Nate arched a brow. “Is that a joke?”
“It is.” When the boy continued to stare, he went on, “All right, I did not take a suitcase on the marches, but I sure did overpack my rucksack on the first expedition. Do that once, maybe twice, and you never forget.” He plucked a backpack discarded to the side. “I can help, if you don’t mind.”
“I can barely get anything in that backpack.”
“You might be surprised. Hand me those three shirts and two pairs of shorts. And I’ll take six pairs of socks.”
“Six?”
“A soldier has to take good care of his feet. Makes all the difference in the world.”
“That’s what Uncle Gideon said.”
Bryce carefully folded the first shirt in half and then rolled it up into a tight cylinder. He handed the second shirt to Nate. “No sense in me doing all the work.”
The boy copied Bryce, though he had to redo his roll twice to get it as small. Next the shorts were rolled, and the socks were turned over on themselves into snug balls. He lined the bottom of the pack with socks, pants, shirts, and underwear. “What shoes are you wearing?”
Nate pointed to a pair of worn sneakers. “And my hiking boots.”
“Good choices.” He skipped over the snacks and fry pan, knowing Gideon was always prepared, and grabbed a paperback. “King Lear by Shakespeare. That’s mighty tough reading.”
“It’s not too bad, once you get used to it.”
Bryce’s knowledge of English literature was limited, but he remembered the basic theme: father betrayed by a child. “Never hurts to have a book. Hand me two of those flashlights.”
Nate handed him the flashlights. Next came an empty gallon ziplock bag, which Bryce filled with bug spray, tissues, matches, an extra pocketknife, and sunscreen. By the time he had picked through the items, he had selected 5 percent of what Nate had hauled out.
As Bryce rose and hefted the pack, he judged the weight to be acceptable. Floorboards in the hallway creaked, and he knew Ann was watching. “Let’s try it on.”
Nate adjusted his glasses and eagerly fed his arms into the pack. The weight sat low on his back, so Bryce adjusted the straps until the pack supported his spine. “How does it feel?”
Nate walked around. “Not bad. Are you sure it’s enough?”
“It’s enough for five or six days, just in case.”
Tugging at the shoulder straps, Nate asked, “How do you know so much about packing?”
“Fourteen years in the marines made me an expert. Like I said, once you’ve had to ruck two hundred pounds up a mountain, you lighten your load any way you can.”
“How many times would you say you’ve packed like this?”
“Thousands.”
Nate nodded slowly. “That’s enough time to reach proficiency levels.”
Bryce chuckled. “I’d say so.”
“Mom!” Nate said.
“Yes?” She was leaning against the living room wall.
“I’m ready to go,” Nate said.
“Looks like it,” she said.
“Can I call Kyle?”
“Sure.”
“I bet he’s overpacked.”
“Better check and see.”
The boy left the room, easily shouldering the weight.
“Thanks,” she said softly. “He wasn’t listening to me.”
“Don’t take it personally.”
“I get it. It’s a father-son kind of thing.” A sweet bitterness tangled around the words.
“Does he talk about his father much?”
“Not really.” She ran long fingers through her hair and smiled. “But that’s not what you came to talk about. The files are in my office. This way.”
He followed her to a small room that was not much bigger than an extra-large closet. But she had managed to fit a tiny desk and computer in the corner and a compact couch behind her. Leaning against the wall was a large framed print featuring the sunrise over the eastern mountain range. Pencils, papers, magazines, and files were all neatly arranged, but he would have been surprised to find otherwise.
Ann removed the box top. “Is there anything I should be aware of?”
“Goes without saying, it’s nothing you want the boy to see.”
“I’ll keep the office locked when I’m not here.”
“Read through the officers’ reports and the forensic files and give me your best theories. I’m trying to figure out who the hell this guy is and what’s driving him.”
“I’ll get on it as soon as Nate goes to sleep.”
“I appreciate it.” When they were away from the chaos of the crime scene, his unasked questions turned more personal: How was she really doing? Had any more reporters tried to break into her university office or ambush her at the grocery store? And how was it going with the community at large? Had they rallied around or taken a step back, as many do to victims of violence? “You take care. Call if you need anything.”
“Thank you.”
Under the politeness, he sensed a rigid streak of independence. “I mean that. Call me if you need anything.”
“You’re kind. But I need to figure this one out alone.”
He followed her to the front door, offered his thanks one last time, and then headed to his vehicle. Too bad Clarke Mead was dead. He should have been punished for murder and arson and the pain and suffering he had caused Ann. Death had robbed Bryce of the pleasure of seeing him rot behind bars.
I pin the top half of the delicate skin to the board and stretch the chin section as deftly as I can. I am not known for a subtle touch, but I am going slowly here. It is important to be careful. Meticulous. Still the skin, which is starting to dry out, is getting more difficult to handle.
I am getting better at all this. Practice does make perfect, as Mom used to say.
When all four corners are finally pinned, I wash my hands, dry them, and reach for the scalpel. If it were a deer hide, I would use a pressure washer and skim off the underlayer of fat and flesh with it. But human hide is more delicate and requires a subtle touch. Which, as I said, I do not have. But I have discovered a quiet, meditative quality in the work.
My blade picks up the pink flesh and gently pulls it away from the skin. Spray from a water bottle rinses away the blood. Next will come the salting and after that the tanning solution.
It’s not a pretty process and would turn the stomachs of most who wear leather belts, shoes, or rawhide vests without a second thought. It’s dirty work, but the end product—a prized trophy—is going to make big headlines one day.
I am excited about the coming attention my little crime spree is going to garner. You might think less of me for craving notoriety, but we all want to be famous. We might demur and insist we do not like the attention, but we all crave it.
I examine the taut skin, and satisfied, I grab wipes and wash my hands again. Restless, I remove a beer from the mini refrigerator and then dig a DVD from my backpack. I pop it in my computer and hit “Play.”
The footage is not terrific. The lighting was terrible, and the focus went in and out. But there is enough to remind me of a special night.
The camera captures my hand reaching for the doorknob.