His hand felt a round rock, its edges surprisingly smooth. He was about to toss it aside and move on when his finger, his large right index finger, slipped inside the rock. He pulled his hand back, but curiosity got the better of him. It seemed like such an odd rock that he wanted to touch it again, bring it out of the grass and see it.
So he plunged into the grass again, feeling around. And he found the rock and slipped his finger into the hole. He got a good grip and lifted it out and up near his face.
It took a moment for him to see what it was. There was another hole next to the one his finger was through, and a smaller hole beneath that.
And a row of even teeth, grinning at him in the dark.
When he saw that, he almost dropped it, but somehow managed to keep his grip.
It was a skull. A human skull.
*
Roger looked up the road and saw her coming.
She rode her bike like she was training for some big event. Roger saw her pedaling down County Road 600, a determined look on her face. He passed her going and coming on the days he went to the grocery store. He had seen her many times, long before the last girl had died, and Roger made a note of her punctuality, her adherence to a routine. He liked that. It made him think the girl on the bike was special. And where he waited seemed like a good spot. It was a mile from his house, so people wouldn't automatically think of him, but it was close enough that he could do what he had to do and get home before anyone knew anything was wrong.
Well, not wrong, he thought. Wrong is...the wrong word. He remembered what his dad told him about taking a wife, and the way they used to do it in the old days, back when the elders met in the clearing.
"If a man didn't have a wife," his dad said, "why we'd find him one. Some fellows just need a little help, that's all."
Roger didn't need help. He had a plan. He was ready to go.
She came toward him on her expensive bike, her legs pumping, her red helmet reflecting the sun like a beacon. Roger had seen her a number of times now and thought she looked pretty. Prettier than the last girl, and he liked the thought of that. He was moving up in the world, getting a better wife and a better life.
He knew she saw him, but Roger stepped out into the road when the girl was still a good distance away. He hadn't thought of what he would do if she didn't stop. Roger just assumed she would. She seemed nice. Why wouldn't she?
He waved his arms at her, flagging her down, and for a moment, a scary moment in which his heart climbed into his chest, shutting off the flow of air to his lungs, he thought she wasn't going to stop after all.
But then he heard the gentle whine of her brakes, and he knew she was slowing down.
Roger waited, trying to look calm and innocent. She breezed past him, the air whooshing over Roger as she went by, and then she stopped about twenty feet past him, the bike turned at a slight angle toward the road so she had to turn her head back over her shoulder to speak to him.
Roger wanted to say something, but he couldn't find the words.
He froze.
The girl stared at him for a long moment, squinting against the sun. She reached down and pulled out a water bottle.
"You break down?" she said.
Roger saw that the girl was breathing heavily, and she took the water bottle and sprayed it over her face and then into her mouth, spitting some back out onto the blacktop.
Roger still couldn't find his voice. Up close, the girl was beautiful. Even sweating and in her biking clothes, she was beautiful. Come on, come on, Roger said inside. You have the plan. Follow the plan. But his voice wouldn't cooperate. She was too pretty. She was too good to be true.
The girl put the water bottle away and studied Roger. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"I'd call somebody for you, but I don't have my cell. I'm sure someone will come along in a minute." She looked around. "Although on these roads, you never know."
She laughed, a bright energetic sound that made Roger's heart jump again.
The plan? The plan?
"Well," she said. "I'm sort of on a schedule, so..." She shrugged. "Good luck getting going."
She lifted her left foot to the pedal and was about to shove off when Roger finally spoke.
"I hit a dog," he said.
The girl turned. "What did you say?"
"I hit a dog. With my van."
"Oh," she said, placing her hand against her chest. Her face looked incredibly sad, and Roger knew at that moment his plan just might work. "Oh, that's awful."
"I think it's hurt."
"I'm so sorry to hear that."