Chapter Text
Prologue
Bobby Avery is no stupid shit. People think what they like, and they do, but it don’t matter none. He can set a spell in the woods, rifle balanced in the crook of his arm, kneel in the cool morning dew as the sun threads gold through grey sky. Set a spell as his mind quiets until suddenly he’s thinking hard on his choices: stick around here with no assets, no opportunities, no way to advance in this shit town with its closed mines, or get the hell outta dodge. Fire Creek is one diner, one gas station, and one stoplight. It’s a dead end, and anytime he smells the sweet scent of meth cooking in the hills, he’s reminded of his third option, the one he won’t consider. He’s seen what the drug does, and it won’t drag him down the same way it has some of his neighbors.
No, he’s getting out. Been working on an online degree, some liberal arts degree from an accredited college. And Addy’s been working on hers between hours babysitting and shifts at the school as a substitute teacher.
A rustling in the brush tears him from his thoughts. Squirrels, tumbling over one another in the early hours of a May morning. But it isn’t squirrels he’s after. Deer’s his game, even out of season. He’s seen a buck with eight points, and he’s aiming to get it before he and Addy take off. They’ll head for Louisville or Lexington, find proper work and get a place of their own. Hang that rack on the wall somewhere as the one good trophy they got from their podunk town in the middle of Nowhere, Kentucky.
Not that he doesn’t like the trees. The land is beautiful, no matter what’s said about the town or its people. His favorite moments are out here in the quiet, just as the forest wakes. Chipmunks squeak with alarm as his boots near, black ants as shiny as coins crawl over mushroom-speckled logs, and birds belt their cheery songs overhead. Beneath the leafy arms of the trees, the peace is almost touchable, like a gentle breeze against the skin. This land is about the only thing he’ll miss, aside from his mama. And with Addy coming with him, he doesn’t need anything else in this world.
He rises from his crouch, back strong and straight. Memories of his father’s complaints curl in his ears—his old man stooped with a permanent bend in his spine from years of carpentry work. Bobby didn’t want the same life, working carpentry and odd jobs around town, getting paid under the table from those who could afford it, bartering with those who couldn’t. No one’s getting paid for full value, and his pa did solid work. He deserved better than the accident that killed him. Paying for his funeral had meant sticking him in a plain pine box and lodging him in the earth with the smallest marker, his name only, not even a year engraved. Couldn’t afford the additional numbers. His poor mama still leaves flowers every Sunday.
That doesn’t have to be Addy one day. She deserves more.
He draws in a lungful of the cool mountain air. The breeze picks up, and that’s when he smells it. Copper and rot. There and gone. Wrinkles his nose. He hefts his gun and stretches his legs. A large shadow circles overhead and, sure enough, it’s the dark outline of a vulture, feathery wings spanning six feet across. The first is joined by a second, every bit as big and spooky. Sure as shit there’s a dead animal nearby. The scavengers circle until one disappears into the canopy. The second follows.
His mama used to say these birds carry the souls of the dead. He’d think of it when his pa died. His old man’s spine unbending, unfurling like the frond of a fern, spreading his arms wide and carried by the bird to Heaven. If that’s where the dead go.
Curiosity nips him as the coppery rot smell drifts across his path again. Has to be something bigger than a squirrel to stink like that. Maybe a coyote or a bear? Hopefully not that beautiful buck with the eight points. That’d be a sad sight, though he’ll still take the rack.
He picks his way through the brush, avoiding the thorny stands of devil’s walking stick, ducking beneath the branches of witch hazel and Chinkapin oak. The buds of the mimosa tree are fit to burst like fireworks, and the sedges grow long enough to bend beneath their own weight, hiding a carpet of dead leaves. Sweat pebbles between his shoulder blades.
When the wind shifts, the smell billows, singes the inside of Bobby’s nose. The dark carrion birds move about in the trees overhead. There’s more than just the first two—big sonuvabitches with wary gazes set on him. By the time the smell is less of an occasional fart-waft and more of an all-pervading stench, he counts at least twenty of the birds. Ahead through the brush, two more rise from the ground and settle into the trees, joining their dark brethren.
An unnatural shape, something you don’t see growing from limbs, hangs in the trees. Bobby parts a swag of hemlock and halts, breath stealing from his lungs. Panic flares in his chest like gas on a fire, and his mouth dries instantly.
