remains of the insides draped over the bare, bony branches of the scrub oak. It looked as though a large animal had exploded from the inside. The crows couldn’t have brought down whatever this mess had been. They were merely scavenging the remains.
There were no other tracks surrounding the mess, not even the small canine tracks of the coyotes that wandered these hills. Scott had heard tales of mountain lions in the foothills, even coming into people’s houses while they slept, but all of those reports had been far to the south at the base of Cheyenne Mountain. He had never heard of one in this area, and besides, feline tracks of that size would be unmistakable in the fresh snow.
Kneeling in front of the red-drenched bushes, he began to inspect the mess, the pungent stench of the festering sludge accosting his senses. Breaking off a small branch, he pried one of the tattered pieces of flesh from the shrub, dangling it in front of his face so that he could try to figure out what kind of animal it had been. But it was strange; every dead animal he had come across, regardless of the state, always had large sections of fur lying about. But there wasn’t a shred of fur anywhere, nor were there any bones to be seen. He couldn’t think of any animal that could eat the bones, or, for that matter, even make the effort to carry them off to its den without dragging the rest of the carcass.
There was a snap behind him, followed quickly by another, and then the sound of rustling shrubbery. Leaping to his feet, Scott whirled staring into the wall of foliage. A gloved hand appeared, forcing back the barren branches of the oak. A figure, clothed in black, appeared through the criss-crossing limbs, standing there momentarily while he watched Scott from the shadows.
“Hello?” Scott said, craning his neck to try to get a better glimpse of whoever lurked beyond.
The figure just stood there, the whites of his eyes almost glowing from the shadows. Scott could feel the stranger’s stare: inspecting him, sizing him up from the tips of his toes through the top of his head. His stomach began to flutter, the nerves in his lower back tingling. The urge to take flight raced up from the back of his mind, just as the figure stepped forth from the bushes.
It was an older man; his silver hair matted beneath a black stocking cap pulled down over the tops of his red ears. The tip of his nose almost glowed from the cold and he sniffed it constantly. His expressionless, pale face was worn thick with lines, his eyebrows furrowed. A navy blue down jacket covered his torso; his legs swathed with denim.
“I’m sorry if I startled you,” the man said, looking straight through Scott at the mess of innards strewn across the path.
“My fault,” Scott said. “I didn’t have any idea that this was private property until I came across this walking path here.”
“What business do you have back here?” the man glowered.
“You know, I’m really sorry. You must be from the old folks home out there, and I’m…”
“Do I look decrepit to you?” the man asked, his face pinching tightly. Scott thought for a second the old man was going to try to start something physical, but suddenly his face lightened, as did his voice. A thin smile crossed his lips. 'I’m not that old…”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“I know, I just had to hassle you a little. You probably startled me far more than I did you.”
“I don’t know about that,” Scott said, shaking his head. He stared down at his shoes, bright red snow crusted over the toes of his sneakers.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt your breakfast,” he said, nodding.
“I was just finishing.”
“The name’s Harry Denton,” the man said, offering his gloved hand. Scott shook the man’s hand, brushing the dampness from his hand onto his pants.
“Scott Ramsey.”
“I thought that’s who you were,” the man said, his smile fading. “From what I’ve seen, there aren’t any coincidences in these woods.”
“What do you mean?” Scott asked, suddenly uncomfortable.
“I pulled you out of that car in the lake years ago. A little less hair and a few new wrinkles, but your face is still the same.”
“Really?” Scott said, flabbergasted. “I never had the opportunity to thank you for that.”
“No thanks needed. You would have done the same.”
“I don’t know…”
“You have to give yourself more credit than that,” Harry said, pausing. “What brings you back here today?”
“I’m not really sure,” Scott said.
“Like I said, nothing’s coincidental around here.”
Scott stared at the man as he walked past, inspecting the remains that littered the path.
“What kind of animal do you think that was?” Scott asked leaning over Harry’s shoulder. “My initial thought was that it might have been a dog or something, but I couldn’t see any bones. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
Harry turned and faced Scott. All of the color had drained from his face.
“I have,” he said softly, turning and pressing through the mess into the scrub oak.
Scott stood there for a moment, watching the man disappear into the foliage as he debated whether or not to head back to his car.
“Sweet Jesus,” he heard Harry utter.
Stepping into the undergrowth, he clambered through the thick mass of branches, popping into a tiny clearing beneath the needle-covered limbs of a cluster of pines. Harry was standing at the base of one of the trunks, inspecting the ground. Walking around him, Scott followed Harry’s gaze to the blood-soaked ground.
A pile of crimson bones rested against the trunk of the tree, stacked neatly. There was no doubt that they were human. A savagely stripped ribcage sat beneath a cracked pelvis; the long bones of the arms and legs laid neatly over the top. The feet rested in the palms of the bloody, cupped hands. All of the flesh had been stripped away, only the severed tendons protruded from their former connections of the hastily-defleshed bones.
“My God,” Scott whispered, his stomach twisting in knots. He turned from the pile, staring off into the woods as he drew in several large, slow breaths.
“God give me the strength,” Harry whispered, staring through the canopy into the cloud cover.
“That’s a person,” Scott said, turning back to Harry, but unable to steer his attention from the pile of bones from the corner of his eye.
Harry just nodded.
“We need to call the police,” Scott said, rational thought finally entering his head.
“It won’t do any good.”
Harry walked around the trunk of the tree, ducking beneath the low-hanging branches. He scanned the ground, looking for something, exactly what, he wasn’t sure, but he knew there had to be something. There would be some sort of message, a calling card that had been left for him.
“Look,” Scott said, following him around the trunk. “Whoever this is… was… was murdered. I’m going to go call the police.”
“Come here,” Harry said, gesturing with his hand. “Look at this and tell me if there’s anything the police can do.”
Scott shoved back a thick branch, the soft needles pressing into the skin on his hand as he followed Harry’s voice. Why was he so trusting of this old man? He didn’t know him from Adam. For all he knew it could have been this guy who had slaughtered this person, why else had he been out there?
Shoving his hands into his pocket, he pulled out his car keys, sliding each of the keys between his fingers, the keychain pressed firmly in the palm of his clenched fist. He stared down at his knuckles; the keys protruding like long, jagged claws. The muscles in his arms tensed in anticipation.
“Stop right there,” Harry said, his back to Scott. He held out his open hand. “Look at this.”
Scott peered past Harry. A thin line of blood traced a line through the pristine, untouched white snow, leading to the center of another small clearing. Right in the center of the patch, Scott saw something that would forever be burned into the backs of his eyelids, something that he would see for the rest of his life every time he closed his eyes and settled into the darkness.
