Part 1 (1/2)

Piers Anthony.

Firefly.

* 1

SKIN AND BONES, literally. The skin was like parchment, crinkled and collapsed, draped over the skull, limbs, rib cage, backbone, and pelvis within the clothing. It was as if a giant snake had swallowed a man, digested him but not his clothing, and shed its skin, leaving only the bones within it.

Geode shook his head as he gazed at it. This was the same effect he had seen with animals, but on a larger scale. This time the remains were human. The figure lay supine, arms slightly spread, face turned to the side, as if sleeping. The clothing seemed undisturbed, except that the fly of the trousers was open, as if the man had been urinating when abruptly shriveled.

It was recent. The bones might have endured a long time, but the skin should have rotted away soon enough. It overlay the brown bed of pine needles beneath a leaning tree, and a few green blades of gra.s.s. On the left wrist was a watch whose time was current. Lying nearby was a modern sport rifle. A hunter, illegal on at least two grounds: this was posted property, and it was out of season.

He stooped to peer more closely at the face. It was grotesque. The skin was almost colorless, hanging in wrinkles over the nasal cavity and the gaunt jawbone and teeth. The eye sockets were glazed over, but no eyeb.a.l.l.s remained, just the glaze. It was as if some thin lacquer or fixative had been sprayed over the body just before the contents had been removed, leaving only the sh.e.l.l. What natural process could account for this?

Geode felt a reaction. He was getting an erection. Astonished, he froze in place. Did this macabre sight somehow turn him on? He had heard of this in some men, but had never experienced it himself.

He stood upright and backed away. This body would have to be reported. The unnatural death of a man was always a notable occurrence. But first he would complete his rounds. Perhaps he would be able to spot where the man had come from.

He returned to his bicycle and resumed his ride along the forest path. He was near the northwest corner of the ranch, where a development was approaching. Its lightly tarred dirt roads extended outward like the strands of a spiderweb, terminating abruptly at the fence that marked the boundary of the square mile that was known as the Middle Kingdom, after its reclusive oriental owner. Sometimes illegal hunters drove up to the blank dead-ends, parked, and climbed through the fence to poach deer.

That was one reason Geode was here. His employer regarded the ranch as a wildlife sanctuary, and wanted no intrusions. He was not, as Geode understood it, a wildlife enthusiast; it was just a pretext to maintain privacy. The Middle Kingdom was registered and managed as a 600-acre tree farm, which Geode understood cut its taxes to an eighth of what they might otherwise have been. Since intruders could build fires or damage trees, Geode's job was to patrol the property and to report anything he deemed to be worth reporting. But since his employer did not like to be bothered with trifles, Geode was supposed to do his best to resolve any problems by himself.

In short, he was to treat the ranch as if it were his own. These were his trees and his animals, and he watched constantly over them. This was in effect his kingdom. He liked it that way.

He came to the fence. Sure enough, there was a parked pickup truck. It was empty, and locked. The man had stopped here, squeezed between the strands of the barbed wire, gone on in to poach-and died mysteriously.

Geode had no sympathy for the hunter. His affinity was with the wildlife. But the death was both strange and gruesome, and it made him queasy in the stomach. Coupled with the similar corpse of the rabbit he had seen the week before, it bothered him. He had not reported the rabbit, but this he would have to put on record. He might value a rabbit more than a poacher, but others did not.

He returned to the bike and pedaled on south. In due course he intersected the entry driveway and s.h.i.+fted to top gear on the asphalt, picking up speed. A gopher turtle at the edge of the road gazed at him, pondered, and pulled in its head as he pa.s.sed. ”h.e.l.lo, friend,” he called rea.s.suringly, but he was beyond before the turtle could answer. He felt guilty about that, but there was no help for it, this time. Midday in the heat was the time for turtles, just as dawn and dusk were the times for rabbits. All of them were relatively tame, for they were not molested here. The drive was fenced on either side, but the animals could handle the fences, and claimed to like the open corridor.

He followed the road half a mile down, past young slash pines, old live oaks, mixed magnolias, and reclining palmettos, until it curved up a slight hill to the house. He parked the bike at the lesser entry to the side, and used his key to open the door. As he did so, the steady sound of the security alarm came on. He walked to the keypad set inside the main door and punched in the defuse code: 1206. It was the year that Jenghiz Khan was proclaimed supreme leader of all the Mongols. An awareness of Asian history was helpful here in the Middle Kingdom.

Then he called 800-555-1369 (the accession of Tamerlane) to report to his employer. How many numbers Middleberry had he didn't know, but this one was reserved for calls from this address only.

He got an answering machine. No ident.i.ty was given; there was only a beep. That was standard. ”I found a dead man,” Geode said. ”Strange circ.u.mstance. I need instructions soon.” That was all; he was not supposed to waste words. Indeed, he never called unless there was something significant to report. He left routine reports on the local answering machine for Middleberry to pick up at his convenience.

He had no notion where Middleberry was; it could be anywhere in the world, the call transferred to his phone by satellite. It might be a day before he received the callback, or it might be minutes. He would remain at the house until it came; that was part of the deal, when he made such a report. His time was worth nothing, compared to that of his employer.

The phone rang thirty seconds after he had hung up. It was Mid, of course; this line had no other connection. He lifted the receiver. ”Geode.”

”Detail,” the slightly thin voice said.

”Northwest sector, near the development. I conjecture that a hunter parked at the fence, went inside, and suffered some kind of malady while taking a p.i.s.s. He fell on his back, and something dehydrated him. The body is undisturbed, but nothing remains except clothing, rifle, watch, skin, and the skeleton. It happened within the past day, maybe at night. No evidence of violence, no tracks other than his own. I have not touched the body, and have reported it only to you.”

