I hesitated, then went all-in. “I’m forgetting stuff.”

  “You’re thinking it’s Alzheimer’s?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Dementia isn’t so bad,” Chandler said. “You buy one magazine, you can keep reading it for the rest of your life.” She changed her accent to French for some reason. “Hey, is that the new Vogue? Let me peruse their trendy fashion articles. Excellent issue. What was it that I was saying? I know I was talking about something. Hey, is that the new Vogue?”

  I snickered. “Look at you. You’re cracking jokes.”

  “I can fake being normal when I try. How are Phin and Sam?”

  “Phin and Sam are going on a daddy/daughter camping trip.”

  “Right. In Boulder.”

  I squinted at her. “I don’t remember telling you that.”

  “He emailed you his itinerary,” Chandler explained.

  “Part of friendship is respecting privacy, Chandler.”

  “Noted. I’ll try harder.”

  I guess that was a start.

  “Sam’s almost ten,” I said, “going on forty. All parents think their children are brilliant, but she’s got an eidetic memory and she’s more mature than I am most of the time.”

  “Precocious.”

  “Way beyond that. We’re discussing getting her into some sort of accelerated program at school.”

  “I don’t recommend that,” Chandler said. “Kids need to be kids and be around kids their own age. Or else…”

  She shrugged and left the rest unsaid, but I assumed it had to do with gruesomely murdering people.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “Phin feels compelled to teach her how to start fires without matches, spear fish in a stream, and wipe your ass with something other than poison oak.”

  Chandler laughed. Her edge was definitely fading. “And you passed on that?”

  “I don’t find shitting in the woods to be vacation-worthy,” I giggled.

  “So instead we’re here in this shitbox, drinking cheap wine out of jars.”

  We laughed. The laughing went on longer than necessary, which was funny, and made us laugh even more.

  “This cracker is the greatest thing I’ve ever eaten in my life,” Chandler declared, correctly. “You know it’s impossible to eat six crackers in less than a minute?”

  “No way.” I tugged my cell out of my jeans and squinted at it to fact-check her. “I don’t have service.”

  “Northwoods.” Chandler dealt out two sets of crackers like playing cards. “Northern Wisconsin is one of the only places in the country without 3G. I checked.”

  “I remember 2G. And I think 1G. Was it called 1G? Or was it just G, because it was the first G?”

  “OG,” Chandler said.

  More cackling ensued. Followed by dual failed attempts to eat six crackers in a minute.

  Could be a saliva thing.

  Could be that we kept cracking up and spitting them on each other.

  Crackers make you crack up.

  Or weed does.

  Or both.

  Eventually the sun set on the autumn vista, our buzz began to subside, the apple, cheese, and two sleeves of Ritz had magically disappeared, and Chandler stood up with a look of fierce intensity.

  “We need to do the scavenger hunt,” she announced.

  “That thing they advertised?”

  “Yeah. It’s mentioned on the B and B listing. If you find all twenty scavenger hunt objects you get a voucher for a free night.”

  “So if you win, they punish you.”

  We drank more and laughed more. I tried to log onto the app but; no service.

  “I can’t find it,” I said.

  “Let’s check the game room. I bet there are instructions.”

  I reached for some crackers, saw they hadn’t magically reappeared, and then stood up and followed Chandler to the hall. My good mood vanished as I felt eyes on me.

  Dozens of dead, staring eyes.

  The kitschy taxidermy lining the walls didn’t feel so kitschy anymore.

  I chalked it up to paranoia. Normal side-effect of THC. Nothing to worry about. I wasn’t being watched.

  I thought I heard one of the stuffed deer heads reply, “Are you sure about that?”

  One of the reasons I preferred liquor to pot.

  Chandler had parked herself in front of the peg board, where she was removing a large key ring of laminated photos. Someone had scrawled SCAVENGER HUNT in hillbilly printing on a white sign attached to the board.

  I felt a chill, and hugged my shoulders.

