Day Into Night by Dave Hugelschaffer Read Free Book Online Page B

is too close to the city.”
    I’m about to ask if they ever run security out here but he veers off, walking just fast enough that it’s clear he has other business. The game is over, score inconclusive. I head upslope, past an area filled with blue flags, newly cordoned off, careful not to look too hard, and meet Fredricks on his way down.
    “Head back to the trucks,” he says. “We’re moving out.”
    I turn to ask him why we’re leaving with so much left to do but he’s too far past already, striding across the slash, nearly stumbling in his rush to carry out this vital assignment. Carl comes up beside me. “Miller time,” he says.
    Men are heading back to the trucks, trudging slowly uphill. Rachet and his crew are nowhere to be seen, probably on the road hidden by the swell of the slope. Looking at a nearby yellow flag, I feel a mild sort of panic. I came here on impulse, drawn by forces I couldn’t resist, and now I know why — I want to help catch the bastard. But I have to leave now and there’s so much to do, so much they’ll never tell me. I squat next to the yellow flag. Nestled among the moss and pine needles is a short, concave piece of black metal about three inches long. Part of the machine — they’ll never miss it; they have hundreds, thousands of other pieces.
    “Have you got an empty sandwich bag?” I say to Carl, standing behind me.
    This late in the day Carl’s sandwich bags are always empty. He rummages in a pocket, hands me a lump of plastic which unfolds on its own like a clear flower in my hand. I turn the bag inside-out, use it as a glove to pick up the small chunk of metal.
    “Porter, you’re not supposed to do that.”
    Carl’s voice is an abrasive whisper. He leans closer, breathing in my ear like an excited dog as I fold plastic over the specimen, seal it in the baggie. To his obvious horror, I slip the baggie and its heavy contents into my jacket pocket, pull the pin with the yellow flag out of the ground and add it to my bundle. No one seems to have noticed. Carl follows me up the slope, whispering fiercely.
    “I think you better put it back.”
    “This one’s mine.”
    “Are you nuts? You could get arrested.”
    “They’ve got plenty of other pieces.”
    He shakes his head. “I still think you should put it back.”
    We trudge up the slope, past smouldering metal and onto the fresh subsoil of the logging road. More vehicles are parked along the edge of the road now and newcomers are taking cases out of a van, conferring, readying cameras and slipping on rubber gloves. Staff from the Chief Medical Examiner’s office, come to collect the remains of Ronny Hess. Rachet is talking to them, briefing them. I wander past, an invisible volunteer.
    Hess’s truck, a newer Ford four-wheel drive, is pulled off the road at the edge of the cutblock, its driver-side window spider-webbed with cracks, its front windshield blown in. I hadn’t paid much attention to it up until now but seeing the damaged truck sends a jolt of fear though me and I’m drawn forward, terrified I’ll see a familiar smudge on the window, a stain on the seat.
    I step over a thin yellow barrier of flagging.
    “Hey — get the hell outa there!”
    It takes a moment to realize the shout is directed at me. A uniformed cop is striding toward me,an intent look on his face.“Back away,” he says. “Don’t touch anything.”
    I lift my hands as though he might shoot if I make a wrong move, step away from the truck, across the sacred yellow line. He gestures me away. “That’s a crime scene buddy.”
    I mumble an apology, retreat to the truck in which I arrived. Most of the Curtain River Search and Rescue team is already there, squatting in the box, awaiting further instructions. A few stragglers come across the slash, and when all are safely stowed, Rachet saunters over, thanks us for our help. I want to stay, follow what happens next, but it’s clearly out of the question. A few minutes later we’re