SLIM TO NONE: The 4th Lenny Moss Mystery by Tim Sheard - $15.00
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READ THE FIRST CHAPTER
ONE
Carlton slung the bow over his shoulder and adjusted the quiver of arrows. As he pulled the night vision goggles down over his eyes, the murky blackness of the woods lifted, revealing trees and shrubs and a path leading up a steep hill. Fairmount Park lay before him as naked as a stripper in a red spotlight. He looked back to the street one last time, saw nothing moving, and strode into the dark.
He climbed the hill, the yawning night embracing him and his dark purpose. His leather moccasins fell silently on the earth, the day’s cold rain having softened the leaves. He would bring down his prey without a sound, the razor-tipped arrow penetrating flesh. Splintering bone.
Death would come quickly.
He found a spot on a broad granite outcropping with a tangle of evergreen boughs to form a screen. Sitting cross-legged on the flat rock, he glanced at the luminous dial on his watch. Quarter past midnight. Time advanced as indifferently as the decay of the woods. Far above the leafy canopy, the moon shoved a cloud aside, illuminating the winding path. He watched the trail and waited for a target.
Carlton felt a deep satisfaction with his place in the greater scheme of things. Everyone knew that Fairmont Park was overrun with deer. The greedy critters stripped the bark from the young saplings, leaving dead skeletons to rot, and in the summer they spread West Nile virus. The animals made the park a hotbed of contagion. They were a major public health menace, but killing them was illegal. It was crazy!
They should bring back the wolf; that would cull the herd in no time. Be tough on the dog walkers, though, the wolf pack would tear those little poodles and terriers to pieces. Leave their carcasses scattered along the jogging trail. Still, there’d be a lot less yap, yap, yap.
The Indians had it right. Honor the sacred hunt.
Suddenly a shadow moving among the trees caught his eye. The figure lurched forward along the trail. It was large and hump-backed, not like any animal he’d ever seen. It was no deer, that much was certain. Carlton pulled an arrow from the sheath and slipped the notched end into the taut gut.
As the shadowy figure climbed the hill, Carlton saw that it was two figures, not one. A man, not overly tall, with another individual hanging limp over his shoulder. Unconscious? Dead? At this distance Carlton couldn’t tell, even with the night vision goggles.
Leaving the trail, the figure lurched toward a stand of tall trees, bent forward and dumped his burden. The victim lay on the damp earth as limp as a sack of grain.
Carlton stood to get a better look at the body. He saw long hair falling from the face and the outline of a bosom. He was glad she wasn’t naked.
As the figure stood over the woman, Carlton lifted his bow, pulled back hard on the arrow and took aim. He held his breath. Felt the silence in the woods.
How the hell can I shoot somebody I don’t even know? He realized it would be crazy to kill the guy. How many times had the cops arrested somebody for shooting a burglar going out the window? The tension in the bow echoed the powerful temptation to release the deadly arrow.
Shoot? Don’t shoot? What the hell. . ?
He slowly lowered the bow. Waited. Watched as the perpetrator turned, found the trail and continued down the hill until out of sight.
Clambering down to the figure, he took out a small flashlight and shone it on the girl’s face. She was a looker. Early to mid-twenties. Blonde hair, bleached, he could tell by her dark, hairy arms. Nice teeth. There were nasty bruises on the side of her face and a pool of fresh blood oozing through her blouse right over her heart. He didn't have to feel for a pulse to know she was dead.
He knew he should call the police, but they would ask what was he doing in the park in the middle of the night with a Mongolian bow, night vision goggles, and a hunk of rope. Then they’d find his van and realize he was poaching on the king’s land.
Confused, scared and pissed off big time, Carlton made his way back toward the van, going over his options, wanting to do right but afraid of the consequences. He felt as helpless as a suspect in handcuffs. Seeing the street light ahead, he pulled off the goggles to wipe sweat from his face and cursed his bad luck. Fucking dead girl. I got t’ find a fucking dead girl.
By the time he reached the street he knew only one choice made sense. There was just one path to take, case closed. Stowing his gear in the van, Carlton settled into the driver's seat, pulled out his cell phone and called Lenny Moss.
