by Paula Munier
“Stop saying that,” Farrow told his wife. “You weren’t even looking.”
“Tough break,” Troy told Farrow. “But there are plenty of bears in these woods. Gunnar knows what he’s doing. Just stick with him and his dogs and I’m sure you’ll have a successful hunting season.”
Mercy watched as he told Lea Sanders that he’d need to see the photos she’d shot today. She nodded, and Troy turned his attention to Blake and Katharine Montgomery. He was asking about the plans for the inn that had brought them all to Nemeton when Detective Kai Harrington of the Vermont State Police barged into the blowdown with two uniforms. He wore his usual bespoke suit and handmade Italian shoes and did not look happy that the trek through the woods had soiled his ensemble. He looked even less happy to see Mercy and Troy.
He rearranged his sharp features into an approximation of amiability as he greeted Feinberg with a firm handshake. The billionaire introduced him to his friends, and Harrington played the role of handsome and brilliant homicide detective perfectly.
“He’s good,” she whispered to Troy. They stood on the other side of the crime scene with their dogs, watching the detective ingratiate himself with the rich and semifamous. Although she knew Cara Farrow would object to that characterization.
“Yeah. Too good.”
Harrington told the hunting party to stay put, then oozed his way around the crime scene, speaking quietly to Dr. Darling and the CSS team while the uniforms stood sentry over Feinberg and company. Elvis and Susie Bear both growled as the detective neared them.
“We’re going to get the boot,” whispered Mercy.
“Yep.” Troy did not lower his voice.
“You again.” Harrington addressed her, ignoring Troy.
“Good morning,” she said.
“You found the body?”
“Actually, Elvis did.” She told Harrington how they’d come upon the victim.
He glared at the shepherd, and Elvis growled again. Susie Bear added a low rumble of her own.
Harrington fell back. “Get those dogs out of here. Warner, go help that groundskeeper with the bear.”
“Sir.”
Harrington turned his glare on Mercy. “That’s it for now, but you’re going to have to make a full statement later.”
“Okay,” she said.
The detective nodded curtly at Dr. Darling and his CSS team. He strode back over to the hunting party without a backward glance.
“Pay no attention to him.” The medical examiner pointed to the arrow. “I’d say you were right, Troy, about the archer who shot this arrow. Definitely on the same plane. And probably came from that direction.” She tossed her head south, across the blowdown, where a muster of CSS techs searched for evidence. “If there’s anything there, they’ll find it. You better go after that bear.”
“I’m on it,” said Troy.
If the bear were wounded, Troy would want to find him and assess his condition. If he could save him, he’d sedate him and bring him in for treatment. If not, the poor beast might suffer the fate of many a nuisance bear before him.
Mercy and Troy walked over to Gunnar and his elkhounds. All the dogs were dancing on their leads, desperate to get going. The groundskeeper was glowering at a young man in a hunter-orange jacket, who stood with his hands in his jeans, rocking back and forth on his heels. Joey Darosa, Gunnar’s assistant.
“I lost him,” Joey was telling Gunnar. “He was big—the biggest bear I ever seen—and fast. I tracked him as long as I could, but he took off across the creek and into the meadow. You know, the one by the county road. I heard the sirens. Figured I better come back.”
“Huh,” said Gunnar.
Mercy could tell he was not pleased. “Did Farrow manage to hit the bear?”
“I do not know.” Gunnar sighed, and in that sigh, she heard the cold wind of his native Norway. “Idiot.”
They all looked at Joey.
“Didn’t look wounded to me.”
“I can show Troy where you treed the bear,” she said. “Gunnar, you and Joey better stay here until Harrington says you can go.”
“Works for me,” said Troy.
“Okay,” said Gunnar, but again he did not seem pleased.
“Good luck,” she said, and she swore the groundskeeper almost smiled.
Almost.
