Читать книгу Murdered In Conard County - Rachel Lee - Страница 11

Blaire Afton slept with the window cracked because she liked the cool night breeze, and the sounds of animals in the woods. As park ranger for the state of Wyoming, she supervised a forested area with a dozen scattered campgrounds and quite a few hiking trails, most all the camps and trails farther up the mountain.

Her cabin was also the main office, the entry point to the park, and her bedroom was upstairs in a loft. The breeze, chilly as it got at night, even in July, kept her from feeling closed in. The fresh air seemed to make her sleep deeper and more relaxed, as well.

It also seemed to keep away the nightmares that still occasionally plagued her. Ten months in Afghanistan had left their mark.

But tonight she was edgy as all get-out, and sleep stubbornly evaded her. Maybe just as well, she thought irritably. Nights when she felt like this often produced bad dreams, which in turn elicited worse memories.

Sitting up at last, she flipped on the fluorescent lantern beside her bed and dressed in her park ranger’s uniform and laced up her boots. If sleep caught up with her finally, she could crash on the sofa downstairs. Right now, however, early coffee was sounding delicious.

There was absolutely no way she could make her boots silent on the open wooden staircase, but it didn’t matter. All her staff were home for the night and she could bother only herself. Right now, bothering herself seemed like a fairly good idea.

The electric lines reached the cabin, having been run up the side of this mountain by the state, along with a phone landline that extended out to all the campgrounds in case of emergencies. Neither was perfectly reliable, but when they worked, they were a boon. Especially the electricity. Phone calls about vacant campsites didn’t light up her life, nor did some of the stupid ones she received. Want a weather report? Then turn on the weather.

“Ha,” she said aloud. The good news was that she had electric power this night. She walked over to her precious espresso machine and turned it on. A few shots over ice with milk and artificial sweetener...oh, yeah.

And since she was wide awake and had the power, maybe she should check her computer and see if she had internet, as well. Monthly reports were due soon, and if she had to be awake, she might as well deal with them. Reports weren’t her favorite part of this job, and sometimes she wondered if some of them had been created by a higher-up who just wanted to be important.

When her coffee was ready and filling her insulated mug, she decided to step outside and enjoy some of the night’s unique quiet. It wasn’t silent, but it was so different from the busier daylight hours. Tilting her head back, she could see stars overhead, bright and distant this nearly moonless night. The silvery glow was just enough to see by, but not enough to wash out the stars.

Sipping her coffee, she allowed herself to enjoy being out in the dark without fear. It might come back at any moment, but as Afghanistan faded further into her past, it happened much less often. She was grateful for the incremental improvement.

Grateful, too, that the head forester at the national forest abutting her state land was also a veteran, someone she could talk to. Gus Maddox guarded a longer past in combat than she did, and there was still a lot he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, talk about. But he’d been in special operations, and much of what they did remained secret for years.

In her case, her service had been more ordinary. Guarding supply convoys sounded tame until you learned they were a desirable target. She and her team had more than once found themselves in intense firefights, or the object of roadside bombs.

She shook herself, refusing to let memory intrude on this night. It was lovely and deserved its due. An owl hooted from deep within the woods, a lonely yet beautiful sound. All kinds of small critters would be scurrying around, trying to evade notice by running from hiding place to hiding place while they searched for food. Nature had a balance and it wasn’t always pretty, but unlike war it served a necessary purpose.

Dawn would be here soon, and she decided to wait in hope she might see a cloud of bats returning to their cave three miles north. They didn’t often fly overhead here, but occasionally she enjoyed the treat.

Currently there was a great deal of worry among biologists about a fungus that was attacking the little brown bat. She hoped they managed to save the species.

A loud report unexpectedly shattered the night. The entire world seemed to freeze. Only the gentle sigh of the night breeze remained as wildlife paused in recognition of a threat.

Blaire froze, too. She knew the sound of a gunshot. She also knew that no one was supposed to be hunting during the night or during this season.

What the hell? She couldn’t even tell exactly where it came from. The sound had echoed off the rocks and slopes of the mountain. As quiet as the night was, it might have come from miles away.

Fifteen minutes later, the phone in her cabin started to ring.

