Harry and Susan, Cooper and Rick parked at the turnaround. The animals traveled with Harry. She was glad to have them because she thought Tucker would keep them on course.
Her footprints and Fair’s footprints had disappeared, but as they moved along she could see the great uprooted tree ahead.
“Come on.” Mrs. Murphy ran as fast as she could, given the conditions. The other two followed.
The humans arrived a few moments later.
Harry, astonished, raised her voice. “I swear this is the place.”
No skeleton hung in the roots.
Cooper didn’t doubt her friend and neighbor. Harry might stick her nose in the wrong place, but she was not given to illusions or telling lies.
Pewter, who had not been trapped up here by Odin, now paid close attention to everything. She carefully walked down into the hole, roots over her head.
As the gray cat looked around, the humans looked down.
Rick pointed. “Tracks. Can hardly make them out.”
Cooper walked over, as did Harry. They began following the pair of human tracks, which led straight up. Had they followed them on foot, it would have taken an hour in good conditions.
“Harry, there’s a footpath on the top, right?” Cooper spoke.
Susan said as Harry knelt down, “There are high meadows up there. If you travel four miles north you’ll come to the monastery. The high meadows were used for cattle in the summer by farmers on both sides of the mountains. There are farm roads for that, but few roads down that a vehicle could use. The monastery rented them out, and Mary Pat,” she named a long-deceased wealthy lady, “owned thousands of acres up here, which the government bought from her during the 1930s.”
“Can a Jeep negotiate them?” Rick was following Cooper’s line of thinking.
“With a good driver. The closest climb up the mountains from here zigzags up to the monastery. Switchbacks, but it can be done. The next one big enough is down by Royal Orchard.” Harry cited a large, impressive private tract. “Miles away.”
“Coyote tracks, mostly snow-covered.” Tucker pointed them out.
Harry had enough sense to pay attention to her dog in this situation. She followed the tracks as they paralleled the remnants of the human tracks.
“Coop.” Harry pointed them out.
“Is it possible coyotes took the bones?” Cooper wondered.
“They could have taken some, but there’d be dropped parts or we’d see a trace of drag marks,” Harry replied.
The four people, along with Tucker, stood there, eyes lifting upward. Rick pulled out his phone, cursed, then put it back in his pocket.
Cooper stated the obvious. “No service.”
“Let’s get back down so I can call,” said Rick. “I want a team up here and I want a team up top.”
“Does anyone in the department know either of those routes to the top?” Harry inquired.
“The monastery route,” said Rick. “Every now and then we’ll get a call in the summer about a lost hiker. I want people up there coming down here and vice versa. And the light won’t last that long.” Rick started back.
“Wait—” Mrs. Murphy, now down in the pit with Pewter, called out.
Harry walked thirty yards back down to them. The two cats’ pupils were huge.
Pewter, something in her mouth, was scrambling out with difficulty.
Balancing on a huge tree root, Mrs. Murphy climbed higher. They jumped onto the snow-covered earth.
Cooper knelt down. “Pewter. Kitty, kitty.”
Pewter eyed her, didn’t budge.
“Pewter, come on.” Harry also knelt down.
Thrilled to be the center of attention, the gray cat simply glared back, jaw clamped tight.
“Pewter, that is of no worth to you,” Mrs. Murphy scolded her.
“Boss, come back,” Cooper called over her shoulder.
Rick turned, heading back.
Pewter finally released her prize just as Rick reached them.
Cooper, heavy gloves on, picked it up, held it in her palm.
Rick nearly shouted, “What the hell is this with fingers!”
——
Back in Harry’s kitchen, Susan, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker warmed up before going out to deliver the last of the donation Christmas boxes.
“I took a chill up there.” Susan wrapped her hands around hot chocolate Harry had made for her.
Susan sometimes even drank hot chocolate in summer, she loved the taste so much.
Harry joined her. The animals crowded in together in Tucker’s bed, as it was bigger. They, too, wanted to warm up.
“Pewter”—Harry looked over at the gray cat, tail curled over her nose—“you get the gold star.”
“Tuna,” she said through her tail fur.
“What made you jump down there?” Mrs. Murphy asked.
“Remember when Odin ran across the back pasture with a part of the arm and the bracelet fell off?” Pewter recalled. “A few tiny pieces of bone fell off with the bracelet. I figured if someone moved that skeleton, bones might have fallen off then. All I had to do was dig around the fresh snow.”
“Smart.” Tucker praised the cat who in general drove her crazy.
Mrs. Murphy joined the praise, which brought large, loud purrs from Pewter.
“I envy that.” Susan smiled at the cats, too. “Owen is beside himself when I come home, happy with any toy, any attention. We want too much.”
“Yes, we do,” Harry agreed, took a delicious sip. “Not as good as Miranda’s, but not bad.”
“I think your hot chocolate is as good as hers. Apart from that, she’s in a class by herself with anything creative, like gardening. Such an eye for proportion, color, balance. I think one is just born with something like that.”
“Susan, so you think there are born killers?”
“Yes.” Susan paused. “But I suspect most killings are circumstantial. You know, there’s gain, revenge, or maybe even relief from pain.”
“What do you mean?” Harry had never thought of it that way.
“A mother kills her husband, who beats the children.”
A long, long silence followed this. “Personally, I think we should give her the gun.”
“Don’t say that publicly. Thousands, millions maybe, think violent people like an abusive husband can be taught not to be violent. I can almost understand all forms of violence except thrill killings, I guess, but harm a child or someone unable to fight back, I haven’t a scrap of sympathy for whatever happens to that monster. But I can’t say a word. I have a husband in the House of Delegates.”
“All that’s left of what Fair and I saw is a knucklebone, part of the forefinger attached to it. I have to believe that skeleton is a murder victim. As far as we know, there weren’t serial killers around here back whenever. That happened—what, at least a decade, probably more? We’d remember.” Harry paused. “We’ve had murders since, but once the perpetrator was caught, there was a twisted logic to what they did.”
“What is the logic to hanging fingers on a Christmas tree?” Susan’s lips began to get color back.
“It’s logical to whoever cut them off. Both sets of fingers have shown up now. Sure, they have to do the DNA thing, but we all know those fingers belonged to Pete Vavilov and Lou Higham.”
“Pete Vavilov?” Susan’s voice grew loud.
“Oh, dammit!” Harry had let it slip.
“What do you mean Pete Vavilov? He died of a heart attack.”
“Yes, it appears he did but—” Harry took a deep breath. “When the sheriff’s people went to the site of the accident, the body was missing those fingers. They kept it from everyone.”
“Why do that? I mean, it’s so strange, they should have made it public. Maybe it would drive the worm out of the woodwork.”
“They took the opposite gamble. Say nothing and hope someone trips up.” Harry appreciated both approaches.
“Does Charlene know? Has she kept quiet, too? If so, she’s one cool customer.” Susan said this with admiration.