Page 77 of The Forest of Lost Souls

He knows little of the woman slated to be murdered, only that the Bead family and Terrence Boschvark want her dead; that whatever she might be, she is not one of them; that whoever she is, she is extraordinary. If she knows her enemies so well that she is at all times prepared to deal with them so decisively, even whenthey are as amoral and vicious as the crew that now lies scattered across this killing ground, then she must know—or at least possess the capacity to consider the possibility—that Sam poses no threat to her.

He dares to rise from the ferns, and at his command the dogs get to their feet as well. Sherlock, Whimsey, and Marple no longer wag their tails. Their excitement has subsided to tense caution and keen interest. They raise their heads, nostrils flared, drawing from the air a scent too subtle for Sam to detect—the ripeness of warm blood, a sinister smell woven through the odors of the forest mast and the piney fragrance of the evergreens. The aroma doesn’t excite them; each dog in turn meets its master’s eyes, and every gaze is solemn, as is required even by the deaths of men like these.

After a minute or so, movement to the west draws his attention. Carrying the crossbow but not holding it at the ready, the woman approaches through a distribution of light and shadow as entrancing and mysterious as the chiaroscuro in any work by Rembrandt. Even outfitted in hiking gear and on this broken ground, she moves with consummate grace, as if the land is being reshaped by some higher power to facilitate her progress.

As a boy, Sam had numerous enthusiasms. Trains, their lore and history. UFOs. The United States Marines, their triumphs and their sacrifices. Who built the pyramids and how. The myths of the ancient Greeks and Romans. As Vida strides toward him, he recalls a picture in a book that fascinated him when he was twelve—an Art Deco image of the goddess Diana on the hunt with bow and arrow—and he thinks this scene before him should be unfolding in the haunting light of the full moon, with attendant wolves accompanying her, as in the painting.

When she arrives, the dogs whimper with delight and wag their tails. They want to go to her, and Sam gives them enough leash to do as they wish.

The woman puts down the crossbow and drops to one knee. The dogs nuzzle her hands, and she strokes their faces.

When Vida gets to her feet, Sam indicates the four dead men. “I’m not a friend of theirs. They deceived me to get me here. I don’t mean you any harm.”

“I know,” she says. “I saw you in a dream. I was sitting on my porch with a fortuneteller. The moon was four times its usual size, enormous. You and the man I would have married, if he’d lived, were standing in the yard, looking up at it.”

She stops within arm’s reach of him, and he is self-conscious about his face to a degree that he has not been in a long time.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Sam. Sam Crockett.”

“I’m Vida.”

“Who was the man you would have married?”

“José Nochelobo. Did you know him?”

“Not personally. He was the high school principal. The football coach.”

“And more than that. They killed him for being more than that.”

“They said he died in a fall or something.”

“They say a lot of things.”

Sam surveys the four dead men. “So this is vengeance.”

“No. I didn’t seek this. They did. I want justice, not revenge.”

“But it’s done.”

“Not nearly.”

The dogs sit at attention, watching her, rapt.

A stillness has settled through the trees. The forest was familiar to him a moment ago. Now it feels like a strange place, almost unreal.

“Where did it happen?” she inquires.

He doesn’t need to ask what she means. “Afghanistan. Saves me having to buy a costume every Halloween.”

“Don’t say such things. You served your country at great cost. That’s noble. It’s a noble face.”

He does not respond. People say such things because they think they should.

As if she can read the thoughts that live behind his eyes, she says, “I’m not blowing smoke. I never do. When I see you, I see kindness.”

After an awkward silence during which an apt reply eludes him, he reaches for something—anything—to say. “Feels weird.”

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