Her heart sank.

* * *

TEN MILES SOUTH in his cabin in the national forest, August Maddox, Gus to everyone, was also enduring a restless night. Darkness had two sides to it, one favorable and one threatening, depending. In spec ops, he’d favored it when he was on a stealthy mission and didn’t want to be detected. At other times, when he and his men were the prey, he hated it. The protection it sometimes afforded his troops could transform into deadliness in an instant.

As a result, he endured an ongoing battle with night. Time was improving it, but on nights like this when sleep eluded him, he sometimes forced himself to step outside, allowing the inkiness to swallow him, standing fast against urges to take cover. He hated this in himself, felt it as an ugly, inexcusable weakness, but hating it didn’t make it go away.

The fingernail moon provided a little light, and he used it to go around the side of the building to visit the three horses in the corral there. His own gelding, Scrappy, immediately stirred from whatever sleep he’d been enjoying and came to the rail to accept a few pats and nuzzle Gus in return.

Sometimes Gus thought the horse was the only living being who understood him. Probably because Scrappy couldn’t talk, he often added in attempted lightness.

But Scrappy did talk in his own way. He could communicate quite a bit with a toss of his head or a flick of his tail, not to mention the pawing of his feet. Tonight the horse seemed peaceful, though, and leaned into his hand as if trying to share the comfort.

He should have brought a carrot, Gus thought. Stroking the horse’s neck, he asked, “Who gave you that silly name, Scrappy?”

Of course the horse couldn’t answer, and Gus had never met anyone who could. The name had come attached to the animal, and no one had ever changed it. Which was okay, because Gus kind of liked it. Unusual. He was quite sure the word hadn’t been attached to another horse anywhere. It also made him wonder about the horse’s coltish days five or six years ago.

Scrappy was a gorgeous, large pinto whose lines suggested Arabian somewhere in the past. He was surefooted in these mountains, though, which was far more important than speed. And he was evidently an animal who attached himself firmly, because Gus had found that when Scrappy was out of the corral, he’d follow Gus around more like a puppy than anything.

Right then, though, as Scrappy nudged his arm repeatedly, he realized the horse wanted to take a walk. It was dark, but not too dark, and there was a good trail leading north toward the state park lands.

And Blaire Afton.

Gus half smiled at himself as he ran his fingers through Scrappy’s mane. Blaire. She’d assumed her ranger position over there about two years ago, and they’d become friends. Well, as much as two wary vets could. Coffee, conversation, even some good laughs. Occasional confidences about so-called reentry problems. After two years, Scrappy probably knew the path by heart.

But it was odd for the horse to want to walk in the middle of the night. Horses did sleep. But maybe Gus’s restlessness had reached him and made him restless, as well. Or maybe he sensed something in the night. Prickles of apprehension, never far away in the dark, ran up Gus’s spine.

“Okay, a short ride,” he told Scrappy. “Just enough to work out a kink or two.”

An internal kink. Or a thousand. Gus had given up wondering just how many kinks he’d brought home with him after nearly twenty years in the Army, most of it in covert missions. The grenade that had messed him up with shrapnel hadn’t left as many scars as memory. Or so he thought.

He was tempted to ride bareback, given that he didn’t intend to go far, but he knew better. As steady as Scrappy was, if he startled or stumbled Gus could wind up on the ground. Better to have the security of a saddle than risk an injury.

Entering the corral, he saw happiness in Scrappy’s sudden prance. The other two horses roused enough to glance over, then went back to snoozing. They never let the night rambles disturb them. The other two horses apparently considered them to be a matter between Scrappy and Gus.

Shortly he led the freshly saddled Scrappy out of the corral. Not that he needed leading. He followed him over to the door of his cabin where a whiteboard for messages was tacked and he scrawled that he’d gone for a ride on the Forked Rivers Trail. A safety precaution in case he wasn’t back by the time his staff started wandering in from their various posts. Hard-and-fast rule: never go into the forest without letting the rangers know where you were headed and when you expected to return. It applied to him as well as their guests.

Then he swung up into the saddle, listening to Scrappy’s happy nicker, enjoying his brief sideways prance of pleasure. And just like the song, the horse knew the way.