It’s human. Or it was once. Still? Oh god. The belly is split and entrails hang like blood-soaked ribbons swinging in the wind. Green kudzu snakes around its arms and neck, a sightless head lolling to one side, mouth parted and black. The flesh is twisted—burned? No. Great swaths of glistening, corded muscle, purple and red and pink. White, shiny fat hangs in chunks.
Bobby’s skinned enough animals to know what he’s looking at. When he can suck air back into lungs, his voice rips from him in a scream.
The vultures shift on the branches, their feathers whispering like the leaves.
Chapter 1
“Miss you, too,” Jack mumbles. He ends the call and places the cell in the pocket of his jacket.
Will glances, the urge to ask about Bella on the tip of his tongue, but it’s quelled by the tight-lipped expression shaping Jack’s face. It’s not prying, exactly—Will and Bella have been friends for the entire three years of his and Jack’s partnership. But she’s Jack’s wife, Jack’s most treasured person, and the cancer invading her body tires her out in a way that scares all of them.
He grips the steering wheel tighter, his eyes drifting across the grey asphalt of US-25E. The trip from Quantico to Fire Creek, Kentucky is an eight hour drive and they started at five this morning. A glance in the rearview mirror tells him the dark circles cradling his eyes are bigger than usual, giving him thoughts of raccoons. Just the other night he cleaned up the trash they dragged from his bins, the crafty little shits.
Desperate for conversation, he says, “Tell me again about this case.”
Jack hums, sips his coffee, and pulls out the briefing. “We should’ve got this case sooner. These are not your everyday murders.”
“The skin removal is a new twist.”
“And that’s not all. Liver gone on one, kidneys on the second, and tongue on the third.”
“Trophies.”
“Could be,” Jack says, his deep voice filling the car as he launches into the details. “The first victim was James Cooney, found on February 28, age twenty-six, white male out of Barbourville. Strung up in a tree with kudzu, skin missing along his torso, his face, and his scalp. Liver gone. He was eviscerated. Cause of death was believed to be blood loss, though let’s hope the poor fucker passed out long before that.” He flips the page, smacking it with his broad, black fingers as he did it. “Second victim is Madeleine Goddard, age thirty-five, white female from Artemus, found the same way. This time, kidneys were removed. Her body was found on April fifth. That’s when Prurnell and Honeycutt got called in. In the course of their investigation, they got nothing.”
Will humphs. Kade Prurnell and Drew Honeycutt are two of their least favorite agents. ‘Differing philosophies,’ is how Jack puts it. ‘Assholes to anyone who won’t lick their butts’ is how Will likes to frame it.
“Our latest victim is a man named William Ashcroft, age forty-eight, white male, of Fire Creek. Found yesterday, May 2nd. Same as the others, but his tongue was removed.”
“Jesus Christ. Why didn’t they call us on the first one?” Will tucks a curl behind his ear. His hair is a tangle of dark brown curls. Taming it is at least a fifteen minute process, and this morning he took five out of necessity. Skipped trimming his beard and mustache, too.
“The first case seems to have involved a bigshot sheriff who was trying to collar the murderer on his own. And you know how Prurnell and company operate. But now they have an honest-to-god serial killer on their hands and the AD came down on their office hard. They were forced to get us involved.” Jack closes the file and stares out the windshield. Will observes him from the corner of his eye. Jack’s a big man, with dark skin and a heavy brow. His suits look a little loose lately, and his usually bright and alert expression seems wan. Lost. Staring into the distance, into an abyss of fear where there is no more Bella. Keeping that fear locked tight in his chest—
Will snaps his thoughts away from Jack. It isn’t fair to go wallowing around in his partner’s emotional quagmire whether Jack’s aware or not. Jack doesn’t appreciate it when Will turns his “excess empathy” toward him, and if he knew Will was doing it just now he’d turn sour about it all day. That’s the last thing Will needs, especially after a long, early morning drive.
“Okay. Kudzu. Interesting choice,” he says, for lack of anything better.
Jack ignores that. “Katz and Price are meeting us there.”
Will almost smiles. They’re his favorite forensic team. “Tell me more about Fire Creek. I’ve never been anywhere in Knox County.”
Jack goes back to the file. “Population of less than a thousand. Its unemployment rate stays steady at about seven percent, and it has serious issues with drugs, poverty, and low education rates.”
