Free Comes a Horseman by Robert Liparulo Page A

silence, he stood and approached Olaf.
    â€œShould I be afraid?” Olaf asked, wide-eyed.
    The trooper grunted. “Must have been a deer.” He took the driver’s license, squinted at it for about three seconds, and returned it. A layer of greasy perspiration coated his forehead, gleaming in the light. He stepped back, flashed the beam into the van, into the woods, at Olaf. He seemed on the edge of some decision. Then he backpedaled toward his cruiser, casting furtive glances at the trees and prattling to justify not exposing his back to the weirdo in the ridiculous clothes. “If you make a campfire, be sure to douse it with water before leaving . . . Put your trash in properly marked receptacles, or keep it in the van if you prefer. Have a good trip.”
    â€œThank you, Officer.”
    The man navigated past the front of the cruiser, down the side, and around the open door without turning away from Olaf—a home movie played in reverse. Without removing his hat, he tucked his head under the roof and slammed the door. Electronic door locks engaged with a loud thunk . The green glow of his communications terminal gave him an eerie presence behind the windshield. The cruiser made a tight circle, found the tire ruts where the path cut through the trees, and became an indistinct white glow—flickering with occasional brilliance, adorned by winking red taillights—that faded with the noise of the engine.
    He may come back.
    It mostly depended on whether or not he believed Olaf was alone. Clearly, he did not. But if he caught Olaf in a lie, what did it matter? Did it prove a crime was committed? No, all it really did was expose the trooper unnecessarily to potentially dangerous people. Even when he heard of the murder, he would be hard-pressed to make a connection. The killer had dogs—at least one. The sound in the woods could have been made by such an animal, but there were no other signs of it. And what animal owned by man stayed hidden and silent? Then there was Olaf ’s speech. A description of the killer would include a heavy accent, as heard by the woman on the phone. Most people might try to disguise an accent while committing a crime, but rarely would they invent one. He was a strong believer in an abundance of red herrings.
    â€œFreya! Thor! Eric!”
    The dogs crashed through the branches and sat in a semicircle around him.
    â€œGóan dag!” he praised them. “I have something for you. You want something?” He leaned into the van and came back with a burlap pouch. He withdrew a bulging handful of beef jerky and tossed it in front of the first dog, a monster called Thor. The animals looked at the pile, then shifted their gaze back to the master, waiting. He gave the other two similar helpings, then said, “Eat.” By the time he’d replaced the pouch, the pile in front of each dog was gone. “Now go play. We leave in five minutes.” They tore into the meadow as if their tails were on fire.
    Again he lifted the false floor. He pulled the ax from his belt and tossed it into the bin of weapons. Reaching deeper into the compartment, his fingers felt along the side. They found the plastic business-card pocket glued to the wood and worked out a tightly folded piece of paper. He turned, sat on the edge of the opening, and unfolded it. Names, descriptions, addresses. In small, careful hand lettering, the list contained fifty people. He’d counted them, thought about each one, how his life would intersect theirs, ending it. Cynthia Loeb’s was the fifth from the top of the first column. A thumbprint of dried blood partially obscured the next name down. Olaf scraped at the smudge with a fingernail until the letters beneath were legible: Trevor Wilson, age 12.
    A physical description and home address in Cañon City, Colorado, followed.
    The corners of his lips pulled into a frown, as if attached by a thread to the growing heaviness in his