Funny thing to drift through his mind at that moment. A memory from childhood that seemed so far away now he wasn’t sure it had really happened. Sitting in the car with his parents on the way to Grandmother’s house. Seriously. Two kids in the back seat singing “Over the River” until his mother begged for mercy. His folks were gone now, taken by the flu of all things, and his sister who had followed him into the Army had been brought home in a box from Iraq.

Given his feelings about the darkness, it struck him as weird that the song and the attendant memories had popped up. But he ought to know by now how oddly the brain could work.

Scrappy’s hooves were nearly silent on the pine needles that coated the trail. The duff under the trees was deep in these parts, and he’d suggested to HQ that they might need to clean up some of it. Fire hazard, and it hadn’t rained in a while, although they were due for some soon to judge by the forecast. Good. They needed it.

The slow ride through the night woods was nearly magical. The creak of leather and the jingle of the rings on the bridle were quiet, but part of the feeling of the night. When he’d been in Germany he’d learned the story of the Christmas tree. The idea had begun with early and long winter nights, as travelers between villages had needed illumination to see their way. At some point people had started putting candles on tree branches.

Damn, he’d moved from Thanksgiving to Christmas in a matter of minutes and it was July. What the hell was going on inside his mind?

He shook his head a bit, then noticed that Scrappy was starting to get edgy himself. He was tossing his head an awful lot. What had he sensed on the night breeze? Some odor that bothered him. That could be almost anything out of the ordinary.

But the horse’s reaction put him on high alert, too. Something was wrong with the woods tonight. Scrappy felt it and he wasn’t one to question an animal’s instincts and senses.

Worry began to niggle at him. They were getting ever closer to Blaire Afton’s cabin. Could she be sick or in trouble?

Maybe it was an annoying guy thing, but he often didn’t like the idea that she was alone there at night. In the national forest there were people around whom he could radio if he needed to, who’d be there soon if he wanted them. Blaire had no such thing going for her. Her employees were all on daylight hours, gone in the evening, not returning until morning. Budget, he supposed. Money was tight for damn near everything now.

Blaire would probably laugh in his face if she ever guessed he sometimes worried about her being alone out here. She had some of the best training in the world. If asked he’d say that he felt sorry for anyone who tangled with her.

But she was still alone there in that cabin, and worse, she was alone with her nightmares. Like him. He knew all about that.

Scrappy tossed his head more emphatically and Gus loosened the reins. “Okay, man, do your thing.”

Scrappy needed no other encouragement. His pace quickened dramatically.

Well, maybe Blaire would be restless tonight, too, and they could share morning coffee and conversation. It was gradually becoming his favorite way to start a day.

Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, ringing through the forest. At a distance, but he still shouldn’t be hearing it. Not at this time of year. Not in the dark.

“Scrappy, let’s go.” He touched the horse lightly with his heels, not wanting him to break into a gallop that could bring him to harm, but just to hurry a bit.

Scrappy needed no further urging.

* * *

“WE THINK SOMEONE’S been shot.”

The words that had come across the telephone seemed to shriek in Blaire’s ears as she hurried to grab a light jacket and her pistol belt as well as a shotgun out of the locked cabinet. On the way out the door she grabbed the first-aid kit. The sheriff would be sending a car or two, but she had the edge in time and distance. She would definitely arrive first.

The call had come from the most remote campground, and she’d be able to get only partway there in the truck. The last mile or so would have to be covered on the all-terrain side-by-side lashed to the bed of the truck.

If someone was injured, why had it had to happen at the most out-of-the-way campground? A campground limited to people who seriously wanted to rough it, who didn’t mind carrying in supplies and tents. After the road ended up there, at the place she’d leave her truck, no vehicles of any kind were allowed. She was the only one permitted to head in there on any motorized vehicle. She had one equipped for emergency transport.

She was just loading the last items into her vehicle when Gus appeared, astride Scrappy, a welcome sight.

“I heard the shot. What happened?”

“Up at the Twin Rocks Campground. I just got a call. They think someone’s been shot.”

“Think?”

“That’s the word. You want to follow me on horseback, or ride with me?” It never once entered her head that he wouldn’t want to come along to help.

