Page 33 of Lovely Violent Things

I study her pinched expression, wondering if she was close to any of the missing locals. “Every crime scene so far has been linked to the victims,” is all I say before I start in the direction of the ravine.

A line has formed at the clearing’s edge. Techs snap pictures, gloves slide into place on hands. As I stride closer, I lift my booted feet to climb out of the marsh waters. A jolt zips down my back as I peer over the edge.

Below are tens if not hundreds of deer carcasses piled at the bottom of the chasm.

The unnerving sight of skeletal remains pales to the stench wafting up from the ravine. From this vantage point, I identify the largest as stags. The pelts have been skinned, the skulls exposed.

The antlers have been removed.

Alister talks into his phone: “Bring those two hunters in for questioning,” he orders the person on the other end of the line. “The ones that discovered the first crime scene.” He ends the call, then looks my way. “What do you make of this?”

“Which part?”

Jaw set hard, he rolls up his shirt sleeves and situates his shoulder harness in a firm reminder that he’s armed with a weapon. “The fucking mutilated deer, Locke.”

I grin, enjoying twisting the agent’s short fuse. “It’s not staged,” I say simply. “I don’t see any esoteric or ritualistic connection here to link to your offender’s agenda.”

“What about the Harbinger,” he says, hooking a thumb toward the bare grove. “He invaded one of the perpetrator’s sites already, so it stands to reason he’d hit another. Why would he raid the hemlock?”

If he’s asking about the Harbinger killer, then Halen didn’t relay anything we discussed last night in the rain.

“I’m not a crime-scene profiler,” I say.

The tension gathering around Alister draws a rigid line across his shoulders. He blatantly looks at the faded celestial rose peeking above the bandage on my hand and the sigils inked into my fingers, disgust evident in his tight features. “That’s all you have to say?” he demands. “I couldn’t shut you the fuck up a few days ago. If you’re no help here, maybe it’s time to send you back.”

“That would be a mistake.” I lock with his flared gaze, the veiled threat behind my words as deadly as my stare.

I sense her proximity before she appears at my side. “I agree with Professor Locke,” Halen says, defusing some of the hostility. “This isn’t a dumping site for hunters, but it’s not a tribute or ritual site, either.”

Alister tugs his tie to loosen the knot at his neck. “Get the hell down there and figure out what itis, then.”

The animosity between Halen and Alister is tangible. My instincts say the agent in charge wanted someone to blame for not yet having a suspect in custody, and Halen presented an opportunity with a contaminated crime scene to place some of that blame.

The media are spinning enticing click-bait stories around the victims and the FBI’s lack of progress on the high-profile case. One such headline declared the feds incompetent for not catching the perpetrator in such a small town.

I thought it was a fair observation.

Halen drapes her camera strap over her neck and tucks her notebook under one arm, then starts down the slope. I reach out and take her forearm, helping to guide her down the steep incline. To my surprise, she doesn’t pull away or chastise me for touching her.

As we reach the base, the putrid stench of decaying flesh and death is so pungent, she covers the lower half of her face. “He’s been dumping here for years,” she says.

“So you think it’s the offender.”

She tilts her head in a mocking gesture, then looks across the bed of remains. “You know it’s him. There’s only one perpetrator in this town, right?” Her sharp remark teases at a ribbon of fear buried beneath the sarcasm.

Whether or not she fully believes she’s in the Overman’s sight, that’s not what she’s afraid of. She’s not scared of Alister or his empty threats. But she is wary of something. I want to pull at that ribbon until she unspools.

“I’m just cautious with what I reveal to Alister. Before I’ve verified the evidence or have a provable theory,” she amends.

The question of what went down during their meeting is right on the cusp of my tongue, but I decide to give her something instead. “The stag skulls are all different sizes, ages. There are layers of decomp in the heap, ranging from years to weeks.”

“So now you’re a forensic anthropologist.”

The hint of a smile playing on her mouth stokes a blazing brushfire within me, and I want more; I want to earn her laugh. “I am whatever you need me to be.”

Her smile falls. “That’s what worries me.”

She traps me in the intensity of her gaze, refusing to release me until she’s forced to swipe the unruly lock of white from her vision.

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