The cat held his ground, gave Jessie a contemptuous look and jumped into the crevice.
"Doggonit!" Jessie walked over and looked downward as Jack jumped out and avoided her grasp. An involuntary scream burst from her throat.
In the crack between two bales was a still form, clad in a brown leather jacket and torn jeans. The woman's body lay wedged on its side, arms tucked close to her torso. Long black hair matted with dried blood obscured her face. One foot was bare, the toenails painted crimson; the other wore the mate to the discarded turquoise tennis shoe.
Fearing the worst, Jessie squatted down, grit her teeth and thrust a bare arm between the body and hay bales, trying to feel her pulse. Stiff stems of dried alfalfa scored deep scratches into her skin, and as she withdrew her arm, it immediately began to ooze droplets of blood.
Can't tell. She stood up. Then she heard a low moan. She's still alive…
"Hey, can you hear me?" No answer. She patted her pockets looking for her cell phone. "Phone's back at the truck. I'm going to call for help. Hang on."
She raced back to her pickup and grabbed her cell phone and hit 911 with trembling fingers. While she listened to the ring on the other end, she yanked Jack's wool blanket from the seat, and pulled a utility knife from the glove box. Her stomach clenched the way it always did when she confronted sharp objects: knives, needles, broken glass. She grimaced, turning to start back. When the dispatcher answered, she explained the emergency, giving terse directions while she jogged back to the injured girl. Her breath came in gasps.
Another eagle—likely the first one's mate—circled above the haystack, something large clutched in its talons.
Oh, dear God, please don't let that be Jack. No, no, no.
She accelerated. Nearly to the stack, she spotted the orange tom squatting in the shade of a hay bale. Relieved, as she passed the bale, she stooped, grabbed the cat and hugged him close as she ran. Above, the eagle made a lazy U-turn to head the other direction.
Dumping Jack onto the ground, she sucked air between her teeth and opened the knife. As she cut the twine from the bales trapping the still figure, she pulled away clumps of hay and pitched them to the side until the limp body was released. The woman slumped onto her back, her leather jacket falling open.
Jessie stared. She looked young, teens maybe, and at least part Native American. Above the scooped t-shirt neckline peeped the edge of a thunderbird tattoo. As she covered the slim body with Jack's blanket, the girl's chest heaved.
"Don't worry, you'll be okay. Help is on the way."
Where's the damn ambulance?
As if her thought conjured the reality, she heard distant sirens and breathed a deep sigh.
When the sound drew louder, the girl's eyes opened. Her mouth moved as if she were trying to speak.
"It's okay," Jessie said soothingly. "Help is coming." She knelt by the girl's side, tucking the blanket more tightly around the slight form. "Where are you hurt? Who did this?"
At the raspy, indistinct response, Jessie shook her head, puzzled, certain she had misheard. When the sirens grew to an earsplitting crescendo, she stepped from behind the haystack and waved her arms. The ambulance pulled off the gravel road and ground to a stop near her truck, and the siren stopped.
Jessie turned back to the girl, whose eyes were wide and frightened.
"God, no," the girl said, "No, no, no. Not the police. Please. It was a cop. A cop! Don't—"
Her arms flailed weakly. Her eyes closed. She went silent.
Chapter 3
Rural Montana, present day
Sergeant Russell Bonham hit the gas, pushing his patrol car to eighty. He could hear other sirens wailing in the distance and then winding down.
They must be about to O'Bourne's ranch already, he thought. I'm right on their tail. As he rounded the next corner, he spotted the emergency vehicles parked on the shoulder of the lane behind an old red pickup. The field gate stood open.
His car swerved, fishtailing, and Russell eased off the pedal. Cranking the wheel, he pulled off the road and parked behind the ambulance. He shoved the door open, got out, and loped after two paramedics who were hurrying over the rough ground, hauling a stretcher. Another EMT carrying a Medical Field Kit ran ahead, already halfway to the haystack.
Russell picked up his pace.
"Don't touch anything around the stack, just pick up the victim," he yelled. "And you," he pointed at the tall figure holding a squirming cat. "Stay put, please. We'll need to talk to you."
He reached the others and looked down at the unresponsive girl the ambulance team was loading on the stretcher.
Nobody he knew, thank God. He pegged her about early twenties. Indian. There'd probably be ID in the motorcycle bag, license and registration, at least.
"Does it look like she's going to make it?" he asked the nearest EMT, a brown-haired beanpole who towered over Russell's six two by a couple inches.
The fellow shook his head, looking sad and bewildered.
Newbie. Volunteer, maybe, Russell thought. A female EMT looked up as she was tightening a strap on the stretcher, and he saw it was Cassy Adams. Her aunt worked at the station. His mind eased. Cassy was good at her job, and he'd seen her in action at some rough accident scenes. He gave her an inquiring look. "What do you think, Cassy?"
"Don't know," she said. "We gotta run with her, Russ. Anybody's guess, but we'll keep you posted." The EMTs hustled the stretcher down the field and slid it into the waiting ambulance.
