuts one rope. I can’t quite see what he’s doing up there, half hidden by branches, but he gets one rope wrapped around his hand before he severs the other one. He manages to lower the sack, but the rope isn’t quite long enough and it stops about a foot from the ground, swinging as Dalton groans with exertion.
“Gotta drop it,” he grunts.
“I can—”
“Orders, Detective. Stay the hell back.”
He lets go before I can do anything except obey. The sack hits the ground, and the creature inside lets out a mewling cry of pain.
“Stay right there,” he says. “And I’d appreciate you getting your gun out while I come down.”
I train my weapon on the sack as Dalton shimmies down about halfway and then drops the rest of the way.
The sack is bigger than it looked in the air. Clearly, it’s no fox or wolverine inside. I look at Dalton. He’s heading for the sack with his knife out.
“Sheriff?” I say carefully.
“Yeah.”
That’s all he says—“yeah”—and I know it means that whatever I’m thinking, he’s already come to the same conclusion. He bends beside the sack and moves it a little, as if putting it in a better position. The thing inside doesn’t react. Dalton motions for me to keep my gun ready as he flicks his blade through the canvas. Then he rips the sack open, and we see what’s inside.
Jerry Hastings.
He’s bound hand and foot and barely conscious. He doesn’t even seem to notice when Dalton opens the sack. His eyes are unfocused, his lips moving over and over as if he’s saying something, but we don’t hear a word.
His hands are bound in front of him. As Dalton cuts them free first, I clutch my gun. Then Dalton reaches down and gently pulls up the bloodied front of Hastings’s shirt. There’s more blood underneath, his skin painted in a wash of it. That doesn’t disguise the thick blackened line, though. Where someone has crudely stitched him up and then cauterized the wound.
I turn away fast, and I come closer to throwing up at a crime scene than I ever have in my life. My stomach lurches, my hand reaching to grab something, anything. It finds a brace, not a tree or sapling, but warm fingers, clenching mine and holding me steady.
“Sorry,” I say as I turn to Dalton. “I … It’s…”
“Yeah, I know.”
He rubs his chin with his free hand, and his fingers are trembling slightly. He exhales, breath rushing through his teeth in a long, slow hiss. I look back at Hastings, lying on the ground, that terrible black scar on his stomach. It’s not the blood or the wound that sickens me. It’s the thought of what’s happened. Of what someone has done.
“We need to get him back to town,” I say. “Fast.”
Dalton already has his radio out. He calls Anders and tells him to get the big Gator out here now. And bring Beth.
I’m on my knees beside Hastings. He’s in shock, his mouth working, making the same motions over and over, as if he’s saying something, and it must be important, but when I lean in, it’s just a meaningless garble, repeated as if his brain is stuck on it.
Whatever Hastings did down south, he didn’t deserve this. Someone cut out part of his intestine and sewed him back up. That’s not justifiable homicide; it’s sadism.
We shuck our coats to cover him, trying to keep the shock from deepening, and I talk to him until Anders and Beth arrive. Once Beth gets past what’s happened, she has to cut him open on the spot. He won’t survive the bumpy trip back unless she gets a look at exactly what’s happened. She sedates him and cuts and that’s when the true horror hits, because whoever sliced out that length of intestine only cauterized the ends and shoved them back in. Septic shock has set in, and she does what she can, but Hastings is dead minutes after she makes that first cut.
* * *
Dusk has fallen by the time we get back with Hastings’s body, but our day is far from over. First, a conference between Dalton, Anders, and me on how we’ll inform people. Then over to the clinic for the autopsy. Back to the station to make notes. More talking. It’s ten at night, and I’m on the station deck with Dalton as Anders does rounds, telling a few key people in town about the death. I hear a “hello?” inside the station, and I tense. Dalton does, too, his eyes narrowing as Diana walks in.
“I’ve got this,” he says as he rises.
“No, I’ll handle it.”
Diana hovers just inside the station, one hand still on the door frame. There’s this look on her face, exactly like when she had to crawl back after dumping me for the popular girls in high school.
“Can we talk?” she says.
“Casey’s busy,” Dalton says behind me. “We’ve had a—”
I cut him off by turning with a quiet but firm “I’ll handle this.”
Steel seeps into his gaze as it stays fixed on Diana. He looks about two seconds from throwing her back onto the street.
“I have it,” I say, firmer.
He’s still bristling, like a guard dog sensing trouble. But after a moment, he turns on his heel and stalks back onto the deck, muttering something I don’t catch.
When he’s gone, I turn to Diana. “We found Jerry Hastings, and it wasn’t good. Dalton’s right. I’ve had a long day.”
“A drink? That’ll help you—”
“No.” I resist the urge to add an I’m sorry. I’m not doing it. “I’m going to turn in early. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
“Can I at least apologize?”
“You don’t need to.” Because I don’t need to hear it. “Go on. Have a good night. I’ll go get some sleep.”
I turn and walk out the back door before she can respond.