Carlton slung the bow over his shoulder and adjusted the quiver of arrows. As he pulled the night vision goggles down over his eyes, the murky blackness of the woods lifted, revealing trees and shrubs and a path leading up a steep hill. Fairmount Park lay before him as naked as a stripper in a red spotlight. He looked back to the street one last time, saw nothing moving, and strode into the dark.
He climbed the hill, the yawning night embracing him and his dark purpose. His leather moccasins fell silently on the earth, the day’s cold rain having softened the leaves. He would bring down his prey without a sound, the razor-tipped arrow penetrating flesh. Splintering bone.
Death would come quickly.
He found a spot on a broad granite outcropping with a tangle of evergreen boughs to form a screen. Sitting cross-legged on the flat rock, he glanced at the luminous dial on his watch. Quarter past midnight. Time advanced as indifferently as the decay of the woods. Far above the leafy canopy, the moon shoved a cloud aside, illuminating the winding path. He watched the trail and waited for a target.
Carlton felt a deep satisfaction with his place in the greater scheme of things. Everyone knew that Fairmont Park was overrun with deer. The greedy critters stripped the bark from the young saplings, leaving dead skeletons to rot, and in the summer they spread West Nile virus. The animals made the park a hotbed of contagion. They were a major public health menace, but killing them was illegal. It was crazy!
They should bring back the wolf; that would cull the herd in no time. Be tough on the dog walkers, though, the wolf pack would tear those little poodles and terriers to pieces. Leave their carcasses scattered along the jogging trail. Still, there’d be a lot less yap, yap, yap.
The Indians had it right. Honor the sacred hunt.
Suddenly a shadow moving among the trees caught his eye. The figure lurched forward along the trail. It was large and hump-backed, not like any animal he’d ever seen. It was no deer, that much was certain. Carlton pulled an arrow from the sheath and slipped the notched end into the taut gut.
As the shadowy figure climbed the hill, Carlton saw that it was two figures, not one. A man, not overly tall, with another individual hanging limp over his shoulder. Unconscious? Dead? At this distance Carlton couldn’t tell, even with the night vision goggles.
Leaving the trail, the figure lurched toward a stand of tall trees, bent forward and dumped his burden. The victim lay on the damp earth as limp as a sack of grain.
Carlton stood to get a better look at the body. He saw long hair falling from the face and the outline of a bosom. He was glad she wasn’t naked.
As the figure stood over the woman, Carlton lifted his bow, pulled back hard on the arrow and took aim. He held his breath. Felt the silence in the woods.
How the hell can I shoot somebody I don’t even know? He realized it would be crazy to kill the guy. How many times had the cops arrested somebody for shooting a burglar going out the window? The tension in the bow echoed the powerful temptation to release the deadly arrow.
Shoot? Don’t shoot? What the hell. . ?
He slowly lowered the bow. Waited. Watched as the perpetrator turned, found the trail and continued down the hill until out of sight.
Clambering down to the figure, he took out a small flashlight and shone it on the girl’s face. She was a looker. Early to mid-twenties. Blonde hair, bleached, he could tell by her dark, hairy arms. Nice teeth. There were nasty bruises on the side of her face and a pool of fresh blood oozing through her blouse right over her heart. He didn't have to feel for a pulse to know she was dead.
He knew he should call the police, but they would ask what was he doing in the park in the middle of the night with a Mongolian bow, night vision goggles, and a hunk of rope. Then they’d find his van and realize he was poaching on the king’s land.
Confused, scared and pissed off big time, Carlton made his way back toward the van, going over his options, wanting to do right but afraid of the consequences. He felt as helpless as a suspect in handcuffs. Seeing the street light ahead, he pulled off the goggles to wipe sweat from his face and cursed his bad luck. Fucking dead girl. I got t’ find a fucking dead girl.
By the time he reached the street he knew only one choice made sense. There was just one path to take, case closed. Stowing his gear in the van, Carlton settled into the driver's seat, pulled out his cell phone and called Lenny Moss.