Russell gestured with a beefy hand, waving the paramedics on, then he pulled his police radio from the holder on his belt and called the station. "Blanche, send Johnson and Kraft out to the O'Bourne's west hayfield."
He listened to the voice on the other end. "Yeah, where the injured girl was found. Tell 'em to bring a trailer. We have a motorcycle here we'll need to haul back to the station, and we'll need to dust it for prints."
He thought a minute. "Send Arvid with them, too. Sergeant Johnson can swing by and pick him up as they pass the Abrahmsens' place."
After listening to the voice on the other end he said, "Yeah, he's back. He called a few minutes ago and was just rolling into his driveway from his big fishing trip. Catch him on his cell phone. And tell him not to take time to clean up and get into uniform. When Johnson drops him off, I'll have him accompany the woman who found the girl back to the station, so he can take her statement."
Russell glanced around. Damn weather had been so dry he didn't expect to find any footprints. The woman who found the girl and the ambulance team had both stomped everywhere anyhow. They'd still have to check the area, take a few pictures. He squatted down, gazing across the field. He saw a slight trail of bent alfalfa stalks leading from the middle of the field directly to the haystack. Drag marks. Person must have tried carrying the girl. Got tired halfway, dragged her the rest of the way to the haystack and hid her, then drove the cycle over and hoped neither would be noticed for some time. It was a stroke of luck she'd been found so soon. Russell turned to speak to the woman who'd called 911 and did a double take.
She had her head tilted skyward, the long red ponytail of curls trailing down her back from under one of Russell's own caps, and a huge orange cat was held tightly in her arms. As he stood watching her, she swiveled toward him.
Oh damn . . . when did Jessie O'Bourne come home?
A twitch started at the corner of his left eye, and he forced himself to calm down, to let his face go blank. When he looked up, those amazing eyes were looking into his.
Yep, still mad.
"Hello, Russell," she said, winter frost in her tone.
"Hi, Jess. Didn't know you were back. Heck of a thing to come home to." He rubbed the back of his neck with a broad palm and then met her gaze. "She a friend of yours? Got any idea what happened? Did she talk to you before we arrived?"
God, now I'm babbling.
"No to all three questions. I've never seen her before." Jessie hugged a squirming Jack to her chest, her blue
eyes like glacial ice. "I have no idea what happened. Poor thing did wake up for a second or two, but she didn't make much sense, Russell. The only thing I understood was that she was terrified the police would come with the ambulance. And now that I see who answered the 911 call, no wonder she was worried," she said in a tone Russell could only interpret as snotty.
He felt the heat rise up his neck but ignored her barb. "Hmmm. Could be the head wound. Could be drug related. Been a ton of drug problems around here the last couple years. The EMTs will likely need to send her by copter to Billings. We'll ID her and get her family notified. I'm going to ask you to go sit in the patrol car while we're waiting for the other officers to arrive, so you don't walk around the crime scene any more than you have, and you can corral that orange monster you got there."
"Oh, for . . ." Jessie gave him a steely look.
"And I need to go take a quick look at your vehicle." At her startled glance, he said, "Hey, just routine." He walked toward Jessie's Ford, then turned and looked back. "You look good, Jess. Been a while hasn't it? Still wearing one of my old hats, I see."
Chapter 4
Sage Bluff, Montana, present day
Arvid Abrahmsen rode shotgun in Jessie's pickup, his lumberjack physique wedged tightly into her small truck. He was holding Jack on his ample lap and regaling Jessie with stories from some of the Scandinavian settlers, especially tales of his Norwegian relatives. The Sage Bluff area had been settled in the 1800s by immigrants of German, Irish, Swedish and Norwegian ancestry.
"Yep, glad the great grandparents chose such pretty country. Nice people here, too. 'Course right now, we're all trying to outdo one another in the decoration of mail boxes."
"Mail boxes?" she asked in surprise.
"Better believe it. We've got a county-wide contest going for the most creative box, and it's a contest with some mighty attractive prizes." Arvid's blue eyes twinkled in a wide, sunburned face, and salt and pepper hair covered his head in a short, messy mop. He wore waterproof boots, khaki canvas slacks, and a blue plaid shirt topped by a vest that smelled ever so slightly of trout. Jessie liked the man immediately, mentally adding him to her list of "good people". It was a short list.
"Sounds like fun."
Miles of wheat fields, pasture grass and alfalfa flashed past the truck window, interspersed with an entertaining assortment of mailboxes. Miniscule tractors, metal dragons, milkmaids, horses, and pigs, some on fancy posts carved with the owner's name.
"This is mine, here." Arvid pointed to a narrow lane leading to a frame house, its Norwegian blue and red trim faded from the harsh Montana winters and even harsher Montana sun. The turn in was marked by a large mail box painted to mimic the ocean, complete with waves and topped with a kitschy homemade Viking ship.
"Oh," Jessie said, "Neat box. That ought to put you in the running."
"Hope I win."
"What kind of prizes does the contest have?"
