Storm Prey

Arnold topped the hill on the way home, and came down to Minnie Creek and saw the coyotes break out from under the bridge and into the trees. He went on by, but he could see them at the edge of the woods, watching the truck with their silver eyes.
    Coyotes loved the taste of a tender young guinea hen. Arnold’s young guinea hens. He lost a half-dozen birds a year to the coyotes—he’d find an explosion of feathers outside the barn and another old pal was gone. And the dogs were getting more and more aggressive.
    So Arnold parked the car in a hurry, hustled inside, put on his insulated hunting boots and cold-weather hunting jacket, opened the gun safe and got out the Savage .223 with the nine-power variable scope. Back outside, he headed straight down the driveway, across the road, across Dornblicker’s field, over a hump and down toward the creek. The land sort of swole up, as Dornblicker said, before it dropped down to the creek, and the swole covered Arnold’s approach.
    He crawled the last few yards on his elbows and thighs, slithering over the snow. At the top, he lay still for a minute, then two, then carefully, slowly, pushed up. Four coyotes down by the creek; cold breeze in his face, so they couldn’t smell him. Maybe they found a roadkill deer, Arnold thought.
    He pushed the rifle forward. He was 130 yards out, but the coyotes were big animals compared to woodchucks. He eased off the safety, picked out the biggest mutt, let out a breath, squeezed ...
    BAP! The shot echoed across the freezing winter countryside, and three of the coyotes broke for the trees. One of them jumped, and fell.
    Arnold worked the bolt action, watching the tree line, looking for a second shot, but the coyotes were gone. He stood up, slung the gun over his shoulder, and walked down through the crunchy snow to look at the dead one.
    Thirty feet out, he saw the garbage bags and thought, Goddamnit. Every once in a while, somebody who didn’t want to pay garbage fees would throw sacks of garbage and trash in the roadside ditches. Half the time, it was full of hazardous waste—paint cans, old TVs, insecticide. Stuff you had to pay to get rid of.
    Ten feet out, as he was looking at the dead coyote, the muzzle of his gun on the mutt’s head, he saw the shoe.
    And then, through a hole in the second garbage bag, a single, frozen, blue eye, wide open.
     
     
    LUCAS WAS SITTING in the hospital cafeteria, reduced to reading a tattered copy of The Onion, nearly delirious with boredom, when, at three o’clock, Marcy Sherrill called and said, “I’m having carrot sticks and low-fat yogurt for my afternoon snack.”
    “I’m proud of you,” Lucas said. “Can I hang up now?”
    “No. I’ve got something that might interest you, out of Dakota County. A farmer down there found a couple fresh bodies in garbage bags under a bridge. Their wallets were gone, but one of them had an envelope in his pocket, a gas bill, with his name on it. Charles Chapman, aka ‘Shooter’ to his pals in the Seed. The Dakota deputies ID’d the other one as Michael Haines, Chapman’s housemate. Both of them are on the computer, both of them are members of the Seed. Both of them were wearing jeans, biker boots, and tan Carhartt work jackets.”
    Lucas hunched over the table, and Jenkins, across the table, perked up. “Man ... that’s interesting.”
    “They took the bodies up to St. Paul, and we called an ME’s investigator and asked him to take a peek at their legs. Their arms and faces had been ripped up by coyotes, but their legs were okay. Haines has three scratches down the back of his left leg, just above his Achilles tendon. They look like fingernail scratches.”
    “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Lucas said. “I’ll get Weather home, then I’ll head over to the office and talk to the gang guys. Goddamn, this could break it.”
    “But if two out of the three are dead . . .”
    “The other one, the one still alive, is a smart guy. He had to get rid of the other two for security reasons, after Peterson died. Maybe the smart guy knew what it meant when Haines got scratched. The assholes are getting onto DNA.”
    “The ME’s sending DNA samples over to your lab, if we could get them to hurry it up a little,” Marcy said. “The samples from Peterson’s fingernails are already there.”
    “Well, you know, they keep telling me that chemistry is chemistry, but I’ll call them,” Lucas said. “I’ll tell you what: shutting this down would