Comes a Horseman by Robert Liparulo Page B

the compartment were two aluminum cases and a long bin of assorted hand weapons: knives, axes, spearheads. He removed a long pouch from the top of the pile, and from it he pulled a bearded ax—named for the triangular shape of its blade—with an oak handle the length of his arm. Tossing the pouch back into the compartment, he raised the ax to examine the blade. It was smeared with gore: blood and filaments of flesh, a few strands of hair. The handle near the blade, too, was caked with brownish-red globules. He retrieved a canteen and a rag from a plastic crate and walked to the trees ten paces away. Leaves removed most of the offal, then he poured water over the blade and began rubbing.
    He heard the car engine before seeing its headlights.
    It was coming through the trees slowly, almost to the clearing. He turned quickly to see the dogs huddled together, their long faces pointing toward the intruder. As he watched, their heads—all three at once—came down in a hunting posture. The car was turning into the clearing, its headlamps making a clockwise sweep across the landscape, seconds from capturing the dogs in their glare. No time to call them back, to get them into the place he had designed for them under the false floor.
    â€œFara!” he yelled, and they faded into the trees before the lights panned past.
    Olaf held the ax behind him as the car came around, catching first the van, then him with its blinding white eyes. He donned a toothy smile.
    Then the flashing red and blue lights on the car’s roof came on.

7
    R obocop.”Someone behind her whispered it, causing a ripple of quiet laughter. If only they knew how unoriginal the observation was. It was also accurate, at least superficially. The helmet alone was an intimidating black dome, extending from shoulders to crown, with a formation of gadgets marching up one side and down the other. The weight of the helmet necessitated a collar not unlike a deep-sea diver’s, giving the shoulders a large share of the burden and making them appear unnaturally stout. The faceplate was a convexity of opaque plastic. Special boots, belt, and equipment strapped to each shin and forearm completed the “Robocop” ensemble. The official name of the system was Crime Scene Digitizer—a moniker that managed to be both uninspired and awesome in a techno-geeky kind of way. Her preference was CSD.
    She turned to Detective Lindsey. “I’ll go in first.”
    Transmitted through small speakers in the front and back of the collar, her voice sounded tinny and far away. A microphone also picked up her voice and fed it back to her through an earpiece, which resulted in an echoing feedback only she could hear. She had reported the problem, but until it was fixed anyone using the helmet was doomed to suffer a horrendous headache. Fortunately, the gremlins had fiddled with only the ancillary systems, like the microphone and a few creature-comfort devices. If the core systems malfunctioned, it would jeopardize the crime scene analyses they were conducting, and the Bureau would never get funding to push the project into everyday investigations.
    â€œHow about if only you and one technician follow me on the first pass, to help preserve the scene? The CSD will generate a plan of attack for the other technicians afterward.”
    Appraising the outfit, Lindsey made such a comical expression of disbelief that Alicia was sorry she had not yet switched on the cameras.
    â€œAll right,” he said tentatively. He managed to pull his jaw closed and turn from her. “Fleiser,” he snapped.
    A bespectacled man in a long white lab coat nodded and picked up a leather doctor’s bag.
    Alicia positioned herself at the bottom of a flight of wooden steps in the garage. According to the responding officer, the steps rose to a combination laundry and mudroom. From there a hallway led to bedrooms and another corridor, which accessed the home’s front