The Search Party
by William Brasse
I knew Henderson was dead before the search party left the trailhead. They stood in a small group, bouncing up and down to keep warm. I was there too, bouncing up and down, since I had agreed to go with them. It was cold, the temperature hovering around thirty. The wind streamed over the mountaintop and into the valley where the trail lead. Snow hadn’t come yet, but it would.
These men—five experienced search-and-rescue volunteers—would be risking their lives in these woods. So, would I. One of us—or all of us—might end up frozen to death, and for what? Henderson was already dead.
I looked back and saw Jenny, his wife, staring out the window of the RV that served as a command post. She looked worried. She looked distraught. Two days ago, I had watched her put a load of buckshot into Henderson’s chest. Buckshot at close range makes a hideous mess of a human being, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t even look away. He lay in a heap with one leg twisted under him. She broke the shotgun down and positioned it carefully over her forearm. She was good with guns and always handled them safely.
We rolled the body into a gully and kicked the leaves around until no blood was visible. A few downed pine branches made him unnoticeable to a passing hiker. He wasn’t hidden. She knew he’d be found. She just needed time.
The next day, I drove his car to the trailhead and set off up the path wearing a hat and a red jacket. The jacket looked a lot like his. It wasn’t, of course. His was in the gully wrapped around his dead shoulders. A couple of miles up the path, having been noticed by a number of hikers, I put the red jacket in my pack and returned to the trailhead where Jenny was waiting in my car. I dropped her at the store where she worked.
The next morning, she began her command performance, tearfully pleading with the police to find her lost husband. The park service came across his car, and by two o’clock the search-and-rescue team was there.
People thought I was his friend. I could put up with him, but I never liked him. It was always Jenny I was interested in. It had taken me a couple of years to convince her. When she finally agreed, I thought it was the beginning of a new happily ever after. The murder had taken me by surprise.
One of the searchers knew me from the weekend basketball games on the church parking lot. He remembered my hiking experience and suggested I go with them. To search for Henderson. Since he and I had been such good friends. I felt on the spot and agreed.
The search leader started up the path, and the others formed a line behind him. I looked back to the RV. Jenny was still in the window. I think she was smiling.
These men—five experienced search-and-rescue volunteers—would be risking their lives in these woods. So, would I. One of us—or all of us—might end up frozen to death, and for what? Henderson was already dead.
I looked back and saw Jenny, his wife, staring out the window of the RV that served as a command post. She looked worried. She looked distraught. Two days ago, I had watched her put a load of buckshot into Henderson’s chest. Buckshot at close range makes a hideous mess of a human being, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t even look away. He lay in a heap with one leg twisted under him. She broke the shotgun down and positioned it carefully over her forearm. She was good with guns and always handled them safely.
We rolled the body into a gully and kicked the leaves around until no blood was visible. A few downed pine branches made him unnoticeable to a passing hiker. He wasn’t hidden. She knew he’d be found. She just needed time.
The next day, I drove his car to the trailhead and set off up the path wearing a hat and a red jacket. The jacket looked a lot like his. It wasn’t, of course. His was in the gully wrapped around his dead shoulders. A couple of miles up the path, having been noticed by a number of hikers, I put the red jacket in my pack and returned to the trailhead where Jenny was waiting in my car. I dropped her at the store where she worked.
The next morning, she began her command performance, tearfully pleading with the police to find her lost husband. The park service came across his car, and by two o’clock the search-and-rescue team was there.
People thought I was his friend. I could put up with him, but I never liked him. It was always Jenny I was interested in. It had taken me a couple of years to convince her. When she finally agreed, I thought it was the beginning of a new happily ever after. The murder had taken me by surprise.
One of the searchers knew me from the weekend basketball games on the church parking lot. He remembered my hiking experience and suggested I go with them. To search for Henderson. Since he and I had been such good friends. I felt on the spot and agreed.
The search leader started up the path, and the others formed a line behind him. I looked back to the RV. Jenny was still in the window. I think she was smiling.
William Brasse has forayed fearlessly into a variety of literary forms and genres. Plays, novels, short stories; comedy, drama, history, biography, myth. He has even ventured into essays, but freely admits that poetry is beyond him. Like so many people, he lives in California. Like fewer people, he is originally from Tennessee. Like essentially no one, he has been a vegan since 1979.