Murdered in Conard County Page 14

  “Kids like to run in the woods,” Blaire remarked. “Several times a year we have to go looking for them. You?”

  “No different for us.”

  “They’re usually farther out than this. Far enough that they completely lose sight of the camp. Too much of a chance that someone would stumble over our killer here.”

  “The same thought crossed my mind.”

  Another smile from her. “Well, we’re on the same wavelength quite a bit.”

  “So it seems.” Mental echoes of one another at times. When he wasn’t appreciating it, he could become amused by it. Right now he knew exactly what she was doing when she moved her reins to the left and headed them uphill.

  “Hundred yards next?” he asked.

  “Yes, if you agree.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” He was enjoying her taking charge and doing this her way. He’d never minded women being in charge, even though he hadn’t come across it often in spec ops, and he had no trouble seeing Blaire as a complete equal. They’d walked the same roads, to some extent, and shared a lot of experience. Now they even had similar civilian jobs.

  The only thing that troubled him was the attraction that kept goading him. Boy, that could blow things up fast. Then there was the protectiveness he was feeling. Even though she had said she didn’t mind him hanging around, he had to hope she wasn’t beginning to feel like he didn’t trust her to take care of herself.

  That would be demeaning. Not at all what he wanted her to feel.

  They reached a point on the second circle where she drew rein sharply. He paused, just behind her, and strained his senses when she said nothing. Waiting, wondering if she had heard or seen something.

  Then he noticed it, too. At first the jingle and creak of harness and saddle had made him inattentive to sound, but now that it was gone, he could hear it. Or not hear it as the case was.

  She turned Lita carefully until she could look at him sideways. “The birds.”

  He nodded. They had fallen silent.

  “Could be a hiker,” she said quietly. “I don’t have any registered at the moment, but simple things like letting someone know where you’re going up here don’t always seem important to people.”

  “I know,” he answered just as quietly. “Not until we have to send out huge search parties to hunt for someone with a sprained ankle who can barely tell us which quadrant he’s in. Don’t you just love it?” Then he fell silent, too, listening.

  A breeze ruffled the treetops, but that was nothing new. The air was seldom still at that height, although here at ground level it could often become nearly motionless because of the tree trunks and brush.

  None of that explained the silence of the birds, however. No, that indicated major disturbance, and he doubted he and Blaire were causing it, or they’d have noticed it earlier.

  Problem was, he couldn’t imagine what could be causing the unusual silence. The birds were used to ordinary animals and threats in the woods, and if the two of them on horseback hadn’t silenced them, what had?

  Another glance at Blaire told him the silence was concerning her. The birds had to feel threatened.

  Then, almost in answer to the thought, a boom of thunder rolled down the mountainside.

  “Great time for Thunder Mountain to live up to its reputation,” Blaire said.

  They both looked up and realized the sky just to the west had grown threateningly inky. It was going to be bad.

  “Better head back,” he said.

  She nodded reluctantly.

  He understood. This search of theirs had only just begun, and now they were having to cut it short. Who could guess how much evidence might be wiped away by a downpour. Probably anything that there might be.

  She started to turn Lita, then paused.

  He eased Scrappy up beside her, trying to ignore the electric tingle as their legs brushed briefly. “What?” he asked.

  “I just felt...something. The back of my neck prickled. Probably the coming storm.” She shrugged and started her mount back toward the road.

  Gus followed. Her neck had prickled? He knew that feeling and he seriously doubted it was the storm.

  Growing even more alert, he scanned the woods around them. He didn’t see a damn thing.

  * * *

  HELL’S BELLS, JEFF THOUGHT. He saw the growing storm, although he doubted it would hit that quickly. What annoyed the dickens out of him was that the two were headed away, probably back to the cabin. He couldn’t keep up with those horses unless he tried to run, and he figured he’d either make too much noise and be heard, or he’d break an ankle and die out here.

  Regardless, any chance he might have found to take out Blaire was lost for now. Instead he had to figure out how to weather this storm without freezing to death. Nobody needed to draw him a map about how dangerous it was to get wet up here. He’d done enough hunting to know.

  Having to hunker under a survival blanket while trying to keep his gear dry and hoping he hadn’t chosen a place where he’d quickly be sitting in runoff didn’t please him one bit.

  Thunder boomed again, hollow but louder. Time to take cover, and quickly. He found himself a huge boulder that looked as if it sank into the ground enough to prevent a river from running under it and began to set up his basic camp. Only as he was spreading his survival blanket, however, did he realize it had a metallic coating.

  Damn! Would it be enough to attract lightning? Or would he be safe because of the high trees and the boulder? Except he knew you shouldn’t shelter under trees during a storm. So where the hell was he supposed to go?

  The first big raindrop that hit his head told him he was out of time. He’d just have to set up here, and if he was worried about the survival blanket maybe he shouldn’t use it. Just sit here and get drenched and hope the rain didn’t penetrate his backpack. Out of it, he pulled a waterproof jacket that was too warm for the day, but it might be all he had to prevent hypothermia in a downpour.