They waved their goodbyes to the medical examiner and Mercy led the way back to the clearing where she and Elvis had barged in on the bear. Susie Bear and Elvis brought up the rear, roughhousing with each other along the way, seemingly as glad to be free of Harrington as she and Troy were.
Mercy walked Troy through the incident, pointing to the large oak at the edge of the clearing. “That’s where Gunnar’s elkhounds treed the bear.”
“Where Farrow claims he wounded the bear.”
“Not exactly. This is where Farrow took the first shot at the bear, the one with his longbow and arrow. Elvis startled him, and he missed by a yard. Not that I’m convinced he would’ve hit it anyway.”
He laughed. “Then what?”
“Farrow yelled at Gunnar to give him his rifle, so he could go after the bear. Elvis took off in the other direction, and the elkhounds followed him.”
She walked over to the base of the tree, showing him the tracks of the bear making his retreat.
He dropped into a squat to get a better look. “This is a good one.” He pointed to a perfect track in a small patch of soft mud, where a large square print was clearly visible.
“Front paw.” She crouched down on her heels to join him. The length and width of the paw print were about the same, indicating that it was a front-paw print; had that print been longer than it was wide, it would have been a back-paw print.
“Right.” He pulled his Leatherman tool out of his pocket and used the ruler to measure the width of the bear-paw print with his outstretched hand. “Nearly eight inches.” He repeated the measurement for the length of the print. “Again, nearly eight inches.”
“Big bear.” She looked over at Troy.
“I’d say. Four hundred fifty, four hundred seventy-five pounds.”
“Wow.” Even bigger than she’d thought.
He duckwalked along the bear tracks. “There’s been talk of a monster black bear on the warpath up here somewhere.”
“Really?”
“It happens.”
“Well, this guy was big and fast. But he didn’t charge, he bolted.”
“What happened next?”
“I’m not sure. I went after the dogs. I heard a shot behind me.”
“Farrow.”
“Yeah.” Mercy shrugged. “Maybe he’s a better shot with a gun.”
Troy kept his eyes on the ground as he inched forward. “No sign of blood or injury so far.”
“I find it hard to believe he made the shot. I’d bet money the bear is just fine. Deep in the woods around here somewhere, laughing his big bear butt off.”
“Let’s track this monster bear for a while just to be sure.” He rose to his feet, holding out his hands to help her up.
But she was already on her feet. “Sure.”
“If you’ve got the time.” He seemed uncertain. An awkward pause.
She knew her mother would have told her to let him play the gentleman, but she was no good at that. Whenever she found herself in a situation like this, by the time she figured out what the guy was trying to do for her, she’d moved on under her own steam.
Like now. But she didn’t mean to insult him, and she wasn’t about to say no to a bear hunt. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world. Would we, Elvis?”
The shepherd stopped playing with Susie Bear and trotted over to her, triangular ears cocked. Elvis was ready. As was his big furry friend lumbering along behind him.
Together the four of them tracked the bear through the forest for about a quarter mile, until they came to a rushing stream and the trail ended. No indication of any wounded beast, just a big bear on the run.
“We may as
well go back,” said Troy, “and see what if anything else they’ve found at the scene.”
Mercy smiled. Technically it was Harrington’s crime scene, but she knew the game warden wouldn’t sit still while the staties searched for a murderer in his woods.
They made their way back with the dogs, skirting the perimeter of the clearing just within the trees, keeping out of the detective’s line of sight. When they were within about thirty feet, they could see that Harrington had begun his interviews with the hunting party. They stopped to listen.
The detective had commandeered a large tree stump, covering it with what appeared to be a uniform’s jacket, the better to keep the seat of his new suit trousers tidy. He sat there, spine imperiously straight, the king of crime fighters on his throne, lording it over his subject suspects.
An angry-looking Ethan paced in front of him while an anxious rookie named Becker took notes, sans jacket. Mercy knew Becker was afraid of the detective, whose disdain for subordinates was legendary. Not that he liked anyone else much, either, as far as she could tell.
