a patrol officer in his mid-twenties, but I knew he had his sights on Jenna, despite both the age and intellectual difference. His jealousy was palpable whenever he saw the two of us together.
“For the record,” he continues, chewing the gum, “I’ve spoken with your PO in St. Paul. You’re lucky you’ve got a nice guy there. He was real accommodating, illuminating. So we have this agreement in place. While you’re in my jurisdiction, you’ll be checking in with me on a daily basis—without fail—or you risk violating the conditions of your parole. You get me? So that means staying out of trouble, Olson. I mean it. It’s my job to keep the peace; I don’t need to hear anyone complaining about you upsetting them.”
It sounds like Meeks learned all his lines from a B-movie. Monotone stereotype. His intention is to intimidate, but he doesn’t scare me one bit, not anymore. I say nothing; words can incriminate. Meeks isn’t thrilled with my homecoming, and he won’t be the only one. I’m a dagger, plunged through the fabric of the community, and Harper is tight-knit. When things are that close, gossip spreads like bloodstains.
“And that includes going where you have no right going,” he adds, referring to my trip to The Falls this morning. “Keep your nose out of police business.”
“Sheriff’s business,” I correct.
His top lip pulls up, like he’s just tasted something unsavory. “Don’t take advantage of my charity, Olson, or I’ll ship you back to Stillwater quicker than you can shit yourself. Now get out of my car.”
Chapter Seven
T he hunter was invisible—nothing more than a stain on the snowy terrain. The white camouflage parka and matching padded pants were bulky but necessary if he wanted to remain warm and undetected. It was freezing up here on the mountain, and maintaining any single position for any length of time wasn’t recommended. But stillness was a hunter’s best disguise. Anyone glancing his way would see a seamless surface of undulating snow, luminous with light and striped by shadows, with no hint of his presence. Even the white surgical tape wrapped randomly around the hunting rifle made it look more like a fallen tree branch than a deadly distance killer.
People were moving within its crosshairs: a red-headed girl taking photographs, the shriek of her camera clawing against the uneasy silence; a thickset guy raking back snow, huffing and puffing ; men and women with Day-Glo orange vests pulled over their thick winter coats, serious expressions pinned on hung heads. A single word was splashed across the front and back of their bright orange vests. In a large black typeface it read: Sheriff.
Those who weren’t scratching at their scalps were either bagging evidence or jumping to the echoing commands of a barrel-chested lieutenant standing on the rim of the ravine. The recovery operation was in full swing here at Hangman Falls. Everything businesslike and organized. But the tension was intense, clotted by people impatient to get down off the mountain. No one wanted to be on crime scene cleanup on the weekend and in freezing conditions.
A flick of his wrist brought the frozen waterfall into view.
His elevation on the opposite side of The Gallows provided an eagle-eye panorama of the activity below.
The boys and girls from the Sheriff’s Office had spent the last hour trying to figure out a safe way to recover the human remains lodged firmly in the upturned tree, without causing injury or embarrassment, or damage to the evidence. But the location was proving a challenge. The exposed root system was three yards out from the edge of the ravine and about the same distance down. Everything precariously balanced against the frozen waterfall, on a knife’s edge. One wrong move, one clumsy boot, and the entire tree would topple, taking the skeletal remains down with it, and maybe a couple of heavy-handed deputies, too.
Finally, after a heated discussion, a bright spark
“For the record,” he continues, chewing the gum, “I’ve spoken with your PO in St. Paul. You’re lucky you’ve got a nice guy there. He was real accommodating, illuminating. So we have this agreement in place. While you’re in my jurisdiction, you’ll be checking in with me on a daily basis—without fail—or you risk violating the conditions of your parole. You get me? So that means staying out of trouble, Olson. I mean it. It’s my job to keep the peace; I don’t need to hear anyone complaining about you upsetting them.”
It sounds like Meeks learned all his lines from a B-movie. Monotone stereotype. His intention is to intimidate, but he doesn’t scare me one bit, not anymore. I say nothing; words can incriminate. Meeks isn’t thrilled with my homecoming, and he won’t be the only one. I’m a dagger, plunged through the fabric of the community, and Harper is tight-knit. When things are that close, gossip spreads like bloodstains.
“And that includes going where you have no right going,” he adds, referring to my trip to The Falls this morning. “Keep your nose out of police business.”
“Sheriff’s business,” I correct.
His top lip pulls up, like he’s just tasted something unsavory. “Don’t take advantage of my charity, Olson, or I’ll ship you back to Stillwater quicker than you can shit yourself. Now get out of my car.”
Chapter Seven
T he hunter was invisible—nothing more than a stain on the snowy terrain. The white camouflage parka and matching padded pants were bulky but necessary if he wanted to remain warm and undetected. It was freezing up here on the mountain, and maintaining any single position for any length of time wasn’t recommended. But stillness was a hunter’s best disguise. Anyone glancing his way would see a seamless surface of undulating snow, luminous with light and striped by shadows, with no hint of his presence. Even the white surgical tape wrapped randomly around the hunting rifle made it look more like a fallen tree branch than a deadly distance killer.
People were moving within its crosshairs: a red-headed girl taking photographs, the shriek of her camera clawing against the uneasy silence; a thickset guy raking back snow, huffing and puffing ; men and women with Day-Glo orange vests pulled over their thick winter coats, serious expressions pinned on hung heads. A single word was splashed across the front and back of their bright orange vests. In a large black typeface it read: Sheriff.
Those who weren’t scratching at their scalps were either bagging evidence or jumping to the echoing commands of a barrel-chested lieutenant standing on the rim of the ravine. The recovery operation was in full swing here at Hangman Falls. Everything businesslike and organized. But the tension was intense, clotted by people impatient to get down off the mountain. No one wanted to be on crime scene cleanup on the weekend and in freezing conditions.
A flick of his wrist brought the frozen waterfall into view.
His elevation on the opposite side of The Gallows provided an eagle-eye panorama of the activity below.
The boys and girls from the Sheriff’s Office had spent the last hour trying to figure out a safe way to recover the human remains lodged firmly in the upturned tree, without causing injury or embarrassment, or damage to the evidence. But the location was proving a challenge. The exposed root system was three yards out from the edge of the ravine and about the same distance down. Everything precariously balanced against the frozen waterfall, on a knife’s edge. One wrong move, one clumsy boot, and the entire tree would topple, taking the skeletal remains down with it, and maybe a couple of heavy-handed deputies, too.
Finally, after a heated discussion, a bright spark
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