Chapter One
Levi
God damn it.
There’s another one. I approach the dark lump at the edge of the forest clearing with caution. Whoever’s done this might still be around, having just gone to retrieve their tools or their animal tag, but something tells me I’m being optimistic. As I get near I have a close-up look at the carcass. It’s been here awhile. No one’s coming for it. The tag would have been irrelevant in any case; it’s only October. This animal was killed out of season.
I grit my teeth at the sight of the dead deer, my throat constricting in the further knowledge that it’s also a doe. What a tragic waste. I look away from the desiccating body, struggling to tamp down my anger. What evil possesses people to commit such senseless acts? When I retreated to this place, I thought I’d never have to witness such cruelty again.
I was wrong.
This is the third dead animal I’ve found inside of two weeks. Correction—murdered animal. It’s no less than that, killing for no apparent purpose, and it sickens me to the core. If killing must occur, it has to at least have a purpose. Then it’s not murder. I’ve told myself that every day since I left the city of Seattle and my former life behind. I surrounded myself with nature here in the remote fringes of the Olympic National Forest in Washington State, to forget there were such things as murder, theft and greed. Yet they persist, even amid this calm, green paradise.
I shake my head. Bastards! I don’t know if it’s one rogue intruder or an organized group, but they’ve left a trail of killings in their wake. It started last week when I discovered a coyote, its tail and paws cut off, presumably as prizes. Then incredibly, three days ago I stumbled across a small, black bear’s dead form, half the noble creature’s head blown off. I should have heard a shotgun blast, but the persistent winds through the forest can carry sounds away in another direction. Bears are not easy to find nor kill. Now this—a female deer. Unforgiveable. As much as I vowed to keep to myself since leaving the city, incidents like this can’t go unreported.
The nearest town, if you can call it that, is Beaver, on the shores of Lake Pleasant. But the rangers up at the Pacific District office in Forks, which is farther south down the road, know me. They generally leave me to my business in peace, and vice versa. However, they have the resources and authority to collect and dispose of the carcasses. If I touch them myself, I’m an immediate suspect, and suspicion is the last thing I need to arouse.
I make my way back to my cabin, my refuge for more than a year now. It was a long-neglected shack when I first came here, but with some determination and a lot of elbow grease, I’ve turned it into something liveable. Liveable, and very, very private. Not much to look at, but it offered exactly what I wanted. Solitude. And I’m not about to let that solitude be disrupted by some mindless poachers.
I step beneath the covered porch, the repaired boards creaking under my feet. Water drips from the makeshift gutter above my head. Though it isn’t outright raining, the year-round wet climate in the area makes it seem so most days. But I don’t mind. I feel like the ever-present moisture here cleanses the forest as well as my soul. Purifying and renewing my shaken faith in all things earthly and human.
Inside, I glance around at my humble, spartan surroundings. Everything is as I left it an hour or so ago, and why wouldn’t it be. No one has ever set foot in the place besides me in years, and if all goes well, no one ever will. A handmade picnic table, carpentered together from broken pieces found in the state park refuse, sits on the left and commands the “kitchen” area. Worn and weathered wooden planks, left behind by the original builders, coupled with open wooden crates I brought along were nailed to the wall to serve as cupboards. Not that I owned many cups, plates or anything else for that matter. After all, how much dinnerware did one fugitive from society need?
An old, pot-bellied wood stove sits in one corner, constantly lit for heat as well as cooking, though I don’t like the idea of leaving a permanent trail of smoke in the air for curious eyes to ponder over and investigate. I don’t own the parcel of land the cabin sits on, but there is a right-to-use lease, issued by the state government, to my mother’s family; anyone looking for the Strongbow name wouldn’t find it in any records here, luckily. I’m only sorry my mother will never again know the peace and tranquillity of this place. I try to take comfort in the fact that both my parents are in a place even more peaceful, despite their lives being taken so violently.
My gaze falls on the unframed photos of them on the fireplace mantel on the opposite side of the rectangular room. It’s difficult to shake off the painful memories with their faces staring at me from across the single room of my abode, yet I don’t want to let go of them completely. The images are all that’s left of my central family. The Strongbow name ends with me, along with the family fortune they’d paid to protect with their lives. What did money matter now, except to give it away to some charitable interests they had? I certainly didn’t need it, having made the decision to withdraw into the mountains as I have, with no descendants or the prospect of any to pass it on to.