Feinberg stood to Harrington’s right, well within earshot of the detective as he questioned Ethan. If Harrington minded the imposition—and you’d think he would—he wasn’t saying anything. Probably because he cared more about the billionaire’s good opinion than his own integrity.
Just beyond them, the rest of the hunting party waited, restless under a copse of slim brilliant yellow maple trees. Cara Farrow was braiding and unbraiding her hair, her sullen husband fiddling with his cell phone. No signal out here, so maybe he was playing Candy Crush.
Blake and Katharine huddled together, while Lea kept to the background, shooting pictures with more discretion than Mercy had ever seen in a photographer.
“Do you think she’s a wildlife photographer?” Mercy asked Troy. “You know, good at shooting skittish subjects out in the wild?”
“It would explain how she’s managed to avoid Harrington’s wrath,” said Troy. “Or maybe she’s just got influential friends.” He nodded toward Feinberg.
They were close enough now to hear Harrington grilling Ethan. He’d obviously found out about his relationship with Alice, which Mercy knew would make Ethan a prime suspect in the detective’s eyes.
“Tell me again why you kept your relationship a secret,” said the detective.
“It wasn’t my idea. Alice insisted.” Ethan sighed. “Nonfraternization and all that.”
“It was an open secret,” said Feinberg, who’d obviously had enough of Harrington’s haranguing of his employee.
Harrington turned his attention to the billionaire. “Why do you say that?”
“Everyone knew about it.”
Not much they could do here. Mercy and Troy continued their out-of-sight circumvention of the crime scene. They found Dr. Darling and the CSS team still hard at work.
“Anything new?” asked Troy.
“One thing that might interest you,” said the medical examiner. “She hasn’t been dead that long, maybe an hour, maybe two, tops. I’ll know when I get her back to the lab.”
“That’s what I figured,” said Mercy. “When I found her, the scavengers hadn’t really gotten to her yet.”
“I’m thinking that broadhead ruptured her aorta. She would have been dead in minutes.”
“I’m glad she didn’t suffer too long.”
“I’ll make sure you know what I know. Just in case our friend Harrington tries to keep the maple bread pudding all to himself.”
“Thank you,” said Mercy.
“He’s been busy chatting up the rich folks,” said the doc quietly. “Especially Feinberg. He loves that man and his mansion. Not to mention his money.”
Mercy laughed.
Troy did not laugh.
“You’re smart to stay out of sight. He won’t want any competition. He still hasn’t gotten over your besting him last time.”
The medical examiner was referring to their complicated history with Harrington, which nearly cost Troy his career and Mercy her life.
They fell back behind the trees and continued their search of the perimeter.
“They should be looking back here,” she said.
“They’re not trackers. They can’t read the woods the way you can.”
“Or you.”
“Agreed.” Troy grinned at her. “Let’s see what we can find that they missed.”
CHAPTER FIVE
A fishing house is a fishing shanty, bob-house, smelt shanty, tent, or other structure designed to be placed on the ice of the waters of Vermont for fishing or to be occupied for other purposes.
—VERMONT FISH AND WILDLIFE REGULATIONS
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Mercy pulled Troy behind a scrub of winterberry and pointed to a broken line of faint footprints in a narrow patch of mud. The prints led out of the clearing and were barely visible in the tangle of tracks made by the hunters and the dogs.
“Small,” said Troy, referring to the footprints.
“Too small to belong to any of the hunting party.”
“A child?”
“Maybe.”
They followed the prints, the dogs on their heels, checking for broken twigs, disturbed leaves, crushed fern, and other minor disturbances.
“Look.” She stopped short. “Something caught on that branch.”
He followed the angle of her outstretched arm to a scrap of blue fabric caught on a fallen tree limb. He pulled out a new pair of plastic gloves from his duty belt and handed them to Mercy.
