Page 57 of Cold, Cold Bones

“Piccitelli said Smith was hard-core.”

“If Smith and his pal Boldonado are so hot to survive, why would one off himself?”

Excellent question, Skinny.

“Based on size, it looks like Smith dug the pit, then buried four buses,” I said. “He’s positioned another pair and is planning on two more.”

“Why not grab any old crate?”

“I believe school buses are required to have extra reinforcement in case of a rollover.”

“Safety first.”

Neither of us laughed.

We both considered the layout again. The buried buses. Flattened rectangles to either side of the mound, probably parking areas. A crude enclosure constructed of logs. Deer carcasses hanging from trees. Here and there, a footpath straggled into the trees.

The forest ringing the little valley was interrupted at only two points. One was the road we were on. The other, a break across the clearing, looked large enough to access heavy equipment.

There wasn’t a living thing in sight.

Slidell eased down the hill and drove to the edge of the pit.

“Here’s how we’re gonna play this,” he said, opening his door. “You stay in the car.”

“Not happening.”

Slidell twisted to face me. “Christ on a cracker! For once, just once, will you do as I say?”

Taken aback by his vehemence, I didn’t protest.

Irritated, I watched Slidell stride to the pit and disappear down a set of makeshift stairs. A full minute passed. Two.

I was debating a move to join Skinny when I caught motion in my peripheral vision.

Glancing sideways, I saw a hooded figure running toward the woods, head bent, legs pumping hard. Perhaps sensing eyes on its back, the figure turned its head.

For an instant a terrified gaze met mine.

Without thinking, I flew from the car and gave chase.

13

Winter is a mean bitch.

Unprepared for the icy ground, I almost face-planted. Whatever-planted.

Pinwheeling to regain my balance, I struggled to keep my eyes glued to the spot where the figure had vanished. If I lost sight of the thin gray sliver, I knew I might never find it again.

Cursing the lack of tread on my boots, I pounded across the valley, alternately sinking into mud and skidding on ice. At the break, I veered into the woods.

The temperature dropped and the world dimmed. The trees around me—mostly loblolly pine and, high up, still laden with snow—blocked what little daylight was managing to peek through the clouds.

I halted, listening, scanning. Panting.

I heard no thundering boots. Saw no hooded figure lurking behind a tall trunk.

Scrambling onto a fallen tree, grasping a nearby branch for stability, I raised up on tiptoes for a better view.