Читать книгу Witness In The Woods - Michele Hauf - Страница 11

Finishing off a ham-and-pickle sandwich he’d packed for a late lunch, Joe Cash sat in his county-issue four-by-four pickup truck outside the public access turnoff to Lake Vaillant. He’d just come off the water after a long day patrolling, which involved checking that fishermen had current licenses, guiding a few lost tourists in the right direction and issuing a warning to a group of teens who had been trying to dive for “buried treasure.” The depths of the lake were littered with fishing line, lost hooks and decades of rusting boat parts. Only the beach on the east shore had been marked for safe swimming.

All in a day’s work. A man couldn’t ask for a better job. Conservation officer for the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources was a title that fit Joe to a tee. Ninety percent of the time, his office featured open air, lakes, trees, snow and/or sun. Joe’s job was to keep the public safe, but also to protect and guard the wildlife that flourished in this county set in the Superior Forest. Not a day passed that he didn’t get to wander through tall grasses, spot a blue heron or, if he was lucky, spy on a timber wolf from a local pack.

He smiled widely and tilted back the steel canteen of lukewarm water for a few swallows. This job was what made him wake with a smile and dash out to work every morning. Nothing could give him more satisfaction. Except, that is, when he finally nailed the parties responsible for the rampant poaching in the area. Someone, or many someones, had been poaching deer, beaver, cougar, turkey and the animal most precious to Joe’s soul, the gray wolf. But tops on the list was the bald eagle. Taking down the other animals without a proper license was considered a gross misdemeanor. Taking down a bald eagle was a federal offense. And recently he’d begun to wonder if the poachers were using something beyond the usual snare or steel trap. Like death by poisoning.

The autopsy on Max Owen had shown he’d been poisoned by strychnine. He hadn’t consumed it orally, but rather, it had permeated his skin and entered his bloodstream. And even more surprising than the poison? His lungs had been riddled with cancer. That discovery had troubled Joe greatly. If he had known what was growing in Max, he would have taken him to a doctor long ago. The poison had killed him, but it was apparent the cancer would have been terminal. The coroner had ruled his death accidental. There had been no evidence of foul play. Max must have handled the poison improperly, it was determined.

Joe knew the old man was not stupid. He didn’t handle poison. Strychnine was rarely used, and if so, only by farmers for weeds and crops. Max had immense respect for wildlife and would never use or put something into the environment that could cause harm.

After saying goodbye to his mentor in the ER that night, Joe had gone directly to the site where Max set up his campsite from April to October. It had been past midnight, but Joe had tromped through the woods, confident in his destination. Yet when he’d arrived at camp, he had been too emotionally overwhelmed to do a proper evidence search. Instead, he’d sat against the oak tree where Max had always crossed his legs and showered wisdom on Joe. He had cried, then fallen asleep. In the morning, Joe had pulled on latex gloves and gathered evidence. There hadn’t been clear signs of unwelcome entry to the site, no containers that might have held the poison, but Joe had gathered all the stored food and the hunting knife Max used and taken it in to Forensics. The forensic specialist had reported all those items were clean. Whatever Max had touched was still out there, had been tucked somewhere away from the campsite or had been thrown.

And while the county had seemed to want to brush it off—the old man was dead and he hadn’t had any family—the tribe had seen to the burial of his body.

Joe had insisted he be allowed to continue with the investigation. The tribal police had given him permission, as they were not pursuing the death, having accepted the accidental poison ruling as final.

He might not have been family by blood, but Max was true family to Joe. He’d been there for Joe when he was a kid, and had literally saved his life. And he had been the reason Joe had developed his voracious love for the outdoors and wildlife.

Touching the eagle talon that hung from the leather cord about his neck, Joe muttered, “You won’t die in vain, Max.” He’d been allowed to take the talisman from Max’s things after the lab had cleared it as free from poison. The talon had been given to Max by his grandfather; a talisman earned because he had been a healer. It had been cherished by Max.

But the tracks to whoever had poisoned Max—and the reason why—were muddled. Did Max have enemies? Not that Joe had been aware of. He’d strayed from close tribal friendships and had been a lone wolf the last few decades. Not harming any living soul, leaving peaceably. A life well lived, and yet, it had been cut short.

