Read Hunter’s Dance for Free Online

hole here.”
    â€œA what?”
    â€œA circular depression. Scraping down into the bone. Like someone tried to make a hole in the skull.”
    â€œTried to…?”
    Guibard stooped until his nose was nearly touching the wound. “It’s not drilled all the way through, but it looks for all the world like somebody gave it a good try.”
    â€œChrist! Why? How—?”
    They both looked into the shadows where a wooden toolbox sat balanced atop a leaning three-legged chair. Its hinged lid lay open, and a tray containing rusty nuts and bolts was pulled aside to reveal a few hand tools.
    â€œChrist!” McIntire said again.
    Guibard once more bent over the corpse. He pushed back the drooping lids to expose glazed eyeballs, shining his pencil-sized light into their depths. “The scalp wound is the only trauma I can see, and like I said, that wouldn’t have killed him,” he continued. “But it does really look like…well, I’ll be able to tell more when I get him into the morgue.”
    â€œToo much to drink?” McIntire asked, glancing at the pool of dried vomit..
    â€œCould be. It wouldn’t be the first time a kid died from alcohol poisoning, but that doesn’t explain the ropes and gag… or the scalping.”
    McIntire waved the lantern toward the pile of discarded window shades. “Looks like that’s where the cord came from. Maybe kids fooling around, and he choked to death?”
    â€œAnd they tried to revive him by drilling a hole in his head?”
    Their conjectures were interrupted by a growl of an engine that might belong to a Sherman tank. Guibard and McIntire looked at each other. Guibard nodded. A car door banged shut, then another, followed shortly by a screech of twisting wood issuing from the ladder they’d placed against the outside wall. Such a vehement protest could only mean that it was being subjected to the weight of Sheriff Pete Koski. McIntire felt a momentary urge to lunge for the doors, shutting out the sheriff and everything he represented. Somewhere inside him a tiny spark lived, a vague idea that any drama needed the cooperation of all its players. Maybe if he and Guibard simply closed the door and walked away, refused to enact their roles, the ugly event would disappear, and this conceited boy, who had not been a part of their lives when alive, would not be allowed to inflict his dead presence upon them.
    The moment passed, the outside light was eclipsed, and Koski’s bulk appeared in the doorway. He ducked into the room, bringing the world with him and ensuring that the show would go on and dozens of lives would be changed forever.
    The sheriff was followed by his baby-cheeked deputy, Cecil Newman, trailing a length of electric cord and carrying two trouble lights.
    Koski remained near the door, huffing slightly, for some minutes before he turned to Guibard. “You through here?”
    The doctor nodded. “I’ve pretty much done all I can. Leave his coat on and the gag in. No obvious cause of death. There’ll have to be an inquest, of course.”
    â€œGot an I.D.?”
    When Koski heard that the victim was a “kid from the Club,” he sucked in his breath, but his only response was, “Well, we’ll look things over and take a few pictures, then he’s all yours.” He motioned Newman forward and took one of the lights.
    McIntire blew out the flame on his lantern and moved toward the door. Dying wasn’t a township offense. The sheriff’s department and the state police could take over from here. Thank God the victim wasn’t a local resident. If it turned out to be homicide they might get lucky and the murderer wouldn’t be either. There’d been plenty of strangers around last night.
    Koski froze in the act of reaching to hook his light on a convenient nail. He stood arrested, lamp raised aloft, looking toward the open doors. A thin and distant wail