”I will investigate. Hide the body safely. Take the car to an isolated waterfront and throw the key in the water. Do not be observed.”

Geode hesitated. If this was not an illegal procedure, it was bordering on it. Yet if he refused, he would be fired. Mid did not fool with employees.

”You have a problem, George?” Now the vague oriental accent was more p.r.o.nounced, signifying the man's irritation. There was also a warning: Mid used his given name only when what Mid said was to be ignored or denied. Geode would do the same, addressing him as Middleberry only if someone were with him, overhearing the conversation, in that way warning his employer to say nothing private.

But in this case he had to skirt the warning. ”Yes, Mid. The authorities may think I killed him. With my record-”

”I will protect you, Geode.”

That decided him. He owed everything to his employer, including blind loyalty; that had been clear from the outset. ”I will do it. Do you want a subsequent report?”

”Only in the event of a new development. Is there anything you need?”

That was Mid's way of offering a reward, which was in turn his indication of pleasure in Geode's performance. ”No, Mid.” What Geode truly desired, not even Mid could provide.

The connection broke. Mid did not waste time with amenities.

Geode got right on it. He put on a knapsack, donned heavy work gloves, put in a folding shovel, and went out. He had cooled off in the intermission in the air conditioning; now he felt the rising heat of the Florida day. He rode the bike rapidly up the drive and off it at the turn, s.h.i.+fting to a lower gear and crunching over sand and twigs as fast as he could. The bicycle had fifteen speeds and wide tires; it was made for this. Mid would have provided him with a motorcycle or a helicopter if he had wanted them, but Geode preferred the quiet and efficient bicycle. It let him be closer to nature, so that he could talk with the animals without alarming them, and it didn't require trips into town for gasoline.

He stopped at the body. He found the pocket containing the keys, and carefully worked them out without disturbing the rest. Again he experienced an erection, and he wondered about the skeleton's open fly. Had it been urination? Then he looped around to the truck, picking trails that would not show his tires. He hoped no one else had spied the vehicle.

He was in luck; there was no sign of activity. He used the key to unlock the door, then checked the back. There was a canvas bag, such as might be used to haul the stripped carca.s.s of a deer. He took it out, wadded it into his knapsack, and took that over the fence, hiding it in the concealed crotch of a twisting live oak tree.

A squirrel was watching him alertly. ”Don't tell it's here,” Geode said, and winked. The squirrel nodded and moved on up the branch.

He returned to the truck, put his light bike carefully in the back, got in, fastened the seat belt, and turned the key in the ignition. He wasn't much for powered vehicles, but he did know the rules of their operation. The motor caught immediately; it was a good machine. Better than its owner, he thought with cynical bemus.e.m.e.nt. It had four-wheel drive and automatic s.h.i.+ft. He was used to gears.h.i.+ft, but was able to figure out the principle: R for reverse and D for drive.

He backed it cautiously onto the road and turned. By the time he had maneuvered it to face the other way, he had a reasonable feel for its mechanism. He drove it slowly down the road, marveling at its clutchless s.h.i.+fts.

He took it down-country toward Inverness, then east on Turner Camp Road until it dead-ended at the river. His luck held; there were no other cars there. He pulled the truck off the turning circle, parked it close to the water, got out, locked it, and lifted the bike out of the back. He walked it beside the river, then hurled the key into the murky water. Then he got on and pedaled away.

He was thoroughly sweaty by the time he returned to the ranch, for the day was typically hot and he had expended a lot of energy riding rapidly along back roads. He had taken a circuitous route so that anyone who saw him would not realize where he had come from or where he was going. Cyclists were not uncommon here, and they did prefer the back roads so as not to be endangered by traffic. Chances were that no one would remember his pa.s.sage, if they noted it at all.

He came to the spot where the truck had been parked. There was still no sign of attention; as far as he knew, it was a clean job. He lifted the bike over the barbed wire, climbed through himself, fetched the knapsack, and rode back toward the body.

It remained undisturbed. He laid the bag on the ground and lifted the boots, putting them in. The body was both light and cohesive, no trouble at all to move. He had to fold it, which was awkward in the bag; he had to haul it out, push it into a crude fetal position, and work that into the opening. Again he found himself getting an erection, and again was repulsed. He was no necrophiliac and no h.o.m.os.e.xual, and this disgusted him.

Once the body was in, he set the bag aside and rearranged the pine needles, covering the traces. No casual pa.s.ser would realize that this site had ever been disturbed, and after the next rain it would be just about impossible to tell.

He tied the closed bag to the top of his knapsack and donned the whole. It required some adjustment, but in this manner he was able to carry the bag on his back while riding the bike. All he needed was muscle and endurance, and he had those.

He headed east, winding toward the old limerock mine pit. This was the best place to hide something, for even if a person strayed onto the posted property, he was unlikely to go in there. Geode had explored the pits as a matter of policy and curiosity, wanting to know everything about the land for which he was caretaker. He knew their recesses. Now that knowledge was handy.

He came into the young section of the tree farm. Here there were two-year-old longleaf pine seedlings, still looking much like gra.s.s. Longleaf was different from other pines; it did not form a main stem until it was ready to grow rapidly. It gathered ma.s.s below the ground, and then shot up quickly. This seemed to help protect it from the ravages of wildfires.

Near the pit was a copse of larger slash pine. Once the full tract had been slash, but the soil and moisture were wrong in this section, and it hadn't done well. Mid had had it taken down and replaced with longleaf, which was expected to do better. He had left some of the slash at the fringe of the mine, where it seemed to have better fortune.