  “This is so cool, Jack. You need to see this. There are pictures of stuff all over the property. We find the objects, take a pic with a selfie to prove we found it, and when we get back to the land of Wi-Fi we turn in the results.”

  “Aren’t we on twenty acres?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Lot of area to cover.”

  “I once found a piece of a crashed satellite in two hundred and eight square kilometers of Gobi Desert.”

  “I once found a Band-Aid in some restaurant chicken salad.”

  She didn’t reply, her attention absorbed by the scavenger hunt pictures.

  “Aren’t you swimming in gold Krugerrands?” I asked. “Why do you care about a free voucher?”

  “It’s not the money. It’s the winning. I like winning.”

  I stepped close enough to see Chandler was looking at a photo of a birdhouse.

  “There’s no way we can find one birdhouse when there at least twenty bazillion trees,” I stated.

  “We can do it. We’re friends. Friends can do anything. Don’t friends say bullshit like that?”

  I remained dubious.

  Besides, something that might not have been weed paranoia, but instead well-earned ex-cop paranoia, made me feel like this was going to be a very bad idea.

  Chandler smirked at me, followed by a playful shove.

  “C’mon, Jack. What could possibly go wrong?”

  “Famous last words.”

  “It’s a scavenger hunt in the woods, no neighbors for miles in any direction.”

  “I’m not a huge fan of the woods.”

  “This is probably the safest place in the world right now.”

  Maybe it was.

  If so, why didn’t I feel safe?

  THE WITCH

  That woman Jack drove up with, the one who picked her up at the airport in Madison, was not a civilian.

  Being a predator, the witch understood other predators. And predators had hierarchies. The weasel deferred to the vulture. The vulture to the hyena. The hyena to the lion.

  Jack’s companion was an alpha predator.

  She drove like she’d been well-trained by the intelligence community.

  She moved like a seasoned martial artist.

  She carried herself with the quiet confidence of a psychopath.

  Apex. Undoubtedly formidable. Probably military.

  Soldier girl was not someone the witch wanted to mess around with. She had packed a scope and rifle when she flew in the day before, and if push came to shove the witch would headshot Jack’s friend from two hundred meters rather than risk an up-close encounter. The dirt driveway leading to the B and B, though twisting, had a clear line of sight where the witch could hunker down and keep eyes on her prey.

  An insulated ghillie suit, some hot coffee, granola bars, and a vantage point.

  What else does a girl need?

  As she watched the house, the witch’s damaged mind flipped channels, seemingly at random.

  She thought about her dead family.

  My brother. My mother. My father.

  She thought about dying.

  In the future. In the past.

  She thought about Jack dying.

  In the very near future. Slowly.

  She thought about killing Jack’s family.

  And making Jack watch.

  She thought about the paladin. And the wizard. And the golem.

  Mercenary. Doctor. Monster.

  She had wronged the paladin. A formidable opponent. But the golem was even more frightening.

  Sometimes, psychopathy was restrained. Hidden and concealed through self-control.

  Sometimes, psychopaths were raving, insane lunatics. Disconnected from reality. Monsters both inside and outside.

  The golem was like that.

  And, strangely enough, so was the weird guy the witch had seen, skulking around Jack’s B and B, peeking in the windows.

  Jack and her friend hadn’t noticed the guy yet.

  But the guy had most certainly noticed Jack and her friend.

  Big. Lumbering. Clearly unhinged. A wildman.

  The witch smiled at the coincidence.

  I’m not the only crazy person currently stalking Jack Daniels.

  The witch smiled, sipped some coffee from her thermos, and continued to watch.

  THE ARTIST

  The Art Comes First.

  Always.

  The First Rule Is: The Artist Must Make the Art.

  The Artist Knows This.

  Breathes This.

  Lives This.

  Art Above All Else.

  The Second Rule Is: To Make The Art, The Artist Must Hunt.

  Hunting Requires Skill.

