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By Cynthia Soule Levesque

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Eltout Forest, central Washington State

Ed Grantham slowed his pace as he approached his log cabin. He maintained a rhythmic jog as he squinted to discern the familiar dirt path that was now camouflaged in lacy shadows cast by a brilliant full moon. A rustling noise startled him, and he glanced up to see a pair of bright yellow eyes. The creature blinked at him and then screeched and flew away, flapping its wings. Ed shivered in the coolness of the evening and wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead.

The one-room structure was a cherished refuge for the fifty-five year-
old scientist, and Ed preferred it to any apartment he could have had in the city of Olympia. He’d built the hideaway himself by hand, the old-fashioned way, in the middle of Eltout Forest. It was just a speck among the Ponderosa pines.

Ed had never regretted moving away from the sterile buildings and cement walkways of the big city into the magnificent old growth forest. Every evening he was serenaded by cicadas, crickets, and tree frogs as he relaxed in front of a log fire and breathed in the cool, invigorating pine air. There were no sirens, no car horns, no neighbors blasting their TVs.

Ed reached for the handle of the door, which he never locked, but stopped short. In the dim light, he saw that the thick pine door was ajar. He was certain he had closed it on his way out for his run.

He cautiously pushed it inward and strained to adjust his eyes to the
dark room. The flickering screen of his laptop drew his attention.
That’s odd, he thought. I’m sure I shut it down before I left.

“Is anyone there?” he said. He hesitated at the doorstep for a moment, stared into the dark room, and then entered and switched on the light. His normally tidy nest looked as though a bomb had gone off. The drawers of his antique pine desk gaped open, and his papers and books were scattered across the antique Navajo rug that partially covered the bare wood floor. Chairs were upended, and
every drawer in the compact kitchen had been spilled. The mattress on his small cot had been slashed to pieces, the tufts of ticking quivering in the draft from the doorway.

Ed reached for his cell phone, but then reconsidered. Often his cell didn’t work in the isolated Washington forest—and besides, he knew it would take at least an hour for the police to get there. Instead, he ran to the remains of his mattress to see if his money pouch was still there.

Just then he heard the creak of hinges behind him. He whirled around to see a massive man in a heavy black coat emerge from the closet.

“Taylor!” Ed gasped. “What are you doing here?”
“Been waitin’ for you over an hour!” the goon said in a gruff voice. “It sure took you long enough to get here.”

Ed slowly began to move toward the open cabin door, but the frame of the broad-shouldered man completely barred any escape. “Wait just a minute, doc,” the man said. “We need to talk.”

Ed had never trusted Mack Taylor, Environ-Logging’s chief security officer, ever since the time he had first met him fifteen years ago. Like a sleazy bodyguard, he was always shadowing Herbert Clive Johnson, the CEO, in a creepy way that made Ed nervous.

“Sit down!” Taylor commanded.
When Ed hesitated, Taylor pulled out a small silver Smith & Wesson revolver from his coat and pointed it at him. Ed jumped at the sight of the gun.
“Did you hear me?” said Taylor. “I said sit down!” He motioned with the gun toward a nearby wicker armchair. His hawk eyes seemed to pierce right through Ed.

Ed, wide-eyed and shaking, sank slowly into the chair.
“Do you remember our little talk the other day?” asked Taylor.
He perched in the chair opposite Ed and ran his palm over his dark brown hair plastered back on his thick head.

Ed tried to look calm, but inside he was panicking. “I told you and Johnson that I don’t understand what you want,” he blurted out. “I haven’t found anything of importance. I was just doing research on the web and stumbled across some interesting information about—”

“Don’t play coy, Grantham,” Taylor interrupted. “I saw the books and files in your computer. We know you found something . . . something we have known about for some time. We can’t afford for anyone else to find out.” He gave Grantham an ugly sneer. His coarse face looked monstrous.

Right before his run, Ed had been checking for a response to an e-mail he had sent to a man named Dr. Raymond Philip Kramer. After months of research, he had finally found someone who was desperate for information about the particular species he had discovered. He had called Dr. Kramer and left a message, but the man had not yet returned his call. Ed knew he shouldn’t have, but he had copied the e-mail to Stephen Hall, his Environ-Logging colleague, and Joe Anders, a consultant at the Olympia Forestry Service.

“You needn’t worry that anyone knows,” Ed lied, frantically scanning the room for something he could use as a weapon. “I didn’t send that e-mail.” Ed had documented the information in his logbook, which he kept hidden under the floorboards.

Taylor’s hawk eyes narrowed as he reached for his cell phone. “We’ll see what the boss says about that.” He dialed a number and raised the phone to his ear.

Ed shuddered as he watched Taylor nod once and put away the phone. An icy feeling came over him and his stomach tightened when he saw the steely determination in his adversary’s eyes. He said a quick prayer to draw on inner strength.

“What do you propose to do?” Ed said. “I promise not to tell anyone about it!” Just then, he spied an old walking stick that he often took with him on his hikes to ward off snakes. He grabbed it and lunged at Taylor. Taylor gave a scoffing laugh and brought his arm up to ward off the blow. He easily jerked the stick from Ed’s grasp and sent it clattering to the floor.

“That was mighty stupid of you,” Taylor said as he leveled the gun. Ed slowly backed away. “But the boss says it’s too late now. We gave you a chance, and you refused to cooperate. Too bad! But you’re right, though—no one else will ever know. Those notes are history, and so are you.” The gun flashed, and Ed felt a jolt of heat. He slumped to the floor and suddenly felt very cold, despite a strange warmth and numbness in his shoulder. He looked and saw blood seeping into his shirt and dripping down his arm onto his treasured Navajo rug. He fought to remain conscious.

Taylor stomped outside and returned with a gallon of gasoline. In a blur, Ed saw him gather the papers on his desk, stuff them into the stove, and slosh the oily dark liquid onto the pile. The fumes began to overpower his senses, and his vision dimmed as a wave of intense pain enveloped him. He caught a glimpse of Taylor’s grotesque figure lighting a match and casually tossing it onto Ed’s life work, and then everything went black.

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