Page 5 of Rage

“It’s odd that the only things found were a hand and a foot,” I say.

He gives me a grim look. “Sure doesn’t bode well for the victim.”

I’m sweating profusely beneath my uniform as we enter the trailhead. Even in the shade, I suspect the temperature is on its way to ninety degrees. Combined with the humidity, it’s sweltering.

“Keep your eyes open for footprints or anything out of place,” I say.

“You got it,” says Glock.

The trail is narrow, the ground damp beneath my boots. “How far?” I ask.

“Another fifty yards.”

I scan our surroundings as we move more deeply into the woods. I take note of bare footprints in the dirt, likely from the children, all of whom were barefoot.

The trail narrows and twists left and right. Spindly fingers of raspberry and bramble scrape at my shirt as I pass. We step over a fallen log as thick as a man’s waist. I’m aware of the buzz of insects, mosquitoes and flies, and the incessant whine of the cicadas all around.

“Here we go.” Glock points. “Just past that rock.”

Ten yards ahead, a rock the size of a recliner demarks another curve in the trail. Farther, I see several areas of disturbed earth.

“You smell that?” he asks.

I glance over at him and nod. Rotting flesh. It’s faint, but present nonetheless. “Something dead.”

We continue past the rock and Glock stops. “Girl’s footprints are there in the dirt.” He motions. “Just beyond is the hand. There’s a straw hat over there.”

I follow his point, spot the hat on the ground next to another mound of disturbed earth. “The hat is Amish,” I tell him.

“Thought so.”

“Glock, did you touch anything?”

“No, ma’am. Got pretty close to the hand, though. The footprint next to it is mine.”

“Let’s spread out, take a look around,” I tell him. “Watch your step.”

“You got it.”

Keenly aware that if this turns out to be a crime scene we run the risk of contaminating evidence, I proceed to the pale object sticking out of the dirt. There are no other footprints aside from Glock’s and the girl’s. No broken branches or crushed weeds. Nothing out of place except for the hat and the odd piles of freshly turned dirt.

I stop a couple of feet away from the object and get my first up-close look. It definitely looks like a human hand. The fingers are slightly curled. The palm mottled and pale.

“How the hell did a hand get out here?” I mutter.

A few feet away from me, Glock makes a sound of incredulity. “Hospital or mortuary? Maybe an amputation that wasn’t disposed of properly? Maybe a dog got ahold of it and dragged it out here.”

“Maybe.” But I see the doubt on his face; I feel that same doubt echoing inside me.

I study the surrounding area and for the first time I notice several additional areas of disturbed ground. Ten feet away from where I stand, I see the boot. And flies. Thousands of them. “Someone’s been digging,” I say.

“That’s not good,” he says. “Strange that there are no footprints.”

“It rained a little last night.” I lean closer to study the hand. It’s topside down and partially buried. There’s dirt beneath the nails. Some type of abrasion on the palm near the thumb. “Looks … Caucasian,” I say. “No rings or visible tats.”

Tugging nitrile gloves from my equipment belt, I slip them on. The last thing I want to do is risk contaminating the scene, but before I call out my law enforcement counterparts, I need to be certain this isn’t the result of some prankster playing a joke. I reach down and brush some of the dirt away from the hand.

Grasping the index finger, I tug gently, but the hand doesn’t come free. I grip the digit more securely and increase the force with steady pressure. Dirt falls away as the wrist comes into view. When the stump is free, I’ve no doubt what it is. I can see the red-black smear of blood that’s gone brown and sticky at the edges. Dark hair on the wrist. The rust-white jut of bone. Flies swarming all around.