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CHAPTER 1
The Walking Man was wary, senses heightened by the strange ‘buzz’ he experienced whenever he sensed danger. He paused on the edge of a meadow, hidden by a large fir tree. The forest was his element, his domain as he walked the Appalachian Trail from Mount Katahdin in northern Maine, to Stone Mountain, Georgia. The Smokies he called friend. He knew alder from beech, could distinguish all the edible mushrooms from poison varieties, and he had never been bitten by a snake. He knew how to think like them.
Today, his meadow’s home was central Vermont; Addison County, specifically. The Green Mountains’ Alder Brook Range was as enigmatic as any beautiful woman; a paradise in summer, near inaccessible after the snows came. The terrain was nearly vertical, filled with gnarled underbrush, difficult to traverse without utilizing logging roads and trails. He didn't mind the trails, especially in the late fall, when threat of inclement weather kept human contact to a minimum. Whenever possible, though, he opted for total wilderness.
Staring out from behind a fir tree through an elk brush thicket, The Walking Man saw two deer hunters at the edge of the large meadow spread in front of him. They hunkered down behind two large conifers, staring intently into the meadow. Light was low and the deer would soon come into the meadow to feed. Stillness was his ally, especially in late afternoon. What remained of the sun was in front of him, and any shadows would be cast behind him into the trees, so he was virtually invisible to the men. As he crouched, The Walking Man attempted to telepathically signal the deer, telling them to run away. Experience taught him it was folly to attempt heroics when armed men were present, the Rockpile still stood in the Central Highlands of Vietnam, but six hundred and fifty Marines didn’t. All he could do was wait.
As he watched the edges of the meadow, four does tramped into the clearing, noses aloft, sniffing for any scent of impending danger. Seconds later, they ventured farther into the meadow and stopped to browse, oblivious to the hunters’ presence.
Soon, the last sliver of yellow light disappeared behind a mountain and the scene became an eerie, silent still life. The men crouched in their original position waiting patiently for their quarry.
In a few minutes, as if scripted, a buck appeared. His small antlers showed the remnants of velvet. The animal sniffed the air, nostrils flaring at the presence of the does. He trotted beside one of the females, made a feeble amorous attempt to mount her, and once rebuffed, turned ninety degrees and started to graze. The buck, obviously young, a yearling perhaps, was not a trophy by anyone’s definition. However, if meat for the freezer were the objective, the animal’s size wouldn’t stop the hunters. The Walking Man lowered his head, it wouldn’t be long before the animal fell. He could only stare at the ground, and his body reacted with a jolt as he heard the shot break the silence. The single ear-piercing report was followed by echoes reverberated throughout the valley.
A stampede of deer rushed past his position, led by the young buck. Startled that any hunter could miss from such short range, the Walking Man cautiously glanced at the hunters and saw one standing over the still form of the other, rifle butt nudged the unmoving body, making sure the man was dead. The shooter was a large man, probably in excess of 220 pounds, and he stood well over six feet in height. Then the hunter did a strange thing. The Walking Man stared in horror as the man began a conversation with the corpse.
"See, Ray? I told you I'd get the first shot today, didn't I? What's that, Ray? You think it was a clean kill? Yea, I'd be inclined to agree with ya’, Buddy. One shot, right through the runnin’ lights! Yes sir, sure as my name is Luther By God Pittman, I'm almost sorry that you can't see yourself right now! You're not nearly so cocky now, are you? God, you look pitiful. How can you just lie there and bleed all over the ground like that? Don’t you have any dignity?”
A hard slap across the dead man’s face produced a muted pop and evoked a chortling giggle from the hunter.
“No, I guess not.”
The man named Luther tilted his head towards the sunset, extended both fists skyward and bellowed a cry worthy of a b-movie werewolf. Then, a maniacal laugh erupted from somewhere deep within, exposing the depth of his dementia.
“What, Ray? You say you wish you'd kept it in your pants? Well, I can certainly understand how you might feel, buddy, I really can... I'll tell you what I'll do for you, though, since we been friends for so long. I'll send your girl friend to join you here in a day or two. I promise. Brenda isn't much of a wife. I hope she was a better piece of ass for you than she was for me."
The Walking Man watched the large man pick up the body and sling it over his shoulder, just more fresh game. After taking a few steps the man abruptly stopped, did an about-face and stared back towards the meadow, scanning the panorama slowly. The Walking Man felt his heart beating in his ears. Had he made a noise? Did this crazy bastard see him?
As the killer disappeared over the crest of the hill, The Walking Man strained to listen, and he was sure he heard whistling, but it wasn’t birds. No, it was definitely the dulcet tones of a man joyfully singing, 'Whistle While You Work'.
It was real, he was sure of it. So what now? Certainly, there was little he could do, but how could he do nothing? What sort of man could witness a murder and walk away? Did he have a duty to warn the woman Luther promised to kill? Sure, hero, go ahead. You don’t even know where she lives!
He examined his hands. They appeared steady, so he took a deep breath. Had he come across an animal caught in a foot-trap, he would’ve immediately released it. Did he have less of an obligation to a human being? He must find her and try to warn her.
The Walking Man decided to stay put for a couple of hours, to give Luther Pittman plenty of time to dispose of his friend and make his way back home. If he hadn’t changed his mind by then, he would walk to New Carruthers. Once there, he would… There, the thoughts stopped.
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