Piers Anthony - Firefly

1 - SKIN AND BONES, literally. The skin was like parchment, crinkled and collapsed, draped over the skull, limbs, rib cage, backbone, and pelvis within the clothing. It was as if a giant snake had swallowed a man, digested him but not his clothing, and shed its skin, leaving only the bones within it.

Geode shook his head as he gazed at it. This was the same effect he had seen with animals, but on a larger scale. This time the remains were human. The figure lay supine, arms slightly spread, face turned to the side, as if sleeping. The clothing seemed undisturbed, except that the fly of the trousers was open, as if the man had been urinating when abruptly shriveled.

It was recent. The bones might have endured a long time, but the skin should have rotted away soon enough. It overlay the brown bed of pine needles beneath a leaning tree, and a few green blades of grass. On the left wrist was a watch whose time was current. Lying nearby was a modern sport rifle. A hunter, illegal on at least two grounds: this was posted property, and it was out of season.

He stooped to peer more closely at the face. It was grotesque. The skin was almost colorless, hanging in wrinkles over the nasal cavity and the gaunt jawbone and teeth. The eye sockets were glazed over, but no eyeballs remained, just the glaze. It was as if some thin lacquer or fixative had been sprayed over the body just before the contents had been removed, leaving only the shell. What natural process could account for this?

Geode felt a reaction. He was getting an erection. Astonished, he froze in place. Did this macabre sight somehow turn him on? He had heard of this in some men, but had never experienced it himself.

He stood upright and backed away. This body would have to be reported. The unnatural death of a man was always a notable occurrence. But first he would complete his rounds. Perhaps he would be able to spot where the man had come from.

He returned to his bicycle and resumed his ride along the forest path. He was near the northwest corner of the ranch, where a development was approaching. Its lightly tarred dirt roads extended outward like the strands of a spiderweb, terminating abruptly at the fence that marked the boundary of the square mile that was known as the Middle Kingdom, after its reclusive oriental owner. Sometimes illegal hunters drove up to the blank dead-ends, parked, and climbed through the fence to poach deer.

That was one reason Geode was here. His employer regarded the ranch as a wildlife sanctuary, and wanted no intrusions. He was not, as Geode understood it, a wildlife enthusiast; it was just a pretext to maintain privacy. The Middle Kingdom was registered and managed as a 600-acre tree farm, which Geode understood cut its taxes to an eighth of what they might otherwise have been. Since intruders could build fires or damage trees, Geode's job was to patrol the property and to report anything he deemed to be worth reporting. But since his employer did not like to be bothered with trifles, Geode was supposed to do his best to resolve any problems by himself.

In short, he was to treat the ranch as if it were his own. These were his trees and his animals, and he watched constantly over them. This was in effect his kingdom. He liked it that way.

He came to the fence. Sure enough, there was a parked pickup truck. It was empty, and locked. The man had stopped here, squeezed between the strands of the barbed wire, gone on in to poachand died mysteriously.

Geode had no sympathy for the hunter. His affinity was with the wildlife. But the death was both strange and gruesome, and it made him queasy in the stomach. Coupled with the similar corpse of the rabbit he had seen the week before, it bothered him. He had not reported the rabbit, but this he would have to put on record. He might value a rabbit more than a poacher, but others did not.

He returned to the bike and pedaled on south. In due course he intersected the entry driveway and shifted to top gear on the asphalt, picking up speed. A gopher turtle at the edge of the road gazed at him, pondered, and pulled in its head as he passed. "Hello, friend," he called reassuringly, but he was beyond before the turtle could answer. He felt guilty about that, but there was no help for it, this time. Midday in the heat was the time for turtles, just as dawn and dusk were the times for rabbits. All of them were relatively tame, for they were not molested here. The drive was fenced on either side, but the animals could handle the fences, and claimed to like the open corridor.

He followed the road half a mile down, past young slash pines, old live oaks, mixed magnolias, and reclining palmettos, until it curved up a slight hill to the house. He parked the bike at the lesser entry to the side, and used his key to open the door. As he did so, the steady sound of the security alarm came on. He walked to the keypad set inside the main door and punched in the defuse code: 1206. It was the year that Jenghiz Khan was proclaimed supreme leader of all the Mongols. An awareness of Asian history was helpful here in the Middle Kingdom.

Then he called 800-555-1369 (the accession of Tamerlane) to report to his employer. How many numbers Middleberry had he didn't know, but this one was reserved for calls from this address only.

He got an answering machine. No identity was given; there was only a beep. That was standard. "I found a dead man," Geode said. "Strange circumstance. I need instructions soon." That was all; he was not supposed to waste words. Indeed, he never called unless there was something significant to report. He left routine reports on the local answering machine for Middleberry to pick up at his convenience.

He had no notion where Middleberry was; it could be anywhere in the world, the call transferred to his phone by satellite. It might be a day before he received the callback, or it might be minutes. He would remain at the house until it came; that was part of the deal, when he made such a report. His time was worth nothing, compared to that of his employer.

The phone rang thirty seconds after he had hung up. It was Mid, of course; this line had no other connection. He lifted the receiver. "Geode."

"Detail," the slightly thin voice said.

"Northwest sector, near the development. I conjecture that a hunter parked at the fence, went inside, and suffered some kind of malady while taking a piss. He fell on his back, and something dehydrated him. The body is undisturbed, but nothing remains except clothing, rifle, watch, skin, and the skeleton. It happened within the past day, maybe at night. No evidence of violence, no tracks other than his own. I have not touched the body, and have reported it only to you."

"I will investigate. Hide the body safely. Take the car to an isolated waterfront and throw the key in the water. Do not be observed."

Geode hesitated. If this was not an illegal procedure, it was bordering on it. Yet if he refused, he would be fired. Mid did not fool with employees.

"You have a problem, George?" Now the vague oriental accent was more pronounced, signifying the man's irritation. There was also a warning: Mid used his given name only when what Mid said was to be ignored or denied. Geode would do the same, addressing him as Middleberry only if someone were with him, overhearing the conversation, in that way warning his employer to say nothing private.

But in this case he had to skirt the warning. "Yes, Mid. The authorities may think I killed him. With my record"

"I will protect you, Geode."

That decided him. He owed everything to his employer, including blind loyalty; that had been clear from the outset. "I will do it. Do you want a subsequent report?"

"Only in the event of a new development. Is there anything you need?"