The thought to tie Max’s alleged murder to the poaching investigation only clicked when Joe remembered Max once muttering that he knew exactly who poached in the county, and that they would get their own someday. Joe had mentioned a family name, and Max’s jaw had tightened in confirmation. Everyone knew the Davis family did as they pleased, and poaching was only one of many illegal activities in which they engaged—and got away with.

Now he needed new evidence, a break in the investigation, that would confirm his suspicion. So far, the Davis family had been elusive and covered their tracks like the seasoned tracker-hunters Joe knew they were.

The police radio crackled on the dashboard, and Dispatch reported an incident close to Joe.

“Anyone else respond?” he replied. Generally, if the disturbance was not directly related to fish and game, Dispatch sent out county law enforcement.

“We’ve got two officers in the area, but both are at the iron mine cave-in.”

This morning a closed taconite mine had reported a cave-in. It was believed three overzealous explorers who had crossed the barbed wire fence closing off the mine could be trapped inside.

“No problem,” Joe said. “I can handle it. What’s the call?”

“Skylar Davis reports she’s been shot at on her property. Her address is—”

“I got it.” Joe shoved the canteen onto the passenger seat and turned the key in the ignition. His heart suddenly thundered. He knew Skylar Davis. Too well. “Is she hurt?”

“Not sure,” Dispatch reported. “Sounded pretty calm on the call. You know where she lives?”

“I’m ten minutes from her land,” he said. “I’m on my way.”

He spun the truck around on the gravel road and headed east toward the lake where Merlin Davis—brother of Malcolm Davis, who owned Davis Trucking—had owned land for decades. Skylar had inherited her father’s land years ago after cancer had taken his life. His daughter now lived alone on hundreds of forested acreage set at the edge of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. She was a strong woman. A beautiful woman.

She was…the woman Joe could never sweep out of his thoughts. The one who had gotten away.

And she’d been shot at?

He slammed his foot onto the accelerator.

SKYLAR OPENED THE door and sucked in a gasp. Joseph Cash stood on the front stoop, dark hair swept over one eye and looking smart in his uniform. The forest-green short-sleeved shirt and slacks served to enhance his tan skin. Hand at his hip where a gun was holstered, he had been looking aside until she’d stepped onto the threshold. When he turned to her and his stunning green eyes connected with hers, she clasped a hand over her heart.

“Skylar, are you all right?” She heard genuine concern in his urgent tone.

She had so many things she wanted to say to him. Yet at the moment, she didn’t know how to assemble a coherent sentence. Joseph Cash was the kindest person she’d known, and had always seemed to be there when she’d needed protecting. Be it in high school when she’d been bullied for sitting at the unpopular kids’ table, or even when she’d had to struggle for customers when she’d been working as a small-animal veterinarian in town and most took their animals to the big city of Duluth. And yet, despite his kindnesses, she’d pushed Joe away, wanting to prove to him that she was her own woman. Independent and strong. That she didn’t need a man to look over her.

Her rushed choice in fiancé had proved just that point. What a fool she had been.

“Joe,” she said. “I didn’t expect you. I called the county sheriff. I thought…”

“Well, you got me.” He cast her a smile that surely made every woman in the county swoon. But Skylar had never known how to react to his easy charm and shyness, save with a thrust back of her shoulders and, admittedly, a stupidly stubborn need to prove herself.

“I was close when the call came in,” he offered. “Just down the road coming off Lake Vaillant after a patrol. You okay, Skylar? Dispatch reports you were shot at? What’s going on?”

“I’m okay. And yes, I believe I was shot at.” She absently stroked her fingers over her ear, covering it with her loose blond hair. “I didn’t expect you,” she said again, rather dumbly.

Because if she had known Joseph Cash would be the one standing on her front stoop, she might have brushed on a little blush and combed her hair. At the very least, changed into some clean jeans.

A squawk from behind Joe made him turn sharply on the creaky lower wood step. Skylar noticed his hand instinctively went to his hip where his gun was holstered. A chicken in a pink knit sweater scampered across the crushed quartz pebbles that paved the stone walk up to the front steps.

“What the hell?” Joe said.

“That’s Becky. She wants you to see her. She’s very concerned about her looks. Do you like her sweater?”

The man scratched his head and then bobbed it in a nod, even while squinting questionably. “Yes?”

“She’s one of my rehab residents.”

“That’s right, you rehabilitate animals. I’m not even going to ask about the sweater.” He followed the chicken’s retreat across the yard until she scrambled around the side of the house.

