Then ravens are spotted circling far out in the forest. Casey and Eric rush to the scene, only to find a horrific surprise—fresh, bloodied intestines, nailed high in a tree. The killer has struck again.

One

“Could be from Powys,” Dalton says. We’re staring at a piece of intestine, nailed to a tree trunk deep in the Rockton forest.

I shake my head. “We found Powys’s body the day I got here. This hasn’t started to rot, and it still looks pliant.”

“Pliant,” he repeats, and then nods as if deciding this is indeed the best word. The length of intestine isn’t fresh, but it’s not dried out, either, as it sways slightly in the breeze, the smell of it bringing those scavengers running.

“Hastings, then?” he says.

“I’ll need to take it back to Beth to confirm it’s even human. I’d guess it is, if they nailed it up here. But it’s always possible it’s …”

I trail off. Dalton is turning, with that look on his face that tells me he’s caught some noise, and sure enough, I hear it two seconds later. I could say his hearing is sharper, but I think it’s just better attuned to sorting out what belongs in a peaceful forest and what does not. This does not. I have no idea what I’m actually hearing, only that it sends cold dread up my spine.

The sound comes from the edge of the clearing. We follow it, Dalton with his gun out, and …

And nothing. I still can hear the sound, a cross between a groan and a mewl, and it’s right here. Exactly where we’re standing. Except there’s nothing in sight except trees.

The sound comes again. Dalton’s gaze goes up.

“What the hell?” I say as I follow his lead.

It looks like a sack. It’s attached to the trunk and to a limb and resting partially in the crook between two more. In other words, it’s wedged up in that tree as best it can be.

The noise comes again. And the side of the sack moves.

“There’s, uh, something in it,” I say.

“Yep.”

“Something hurt.”

“Yep.”

“We should go back to town and get—”

“Nope.”

Before I can say anything, Dalton is shimmying up the trunk. I used to be quite the climber in my tomboy youth, but scaling an evergreen is tough. He clearly has practice.

As I watch him, I see his point in not going back to town. What would we get? A ladder? A hydraulic lift? The animal in that bag is hurt badly enough that it can’t claw or bite its way out. I can tell now that the dark shadow on one side is actually blood. That’s what brought the scavengers. Then, realizing they hadn’t a hope in hell of getting to it, they’d tried for the nailed-up intestine.

Dalton is up there now, examining the sack. He reaches out and gives it a tentative push. Then, “Fuck.”

“Heavy?”

“Yeah.”

“We can switch places,” I say. “I’ll lower it for you to catch, but …”

“It’s too heavy. Going to be tough enough for me to do it. You stay back. We have no idea what’s inside.”

“I don’t think it’s in any shape to attack. It isn’t even reacting—”

“Doesn’t matter. I lower. You stand clear. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

He takes a few more minutes to evaluate. Then he pulls out a knife and cuts one rope. I can’t quite see what he’s doing up there, half hidden by branches, but he gets one rope wrapped around his hand before he severs the other one. He manages to lower the sack, but the rope isn’t quite long enough and it stops about a foot from the ground, swinging as Dalton groans with exertion.

“Gotta drop it,” he grunts.

“I can—”

“Orders, detective. Stay the hell back.”

He lets go before I can do anything except obey. The sack hits the ground, and the creature inside lets out a mewling cry of pain.

“Stay right there,” he says. “And I’d appreciate you getting your gun out while I come down.”

I train my weapon on the sack as Dalton shimmies down about halfway and then drops the rest of the way.

The sack is bigger than it looked in the air. Clearly, it’s no fox or wolverine inside. I look at Dalton. He’s heading for the sack with his knife out.

“Sheriff?” I say carefully.

“Yeah.”

That’s all he says—“Yeah”—and I know it means that whatever I’m thinking, he’s already come to the same conclusion. He bends beside the sack and moves it a little, as if putting it in a better position. The thing inside doesn’t react. Dalton motions for me to keep my gun ready as he flicks his blade through the canvas. Then he rips the sack open, and we see what’s inside.

Jerry Hastings.

He’s bound hand and foot and barely conscious. He doesn’t even seem to notice when Dalton opens the sack. His eyes are unfocused, his lips moving over and over as if he’s saying something, but we don’t hear a word.

His hands are bound in front of him. As Dalton cuts them free first, I clutch my gun. Then Dalton reaches down and gently pulls up the bloodied front of Hastings’s shirt. There’s more blood underneath, his skin painted in a wash of it. That doesn’t disguise the thick blackened line, though. Where someone has crudely stitched him up and then cauterized the wound.

I turn away fast, and I come closer to throwing up at a crime scene than I ever have in my life. My stomach lurches, my hand reaching to grab something, anything. It finds a brace, not a tree or sapling, but warm fingers, clenching mine and holding me steady.