As Rath picked his way down the ridge, he slipped on the greasy leaves and smacked his tailbone on a rock.
He bit back the pain and crept to the edge of the woods at Preacher’s yard and stared at Preacher’s lit window. He unzipped his waist pack and from it took his motion sensor game trail camera. He set the camera to photo mode and moved quickly to the birch tree to which the old, crooked birdhouse was nailed. He opened the birdhouse lid and situated the camera inside so the lens and infrared eye faced out of the hole. He wove his hand in front of the hole to test the camera. It worked.
A roar erupted behind him. He dove to the ground as ice and snow on the duplex roof avalanched onto the porch, shattering the wooden rail.
Rath stayed pinned to the ground, just able to make out the vague shape of Preacher at the window, peering out. Then, Preacher was gone.
Rath remained motionless, his tailbone splintering with pain where it had struck the rock.
The front door opened. Preacher stepped out onto the porch, looked into the trees where Rath hid just twenty feet away. He held an object in his hand, which Rath could not make out, and looked down at the snow and ice and the broken rail.
He looked out at the woods, toward where Rath’s tree stand had been, though there was no way to see that far with the closing fog. Then he went back inside, shut the door, and was gone again.
Rath lay still for a good half hour before he stood and shut the birdhouse’s lid.
The camera lens and eye, trained on the porch, were all but invisible unless someone looked directly at the hole from a couple feet away. It was a risk Rath had to take.
He triple-checked the camera and retreated up to the ridge. He climbed back up into the tree stand and sat where he dedicated himself to wait until night fell.