Free A Shadow Fell by Patrick Dakin

murder and torture had started in that cabin. Brutal beatings by his father that were orchestrated by his sister had turned him into the monster he had become. Profilers contended all the murders he committed over the decades were re-enactments of the on e murder he truly yearned to repeat. Brad ’s daughter had been missing for a long time but he was still hopeful we might find her. I knew the chances were non-existent that she remained alive but he wanted closure, one way or the other . As fate would have it, Brad was H enderson’s final victim – shot point blank in the chest with a shotgun as we had approached his cabin . And I had been headed for a similar fate , s aved only by the timely arrival of the woman who would become my wife.
                  The hike this time was easier. I knew the way. And we were blessed with much better weather than during my previous trek which had been undertaken during almost constant rain. There was also the fact that, on this occasion, I was with an experienced wilderness camper. We had a light weight two man tent (that we shared with Winston) , thermal sleeping blankets, a tiny cook stove, and enough provisions for a couple of weeks .
                  Late in the morning on the third day of our hike we arrived at the spot where Henderson’s cabin had once stood. All that remained of the site now were a few charred timbers.
                  I stood for a while, looking at the burnt rem nants , then took a path that led to a clearing behind where the cabin used to be. When I had been here the first time it had been the sight of dozens of gravesites. The graves had been emptied, of course, and the forensic people had done what they could to identify the bodies. Nature had since turned the clearing into a placid little meadow, leaving no sign of the grotesque events that had once occurred here.
                  “Bringing back some bad memories I’m guessing,” Con said from behind me.
                  I didn’t feel inclined to comment on that one. “Have you had a look around?”
                  “Just a superficial one – haven’t seen anything interesting.”
                  “ So w hat’s the plan?”
                  “I don’t know about you but I could use some grub for a start.”
                  As he spoke I watched Con surveying the clearing we were standing in. Then he began to casually walk around the area, stopping occasionally to study the ground. He stopped a t the tree line . The more I watched him the more it seemed he was captivated by something.
                  “ What’s up?” I called.
                  Without looking up he motioned with his hand, signaling that I should join him. When I stood beside him he pointed at the ground in front of us. “See those indentations?” he said. “Those were made by tent poles. And they were recent.”
                  If he hadn’t pointed them out to me I never would have noticed them, obscured as they were by long grass. But with the benefit of Con’s keen powers of observation I did, indeed, see them. “Could have been made by anybody,” I pointed out.
                  “Mm hmm,” he mumbled distractedly. “Wait here. I wanna walk the perimeter.” He then started at the far left of the clearing, a few yards into the trees, and proceeded to circumnavigate the area, always in view, but barely. When he had completed his walk he returned to a spot approximately half way from his starting position. Once again, he signaled me to join him. When I did he pointed down. “Th is area was used as a latrine,” he said.
                  “What do you make of it?”
                  “All I can say is whoever camped here was an experienced woodsman. Somebody very familiar with , and at home in , the woods.”