Driving away from The Den she checked her rearview mirror for as long as she could, wanting to soak in as much of the home as she could possibly hold in her memory. It was still early in the afternoon, but the ride to the dam would take a few hours. Leaving the reservation she passed a new set of men on guard. Armed, attentive, and happy to wave goodbye while she drove off toward the main highway.

With another long ride ahead of her Jane tried to think about how she would confront the boyfriend. If he wasn’t at his job then she would have wasted hours trying to get in touch with him. It would have been smarter to go visit his home while she was on the reserve. Maybe press the locals harder. She had assumed she knew better, but the truth was anyone was capable of murder.

She knew right then she was making a mistake. If she turned around now then she could still visit his home, then the dam without wasting much time. Maybe a half hour lost, if she drove fast.

Quickly she pulled her jeep into a U-turn, checking both lanes of the farm-surrounded road to make sure there was no oncoming traffic. She was just about to complete the maneuver when something bright red caught her eye in the drainage ditch. Pulling to a stop Jane stepped out to look down into the dirt spillway.

A red bicycle, twisted and mangled. Its bright red somewhat tarnished with dirt and grime, the bike looked like it was well taken care of, at one point. There were several sets of footprints in the dirt, some boots and some barefoot. Drag marks. Some corn stalks, broken at the stem. It was a clear sign of a struggle if she’d ever seen one.

Jane checked her surroundings, hand reflexively moving toward her revolver. In the distance she could see the other side of the farmland where she had drove in earlier. The scarecrows were all up. There was no yelling, none of the unusual loudness that comes from working in the outdoors. Everything seemed strangely quiet.

For a moment she eyed the field of corn, playing with the idea of following the trail of confusing footprints. It was always dangerous to enter a field of crops. You never knew what machinery could be working, and the way everyone had been on edge at the reserve there was a good chance these farmers would be equally dangerous. It was always best to avoid spooking an armed homeowner.

Realizing that she needed a better vantage point Jane drew her pistol and strode into the crops, moving past the obvious trail of struggle to the direction of a nearby scarecrow post instead. Those things were fairly sturdy. If it could hold her weight then there would be a much better view of --

Blood. So much blood. The post was soaked in it. Dried from too much exposure to air and sunlight, but thick enough to leave the ground crusted in a foul smelling red.

The scarecrow was nowhere to be found. In its place were ragged scraps of torn leather and faded denim. All of it was covered in a thick red sludge, save for a single tattered strand of yellow cloth. The squelching of wet soil underfoot told her whatever happened here wasn’t that long ago. It may not even be finished.

Gun raised, Jane doubled back and found the trail of footprints in the dirt. Walking low, trying hard to reduce the telltale sound of shifting corn, she followed the signs of struggle deep into the unknown.