Here Lies a Wicked Man: Snippet #2

The shape of the object looks wrong for a tree limb.

Booker slid the zoom to maximum magnification. What at first appeared to be a branch now looked more like an arm. Surely not a human arm. Not flesh-colored at all. Gray. Mottled.

He straightened and limped to the water’s edge, wrenched knee protesting fiercely.

“Good dog, Pup. Haul it on in.” The sun climbed higher, casting shadows from overhanging trees.

“That’s Chuck Fowler’s ugly yellow shirt,” Emaline said behind him. “Baby-poop yellow, with that big black stripe. I asked Chuck if he was practicing to be a road sign. I’d’ve thought he was too old for skinny dipping.”

Booker stared uneasily at what might’ve been yellow before spending time in the lake. His stomach did a slow roll, stirring the granola bar into the coffee and biscuits he’d eaten earlier. “Emaline, when was the last time you saw Chuck Fowler?”

“Last Sunday. Day of the Capricorn new moon. Brought his son to the golf course for an early round.” Emaline hooted. “That boy’ll never make much of a golfer, his daddy yelling at him all eighteen holes.”

“Was Fowler wearing his yellow shirt?”

Pup paddled fiercely about ten yards away now, dragging his heavy load. Extending from a pair of dun-colored trousers trailing in the water was what looked to be a shoe.

“Yep, yellow shirt, khakis…” Loud enough to reach the next county, Emaline moved closer, choosing her steps on the mushy ground. “You don’t suppose…?”

“Excuse me,” Booker edged past her. “The sun’s about to go. It’s now or never.” He scooped up a rock and limped back to the tripod. Through the viewfinder, he saw that Pup’s paddling had stirred up plenty of ripples. He tossed the rock aside, swiped at sweat trickling down his neck and pushed the trigger. The motor drive whirred, snapping off frames.

When Booker glanced back at the water’s edge, Pup had dragged his prize up the bank and Emaline had turned as pale as skim milk.