* * *

IT NEVER ENTERED his head, either. “I’m not armed,” he warned her as he slipped off the saddle.

“We can share.”

He loosely draped Scrappy’s reins around the porch railing in front of the cabin, knowing they wouldn’t hold him. He didn’t want them to. It was a signal to Scrappy to hang around, not remain frozen in place. A few seconds later, he climbed into the pickup with Blaire and they started up the less-than-ideal road. He was glad his teeth weren’t loose because Blaire wasted no time avoiding the ruts.

He spoke, raising his voice a bit to be heard over the roaring engine. “Have you thought yet about what you’re doing for Christmas and Thanksgiving?”

She didn’t answer for a moment as she shifted into a lower gear for the steepening road. “It’s July. What brought that on?”

“Danged if I know,” he admitted. “I was riding Scrappy in your direction because I’m restless tonight and it all started with a line from ‘Over the River’ popping into my head. Then as I was coming down the path I remembered how in the Middle Ages people put candles on tree branches on long winter nights so the pathways would be lit for travelers. Which led to...”

“Christmas,” she said. “Got it. Still weird.”

He laughed. “That’s what I thought, too. My head apparently plays by its own rules.”

It was her turn to laugh, a short mirthless sound. “No kidding. I don’t have to tell you about mine.”

No, she didn’t, and he was damned sorry that she carried those burdens, too. “So, holidays,” he repeated. No point in thinking about what lay ahead of them. If someone had been shot, they both knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. And both of them had seen it before.

“I’ll probably stay right here,” she answered. “I love it when the forest is buried in snow, and someone has to be around if the snowshoe hikers and the cross-country skiers get into trouble.”

“Always,” he agreed. “And doesn’t someone always get into trouble?”

“From what I understand, it hasn’t failed yet.”

He drummed his fingers on his thigh, then asked, “You called the sheriff?”

“Yeah, but discharge of a weapon is in my bailiwick. They have a couple of cars heading this way. If I find out someone has been shot, I’ll warn them. Otherwise I’ll tell them to stand down.”

Made sense. This wasn’t a war zone after all. Most likely someone had brought a gun along for protection and had fired it into the night for no good reason. Scared? A big shadow hovering in the trees?

And in the dead of night, wakened from a sound sleep by a gunshot, a camper could be forgiven for calling to say that someone had been shot even without seeing it. The more isolated a person felt, the more he or she was apt to expect the worst. Those guys up there at Twin Rocks were about as isolated as anyone could get without hiking off alone.

He hoped that was all it was. An accident that had been misinterpreted. His stomach, though, gave one huge twist, preparing him for the worst.

“You hanging around for the holidays?” she asked. Her voice bobbled as the road became rougher.

“Last year my assistant did,” he reminded her. “This year it’s me. What did you do last year?”

“Went to visit my mother in the nursing home. I told you she has Alzheimer’s.”

“Yeah. That’s sad.”

“Pointless to visit. She doesn’t even recognize my voice on the phone anymore. Regardless, I don’t think she feels lonely.”

“Why’s that?”

“She spends a lot of time talking to friends and relatives who died back when. Her own little party.”

“I hope it comforts her.”

“Me, too.” Swinging a hard left, she turned onto a narrower leg of road that led directly to a dirt and gravel parking lot of sorts. It was where the campers left their vehicles before hiking in.

“You ever been to this campground?” she asked as she set the brake and switched off the ignition.

“Not on purpose,” he admitted. “I may have. Scrappy and I sometimes wander a bit when we’re out for a day-off ride.”

“Everything has to be lugged in,” she replied, as if that would explain all he needed to know.

It actually did. Rustic was the popular word for it. “They have a phone, though?”

“Yeah, a direct line to me. The state splurged. I would guess lawyers had something to do with that.”

He gave a short laugh. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

Even though Blaire was clearly experienced at getting the side-by-side off the back of her truck, he helped. It was heavy, it needed to roll down a ramp, and it might decide to just keep going.

Once it was safely parked, he helped reload the ramp and close the tailgate. Then there was loading the first-aid supplies and guns. She knew where everything went, so he took directions.

