Page 4 of Pau Hana: Cat cozy Humor Mystery (Paradise Crime Cozy Mystery Book 5)
I creptaround what I was pretty sure was the north side of the shack, pressing myself flat against the outside wall as best I could. There were no windows or doors on that side of the building, so my progress was unimpeded; no one could see me or pop out and confront me. When I got to the corner, I cautiously angled my head sideways using a move I’d learned in surveillance training that allowed me to glimpse as much as possible of what lay beyond—without providing a target for Mr. Smith or Mr. Wesson.
A quick survey of the backyard caused me to zip my head back and flatten my body against the wall again, my spine tingling with shock; I bit my lip to avoid crying out.
The cleared area behind the shack was awash in blood. The dirty penny stench of it was overpowering, causing me to swallow bile that’d sneaked up my esophagus. I concentrated on controlling my breathing.
Had I come too late? What kind of madman would murder someone right out in the open like that? Then I recalled the twenty-plus minutes of nearly impassable road. A guy who knew he’d get away with it, that’s who. What were the odds that the UPS guy would’ve unknowingly stumbled out this way this morning? And had his showing up led to this atrocity?
I had to know. Curiosity may have killed the cat—but for this Kat, allowing someone to get away with murder was worse.
I stepped forward from the shadow of the shack, peering around the corner to get a better view of what I’d glimpsed.
A man, likely Hugh Dragoon, stood next to a low tree stump about three feet in diameter, his body blocking my view of whatever horror lay atop it. In his right hand he held a short, wide machete, the blade stained with blood. He appeared to be late thirties, maybe forty, with a full reddish-brown beard and messy Albert Einstein hair. He wore baggy camo military style pants and a T-shirt which had probably been tan or khaki green at one point but was now so saturated in blood I wouldn’t take bets on the original color. His feet were protected by black leather boots which seemed as if they’d come from an Army surplus store.
He must have seen my movement because he spun and glared at me. He raised the machete threateningly. “You can’t be here,” he said. His voice had the froggy quality of a guy who’d just woken up. “Git, or I’ll shoot.”
I held up my hands like a teller caught in a bank robbery. “I mean no harm.”
I scanned instinctively for a firearm, but saw none: instead, my mind focused on details. The man had a tattoo on his neck, a blue diamond-shaped design. Bad ink surrounded three numbers or letters that I couldn’t make out. Was it a gang symbol? Maybe a military insignia? It was impossible to tell in the lengthening shadows of the afternoon.
“I said, git.”
I tried to recall various training scenarios we’d practiced at the JJRTC, the Secret Service’s James J. Rowley Training Center outside Washington, D.C. I couldn’t remember a single instance that dealt with how to de-escalate a situation in which a madman is merrily chopping up something macabre in his backyard.
“I’m hoping you can help me,” I said. “I’m lost and need directions.”
“What’re you talkin’ about? You on foot?”
“Yes,” I lied. “I was trying to find that famous bamboo forest trailhead and ended up here.”
He squinted warily at me and lowered the machete. “Bamboo trail’s miles from here.”
“Is it?” While I played for time, I surveyed my surroundings. The amount of blood on the ground, on his clothes and machete, and on the stump in front of him was overwhelming. There were bloody chunks stacked a foot high on a tarp just to the left of where he stood, but he appeared unconcerned about me seeing them.
Then it hit me.
I said, “Are you a hunter?”
“Yeah. Got me a good-sized wild pig this very mornin’. This’ll keep us for the better part of a month.” He gestured toward the pile of unrecognizable pieces of freshly butchered flesh. I recalled the older commercials touting pork as “the other white meat.”
Ugh. Didn’t look appetizing at all.
“My name’s Kat Smith,” I said. “As I told you, I’m trying to find that hiking trail. If you need proof . . .” I slid a business card from the post office out of a pocket and held it out.
“I know’d who you are,” he replied, ignoring the card. “You’re that new gal at the post office.”
I must’ve shown my surprise because he went on, “You dumb civilians. You don’t never see me, but I seen you all. I know’d all about what goes on down there, too.”
“You know my name. Now what’s yours?” I took a step forward and stuck out my hand as if to shake with him. The thought of touching that ghastly blood-caked palm caused my touchphobia to kick in, big-time. My brain was screaming “run!” but I forced my feet to keep moving forward. I glanced toward the shack, hoping to spot the girl.
“Stop right there,” the hermit said, brandishing the grisly blade like a pirate in a Disney movie. “I tol’ you to git, and I mean git.”
“Do you live here alone?” I ventured. There’s nothing quite like the adrenaline rush of trying to interview a suspect while he’s threatening to behead you. “You said the meat would keep ?us’ for a week.”
“What’s it to you?”
“I was just wondering if you had a wife or kids or anyone here who could show me the way back to the main road.” I gestured to the pile of pig parts. “Since you’re obviously busy.”
His eyes widened as if I’d accused him of something. “There’s nobody here but me. Now, you start movin’ or I swear I’ll put you down faster’n I did this pig.”
He took a step toward me. We locked gazes. The man’s bloodshot gray eyes had the flat, distant appearance of someone who’d given up long ago and had nothing to lose.
As we say in the Secret Service, “Beware of an adversary with nothing to lose.”
It was time for me to “git” as he’d told me to. I backed up a step, but while doing so, managed one last scan of the environs of the backyard: bloody tree stump, wild boar parts piled on a tarp, filthy machete scabbard lying a few feet away from the back door.
And then I saw something that made me forget all of that: a pair of small pink rubber slippers, tucked up next to the back door.