“Great. Any connection between the victims?”
“Let’s see. James Cooney worked for his father at Cooney Energy Company, a coal mining ‘service.’ He got a degree in Civil Engineering at University of Kentucky. Single, lives alone. He had a gym membership, and his housekeeper had a key to the apartment. She had an alibi at the time of his disappearance. A Cooney Energy employee, Connor McCabe, found his body at one of the company sites a week after he was reported missing. Madeleine Goddard worked as a waitress in Barbourville—”
“A place James Cooney frequented?”
“I don’t know. That’s something we’ll have to ask. She didn’t have a college degree, though her sister says she was taking some online classes. Ms. Goddard was single and lived in the house she and her sister inherited from their parents. Her sister, Phoebe Hanes, lived with her.”
Will jerks his chin. “So far we have Kentucky and single. Where was her body found?”
“In her backyard. She was last seen alive on the afternoon of April fourth. Neighbor saw her body over the fence the next day.”
“Jesus.”
Jack flicks a look at Will before going back to the file. “William Ashcroft had an MBA from Eastern Kentucky University, but didn’t seem to be doing anything with it. Lived on a trust fund. Married, living with his wife Melinda Ashcroft on Ashcroft land in Fire Creek. His body was found on his land. In the woods, by a local hunter named Robert Avery. Goes by Bobby.”
“All three were found on their own properties…”
“James Cooney didn’t own the land where he was found. The coal company contracted it for mountaintop removal.”
“The killer might still see it as the family’s land. Madeleine Goddard found in her backyard. William Ashcroft found on his land.”
“The Ashcroft property is some four hundred acres of Kentucky Appalachia.”
Something pings in Will’s chest. He grew up in West Virginia, nestled deep in an Appalachian holler. Small town. Hard working people with few jobs to go around. Including his father who was most often seen as the town nutjob. Harmless, but nutty.
He focuses on the road as he veers toward their exit. “And the cops didn’t find any connections between the first two?”
“Not a one,” Jack clips out. He closes the file with some finality. “I’m hoping we solve this case quickly and go home.”
Jack’s thinking of Bella. Will turns his thoughts to his own home. A one-bedroom apartment with a bathroom so tiny when he sits on the toilet his knees practically touch the opposite wall. He’s only 5’10”; it’s not as though his legs are freakishly long. He’s lived there, alone, for two years. Dates are easy to get, but no one wants to stay longer than a fuck. Not once they start to catch on to his…problems. No one likes to sleep in a bed with a stranger who has regular night terrors. One guy ended up with a split lip. Another with a bloody nose.
It doesn’t help that he gives off a creepy vibe. He knows what people are feeling. Sometimes he knows better than they do. When guys start to pick up on his unfailingly accurate perception, they feel exposed. They run.
He chews on his lower lip as the exit sign for Fire Creek appears on the side of the road. “Alright. Get ready to see our favorite comedy duo.”
Jack snorts derisively, but at least he’s present, snapped from the abyss where he floats.
And that keeps Will from following him down.
The downtown is leaning slabs of brick seamed with white peeling trim. Most of the storefronts are vacant. Each building presses against its neighbor with all the tired apathy of barflies lined up for drinks at the end of the night, this bartop being a ribbon of road. The Town Hall hunches at the corner of the lone four-way traffic light, directly across from the pristine white of a clapboard church. A sign out front declares in a bold, italicized font His Holiness Baptist Church. Colorful pansies speckle the gardens like scattered Dippin Dots.
They park at the Town Hall behind a dusty pick-up truck and, flashing their badges at a curious town clerk, find their way to the basement. The coroner’s office lies at the end of a corridor of blue-checked linoleum and clashing green walls. Will nearly trips on a blistering tile, but Jack steadies him with a hand on his elbow.
They open a door painted with ‘Zebediah Ingram, Coroner’ in gold lettering. Relief hits Will when he sees Beverly Katz, standing with her hips cocked and her arms folded, waiting on the other side. If he were a grumpy, misanthropic alley cat more likely to scratch a person than look at one, Beverly would be the one exception to that rule.
“Well, fancy meeting you here,” she says with a friendly punch to his arm. She’s nearly as tall as him, with hair like a black waterfall and artfully arched eyebrows. But the smile on her face is a tight one, the one that says she wishes she could punch something a little harder. Not him. Someone or something else.
