“Seems fitting, don’t you think?”
I kiss his cheek and turn to Storm. “Come on, girl. Time to head out.”
* * *
We get to bed early, and even if it’s aw
hile before we actually sleep, it still counts as rest, and we’re up at dawn to head out. While Dalton grabs food, I pop into the clinic. Diana is on night duty and reports no change with Sophie. I pack an extra-large medical bag—we have no idea what we’ll find out there.
We take the smaller ATV and my dirt bike. Storm happily lopes behind us. It’s a good thing she’s young and in excellent shape, because it’s a long run, which can be particularly hard on a large breed. We stop regularly to give her water and a rest. Normally, going so far on motorized transport, I’d have left her behind, but we’ll need her tracking nose once we’re there. After a couple of hours, the forest is too thick to continue with the vehicles, and we’re off and walking.
We don’t need to go far on foot. Even before we find the spot, Storm whines and presses against my legs, nearly toppling me into the underbrush. When I bend, she gives an apologetic look, but only crowds closer, anxiety strumming through her.
“Shit,” Dalton mutters.
There is very little that scares our dog. Less than I would like, if I’m being honest. The only wolf she’s encountered tried to mate with her … and still occasionally sneaks around, a would-be suitor whose behavior borders on stalker but doesn’t quite cross the line. She has a wary respect for caribou and moose after catching a hoof in the ribs. Black bears confuse her, and she’s never seen a grizzly. Settlers get a happy bark if she knows them and wary caution if she doesn’t.
There is only one situation where Storm reacts like this, seeking not protection but comfort. I crouch and hug her and assure her everything is fine, even if it’s not. Once she’s settled, I say “Wait?” with a questioning inflection. Her answer is the withering look of a police cadet who’s been given the option of staying outside a crime scene.
Yes, she’s uncomfortable, but this is her job.
As I rise, Dalton slips his hand into mine for a quick squeeze. I’m never really sure who is reassuring whom. Mutual comfort, I guess. Mutual understanding that this is never easy, and the moment it became easy, we’d need to take a long look inside ourselves and find the path back to the empathy we need to do the job right.
Hoarse croaks lead us in. We arrive to see two ravens diving at a weasel, which zooms our way before spotting Storm and nearly backflipping as it races off in another direction. Storm glances toward the weasel and sighs, seeing a potential distraction she cannot accept.
“I know,” I say as I pat her head.
I take a deep breath … which is a mistake. I cough, Dalton thumping my back as I shake my head, face screwed up.
He takes another step and then lunges, his sudden cry scattering the ravens. Storm happily accepts this distraction, joining him with a deep baying woof. The ravens are gone in a blink, and we are alone with the scene they’ve left behind.
I see the campfire first. The remains of a long-dead fire, logs pulled over, a tent still standing. Like any other camp … until you see that the tent lists to one side, slashed fabric fluttering in the breeze.
I walk to where the ravens had been, in a tangle of winter-bare brush behind the fire. From the brush protrudes what had once been a human arm. It’s the humerus only, the radius and ulna and hand having been taken by something larger than a raven.
I start to take another deep breath before the smell reminds me why I don’t want to make that mistake again.
Dalton is already at the edge of the clearing, looking my way. He isn’t hesitating to get closer. As the child of doctors, I was raised to have an iron stomach, yet he far surpasses my comfort with internal views of the human body. He grew up hunting and butchering, and to him, what lies in the brush is nothing more than human remains. The person who once inhabited those remains is long gone. Dalton will be respectful, but “squeamish” isn’t part of his vocabulary. He waits because I’m the homicide detective and this is a murder.
I walk to him and survey the rest of the scene. Initial assessment: at least two adult human bodies in advanced stages of predation. I see two heads, both attached to torsos, and a minimum of two separated limbs. That’s the way my brain assesses. “Separated limbs.” It’s a cold and clinical wording, as if these are mannequins. The alternative is to see at least two horribly mutilated corpses and start thinking about what happened here, how much they suffered, whether their bodies will ever lie in graves that their loved ones can visit …
Keep it cold and clinical. Watching my footing, I take three more steps. A third limb appears, attached to one of the torsos, the arm having been hidden by the thick brush. Before I can say a word, Dalton is handing me a sturdy branch, which I take and use to push through the brush, searching for more parts without moving from my spot.
I clear my throat. “At least two victims. Both adult, between the ages of twenty and fifty. Both Caucasian with light hair. Eye color will be impossible to assess.”
“Fucking ravens.”
I nod and continue. “One torso has retained a partial leg and an arm which appears tucked under the body. The other has a partial humerus. There is an unattached humerus and an unattached femur. That appears to be the total— Oh, strike that. I see a partial foot over here.”
“Two torsos, five limbs and a foot. So predators hauled off three complete limbs and several partials.”
“If we presume two victims. Sophie was with three companions. We could have detached limbs from a missing torso.”
“Fuck.”
“Yep. Given the advanced state of predation, it’s not a simple matter of putting the pieces back together. We may need to resort to DNA.”
“Fuck.”