With a pause as he saw the roll of crime scene tape and box of latex gloves. And shoe covers. God. A couple of flashlights that would turn night into day. He hoped they didn’t need any of it. Not any of it.

At least the state hadn’t stinted on the side-by-side. It had a roof for rainy weather, and a roll bar he could easily grab for stability. There were four-point harnesses as well, no guarantee against every danger but far better than being flung from the vehicle.

These side-by-side UTVs weren’t as stable as three-wheelers, either. It might be necessary for her job, but if he were out for joyriding, he’d vastly prefer a standard ATV.

She drove but tempered urgency with decent caution. The headlights were good enough, but this classified more as a migratory path than a road. Even knowing a ranger might have to get out here in an emergency, no one had wanted to make this campground easily accessible by vehicle. There were lots of places like that in his part of the forest. Places where he needed to drag teams on foot when someone got injured.

Soon, however, he saw the occasional glint of light through the trees. A lot of very-awake campers, he imagined. Frightened by the gunshot. He hoped they weren’t frightened by more.

The forest thinned out almost abruptly as they reached the campground. He could make out scattered tents, well separated in the trees. Impossible in the dark to tell how many there might be.

But a group of people, all of whom looked as if they’d dragged on jeans, shirts and boots in a hurry, huddled together, a couple of the women hugging themselves.

Blaire brought the ATV to a halt, parked it and jumped off. He followed more slowly, not wanting to reduce her authority in any way. She was the boss here. He was just a visitor. And he wasn’t so stupid that he hadn’t noticed how people tended to turn to the man who was present first.

He waited by the vehicle as Blaire covered the twenty or so feet to the huddle. Soon excited voices reached him, all of them talking at the same time about the single gunshot that had torn the silence of the night. From the gestures, he guessed they were pointing to where they thought the shot came from, and, of course, there were at least as many directions as people.

They’d been in tents, though, and that would muffle the sound. Plus there were enough rocks around her to cause confusing echoes.

But then one man silenced them all.

“Mark Jasper didn’t come out of his tent. His kid was crying just a few minutes ago, but then he quieted.”

He saw Blaire grow absolutely still. “His kid?”

“He brought his four-year-old with him. I guess the shot may have scared him. But... Why didn’t Mark come out?”

Good question, thought Gus. Excellent question.

“Maybe he didn’t want to take a chance and expose his boy. They might have gone back to sleep,” said one of the women. Her voice trembled. She didn’t believe that, Gus realized.

Blaire turned slowly toward the tent that the man had pointed out. She didn’t want to look. He didn’t, either. But as she took her first step toward the shelter, he stepped over and joined her. To hell with jurisdiction. His gorge was rising. A kid had been in that tent? No dad joining the others? By now this Jasper guy could have heard enough of the voices to know it was safe.

He glanced at Blaire and saw that her face had set into lines of stone. She knew, too. When they reached the door of the tent, she stopped and pointed. Leaning over, he saw it, too. The tent was unzipped by about six or seven inches.

“Gloves,” he said immediately.

“Yes.”

Protect the evidence. The opening might have been left by this Jasper guy, or it might have been created by someone else. Either way...

He brought her a pair of latex gloves, then snapped his own set on. Their eyes met, and hers reflected the trepidation he was feeling.

Then he heard a sound from behind him and swung around. The guy who had announced that Jasper hadn’t come out had followed them. “Back up, sir.” His tone was one of command, honed by years of military practice.

“Now,” Blaire added, the same steely note in her voice. “You might be trampling evidence.”

The guy’s eyes widened and he started to back up.

Now Blaire turned her head. “Carefully,” she said sharply. “Don’t scuff. You might bury something.”

The view of the guy raising his legs carefully with each step might have been amusing under other circumstances. There was no amusement now.

“Ready?” Blaire asked.

“Yup.”

She leaned toward the tent and called, “Mr. Jasper? I’m the ranger. We’re coming in. We need to check on you.” No sound answered her.

“Like anyone can be ready for this,” she muttered under her breath as she reached up for the zipper tab. The metal teeth seemed loud as the world held its breath.

When she had the zipper halfway down, she parted the canvas and shone her flashlight inside.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed.