Her fingers moved back to photographs of the logging road and a section of woods where I had walked when being led to the clearing in the rain.
I glanced over at Marino. He was leaning forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on Hilda. So far, she wasn’t telling us anything dramatic. Neither Marino nor I had ever assumed that Deborah and Fred had been murdered on the logging road, but in the clearing where their bodies were found.
“I see a man,” Hilda went on. “Light-complected. He’s not real tall. Not short. Medium height and slender. But not skinny. Now, I don’t know who it is, but since nothing is coming to me strongly, I’ll have to assume it was someone who had an encounter with the couple. I’m picking up friendliness. I’m hearing laughter. It’s like he was, you know, friendly with the couple. Maybe they met him somewhere, and I can’t tell you why I’m thinking this, but I’m feeling as if they were laughing with him at some point. Trusted him.”
Marino spoke. “Can you see anything else about him? About the way he looked?”
She continued rubbing the photographs. “I’m seeing darkness. It’s possible he has a dark beard or something dark over part of his face. Maybe he’s dressed in dark clothing. But I’m definitely picking him up in connection with the couple and with the place where the pictures were taken.”
Opening her eyes, she stared up at the ceiling. “I’m feeling that the first meeting was a friendly encounter. Nothing to make them worry. But then there’s fear. It’s so strong in this place, the woods.”
“What else?”
Marino was so intense, the veins were standing out in his neck. If he leaned forward another inch, he was going to fall off the couch.
“Two things,” she said. “They may not mean anything but they’re coming to me. I have a sense of another place that’s not in these pictures, and I’m feeling this in connection with the girl. She might have been taken somewhere or gone somewhere. Now this place could be close by. Maybe it’s not. I don’t know, but I’m getting a sense of crowdedness, of things grabbing. Of panic, a lot of noise and motion. Nothing about these impressions is good. And then there is something lost. I’m seeing this as something metal that has to do with war. I’m not getting anything more about that except I don’t feel anything bad – I’m not picking up that the object itself is harmful.”
“Who lost whatever this metal thing is?” Marino inquired.
“I have a sense that this is a person who is still alive. I’m not getting an image, but I feel this is a man. He perceives the item as lost versus discarded and is not real worried about it, but there is some concern. As if whatever he has lost enters his mind now and then.”
She fell silent as the telephone rang again.
I asked, “Did you mention any of this to Pat Harvey last fall?”
“When she wanted to see me,” Hilda replied, “the bodies had not been found. I didn’t have these pictures.”
“Then you did not get any of these same impressions.”
She thought hard. “We went to the rest stop and she led me right over to where the Jeep was found. I stood there for a while. I remember there was a knife.”
“What knife?” Marino asked.
“I saw a knife.”
“What kind of knife?” he asked, and I recalled that Gail, the dog handler, had borrowed Marino’s Swiss army knife when opening the Jeep’s doors.
“A long knife,” Hilda said. “Like a hunting knife or maybe some kind of military knife. It seems there was something about the handle. Black and rubbery, maybe, with one of those blades I associate with cutting through hard things like wood.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” I said, even though I had a good idea what she meant. I did not want to lead her.
“With teeth. Like a saw. I guess serrated is what I’m trying to say,” she replied.
“This is what came into your mind when you was standing out there at the rest stop?”