PROLOGUE
PROLOGUE
The nighttime forest was still and quiet. Only the faintest breeze rustled the trees as Max Granger crept along the path, checking behind him every few steps. He was on the alert for the gleam of a flashlight, or a loud shout, or the barking of a guard dog. Anything that told him he'd been discovered.
He tugged the hood of his black jacket lower over his face. Soft moonlight shone through the leaves, faintly showing him the way.
In his hands he clutched the tools of his trade - four large buckets, and a bag that contained a battery-operated drill, and four homemade PVC spiles that he was using as tree taps.
In this lush forest, rich with the sap and foliage of spring, he was going to steal maple sap straight from the trees. With daytime temperatures now warming, and night temperatures still icy cold, this was the best time of the year for tapping the trees, when the sap was sweet and flowing.
There was a market for it. Maple syrup was an expensive commodity. He had a connection that paid well. The illegal network was thriving.
But it was creating a lot of anger, as Max knew. Farmers were seeking to crush it, to stop the theft at all costs. That was why there was every need for caution. He'd heard that some of these farms were employing armed guards who had been told to shoot on sight. He didn't know how true that was. He hoped it was just a rumor, deliberately spread to put off opportunity seekers like himself, but still, he knew there was more risk than there had been last season.
The farmers said that the illegal tapping harmed the trees, not only stressing them in terms of sap production, but also damaging the fine and expensive wood with the too-large drill bits and the clumsy insertion of the taps which the thieves used. It made them less valuable for when the trees were felled.
But the way Max saw it, the farmers had thousands of trees. Maybe even millions! They were wealthy, they drove big SUVs, they lived on fancy ranches. Their forests covered hundreds of acres.
They could spare a few trees! He only targeted a few each time, pushing in the taps, attaching his brown-painted buckets which were barely visible against the bark. Then, two nights later, he would sneak in again to collect his largesse, the buckets full of sticky, fragrant sap ready for him to take and sell.
It was early in the summer season, and Max was getting in there now, to take what he could from trees that already had two taps in place. He was adding just one more per tree, hoping the addition wouldn’t be noticed. They could surely handle that?
As Max paced, soft-footed, through the forest, he felt a sense of resentment toward the farmers.
They were threatening him, driving him out, rumors abounding that they would shoot to kill. And he was just scraping a living, doing what he did, in the long, exhausting, risky nights. He was an unemployed guy otherwise. He had to afford things somehow!
Every night he was out, he knew, he risked death or arrest. Even if he was only stealing a few buckets of sap.
But in a strange way he thought of these as his woods, his trees. He knew the pathways through the plantations intimately, he liked the feelings that ran through him when he was here, seeing the sap glisten on the trees, the smell and feel of earth, of leaves. The adrenaline rush, the feeling of being on the edge.
But, as he paused to listen again, the adrenaline rush changed to a surge of fright.
There were footsteps behind him. He could hear them pacing softly through the trees.
Sneaky, stealthy footsteps. And as he turned, wide-eyed, he saw the gleam of a flashlight.
Max's heart started to accelerate. They knew he was here. No way was this a coincidence. They must have seen him creep into the woods and followed him.
Now he'd have to hide, and hope that the matte black clothing he wore provided cover against that piercing flashlight, and didn't give him away.
Fear lanced through him again as he realized something else.
This lone person, walking through the woods, this didn't seem like a typical security operation which usually took place in pairs or groups.
It felt more like a renegade on the hunt. One man on his own, on a mission. A murderous mission. Those footsteps sounded implacable. It seemed inevitable that the bright beam, swinging from left to right, would soon pick out his shape or the shape of his buckets.
He noticed the paint was peeling off the outer one, leaving its shiny white surface visible, and his teeth clenched as he realized how that white plastic would gleam in the light.
Frantically fighting for calmness, Max told himself he was just being paranoid. Just paranoid. It was no more than a bored security guard doing his job, walking through to check for any extra buckets on the trees, or maybe even a late night hiker passing through. All he had to do was go further back into the woods to hide.
But if it was routine, why were the footsteps stopping, as if the man following him was listening out for any sound? As if he was straining to hear Max walking. Max breathing. The rattle of a bucket, or the items in the bag he carried.
Anything that would give away where he was.
If he was shot, deep in these woods, nobody would hear the g*n go off. And nobody would find him. In the vastness of the forest, he could easily be buried under a loose covering of soil, in one of the grassy strips between the trees, to rot away undiscovered until, one day, someone stumbled upon his bones.
Max decided to retreat further into the woods. Hiding, now, was the priority.
He didn’t want to be shot by a rogue guard, someone who was longing to use his g*n without consequences and had been given free rein by the farmers, who would turn a blind eye to whatever happened, confident that there would be no repercussions. Law enforcement in this area wasn’t trusted. Police had a hard time doing their job.
He’d told nobody where he was. Why would he? Telling anyone was a rookie error. But it meant that in the forest, he'd be gone forever, would never be found.
He pulled the hood over his face, crouched low and slunk into the trees, not daring to use his flashlight, hoping that the darkness of night and their tall trunks would give him cover.
But the stranger was not so cautious. The beam swept across the forest, lighting up the trunks, and a moment later, it veered toward Max's hiding place.
His legs felt weak with fear. His chest felt tight.
He had to act fast.
He backed away, trying to use the tree trunks as cover, retreating while trying to keep his equipment bag quiet and still, not allowing himself to breathe hard or to make a mistake, to stumble over one of the tree roots.
He wanted to run, but knew he couldn't risk it. Not in the pitch dark.
Max's heart was beating. It felt like it was trying to burst out of his rib cage. He felt his breaths become shallow; he couldn't get enough oxygen into his lungs. The beam was getting closer. The footsteps were getting louder. Who was this man, hunting him so patiently?
Max backed away. If he could get behind this big, solid trunk, he might just be able to hide. It was one of the biggest trees in the area.
He looked up, seeing the breadth of its trunk, the branches high above. This would have been a good tree to tap. He could have filled two buckets easily. But now, all he was hoping was that this tree would make him invisible to whoever was pursuing him so implacably.
He backed up another step.
And then, he fell. His feet came up against something solid and heavy, something that shifted and moved when he touched it, but not enough. A loose root, growing out of the ground, perhaps. Unbalanced, surprised, he fell.
His buckets clattered down. The bag with his tools jingled and thudded onto the ground. This was it, he'd busted himself, it was too late. Now the footsteps would undoubtedly turn his way.
He put a hand down to the root, bracing himself to push off from it and run. Headlong flight was his only chance to get away now.
But as his hand reached the tree, he didn’t touch the rough, knotted bark he'd been expecting. Instead, his hand clenched over something that was icy cold, and soft, and felt strangely familiar. Familiar and terrible.
Now hyperventilating, he stared down. Stared at something that was faintly visible in the glow of moonlight.
A n***d body that was as pale as porcelain in the gloomy dark. A sheet-white face. A head. Eyes that were dark in the face, a parted, bloodless mouth.
Blonde hair cascaded like a river over the shoulders.
He backed away, gasping, realizing his hands were now dirtied with soil that was damp and strangely red, and panic flared in his mind.
It was a corpse, a corpse under the tree, a woman who had bled out, tapped like the maples themselves. This was so impossible, so terrifying, that Max didn't care anymore who found him, or who shot him. He didn't care if the footsteps following him came closer or if the flashlight pinned him in its beam. The consequences no longer mattered. All that mattered was the horror of this present moment.
Panting with fear, Max began to scream and scream and scream.
