Читать книгу Witness In The Woods - Michele Hauf - Страница 13

The drive around the lake did not bring Joe to the spot where he’d determined the shooter might have been standing. Calling for backup, he got an answer from a state patrol. An officer could be around in twenty minutes. Joe predicted a hike through the woods to get to the position across from the lake to the Davis home, so he waited for the patrol officer to arrive. Otherwise, they’d never find each other in the thick pine and birch forest that offered only narrow trails here and there.

As a conservation officer, he spent 90 percent of his time roaming the woods and lakes in his territory. He knew this area. But he hadn’t spent much time on this lake. It was small and usually only boated by the residents living around it.

Antsy, and wishing he’d taken an hour in the gym this morning to work out, he bounced on his feet. His hiking boots were not the most comfortable for such movement, but he liked to stay limber. He snapped up his knee and kicked out in a Muay Thai move that could knock an opponent flat.

He’d developed an interest in martial arts from watching his mother practice her moves from the karate class she’d taken when her boys were younger. He’d started with karate, but after watching a few National Geographic specials and sports TV, he’d fallen in love with the ultrahigh kicks and swift elbow strikes Muay Thai offered. It was all about brute power. It worked his body in every way possible, and kept him limber and sharp. And a well-honed body only enhanced an ever-growing soul. He was constantly learning. His greatest teachers? Nature and the wildlife he had taken an oath to protect.

But honestly? It was a good means to get out his anger by kicking the sandbag now and then.

Pausing at the harsh, croaking call of a blue heron, Joe lifted his head and closed his eyes. He had to smile at that sound. Such utter peace here, away from the city and major highways. He opened his eyes, scanning the treetops in hopes of seeing the heron nest, but the canopy was thick. The last slivers of sunlight glinted like stars.

A car honked and Joe waved to the approaching patrol car. Brent Kofax was with the sheriff’s department. In cases where someone had been shot, or threatened, they usually joined the investigation. He stepped out of the car and gave Joe a thumbs-up. Joe had worked with Brent on a few occasions when backup was necessary. Usually when he knew he’d be approaching a boat full of drunk fishermen, or that one time Joe had needed someone to help him sort out steel traps from a burned-out Quonset building.

“What do you have tonight, Cash?”

Joe shook Brent’s hand and pointed over his shoulder toward the lake. “The Davis woman who lives across the lake was shot at earlier this evening. Judging by the trajectory of the hit, I’m guessing the shooter might have been in the woods about a quarter mile up. I need another set of eyes. You ready to do some hiking?”

“I always know you’ll give me a workout when I answer your calls. Already changed into hiking boots. Let’s do this!”

From his car Joe grabbed a backpack that contained evidence-collection supplies, water and snacks, as well as a compass and other survival equipment. He never ventured into the woods without it. At his hip, he wore his pistol, a Glock .40 caliber. Brent carried a 12-gauge pump shotgun, standard issue nowadays.

The two men picked carefully through the brush and grasses, dodging roots and ducking low-hanging pine tree branches. Brent was an avid hunter, unlike Joe, but he wouldn’t criticize the man’s need to kill innocent animals for food. The day he started doing that was the day he volunteered to have his life held under a microscope and examined for faults. He had many, but cruelty to animals was not one of them. His anti-hunting stance got him some razzing from his fellow conservation officers. They tended to think that COs with wildlife management training let their love for nature get in the way of their police work. The opposite was true. Joe protected the citizens as well as the animals.

They hiked half a mile through thick pine and aspen. The sun had set, and he and Brent were now using flashlights, but the moon was three-quarters full and there was still some ambient light glimmering off the calm lake water. Thanks to Joe’s sharp eye, they found a deer trail, as well as scat droppings under some fallen maple leaves. Their path kept them within a thirty-foot distance from the lake shore. The shooter would have gotten close enough to the edge of the forest for a good, clear shot, Joe decided. Thankful for the beaten-down brush, he tracked until he spotted shell casings. Ballistic evidence. Excellent.

They stood twenty feet in from the lakeshore, well camouflaged by tall brush and a frond of wild fern. With shell casings just behind him, and the grass trampled down around them, Joe figured this was where the shooter had been positioned. He studied the ground, which was folded-down marsh grass and moss. If it had been dirt, he might have found impressions from a tripod the shooter would have surely utilized to hold steady aim and sight in the Davis property nearly a mile across the lake, as well as shoe tracks.

“You never cease to amaze me,” Brent commented as he bent to shine his flashlight on the shell casings. “What? Did you grow up in the woods like Mowgli, or something?”