“Uh…come inside.” Skylar stepped back and allowed him to enter the log cabin where she’d been living for two years.

When her father passed, the family land had become her possession, as she was his only child. At least, it was hers according to a handwritten note Merlin Davis had written a week before his death. Skylar had lived in the house until she’d moved to Duluth for college. Eventually, she’d made her way back to the town of Checker Hill and set up shop as the resident veterinarian. She’d never gotten much business. The townspeople were leery of the name Davis. Now this home felt too big for one person, but it was a comfort to nestle onto the aged leather sofa in the evenings, blanket wrapped about her shoulders, and admire the photos of her and her dad that she kept on each and every wall.

“You want something to drink? I’ve got lemonade.”

Joe grabbed her by the upper arm to stop her from fleeing across the open floor plan living area and into the kitchen.

“What is it?” She shrugged out of his grasp with a huff. He looked concerned now. Too much so. She didn’t want any man’s pity.

“Seriously? Skylar, I’m not here for lemonade. I’m here to make sure you’re okay. And not bleeding.” He looked from her head down to her shoulders and all the way to her feet, then back up again. “And—where did the shots come from? Do you know who it was? How long has it been? I should go outside and take a look around. It’s this way, right?”

He headed through the living area and skirted the long quartz kitchen counter. Toward the back of the house sat the screened-in sunporch that stretched the width of the cabin and overlooked the lake. Once before, he’d been in this cabin. When her father had been dying, he’d come to pay his respects. But how dare he traipse on through—

Skylar stopped herself from reprimanding him. He was here on duty. And she had called the police for help, much as her better judgment had screamed for her not to. Would she hear about this from her uncle? On the other hand, maybe Malcolm Davis already knew about the incident. And, yes, that thought sickened Skylar.

“Just through the sliding doors,” she called to Joe. “You can take the deck stairs down to the backyard.”

After grabbing her cowboy hat, which rested on the back of the couch and which she wore like any other woman might wear earrings or a favorite necklace, she followed the man’s bowlegged pace out to the deck.

Standing on the high wood deck, which was stilted ten feet up due to the slope of the ground below, Joe took in everything. The perimeter of the yard was round, echoing out from the firepit in the center. Surrounding the yard were striped hostas that grew thick and lush in the shade provided by the paper birch and sugar maple.

He took the stairs down to the ground. “Where were you? Were you burning a fire?”

He walked over to the fire pit and peered over it. Burnt cedar lingered in the air. As well, the grass was speckled with gray ash flakes from her hastily dowsing the flames with the garden hose after calling the sheriff.

Skylar cringed when she noticed the wedding dress was only half burned and melted among the charred logs. She hadn’t thought to cover up what she’d been doing. It had been a personal moment. A much-needed ritual of release. A reclaiming of her power.

Joe scratched his head. Hands at his hips, head cocked downward, he stared at the remnants of the dress. Skylar didn’t want to answer the question that must be lighting all the circuits in his brain right now.

“Tell me everything,” he said. Then he stretched his gaze around the backyard and out toward the lake. “Did you get a look at the shooter? Were they on your property? Cruising by in a boat? Partyers out for a spin on the lake?”

“I don’t know.” Skylar walked over to the smoldering fire pit and stood beside the hitching post, which she utilized as a stand to hang roasting sticks and an emergency water bucket she always kept filled when she was burning.

“I was burning a few things. And… I was about here.” She stepped to the right a few feet and Joe turned to eye her intently. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw. The golden evening light, beaming through the tree canopy, granted his eyes a rich emerald cast. Everything about the man was intense, dark and—waiting on her.

“Yes, here,” she decided, stomping her boot toe into the grass. “I was talking to Stella—”

“There was someone else here?”

“Stella, my wolf.”

“Your…wolf?” He hooked his hands in the back pockets of his pants and looked about. “What the—? You took in a wolf cub?”

“Stella has been with me a few years. I found her in a snare trap when she was a pup. I hate it when hunters call those things humane. They are anything but. I took her to the office in town and had to amputate her back leg. Since then, she’s flourished. She’s not around right now.”

Skylar scanned the area. The wolf must be off with the half-dozen chickens—surprisingly, her best friends. Stella was protective of Skylar, but she always left the immediate area when visitors or company arrived. She was a little skittish until she could scent out the newcomer, and then she would eventually put in an appearance.

