lightning. Just these white flashes, like big flashbulbs going off.”
White flashes, Knox thought. Wasn’t that a coincidence. What in hell was going on around here?
3
“The flashes might be related,” Knox said. “There was another vandalism last night where there was a white flash. Where were they, about?”
“Don’t see how in hell any flashes could have something to do with killing my chickens,” Jesse grumbled, but he turned and pointed toward the stretch of woods across the road. “Over there. My bedroom window faces that direction.”
“You said they were low.” Knox turned and surveyed the land: hilly and heavily wooded, like most of eastern Kentucky. “How low? Tree level, or higher than that?”
“Just above the treetops, I guess.”
“Got any guess as to the distance?”
Jesse was a farmer, and farmers knew distances. He could probably pace off almost an exact acre. That it had been night would hamper him some, but he had the advantage of knowing every hill and curve of his land. He narrowed his eyes as he squinted at the hill, too interested to bitch. “About a hundred yards in, I’d say. Can’t be much farther, or you crest the hill and go down the other side.”
Made sense to Knox. “I’m going to take a look over there,” he said. “Want to come along?”
“Let me put on my boots.”
While Jesse fetched his boots, Knox opened the trunk of his car and took out his own pair of field boots, which reached almost to his knees. The heavy leather protected against snake-bites. He was lucky in that he wasn’t allergic to either poison oak or poison ivy, but so far as he knew no one was immune to snake venom. He sat down on the porch step to put on the boots.
Jesse came out wearing a pair of green Wellingtons, and together they tromped across the road and into the woods. Knox thought this had to set a world record for length of time for Jesse not griping about something; it had been—what—five whole minutes? He checked his watch so he could keep track of how long the peace lasted.
The temperature was cooler under the thick umbrella of the trees. He wasn’t much of a woodsman, but he recognized the red and white varieties of oak, the maple trees, the hemlock. Wild azaleas dotted the undergrowth with delicate color. The rich, earthy smell teased his nostrils, prompting him to take deep, appreciative breaths.
“Smells good, don’t it?” Jesse observed, and for once his tone was quiet instead of strident. Knox made a mental note that the woods seemed to affect Jesse’s personality; maybe they should build a pen out here and keep him locked in it.
The land began to rise, the slope becoming steep. They pushed through bushes, tugged their clothing free of briars that grabbed at them, climbed over some rocks and went around bigger ones. Jesse kept looking around, mentally measuring the distance, since the foliage was too thick for him to see his house. They were near the crest of the hill when he stopped. “Right about here, I guess.”
Knox took his time, studying every detail around him. Just to the right, the foliage thinned out somewhat, but was still too dense to be called a clearing. The trees grew thick and tall here, with flowering dogwoods tucked up under the shelter of the bigger trees. As far as he could tell, none of the leaves looked singed or in any way disturbed, so whatever the flash was, either it hadn’t been close enough to do any damage or there was no accompanying heat.
The ground, though . . . something had disturbed it, in a vague way. He couldn’t find any prints, but clumps of decaying vegetation had been disturbed, with the darker, wetter side turned up. “Someone’s been here,” he said to Jesse, pointing to the forest floor.
“I see.”
“Wiped out their prints, though. Wonder what they were doing up here.” Knox did a full turn, looking for a break in the foliage that allowed a view of . . . something. “Nothing’s visible from here. I
White flashes, Knox thought. Wasn’t that a coincidence. What in hell was going on around here?
3
“The flashes might be related,” Knox said. “There was another vandalism last night where there was a white flash. Where were they, about?”
“Don’t see how in hell any flashes could have something to do with killing my chickens,” Jesse grumbled, but he turned and pointed toward the stretch of woods across the road. “Over there. My bedroom window faces that direction.”
“You said they were low.” Knox turned and surveyed the land: hilly and heavily wooded, like most of eastern Kentucky. “How low? Tree level, or higher than that?”
“Just above the treetops, I guess.”
“Got any guess as to the distance?”
Jesse was a farmer, and farmers knew distances. He could probably pace off almost an exact acre. That it had been night would hamper him some, but he had the advantage of knowing every hill and curve of his land. He narrowed his eyes as he squinted at the hill, too interested to bitch. “About a hundred yards in, I’d say. Can’t be much farther, or you crest the hill and go down the other side.”
Made sense to Knox. “I’m going to take a look over there,” he said. “Want to come along?”
“Let me put on my boots.”
While Jesse fetched his boots, Knox opened the trunk of his car and took out his own pair of field boots, which reached almost to his knees. The heavy leather protected against snake-bites. He was lucky in that he wasn’t allergic to either poison oak or poison ivy, but so far as he knew no one was immune to snake venom. He sat down on the porch step to put on the boots.
Jesse came out wearing a pair of green Wellingtons, and together they tromped across the road and into the woods. Knox thought this had to set a world record for length of time for Jesse not griping about something; it had been—what—five whole minutes? He checked his watch so he could keep track of how long the peace lasted.
The temperature was cooler under the thick umbrella of the trees. He wasn’t much of a woodsman, but he recognized the red and white varieties of oak, the maple trees, the hemlock. Wild azaleas dotted the undergrowth with delicate color. The rich, earthy smell teased his nostrils, prompting him to take deep, appreciative breaths.
“Smells good, don’t it?” Jesse observed, and for once his tone was quiet instead of strident. Knox made a mental note that the woods seemed to affect Jesse’s personality; maybe they should build a pen out here and keep him locked in it.
The land began to rise, the slope becoming steep. They pushed through bushes, tugged their clothing free of briars that grabbed at them, climbed over some rocks and went around bigger ones. Jesse kept looking around, mentally measuring the distance, since the foliage was too thick for him to see his house. They were near the crest of the hill when he stopped. “Right about here, I guess.”
Knox took his time, studying every detail around him. Just to the right, the foliage thinned out somewhat, but was still too dense to be called a clearing. The trees grew thick and tall here, with flowering dogwoods tucked up under the shelter of the bigger trees. As far as he could tell, none of the leaves looked singed or in any way disturbed, so whatever the flash was, either it hadn’t been close enough to do any damage or there was no accompanying heat.
The ground, though . . . something had disturbed it, in a vague way. He couldn’t find any prints, but clumps of decaying vegetation had been disturbed, with the darker, wetter side turned up. “Someone’s been here,” he said to Jesse, pointing to the forest floor.
“I see.”
“Wiped out their prints, though. Wonder what they were doing up here.” Knox did a full turn, looking for a break in the foliage that allowed a view of . . . something. “Nothing’s visible from here. I
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