Page 86 of Rage

“Ja.”

“Okay.” I look toward the woods. “You stay right here for me, okay? I’m going to take a look and I’ll be right back. If your friend shows up, tell him to stay with you, okay?”

“Yeah.”

The woods are thick with old and new growth and tangled with bramble. Resigning myself to poison ivy and bug bites, I leave the road’s shoulder, cross through the ditch, and fight my way through.

“Glock?” A dozen feet in and I call out.

“Over here.”

I glance left, spot the blue of his uniform through the brush, and I head that way. I find him standing next to an ancient black walnut tree. At his feet, the body of a young woman is sprawled in the weeds. She’s wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt that’s stained with blood. She’s lying in a prone position with her head turned to one side.

“Oh no,” I hear myself murmur.

“Looks like a gunshot wound there in her back,” Glock says quietly.

I lean closer. “Too much blood to tell if it’s an exit or entrance wound.”

He nods, his eyes meeting mine. “She looks young.”

“Yeah.”

I’m aware of my heart beating too fast. Sweat dribbling down between my shoulder blades. I think about the Amish kid leaning against the car and I hate it that he had to see this.

“Did you look around?” I ask.

“A little. Not much to see.” He motions in the general direction of the road. “A couple of broken twigs when I was coming in.” He sighs. “Brush is frickin’ thick as peanut butter.”

He’s right. There’s no path and too much overgrowth for anyone to get in or out easily.

“You think someone shot her and dumped her?” he asks.

Dumped her.

It’s such an indecent, offensive word. The kind of action that applies to a piece of garbage or some object no one cares about. Someone cared about this young woman, I think.

“I didn’t notice any drag marks,” I say.

“Could have carried her.”

Now that some of my shock has settled down, I look a little more closely at the body. “She may have gotten out of a vehicle. Tried to get away. Ran into the woods. Someone followed. Shot her down.”

“Or shot her in the back as she was running away.” He shakes his head. “Chief, what the hell is the world coming to?”

“I don’t know.” At the moment, it feels as if the world is on a collision course with doom. “We should probably clear out.”

Neither of us moves.

He looks down at the body, his expression going hard. “Any idea who she is?”

The last thing we should be doing at this point is trampling the scene or touching the body. There’s always a risk of contaminating evidence and it’s a rookie mistake. But we’re here, and I’m reminded that if this young woman is local, her parents are probably wondering where she is. That there’s a good chance I know them.

Careful where I step, I sidle closer to the body. I’m about two feet away from where she lies, so close I can make out several abrasions, on her elbow, the heel of her hand, her cheekbone …

Her head is turned to one side, facing away from me. I take another step. I see blood at her temple, the hair soaked and matted. A thin red line where it dripped down her cheek and onto the forest floor. I take another step and recognition mule-kicks me in the gut. I hear my own intake of breath, feel the quick punch of disbelief.

“That’s Wilma Borntrager,” I hear myself say.