  Hunting Requires Patience.

  Hunting Is Difficult.

  But Hunting Is Fun.

  The Artist Is Hunting Now.

  Hunting At The Old House.

  Hunting Two Women.

  The Artist Watches The Women.

  They Talk.

  They Laugh.

  They Eat.

  They Will Be The Artist’s New Art.

  They Will Be The Artist’s Best Art.

  They Will Be Beautiful.

  They Will Be Immortal.

  Immortal Immortal Immortal.

  They Must Suffer First.

  Such Is Art.

  Art Is Suffering.

  The Artist Suffers For Art.

  The Art Must Suffer As Well.

  Suffer, And Die.

  The Artist Watches.

  The Artist Plans.

  Soon The Artist Will Hunt.

  CHANDLER

  Chandler flipped through the collection of scavenger hunt cards, the lamination smooth under her fingers. The varied images had a rushed, amateur feeling to them that piqued her curiosity.

  Like they’d been done by a luddite who didn’t understand the technology, she mused.

  Or someone with a chaotic mind.

  She glanced at a frog figurine half-covered in moss.

  A shabby brown wreath from Christmas past looped over a tree branch.

  A faded vinyl pontoon seat, swallowed by ivy.

  A rusting dirt bike, both tires crumbing to dust.

  A carousel horse, similar to the one propped on the rod in the game room, but weather-beaten to near featureless smoothness.

  A close-up of a squirrel feeder, streaked with black mold.

  An empty robin’s nest, draped in spider webs.

  The images made Chandler feel vaguely uneasy, but also energized. She’d been in life-or-death-fight-or-flight mode for so long that she’d forgotten what it was like to do anything diverting.

  Do I ever do anything diverting?

  I don’t have friends. I don’t have hobbies.

  I don’t do anything fun.

  That’s not normal.

  Is it even possible for me to be normal?

  The internal question fueled her resolve.

  “We need to do this scavenger hunt, Jack.”

  The former cop didn’t answer. She stared at the pictures over Chandler’s shoulder, her expression blank.

  “Are you with me, Loot?”

  Jack’s eyes snapped back to the present. “I’m not a Homicide Lieutenant anymore.”

  What did my therapist say? To engage in regular conversation, you have to ask questions. Regular old banal everyday questions.

  Chandler was very good at interrogating a person to get information. Or tricking a person to get an advantage.

  Idle chit-chat, not so much.

  She gave it a shot anyway. “Do you miss working?”

  Jack took a few seconds before replying. “No. I want the past to stay the past.”

  If you learn how to do that, teach me.

  “What’s your plan for the future?” Chandler asked.

  “I want to have a future. That’s all I need. What about your future, Chandler?”

  That’s the topic I need to talk about.

  But Chandler wasn’t ready to get into that, so she deferred. “I want to try this scavenger hunt.”

  “Doesn’t this all seem kind of… creepy?”

  “It seems like it’ll be interesting. I never did stuff like this when I was a kid.”

  “Stuff like what?” Jack asked.

  “Games. Diversions. Enjoying life. All I did was train. Or as my shrink calls it, indoctrination. I can do advanced calculus. I can seduce anyone. I can fly an MH-60 Jayhawk. I can hold my breath for seven minutes, and run a five-and-a-half-minute mile. But having fun…” Chandler shrugged.

  “We’re having fun now.” Jack gestured with an upturned palm. “It’s comfy and cozy, and we’re not out in the dark woods, running around.”

  “Or—hear me out—we could be out in the dark woods, running around.”

  “You’re not convincing me.”

  Chandler showed her the card featuring a picture of a rusty bird bath. “Just look at this.”

  Jack laughed. “Looks like the perfect chance for us both to lacerate ourselves. Then we can drive an hour to the nearest ER to get our tetanus shot boosters.”

  “On our ride up you said you wanted to explore the grounds.”

  “And we will, Chandler. I’m thinking tomorrow. In the morning. When it isn’t dark.”

