The Shadowkiller by Matthew Scott Hansen

a big shot from some outfit like Burger King or Albert-sons had finally seen the error of their ways and was caving in and buying a double-truck ad in his humble paper. But he quickly dismissed that fantasy as he picked up the receiver. Too early and it was Saturday. His bet: missing dog.
    â€œNews.”
    â€œMay I have your editorial department?”
    Baxter detected a faint Southern drawl. “You got it,” he answered.
    â€œThere was an article about a missing Weyerhaeuser guy. You know it?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œYou write it?”
    â€œNope,” said Baxter. “A kid who works for me wrote it. A Wazzu intern.”
    Wazzu was the local diminutive for Washington State University, the state’s farm club for journalists.
    â€œHer name’s Verna McKay,” continued Baxter. “What can we do for you?”
    â€œI’d like to talk to her about the information in the…Is she around?”
    â€œNo. Won’t be in today. Maybe I can help.”
    â€œI’m just curious as to what you have on file. I assume you have a file?”
    â€œYeah, but it’s confidential. Why do you need it?”
    â€œI’m sorry, you are?” Ty asked.
    â€œJohn Baxter, editor and publisher. And you?”
    â€œTy Greenwood,” Ty blurted, immediately realizing he shouldn’t be too aggressive. “If you could let me look at the file, I would really appreciate it. I’m with the…Forest Service…and we’re concerned about the disappearances lately.”
    â€œThere’ve been others?” Baxter asked, ever the newsman.
    â€œYeah, a few,” Ty lied. This was the first such occurrence he knew of.
    â€œForest Service, huh?” Baxter figured nobody would make this up. “Yeah, okay, you can come down, but the file stays here.”
    â€œThanks. I’ll be down later this morning.”
    John Baxter hung up wondering why the guy had seemed so excited just to see a file about a logger who’d gone missing. People disappear in the woods all the time.

    Mitch got to the top of the mountain, brushed the snow off a rock, sat down, and fished a sandwich out of his pack. He took a bite and thought of that sorry sonofabee Remsbecker. He glanced at his watch and shook his head. Though he hadn’t seen Jack for over two hours, he calculated his hiking partner was a little less than thirty minutes behind him.
    He finished off the first sandwich and gazed at the holy panorama. There were two nearby peaks taller than his, and the rest of the view was of smaller knobs and valleys of dark green stretching below. He was a few ridges away from the highway and had lost sight of the depression it tracked through. He liked being unable to see the road or any evidence of man.
    He sucked in the chill air, which expanded in his lungs like bottled oxygen. Mitch decided to finish his lunch—it was nine thirty already—and head back. He smiled as he pictured Jack at the office Monday, struggling to counter Mitch’s version of the hike.

    Forty minutes later, Mitch’s emotions had run the gamut from irritated to disgusted to worried. He briefly considered that Jack might have gone back to the Cherokee to nap off his hangover but then rejected that because Jack had no way to get inside. Having been out of touch with each other now more than three hours, Mitch began glancing off trail in particularly dicey spots for signs of misadventure. He knew his friend was not as trail savvy as he was; Jack really only went on the hikes to humor him. Mitch felt guilty over his lack of patience and his competitive drive since Jack was only along for the fellowship.
    After quickly descending several miles, all the while scanning the nearby slopes and ravines, Mitch seized on a patch of color twenty-five yards ahead. He trotted to it, the small white and gold pack of Marlboro Lights standing out against the drab moist dirt and rocks. Mitch put the pack in