John entered the park from the Main Street. There was a playground. Usual stuff. Slides, swings, no monkey bars. Monkey bars were a thing of the past. Those of the “Z” generation didn’t have the survival skills of the Baby Boomers. Consequently no insurance company would cover monkey bars or metal slides.
Beyond the playground were trees. The kind you find at the base of the Wasatch. No tall timber, but a good covering for hide and seek or adventurous lovers. The area was empty. John worked his way back to the foliage and ventured in. In a short while the forest seemed to close in behind him, hiding the playground from view. He could easily see how someone could secrete themselves from prying eyes.
The activity that he’d observed earlier was nowhere to be seen. Amazing! Wee hours of the morning, Saturday night, the locals were too holy for their own good.
The stillness bothered him. As if the business of the night had been completed and the causes of it had gone.
Then there was a sound. A rustling in the trees. John was on point, but not much. The last recorded crime here was one teen girl sticking another young girl in the the butt with a pen knife over a boy. Not exactly Austin!
John eased toward the sound. He began to detect gasping and a low cough. As he came through the brush he came upon a man laying in the ground, gurgling from the gash across his throat. The blood oozed from his throat with each successive heart beat and he was running short of beats.
John bent down to the man. 911 could not save him, and John didn’t want any empirical implications at this early stage. “Don’t know who you got cross with, partner, but they done for you.”
Just then he caught something in his peripheral vision. Now he pulled his gun as he turned to the sight. About ten feet away, among the trees was a small form. The person was wearing a dark hoodie that hid the eyes, but not the mouth. It extended to the ankles. In the right hand was a sword. From John’s days in the army he could tell it was a ceremonial saber similar to one a decorated soldier would get upon his retirement. Upon closer inspection he saw a long whiff of light brown hair extending to the shoulders. John was taken aback. A girl’s hair! A short girl.
Looking back at the now dead man on the ground and back John asked, “Did you do that?”
Slowly the head nodded. The nod exposed a bit more of the face of a young girl.
“Why?” John asked.
A small, female voice answered, “He touches girls.”
She made no move toward him, and he stood his ground. This was a killer. Was she the killer? This wasn’t a chance randevu. The hoodie, the sword, her very demeanor spoke of planning. The man came to the park to abuse what he thought was an angel, and had met a devil! With another quick glance back again he said, “A little drastic wouldn’t you say?”
In a little girl’s voice she asked, “What did you come into the desert to see, bounty hunter?” And before John could blink she turned in a swirl and disappeared back into the forest.
When he got back to his room Rick asked him what he’d found at the park. John poured a whiskey and said, “It’s not a serial killer. It’s a vigilante.”
“You saw him?”
“Her! Spoke to her! It’s not a man. It’s a girl. A little girl!”
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