The house was one big room. It had an old black wood-burning cookstove, a table, and three chairs covered with handmade quilts. The walls were rough logs, with straw and wood fiber shoved into the chinks to keep the wind out. The pine floor planks were dark with stains. More quilts hung on the walls, and the bright colors livened up the room. It felt simple and homey.
On the back wall, a curtain led to a small nook. I peeked in. A bed sat in the corner, neatly made with another quilt. Beside it, a man’s clothing hung on pegs. A big man, from the size of the overalls. A smaller shirt and trousers lay folded on a shelf under the window. A chamber pot sat on the floor under a washstand and pitcher. Two toothbrushes.
So Marian and the Russian slept together in here. Robin slept in the barn. I shivered, even though it wasn’t cold. The place didn’t feel so homey anymore. I turned back into the main room. That’s when I saw the guns in the corner. Rifles and shotguns and pistols. At least a dozen of them were stored in a glass case, which was smashed open. Broken glass shone on the neatly swept floor. A box of .308 ammunition was ripped open, spilling cartridges onto the floor.
The .308 is a big-game rifle. Capable of bringing down a deer or a moose. Or a human. As my eyes got used to the dim light, I saw what I’d missed earlier. The stains on the floor were blood. Pooled by the bedroom door and streaked across the floor. Drag marks led out the door.
I slammed out of the house, my heart pounding. Leaned against the wall to catch my breath. As I sucked air into my lungs, I realized what the stink was.
Death.
The drag marks headed down the steps and around the side of the house. Someone had tried to scuff them out, but the gouges were deep. I stared at them for a long time. Some heavy object had dug two lines into the ground. I tried to think. The blood was dried. Marian and Robin had been on my land for almost a month. Whatever bad thing had happened here, it was not recent.
I should have called the police. But there was no phone. Not even electricity. This guy lived not only off the grid, but in another century. I should have jumped in my truck and got the hell out. Not stopped until I reached home. Or the nearest town.
I should at least have grabbed a gun.
But I followed the drag marks. Around the back of the house and into the woods behind. Up the hill. Tracking the deep gouges through fallen leaves. The smell grew so bad that I covered my nose. Took shallow breaths through my mouth. Almost stepped on a chunk of bone covered with flies. Up ahead, crows squabbled over something, black wings flapping. As I came closer, they took to the air in an angry whoosh. Leaving behind their prize.
What was left of a body, half buried under leaves. Arms missing, flesh stripped, flies buzzing in and out. Big boots were the only clue that it had once been a man.