She slipped them over her long pale fingers and picked the torn fragment of cloth from the bramble. She held it up to the light dappling through the sugar maples.
“Is that Batman?” He pointed to the small black logo imprinted on the blue background.
“I think so.” She shook her head against the obvious. “A child’s Batman pajamas.”
“I had a pair when I was a kid,” said Troy. “I wore them day and night. I never wanted to take them off, even to let my mom wash them. Drove her crazy.”
“I’m sure you were a very cute little boy.” She’d first met him at the town pool when they were teenagers. He was the lifeguard and she was the fourteen-year-old summer girl crushing on him. He was cute then. As now.
Troy grinned. “All little boys are cute.”
“What is a kid in pajamas doing in the woods? And why off-trail?” She frowned. “Maybe he’s lost.”
“Or maybe he’s lost and scared.”
“Do you think he could have seen what happened to Alice?”
“I don’t know. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Is this scrap big enough for the dogs to track with?”
“Even if it’s not, Susie Bear should be able to find him.” The Newfie mutt could follow a specific scent—tracking and trailing, nose to the ground—but she was also one of the best air-scent dogs in Vermont. Air-scent dogs specialized in blind search. They didn’t look for a given scent, they followed scent they found in the air, noses up. The scent of someone out of place—someone scared or excited or anxious—carried by the wind.
“If Elvis doesn’t find him first.”
Troy laughed. “How’s your training going?”
She and Elvis had been working with the Green Mountain Search and Rescue K9 Volunteer Corps, a highly trained group of civilians and their canines who showed up rain or shine or snow to help law enforcement find missing people in the wilderness.
As a bomb-sniffing dog, the Belgian Malinois had learned to detect more than two dozen different substances—far more than other kinds of working dogs. Air-scent work was different, but the shepherd was proving quite good at it as well.
“It’s going great.”
“But…” He paused.
“But what?”
“There’s always a but when it comes to training dogs.”
“Yeah.” She kicked at a pile of leaves. “He’s very smart. As good at nose-up as he is at nose-down.”
“No surprise there.
”
“No, but as you know there’s more to it than tracking and trailing and air-scent skills.”
Troy smiled. “Sociability.”
“Right.” It took most civilians and their dogs a couple of years to certify for search and rescue. Mercy figured she and Elvis would fly through the certification. But she’d been wrong. The best search-and-rescue folks—whether two-footed or four-footed—had exceptional social skills. Amiability was especially important for the dogs, as they had to interact off-leash with all kinds of strangers, canine and human.
“What does Laura say?” Laura Dawson was the head of the organization. Mercy knew that Troy and Susie Bear had worked many searches together with her rescue Hemingway. Hemingway was a muscular brown-and-white dog—part Labrador retriever, part shar-pei, part pit bull—as smart as he was handsome. He and Susie Bear were the best—and friendliest—air-scent dogs in the county.
“She says Elvis needs to be more like Hemingway and Susie Bear.”
“He’s not exactly Mr. Congeniality.”
“It’s not that he’s not friendly. He’s just reserved. He waits to see if someone’s worthy of his friendship.”
“Sounds like someone else I know.”
Mercy frowned. “He’s never going to be Susie Bear.”
“He doesn’t have to be. He just has to be approachable. Learn to mingle.”
“It’s not like it’s a cocktail party.” She suspected he was talking about her as well. She was no better at mingling than her dog was. In the army, you acted first and chitchatted later. If at all.
“He’ll follow your lead.”
He was definitely talking about her as well.
“‘I will seem friendly, as thou hast advised me,’” she quoted aloud.
Troy laughed. “Shakespeare, the great mingler.”
“Very funny.”
After so many years away, coming home to the civilian world wasn’t easy for her. And it was even harder for Elvis. He was a one-person dog. That person had been Martinez, his handler and her fiancé. When he was killed, they both lost their man and their mission. It took nearly a year and a couple of near-death experiences for them to form a strong bond. They were still working on it.