  Or use the damn blanket, he argued with himself. Getting struck by lightning would at least get him out of this mess. It would probably be a much better end than going back to his so-called friends without having completed this task.

  Task. Murder. Might as well face it head-on, Jeff, he said to himself, then spoke aloud. “You’re a killer now. You killed a man you didn’t even know for no good reason at all except to save your own damn neck.”

  The woods had lost their ability to echo anything back at him. Maybe it was the growing thickness of the air, or the rain that had begun to fall more steadily. The only good thing he could say about it was that any evidence he’d left behind would be washed away.

  He pulled the survival blanket out of his backpack and unfolded it, tucking it around himself and his gun and gear. A bolt of lightning would be a good thing right now.

  And he didn’t give a damn that this blanket must stick out like a sore thumb. Somebody finding him and taking him in for any reason at all would be almost as good as a lightning strike.

  Miserable, hating himself, hating the weather, he hunkered inside the blanket.

  * * *

  BLAIRE HELPED GUS as much as she could with the horses. The saddles went under the lean-to to be covered with a tarp that was folded in there. The horses... Well, horses had withstood far worse for millennia, but Gus left the wool saddle blanket on their backs and gently guided them under the lean-to.

  Blaire patted Lita on the neck and murmured to her. Her flanks quivered a bit as the thunder boomed, but she remained still.

  “If they were free, they’d run,” Gus said. “Unfortunately, I can’t let them do that. They could get hurt on this ground.”

  She nodded, stroking Lita’s side. “They’ll be okay?”

  “Sure. I’m positive Lita has been through storms at Gideon’s ranch, and I know for a fact Scrappy’s been through a bunch of
them. I just want them to feel comfortable under the lean-to.”

  She nodded. “And if they get wet...”

  “The wool saddle blankets will help keep them warm. They’ll be fine, Blaire. Scrappy’s never been pampered and I’m sure Gideon doesn’t have enough barn space to bring his animals inside. Nope, they’ll withstand it. Unlike us. Can we make some coffee?”

  She laughed and led the way inside, but she honestly wasn’t feeling very good. This storm threatened to kill any possibility of finding some evidence to help locate the killer. Maybe they’d been asking for too much. “Gus? Espresso or regular?”

  “I could use espresso for the caffeine, but on the other hand regular might give me an excuse to drink more hot liquid, and I feel like I’m getting a little chilled.”

  “You, too? I think the temperature must have dropped twenty degrees while we were riding back. Maybe we’ll need a fire.” Then she put her hands on her hips and tipped her head quizzically. “So, coffee? Espresso or regular?”

  He grinned. “That was an evasion. I can’t make up my mind. Whichever you want.”

  “Some help.”

  He followed her around to the kitchen. “Want me to bring in some wood? And do you want the fire in the fireplace or in the woodstove?”

  The cabin had both. Blaire didn’t know the history, but there was a nice stone fireplace next to a Franklin stove that could really put out the heat. She preferred the stove in the winter, but right now it wasn’t that cold.

  “Let’s start with the fireplace, if that’s okay.”

  “More romantic.”

  She froze as that comment dropped, but he was already on his way out to get wood. What had he meant by that? Anything? Nothing?

  Dang. Her heart started beating a little faster as she wondered if he’d been joking. Since first meeting him, she’d been quashing the attraction she felt toward him, but it was very much alive and well. Those simple words had nearly set off a firestorm in her.

  More romantic?

  Oh, she wished.

  With effort, she focused her attention on making a pot of fresh regular coffee. If he still wanted more caffeine later, it wasn’t hard to make espresso.

  * * *

  GUS GAVE HIMSELF quite a few mental kicks in the butt as he gathered logs and kindling into a large tote clearly made for the task. Hadn’t he seen a wood box inside? In a corner on the front side of the room? Serving as an extra seat beneath a tattered cushion? Maybe he should have checked that out first.

  But after what had slipped out of his mouth, he was glad to be out here under the small lean-to alongside the cabin. The corral was out back with another lean-to, but this was the woodshed, capable of holding enough fuel for an entire winter. Right now he looked at nearly six cords of dry wood. Good enough.

  He took more time than necessary because if he’d walked out on a mess of his own making with his casual comment, he needed a way to deal with it. Problem was, that would all depend on how she had reacted to it. Maybe she’d taken it as a joke. He half hoped so, even though truth had escaped his lips.

  A fire in the fireplace would be more romantic. The question was whether this was the time or place. Or even the right relationship. She might be no more eager than he to risk their friendship.

  And romance could tear it asunder if it didn’t work out. Funny thing about that, how a relationship that could be so close could also be a god-awful mess if it went awry.

  He ought to know. He hadn’t spent his entire life living like a monk. He’d had girlfriends. He’d considered asking one of them to marry him, too. He thought he’d found true love at last. Just like a soap opera.

  And just like a soap opera it had turned out that when he was away on assignment, she liked to fool around. Being alone wasn’t her cup of tea at all.

  That one had hurt like hell. Mostly the betrayal, he’d decided later. He couldn’t even be sure afterward that he’d really loved her. Maybe he’d been more in love with the idea of having a wife, and maybe a kid or two, and coming home after a mission to a family.