“I think Mowgli lived in the jungle,” Joe commented. But there had been a time, in his family, when his brothers had referred to him as Mowgli, until they’d decided on the more annoying Nature Boy.

It wasn’t often a boy found himself lost in the woods for three days, and was finally led out and home by a pack of wolves. That experience had changed Joe’s life. First, his parents had hugged him and showered him with kisses. Then, they’d grounded him for wandering off by himself without taking a cell phone along, despite the fact that it wasn’t easy to call home in the middle of the Boundary Waters where cell towers were few and far between. But Joe had taken the punishment and had used it to study up on wolves, and from that day forward his direction had been clear. He wanted to work with wildlife and protect them from the hazards of living so close to humans.

“You got an evidence kit in that backpack?” Brent asked. “I left mine in the car.” He stood and flashed his beam around where they stood, hooking his rifle up on a shoulder.

“Always.” Taking a pair of black latex gloves out of the backpack, Joe collected the two metal shell casings and put them in a plastic bag he usually used for collecting marine specimens from boats docked on lake shores. He’d seen the two bullet holes in the hitching post by the fire pit.

That the first bullet had nicked Skylar’s ear told him someone did not want her dead. Whoever had pulled the trigger had skills similar to his brother Jason. To come so close without harming her? Such a shot required nerves of steel and perfect timing.

The second shot must have zinged within a foot of her body. Enough to scare the hell out of anyone. Any woman—or man—would have fainted or run screaming. He’d figured Skylar had taken it calmly, until he’d seen her falter beside the fire pit. He’d left her sipping brandy with Stella curled at her feet. She’d insisted she didn’t want protection overnight, but Joe considered sending out a patrol officer to park down the long drive that led to her property.

Or he might do that himself. He’d been up since five, had hit the lake at six and had spent a hot day out on the water. It was late now, and he was exhausted, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep if he left Skylar alone. He’d park at the end of the drive, and she’d never be the wiser. There were worse ways to spend a summer evening.

As he stood up from collecting the casings, his gaze caught something that was neither flora nor fauna. Brent took a step forward, his attention focused across the lake, and—

Joe swore and lunged into a kick that caught the officer on his hip, hitting none too gently and throwing him off course.

“What the hell, man?” Brent had dropped his flashlight and rifle, and splayed his hands in question before him.

The flashlight rolled and stopped with a clink. Both men looked to the spot where Brent had almost stepped. Joe cautiously approached the oak tree. His flashlight swept the ground, taking it all in, watching for a steel trap. But he knew he wouldn’t find it, because the set snare wasn’t usually used in tandem with such a trap.

The flashlight beam fell over the snare trap—a light wire cable anchored to the base of the oak. If any animal stepped on that, the loop would tighten about their leg. Or worse—if they sniffed the bait peeking out from under some wet aspen leaves, it would become a noose and string them up, likely breaking their neck. In a worst-case scenario, the noose would not snap and the animal would be suspended, alive, left to slowly suffocate until the poacher returned.

“Bastards,” Joe muttered.

“I almost stepped on that.” Brent eased a hand down his hip where Joe had kicked him. “You could have just called ‘stop.’”

“I owed you one for that upper cut in the gym a few weeks ago.”

Brent chuckled. “Yeah, that was a good one. Pretty rare I get the upper hand with you.”

Joe picked up a branch and used it to nudge the snare. The trap sprang and released the snare in a flutter of leaves. Joe would disassemble the entire thing and take it in to the county forensics lab for a thorough study. With any luck, they’d find fingerprints.

“You got wire snips in that backpack?” Brent asked as Joe sorted through his pack. When he proudly displayed just that, Brent shook his head. “Never mind. Mowgli knows what he’s doing.”

Yeah, he didn’t care for the moniker so much from people who weren’t family. Joe snipped the cable and, latex gloves still on, untangled it from around the tree trunk. Brent gathered it into a loop.

The disturbance uncovered a few bits of bait meat. The smell was rancid, but Joe bagged it as well. The forensic lab could determine a lot from testing bait meat, such as the animal it had come from, and possibly even pick up some fingerprints. Briefly, he wondered if the meat was poisoned. It was an important detail that he wouldn’t have proof of until tests had been run.

Stuffing the evidence bags into his backpack, Joe stood and looked out over the chrome-and-hematite-sheened lake. His investigation into the poaching hadn’t taken him quite this far south. Now he’d expand that range. First, he needed to check whose land this was. He’d thought it was state owned, but he couldn’t be sure until he checked a map.