  “It’s a lot more challenging at night. Don’t you like a challenge?”

  “Not sure I ever liked a challenge.”

  Chandler rolled her eyes. “Right. When we first met, you actually thought you could challenge me.”

  “I thought I did pretty good. When we scrapped, I held my own for a few minutes.”

  Chandler let that ludicrous comment pass.

  I should ask her what I need to ask.

  After all, it’s the reason I invited myself to this excursion.

  “So… Jack. You said you don’t miss working. But how has retirement been for you?”

  “It would be better if I didn’t keep running into lunatics.”

  “Am I a lunatic?” Chandler asked, sincerely.

  “No. At worst, you’re amoral. At best, you’re heroic. You’re someone who does the work that we need, but everyone else is afraid to do. Or is not capable of doing.”

  “It’s what I do. What we both do. You’ve been heroic, many times.”

  “When forced to be.”

  Now we’re getting to the point.

  “Like when you were a police officer. How much of your identity depended on the job?”

  “You mean how much of me is cop? And if I’m no longer a cop, am I still me?”

  Chandler nodded.

  Jack looked off to the side, apparently mulling it over.

  “I’m happy I got away from all that,” she eventually said.

  Chandler pressed while trying not to look like she was pressing. “Don’t you miss the excitement? The sense of purpose? Helping people?”

  “I’m focusing on my family these days. Raising a gifted child. Supporting an ailing, elderly mother. Keeping my husband happy.”

  “You think keeping a man happy has the same weight as getting murderers off the street?”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “I think love, and happiness, and family, are worthwhile pursuits. I did the boss bitch thing. I did the selfless hero thing. I made the world a little safer. It almost got me killed, several times. It messed me up emotionally. It wore me out, and made me begin to hate humanity, and life in general.”

  “You saved peoples’ lives.”

  “I did. But now I’m making a difference in the lives of people I love. And I like life. I like being alive. It’s the best job I’ve ever had.”

  “You got medals for being a cop. You got several black belts. You won marksman awards. How much of that do you use now?”

  “Is this what you wanted to ask me about? Are you thinking about retiring, Chandler?”

  This wasn’t the answer I expected.

  Or maybe it was.

  Maybe coming here with Jack was a mistake.

  “Chandler? Do you want to live a normal life?”

  Chandler pretended she didn’t hear the question and flipped through a few more cards.

  “Well?”

  She resisted Jack’s eyes drilling into her. “It’s difficult for me to talk about.”

  “How so?”

  Chandler hesitated.

  “Instead of talking, want to try Morse code? Semaphore?”

  “Make you a deal. I’ll tell you… while we’re scavenger hunting.”

  Jack made a Mr. Yuck face.

  “It’ll be fun.” And maybe it’ll help me loosen up a bit.

  “How about we stay in and play Scrabble? Or Clue?”

  “I memorized Webster. You don’t want to play Scrabble with me. I know all 579 words that use the letter Q, and the 1,413 that use Z.”

  “You’re right, fuck that. So Clue.”

  “We can’t play Clue with two players. And a scavenger hunt is basically the same thing as looking for clues, except we get some exercise and can burn off all the Ritz.”

  “How about Jenga?” Jack took the box off the shelf and opened the lid. “It’s missing half the pieces, so it’ll be a quick game.”

  “Come on, just look at this lawn gnome.” Chandler flashed the picture. The gnome was discolored by age and climate, but still had a goofy red grin on his face.

  Jack remained unconvinced. “It’s hideous. And scary.”

  “It’s kitschy.”

  “It looks like it sneaks into children’s rooms while they sleep and bites off their toes.”

  “Rock paper scissors? You win, we play special needs Jenga. I win, we hunt for Bitey the Killer Gnome.”

  “Fine.”

  Chandler grinned, because she knew a trick that worked most of the time. Ask a person a question right before you do the countdown, and nine times out of ten they’ll always throw scissors.