Shit. Over-contemplation won’t get me anywhere, and I have a job to do. I climb up a few steps of the ladder to my “loft” to grab some different clothes for the trip to town. It’s basically just a sleeping platform I’ve built overhead that covers half the depth of the room and the entire length across the kitchen and living area, supported by a central post in the middle. A mattress and blankets are all I need up there, plus the trunk that houses my severely-curtailed wardrobe. Any suits and ties I owned are in the hands of Goodwill now.
I change my shirt and boots for something less backcountry. I lock up and walk behind the cabin where my only true thing of value hides. My brand new, black Chevy Silverado truck. At least it was brand new a year and a half ago; the new models will be out now, but that matters little. This will be the last vehicle I ever possess. The comfy interior welcomes me with whispers of new-car smell mingled with wood smoke and wet pine needles. Her engine starts with a reliable rumble, and a swish of wipers clears away the mix of water droplets and discarded, golden leaves that have gathered on the windshield.
Taking in a lungful of the fragrant air, I throw her into gear and pull away, retreading the barely visible dual tracks that lead to something resembling a road that will lead me reluctantly back to something resembling what I vowed never to return to. The realm of organized society. As I pass through the wall of forest and its changing colors of autumn, I could think of few things less organized or places I care less to frequent than “society.” Because society took away everything I held dear.
***
I’m not in Forks often, and in fact, the less I’m here the better I like it. As soon as the rangers finish their report and head out to the locations I’ve given them, I can leave and be shut of so-called civilization again. The only place civilized in my opinion is my own four walls and the quiet forest surrounding it. I’ve been up there long enough that almost nothing of town appeals to me anymore, except the recollection of some delicious pies at Annie’s Café. Sweet, crisp apples and handpicked blueberries encased in the flakiest crust on Earth are almost worth the trip.
Almost.
“Thanks for coming in, Levi,” Doug says as I finish up at the ranger station. Doug Preston is the head ranger and has lived in the area all his life, one person I can honestly say I trust. “Anything else you need up there?”
“Nope,” I say, turning to leave the offices. “Just send someone to pick up the carcasses before they attract more predators.”
“Sure will. You can let us know if anything else turns up.”
“Thanks, Doug.” I exit the premises and wander down the block, leaving my truck parked at the station. Looks like it rained here in town, with water running in the gutters and puddles on the sidewalk. When I reach Annie’s, my reflection in the glass door catches me off-guard. I don’t have a mirror in my cabin, and I barely recognize the burly silhouette nor hollowed eyes that stare back at me. What parts of my face are uncovered by hair are grizzled and wind burned. None of it bears any resemblance to the former suit-wearing, salon-groomed professional that was Levi Aaron Strongbow III. Good. Because he doesn’t exist anymore.
He can’t.
I push open the door to Annie’s, preferring not to remove my hat, but out of respect for the establishment pull my well-worn Mariners cap away from my auburn mane of hair and shove it in one of the oversized pockets of my jacket. The smell of coffee and baked goods hits me like a wall as I enter. My sense of smell is ultra-heightened since moving away from all of this. I find an empty seat at the counter and order a slice of apple pie.
The server is no one I’ve ever seen before, and while friendly enough, makes no comment on my appearance or asks if I’m new in town. I survey the place while taking a few sips of coffee and bites of my pie. Not because I expect to see anyone I know, but living off the grid has made keeping a bead on everything and anything around me second nature. There’s a couple of kitchen staff, another customer a few seats away from me, and a family at a booth near the entrance. A couple of working-man types in coveralls are at another booth, and in the last booth is a single woman. That is, single as in by herself. Alone. Company of one.
She looks abandoned, defeated somehow, as she gazes out the window at the cloudy, gray day outside. Her long blonde hair reminds me of someone, someone I have no right to remember. It’s not until she turns her face away from the window and toward me that recognition hits like a punch to the gut. It’s her.
It’s Dallas.
Those long locks of wheat colored hair should have tipped me off. I could never forget running my fingers through their length; but it’s her eyes that tell me without a doubt the identity of this lovely woman. Cornflower blue, once so bright and full of life and laughter, but today they seem dimmed with sadness. What’s she doing here in Forks, looking lost as an abandoned fawn? The last time I saw her was in Seattle.
The day I left. The day I wish never happened.