The poachers weren’t even sneaky; they seemed to be growing bolder every month, leaving traps everywhere. And the thing that had tipped Joe off initially had been an ad on Craigslist. Selling deer antlers and bear claws online? Blatant.

Yet he hadn’t run into the poison that had been found in Max’s system, even with the samples he’d sent in to the lab. He could be way off course in trying to connect the man’s death with the local poachers, but Joe sensed he was on the right track. Every bone in his body pushed him to continue with the search for Max’s killer. The man had not been accidentally poisoned. No one handled strychnine without taking precautions.

And now there was a new twist to the investigation. Could the one who had set this snare have been the one who’d shot at Skylar? It couldn’t be coincidence that the shooting site was so close to a trap.

Joe narrowed his gaze across the calm dark waters. A small light showed from what was probably Skylar’s living room. He hoped she would sleep well, with the wolf keeping guard outside. But he didn’t guess Stella would provide protection, and he wouldn’t expect it. The animal seemed skittish and hesitant to approach strangers, and that wasn’t a bad thing. But that meant Skylar was not safe.

And yet, why would a poacher shoot at her? It had to have been some kind of warning. Did she know something that someone wanted her to keep silent about? And if it had been a warning, whoever had fired would have known his target would take it as a warning.

Which meant Skylar might know more than she was letting on.

“Lieutenant Brock said something about finding illegal guns in an Ely residence.” Brent looped the coiled cable over his forearm.

“I found a cache of guns with the serial numbers filed off last week,” Joe offered. “They were in a shed with a dozen illegal deer racks.”

Brent shook his head. “You need help with any of it?”

Joe nodded. “Always. You can take this in to the county forensics van, for a start.”

“I’m heading toward Ely. I think Elaine Hester is on shift tonight. Smart chick. What are you up to now?”

“Headed back across the lake.”

He needn’t tell Brent he had decided to stand vigil outside the target’s home because he feared losing her more than his heart could stand.

STEPPING OUT OF the shower, Skylar dried off, then reached for the brandy goblet on the vanity. She downed the last two swallows. Whew! That burned. But she instantly felt the calming effects ease through her muscles, and the need to close her eyes and drop into a heavy sleep.

“Come on, Stella.”

She padded naked down the hallway to her bedroom, followed by the three-legged wolf. Stella generally slept outside, but she would never ignore an invite to stay indoors. The security panel for the entire house was positioned at eye level in the bedroom, by the door. She turned on all the door locks and the perimeter alarm, which was set only for the weight of a vehicle since she had so many animals wandering around at any given time.

Stella jumped onto the end of her bed. Her spot. And let no man try to prove otherwise.

Pulling on a long T-shirt that hung past her thighs, Skylar crawled onto the bed and lay on top of the sheets across the middle of the mattress, so she could smooth her palm over Stella’s fur.

She hadn’t seen Joseph Cash in…must be a year. He got more handsome every time she saw him. He had the “tall, dark stranger” thing going on full force. Except he wasn’t a stranger, and…she wanted to see him again.

Under better circumstances than getting shot at.

“It was a warning,” she whispered, tracing the top of her ear, which felt tender from the bruise. She caught a swallow at the back of her throat, followed by a single teardrop slipping down the side of her face.

She’d walked into a warehouse on Davis Trucking land, and before calling out for her uncle, she’d glanced around. There were crates everywhere, marked with company names. Standard inventory for a trucking outfit, she figured. But the freezers, six of them, had stood out. They were the large white chest kind, probably close to twenty cubic feet in volume.

What had been in them? With a trucking business, it could be anything. And while she’d always assumed they didn’t store goods on-site, she didn’t know enough about the operation.

A man standing over one of the opened freezers hadn’t noticed her, so she’d cleared her throat. He’d lifted his head and swung a look over his shoulder, focusing his gaze on her. She hadn’t recognized him, and he’d immediately slammed down the freezer cover and grabbed a rifle. The feeling of utter dread had overcome her. Skylar had turned and run. As she had, he’d called after her, “Don’t tell, bitch! This is none of your concern.”

She’d run straight to her truck, past a few truckers who had called out to her and whistled. The stranger hadn’t followed her. Forget talking to her uncle. She’d been creeped out, and had put her truck in gear and gotten the hell out of there.

She hadn’t told anyone. Because she wasn’t sure what she had seen. But it had been something. Because tonight they had warned her.

And yet, she’d dared to call the police. Because she would not be scared off by some idiot assholes who thought they had a right to threaten a woman. Hell, the shooter could have killed her.

Now, dare she ask Joseph Cash to protect her?