A moment later, she stopped.
A slight, cool breeze blew; something wet landed in her hair. She brushed at it absently—while out of the corner of her eyes spying the ‘ideal’ branch. She bent to pick it up.
And froze.
There in the scrub, illuminated by a dash of sun and twisted almost beyond recognition—lay Napoleon's copper ankle-band.
“Oh, my ...” she whispered, trailing off. She straightened.
And saw a van parked among the trees.
She squinted.
The van’s windows were smashed, its doors dented. It looked as though it had been attacked.
Plink!
She looked down.
Something had plinked off the ankle-band—leaving a stain. The stain was maroon; its edges ran. She looked up ...
The tree limbs were hung with human bodies. (Two males, part of a female.) They were dripping blood.
She cuppe