Her partner in nearly everything, Jimmy Price, looks on with a bright smile. “Mr. Ingram was just treating us to his opinions on governance and immigration.” His twinkling eyes slide over to Beverly, who is third-generation Korean-American.
Jesus Christ. Well. There’s Beverly’s target.
Jack ignores them. “Mr. Ingram, I’m Agent Jack Crawford, and this is my partner, Agent Will Graham. We’re here to see the body of William Ashcroft, and take down any information you can give us on the deceased.” He’s all business. No smile. Speaks by rote.
Mr. Ingram takes his time to remove his glasses and wipe them with the hem of his shirt. He’s a small man with white hair and a face pinched like a weasel’s. Red sclera—either the result of allergies or the onset of glaucoma, if Will had to wager. Letting himself assume Mr. Ingram’s point of view, it doesn’t take much to realize the coroner didn’t like the deceased man, but he respected him.
He definitely doesn’t like FBI agents.
“Sheriff Mosley told me you were coming,” Mr. Ingram prevaricates, “but I didn’t expect—”
The door bursts open. A man with the typical brown broad-brimmed hat and a brass-colored sheriff’s badge steps in. Beneath the fan of walnut-brown mustache is a fierce frown, and narrowed blue eyes pierce each agent as his gaze shifts around the room. “I thought you agents would be meeting me at the sheriff’s office.” His voice is a rough slap of Southern drawl, and his jaw juts in anger. The atmosphere in the room immediately tightens with the anticipation of a confrontation.
“Apologies, Sheriff Mosley. I need the forensics team to take a look at the body as soon as possible, and my partner and I are here to coordinate. I’m happy you could meet us here,” A slight smirk teases Jack’s lips. It seems he’s found someone to prick at with the needles of his anger and helplessness.
A deputy follows the sheriff. Tall, gangly, tan, with a long face and striking blue eyes. His gaze lingers a little too long on Beverly, who looks like she might flip him the bird at any moment.
Knowing Jimmy is probably having a field day, Will sneaks a peek at him. Indeed, Jimmy’s face is so lit with anticipation, he might pull up a chair and break out popcorn at any moment.
The sheriff is still blustering. “This might be your case, but this is my town. You should know more about its people before you come in here—”
“Army man, aren’t you, Sheriff?”
Sheriff Mosley shifts his stance, straightening his shoulders and tipping his chin up. He’s almost as tall as Jack, his shoulders nearly as broad. Come to think of it, he must work out. Will lets his eyes follow the lines on the uniform. Yeah, the sheriff is pretty fit.
Movement from Jimmy catches his attention—a nod and a wink. Will’s cheeks flush at being caught.
“Yeah.” Sheriff Mosley stands with his fists on his hips. “What’s it to you?”
Jack tucks his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his feet as he blithely goes in for the kill. “Then an army man such as yourself must be familiar with hierarchy.”
The deputy’s eyes widen as the sheriff’s expression shifts from mad to murderous. Will decides it’s time to step in. “Great. We’re all here now. Let’s see the body.”
Jimmy claps his hands together with delight. “Yes, let’s.”
Beverly elbows him.
The sheriff doesn’t miss it, and something about it ticks him off. “Bill Ashcroft,” he begins, “was a respected member of our community. A lot of people are mourning his loss today. No one deserves to go the way he did.” His pitted face turns red as his Adam's apple bobs. “I don’t want you treating him with disrespect.”
“No disrespect here, Sheriff,” Jack says in his placating voice, the one that he reserves for widows and children. And assholes he wants out of the way. “We just want to take a look at the body, and solve the case.”
The sheriff nods. “When will you release the body?”
“When we’re finished,” Jack says.
“The family wants to bury him—”
“We will do our best to be speedy and efficient, won’t we?” He directs a meaningful glance at the two forensic examiners. Bev and Jimmy nod.
“Scout’s Honor,” Jimmy says, holding his hand up in what is definitely not the Scout’s sign. It’s the Vulcan signal for ‘Live Long and Prosper.’
Will can tell Jack is suppressing the roll of his eyes, so he interrupts. “We’ll need to speak with the family later. Any information you can give us on Mr. Ashcroft would be helpful, Sheriff.”
Sheriff Mosley pins Will with a mistrustful glare. “Deputy Zeller will be on hand to aid you in your investigation when I can spare him. I’m due to the mayor’s office.”
Deputy Zeller follows that with a sharp nod and not so subtle smile at Beverly, who pointedly ignores him.
“Then don’t let us keep you.” Jack gives him a tight-lipped smile as he clasps his hands behind his back. “Thank you for welcoming us into town, Sheriff.”
Mosley sends him one last caustic glare, opens the door, and steps out. Zeller stays, eyes darting around the room as if bewildered by how he ended up there.
“Well, now that the dick-waving contest is over, let’s see the body,” Beverly says.
“Charming,” Jack grunts.
“You should’ve heard her in the car ride over,” Jimmy says. “She’s a gem.”
“Stop.” Jack holds up one hand. “Mr. Ingram, if you would, please.”
Mr. Ingram gives an annoyed sigh, one that requires the shrug and sag of his shoulders, and leads them into the autopsy room. Or, what passes for the autopsy room in this tiny town. It’s cramped. Morgue drawers bank one wall. A black body bag is displayed on a stainless steel table beneath bright lights.
A young man leans over a far table, his hair scraped back and shiny like he spent an hour gelling it. He spins to face them, his shoulders hunched. He’s tall, but he’s immediately made nervous by their presence.
“Danny, these FBI agents are here to see Mr. Ashcroft’s body.”
Danny nods. “Yes, sir.” His voice is deep and gravelly.
“You can wait in my office.”
“Yes, sir.” His cheeks turn pink as if the idea of anyone looking at him mortifies him, and he shuffles out of the room.
Beverly and Jimmy head over to the table without a hitch of hesitation in their steps. Will’s seen Beverly devour an entire curry that resembled the innards of the man she’d just autopsied. Death doesn’t usually bother him and Jack, but the forensics team treats it like a Saturday night game of Operation with the family.
Once Ingram unzips the bag, Will barely suppresses a sharp inhale. A macabre grin of yellowish teeth greets them, the lips missing. More skin is missing in patches across the shoulders, the chest, and the belly. Pale grey ribbons of fat lace dull pink muscles and whitish tendons.
“The eyes are gone,” Beverly says.
“Birds,” Mr. Ingram replies calmly, as if discussing the weather.
Will can see it in his mind’s eye. Crows. Vultures. Carrion birds swiftly rising into the air with their prized morsels pinched in the scissor of their beaks. Or maybe they’d settle, claim a spot right at the shoulder. Swallow bits of flesh whole before they bite again, tearing with their strong beaks, stripping the bones of defenseless, soft tissue.
A loud sigh bursts from Beverly before she launches into a bevy of questions. “Was it done post-mortem? Have you sent the bloodwork out to a lab? Determined what type of weapon might have been used to peel skin from the body?”
“I was told to hold the body for the FBI,” Mr. Ingram says unhelpfully.
“Yeah. Of course. Alright, Price, let’s get to work.” She unshoulders her black leather jacket and heads for the sink tucked into the corner.
“Will?” Jack prompts.
Will steps forward. Looks over the long tracks of missing skin and twisted, exposed musculature. Places where the birds have ripped the meat. The man had extra padding around the middle. Fatty tissue resembles porridge in the fluorescent lighting. The peritoneal cavity is perforated. Entrails pile like red-brown snakes atop his belly. It’s gross. He’s seen enough results of violence in his two years at the FBI, but at first glance this seems like unhinged butchery.
Yet there’s something about it. A closer look at the cut made to the stomach reveals a careful splitting of the skin. Neat lines. Methodical. Scalpel to skin. Did the killer use a scalpel?
Lingchi. The death of a thousand cuts.
Bill was strung with kudzu. Kudzu is a fast-growing vine from Asia. In 1935, when prairies suffered devastating dust storms, Congress enlisted kudzu as a primary soldier in the battle against widespread soil erosion, and sold land cheaply to farmers who would plant it. Years later, when kudzu proved to be a poor crop for farmers, its roots were firmly in place as the vine shimmied along roadsides and up trees and over abandoned cars.
The killer (or killers, considering the strength it takes to pull a full-sized man up a tree without a pulley system) positioned William Ashcroft in the shape of the crucifixion. Nude. Not hung in the sun, but shaded in a forest, concealed by the dappled darkness and overseeing a cool spring. No one would have found him if it wasn’t for Robert Avery poaching on Ashcroft land. Did the killer hope his victim wouldn’t be found? It seems unlikely, since the other two bodies were easily discovered.
And crucifixion. It can take days to die from that kind of torture, or it could take hours. The killer didn’t spike Ashcroft’s wrists and feet, and instead tied them with vines. Still, crucifixion is not just a tool for punishment, but also a sign of warning. A threat.
Yet this guy was hidden.
Unless…unless the killer knows about Robert Avery’s activities.
“Well, the act of crucifixion is obvious. He’s being punished,” Will says.
“Punished for what?” Jack asks.
“Not clear, yet.” There’s something oddly…blank. Usually when faced with a victim, Will can pick up on strong emotions. “Vibes,” Jack jokes. Will’s a tuning fork for feelings, including residual ones that occur in a murder. Here, he can only pick up short, choppy notes, like a radio with static. Except it isn’t static…it’s just quiet. He steps closer to the body, ignoring Beverly’s frown as she sets up her recorder.
There. Just there, he can sense something. It’s faint. “He’s...trespassed, somehow. Now he’s...he’s been punished and...this is the guy with the missing tongue?”
Mr. Ingram clears his throat before he replies. “Yes.”
“Maybe he said something he shouldn’t have.” That’s lazy profiling and Jack knows it. Will ignores Jack’s burning gaze. “I need to see the site.”
Jack nods. “When Katz and Price are ready.”
Will looks back at the body. It pulls him in, a darkness surrounds him like black smoke. He’s no longer looking at the body—he’s in the body. Someone has him, his arms wrenched behind him. Moonlight against steel like a needle in the night.
Just when the blade bites, he’s thrown back into the autopsy room.
What the fuck?
Cold pours like river water down his back. This isn’t normal. This one’s different. Something’s there that shouldn’t be. Or at least, something he’s never encountered before. A creeping-fingers sensation that touches something in the back of his mind. If memories were silt settled at the bottom of a river, this was a giant foot stepping in and stirring it to murky whirlpools. Nothing clear. Nothing substantial.
Powerful. Unknown. Yet somehow familiar. Like deja vu, maybe. He reaches out to steady himself and Jack grabs him by the shoulders. “Will?” Jack’s voice sounds distant, like they’re underwater and sinking, sinking...
Something knows he’s here.
Will shakes that thought away, wherever it came from. “This is different,” he says.
“What do you mean, different?”
Everyone’s eyes are on him. He doesn’t have to look; he can feel the weight of their gazes. It doesn’t surprise him when Jack steers him from the room, pushing him along quickly but keeping him upright as they swing through the door.
“What is it?” Jack asks once they’re out in the corridor. His eyes are intense, brooding. Fixing Will where he stands. “Your spidey-senses tingling?” Jack’s favorite label for Will’s ability is this one, and it usually makes Will smile.
Not this time.
“This is…” It’s unexplainable. Something strange has touched the body, something lingers in his mind still. Something old.
Then it clicks. Snaps. The feeling, the motive behind the kill.
“Jack,” he says, his voice croaking. “This is retribution.”
“Retribution? How’s that different from punishment?”
“It’s ritual. It’s significant. I don’t know anymore than that.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Pressure throbs behind his eyes.
Jack sticks his hands in his pockets and pivots on his feet. “Okay. Fine. Listen. Uh. Why don’t we go talk to this Avery fella and see what he has to say. The Dynamic Duo can meet us at the site later.”
“Yeah. Good. Let’s do that.” He’d rather get as far from the body as he can anyway.
Once they’re outside and heading for the car, the nape of his neck prickles with the sense of being watched. He scans the street. Across the way, an eatery called “Betty’s” is squeezed between a salvage shop and a furniture store. Other buildings contain empty storefronts, and further down the road is the sign for a mobile home park. The Appalachian Mountains rise all around the town, rolling in beautiful shades of green beneath a periwinkle sky.
No faces in the windows. No people on the street and no passing cars. Will stands outside the passenger side of their rental, Jack having claimed the driver’s side. They stick out like sore thumbs in their sleek suits and polished shoes, but this isn’t anything new. They’ve worked in poverty-stricken parts of Kentucky before.
Instead, it feels as though something inside him has aroused, something that stretches and pitches toward the mountains into the waiting arms of the primordial forest. A siren call hangs heavy but silent in the air, and inside his chest, something answers.