“I do rehabilitate animals,” Skylar pointed out to Joe, who nodded.

“Right. I just thought keeping a wolf as a pet…”

“I have a permit.”

“Sure. Still, they are a wild animal.” He gave her a side glance that dripped with judgment.

“She had nowhere else to go. I tried to get her to return to the pack, but they wouldn’t have it.”

“Uh-huh.” He wasn’t having it, either.

Yes, wolves were wild and should never be kept as pets. Skylar agreed with that wholeheartedly. But when injured and abandoned by their pack, the wolf’s only future was living as a loner. And for a pup living out in the wild populated with predators, the fate was most certainly a cruel death.

It didn’t matter to her what Joe thought of her choice to keep Stella. Skylar loved her like a family member.

“So you were standing right there and…?” he prompted.

“I was watching the flames, talking to Stella and…at first I felt something on my ear. Thought it was a wicked mosquito bite.”

She touched her ear and Joe stepped forward. It was well past the supper hour, and the forest edging her backyard filtered the setting sun, turning it into a hazy twilight. He dug out a small flashlight from a back pocket and shone it on her ear. The man stood so close she could smell his aftershave—something subtle yet masculine with a hint of lemony citronella.

He examined her ear, which had been nicked on the top and had bled minimally. Of course, she’d gasped at the sight of it in the bathroom mirror. She’d never been so close to being killed in her life. And that had angered more than frightened her. What would have become of Stella and the other animals she cared for if she had died? The thought of them being relocated, or worse, was heart wrenching.

As Joe looked her over, she studied his face. There were three Cash brothers, all born and raised in Crooked Creek, a sister town to Checker Hill. There wasn’t a female in either of the two close towns who didn’t know who they were, because those boys were genetic anomalies, fashion models roughed up by the wild. Sinuous and muscular. So sexy. And Joe’s deep green eyes were a thing to behold.

“If that bullet had been half an inch closer…” The man suddenly bowed his head and winced.

Skylar was taken aback by his reaction. “Joe? What’s wrong? I’m okay.”

“Right.” He lifted his head and his jaw pulsed with tension. “You always were able to take care of yourself.”

He’d learned exactly what she’d hoped to teach him about her. Regrettably.

Skylar lifted her chin bravely. “Still can take care of myself.”

“Being shot at is no way to go about it, Skylar. If anything would have happened to you…” He winced again and looked aside, toward the fire pit.

Skylar found herself leaning forward in hopes of him finishing that sentence. Then again, she suspected how he would finish it. He’d never hidden his interest in her. And she wasn’t prepared for such a statement right now.

If only he’d said as much to her two months earlier. Of course, then he’d been avoiding her like the plague.

It was well deserved on her part.

He placed his hands akimbo and scanned the lake. “Do you know what direction the shot was fired from?”

She pointed out through the gap in the bowed birch trees that she’d always thought of as a sort of pulled-back curtain to the stage of the lake. “I feel like it came from that way.”

“See anyone down by the shore?”

She shook her head. Then she remembered, and turned to point out the bullet holes that had splintered and pierced the hitching post.

“Two?” Joe bent to study the post with the flashlight. “These are clean, and one goes all the way through.” He paused and glanced at her as if to temper his words for her tender ears.

“I’m a big girl, Joe. You can say the bad stuff without offending or scaring me.”

“I guess so.” He returned his attention to the holes and tapped the post with a finger. “I have some evidence bags in the truck. I’m going to grab them, but I should also call in someone to take some photos and—” His attention veered to the ground behind the post. “Here’s a bullet.”

He tugged out a black latex glove from his pocket, pulled it on and picked up the bullet from the ground. It was long, and Skylar leaned in to peer at it as he did.

Joe swore.

“What is it?” she asked.

“My dad collects guns, and he taught me and my brothers a lot about the different types and their ammunition. This is most definitely from a high-powered rifle, Skylar.”

“I don’t understand. Not the usual hunting rifle?”

“Nope. If that had been the case, that hitching post would be pocked with lead shot. As well as you.”

Skylar sucked in a breath.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to say that.”

She nodded, no longer feeling quite as strong as she wanted to.

Joe turned and again cast a glance across the lake. “I don’t think the shooter was close. Could have been across the lake. Which means this is some serious business.”

He turned to face her directly and asked, “What’s going on? Why would someone be shooting at you? Skylar, is there something you need to tell me?”