  It was possible. He might well have deluded himself.

  Or possibly he’d been every bit as scorched as he’d felt.

  Inside he found Blaire heating up canned clam chowder as if nothing had happened.

  “If you’re allergic to shellfish, tell me now,” she said. “I can make you something else.”

  “Not allergic, thank God. Life without shellfish would suck.”

  She laughed lightly as he went out to the fireplace and built a nice fire on the hearth. When he finished, he had a nice blaze going and she’d placed bowls of soup, a plate of crackers and some beer on the kitchenette table, where he was able to join her.

  “If the bowls weren’t so hot, I’d suggest eating in front of the fire,” she said. “You did a nice job.”

  “You do a nice job of heating up canned soup,” he retorted, drawing another laugh out of her. Man, he loved that sound.

  “Yeah. I’m not much of a cook. Mom tried to teach me, but I felt no urge to put on an apron.”

  Which might be what led her to the military. No standard role for this woman. He liked it.

  After dinner he insisted on taking care of washing up. When he’d dried his hands and came out to the front room, he found her staring at the map Micah Parish had stuck with pins.

  “It’s a definite plan,” she murmured.

  “I agree,” he said, coming up beside her.

  “But the killings are so far apart in time as well as location, there’s no reason to expect him to act again anytime soon.”

  “You wouldn’t think.”

  “So he’s atypical for a serial murderer. Not escalating.”

  “Not yet anyway.”

  She turned her head to look at him. “This is so stupid, feeling uneasy that he might be hanging around. He’s probably gone home to think about his next move.”

  “Maybe.”

  She arched a brow. “Maybe?”

  He shook his head a little. “This guy appears to be smart, unless this is all chance,” he said, pointing at the map.

  “But if he is smart?”

  “Then what better way to throw us off than by breaking the pattern?”

  She caught her breath. “So I’m not crazy.”

  “Did I say you were?”

  She shook her head and faced him. “You feel it, too.”

  “Call it combat sense. I don’t know. I’ve got this itch at the base of my skull that won’t leave me alone. I tried to act like the murder was over, the guy had gone away. That’s why it took me two days to start hovering around you. Because I can’t escape the feeling that this isn’t over. Don’t ask me why. It’s just there, an itch. A sting like a pinprick in my brain. Anyway, there’s no one else here for him to go after, so I started worrying about you.”

  She dropped her head, looking down at the wooden floor. “Yeah. From the outset I haven’t been able to shake it. Something about that murder... My God, Gus, I can’t get over it. What kind of monster shoots a sleeping man when his small son is right beside him? He’s got no limit, evidently. So what next? My seasonal staff?”

  “Or you,” he said quietly.

  She whipped around and faced the fire, placing her hands on her hips. It was a defiant pose, he thought.

  “Let him try,” she said. “Besides, this is all speculation.”

  But neither of them believed it. Not completely. Finely honed senses were pinging and couldn’t be ignored.

  * * *

  WILL WAS FED UP with Jeff. He didn’t bother to discuss it with Karl. He didn’t want any kind of debate, even though he and Karl were very much on the same wavelength.

  Jeff must be dealt with. Not necessarily killed but hamstrung enough that he’d never murmur a word about any of this. And while Karl might think that b
eing responsible for one murder would be enough to shut him up, Will didn’t.

  Damn, he hated overdeveloped consciences.

  He, Jeff and Karl had been friends since early childhood. Their fathers had been hunting buddies and when the boys were old enough, they’d joined the hunts with them. Always spending a few weeks here at this lodge, sharing plenty of laughter, talk and beer. It had never occurred to him that friendship with Jeff could become an Achilles’ heel.

  Of course, when he’d started this damn game, he’d never intended to start killing, so it had never struck him it might be best not to mention it to Jeff.

  So he’d sat here in this very chair shooting off his mouth about a game. All because he’d recently come across the story of Leopold and Loeb and had wondered if the three of them could prove they were smarter. Actually, it wasn’t really a question, because Leopold and Loeb had been nowhere near as smart as they had believed.

  Still, it had been intended to be a game, just as he had said that night. For a while, the stalking and planning had been enough, but then one night Karl had said, “The thrill is going away.”

  Fateful words. The first few times, they’d simply shot to miss, to cause a bad scare. And they’d been careful not to let Jeff know what was up, because they’d learned long ago that Jeff’s conscience was probably bigger than Jeff himself. Besides, they knew him for a weakling. He hated confrontation, and when they were kids he’d been inclined to run away rather than stand up for himself.

  Wimp.

  So now here they were. They’d managed to pressure Jeff into killing one man just to make it impossible for him to run to the cops. But had they really made it impossible?

  He had sensed Jeff’s fear. Not that Jeff’s being afraid was anything new, but the guy was afraid that he and Karl would kill him. They would if it became necessary. Regardless, he and Karl were certain they’d left no traces behind so even if Jeff went running to the cops, they could claim they knew nothing at all and Jeff must have gone nuts.