Free In The Forest Of Harm by Sallie Bissell Page A

hell?” Jonathan craned his head in every direction, but all he saw was an empty road twisting through a silent green forest. He turned to Billy. “Where’d he go?”
    Billy scowled into the woods. “Don’t know. Looks to me like he’s solid gone, though.”
    Jonathan hurried down the length of the storefront, Billy scrambling after him. They went all the way to the gas pump, scanning the trees for a glimpse of camouflage or a swinging canvas sack, but not a twig moved. Everything looked as if it had been engraved in stone. Jonathan kicked angrily at an empty oil can. “That sunuvabitch has disappeared.”
    Billy looked around and scratched his head. “How the hell do you figure he managed to steal that picture? I watched that sucker the whole time he was in the store.”
    Jonathan shrugged; it was amazing how easily the man had stolen his picture and how quickly he’d disappeared. “Beats the shit out of me.” Again he tried to place this stranger; he knew all of the Cherokee mountain men and most of the white ones, too. This man had appeared from nowhere and then vanished back into nowhere again.
    â€œI’ll tell you one thing, Billy,” Jonathan said as he tested his knife’s edge with his thumb. “Mr. Brank and I are gonna have a little chat when he comes back to pick up that check. If he doesn’t return my picture he just might find his pelts have gotten lost in the mail.”
    â€œYou let me know when you take that feller on, Jonathan,” said Billy. “I want to get me some money down beforehand.” He scratched his head. “Wonder why he was so taken with that bulletin board?”
    Jonathan shoved his knife back under his belt and looked at a crow that landed on the porch roof. Everything seemed to be flying past him that day—first Mary, then his silly little picture of Jodie Foster, now this odd stranger. “Everybody reads that bulletin board, Billy. It’s like a great big scorecard that tells who’s alive, who’s dead, and who’s about to be eaten by the crows.”

SEVEN
    Ha, you smart-assed Cherokee bastard. Wouldn’t sell the picture of your girlfriend, would you?” Brank wagged the photo of Jodie Foster through a clutch of bright yellow witch hazel. He’d slipped into the forest just in time to see the fun, chuckling as the Indian rushed out, knife in hand, storming up and down his storefront, followed by his little Tonto sidekick. Brank shook with laughter as the tall one hurried down to the gas pump waving that long Bowie, all set to carve him up like a pumpkin and not finding a single thing to take a swipe at. He relaxed into the witch hazel as both Indians finally gave up and trudged back, defeated, into the store.
    Brank smiled. This mail drop had turned out to be a lot of fun. Buster had made the short one shit his pants, he’d made off with the Cherokee’s snapshot, plus he’d gotten a good long gander at that bulletin board.
    â€œThat kid in the baseball cap.” He shook his head in wonder. “And the girl with the class ring.” He hadn’t thought about them in years, but there they were, both of them, grinning like they’d won some kind of prize. He chuckled as he patted the snake that lay curled next to his belly. “Guess those two are gone for good, eh, Buster?”
    He remained under the bush clutching the photograph for a moment, then he studied the image the camera had captured. The young Indian stood tall, dressed in a coat and tie, his arm resting on the slender woman’s shoulders as if she were made of glass. She had assumed a serene pose that made her long white neck look as graceful as a swan’s. Her cobalt eyes slanted upwards, and there was a spareness about her smile that implied intelligence more than the thick red lips of sex.
    â€œShe’d be something to fuck,” Brank whispered, reaching down and softly