"Second is a night at a local B&B. One of them fancy, schmancy places. But first place is a brand-new horse trailer from Carlson's Implement. "
"Oh, you have horses?"
"Nah. I'd trade it in on a small motorhome I been wanting. One perfect for fishing trips." As they turned onto Main Street in Sage Bluff, he changed the subject. "You were raised around here weren't you, Miss O'Bourne? You look familiar." Then Arvid slapped his knee, startling Jack. "Oh, you must be Dan O'Bourne's girl."
"That's right."
"Your dad and I were only a couple years apart in school. I played on the same football team, but back then, if you can believe it, I was sort of a runt. Haw haw."
"Hard to believe, all right." She smiled. "And please call me Jessie. Or Jess. Yeah. It's my old stomping ground, all right. But it's been a while since I've lived at home. Dad's place was mid-way between Sage Bluff and Baxter. I went to grade school in Sage Bluff but decided to switch to Baxter when I reached high school age. They offered an art class. I lost track of most of my old Sage Bluff crowd, but I still see a few friends from art class now and then when I come home." Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jack's mouth begin to open and saw the broad head tilt. "Don't let him bite you. He's not real good with strangers."
"Aw, he likes me. Biggest damn cat I ever seen. Pardon the Swedish." He snickered and rubbed Jack's ears. "Bit of Norsky humor there. I like to blame what I can on the Swedes."
Jessie grinned. She looked out the window at the once familiar streets as she drove and gazed longingly at the neon sign as she passed the Calico Family Café.
No breakfast today. I'm starving. And wouldn't you know it had to be Russell Bonham who picked up the 911 call? Blast . . . haven't seen him since the funerals.
"Looking at your sketches stuck there on the dash, I just realized you're the artist everybody's been talking about. Didn't think you'd be so young. You come back to judge that big art contest over in Baxter, right?"
"That'd be me. I hope we have a good turnout."
"I was surprised such a little town could sponsor a big, artsy hoo-ha like that. The newspaper says there'll be a couple hundred artists coming. So what's so special about this 'plain old painting' they have listed on the posters I've been seeing around town?"
She slowed to a stop at the intersection of Main and Third and waited for a young couple pushing a stroller to cross. The couple were smiling at each other and talking animatedly. A wistful feeling washed over her at the sight of the stroller before she continued on.
"It's called 'plein air' painting, Arvid." She spelled it. "It's just a fancy way of saying 'painting in the open air'. Some painters think nothing compares to painting outdoors from life."
"How do you feel about it?"
"That's an interesting question. I guess I believe that a good painting is a good painting—whether it's plein air or done from photo references. It's still what the artist puts on the canvas that counts, and, even more often, what the artist leaves out. I do both studio and outdoor work. Sometimes I make a larger studio painting from a small outdoor study, but if I'm painting animals, I need photos."
"Huh. Interesting. My wife loves art. Bet she'd love to visit with you sometime. And Esther's a musician—writes her own music." He wriggled his eyebrows. "She's a beauty, too. You wouldn't think this overweight old Norsky could reel in such a catch as my Esther, but you'd be wrong. Just had to have the right bait." He looked down at the cat with a pensive expression, then chuckled, scratching his head with one hand. "I can't remember what that bait was, but I must've done something right."
Jessie laughed.
"Say, I seen you looking at the café sign back there. You hungry?"
"Starving. I didn’t eat breakfast before I went out to paint."
"Ja. Well, let me take down your statement, and I'll run back for breakfast sandwiches and some decent coffee. I'd give you some from the station pot, but it'd be weak as dishwater. The clerk there makes terrible coffee." He made a dramatic gagging sound, then grinned. "Don't say I said so. The gal doubles as a dispatcher, and she does a good job except for the coffee. Whoo-ee! She takes terrible offense when people criticize her lousy brew." Arvid shook his head sadly. "And I hate to say it, but that woman can be mean as a snake about the littlest things. Anyway, my opinion is that the only folks that can make decent coffee are Norwegians. Good and strong." He made a bicep. "Hold up the spoon."
Jessie smiled and tapped her own chest with her thumb. "You've got nothing on the O'Bournes there, my friend. We dissolve the spoon!"
A few minutes later they approached the building that served as Sage Bluff's Sheriff's Office. Like other towns around Montana, the historic buildings were still put to good use. High above the door, the old stone façade read First National Bank and Trust. At the side of the entrance door, a nondescript sign announced Sage Bluff Courthouse and Sheriff's Dept. All the parking places were filled, most by trucks with gun racks in the window. She circled around the block.
"All the hunters are in town," Arvid explained. "The hardware s
tore remodeled, and the owner added on enough space to put in a sporting goods section. Today's the grand opening."
Next to the Sheriff's Department was a computer store whose rock pediment read Post Office, and whose parking lot held one empty slot. She hooted in triumph, whipped into the opening and parked. She reached over to take the orange cat from Arvid before he exited the pickup. Jack hung limp as a dishrag except for one paw whose hooks were deeply entrenched in not only the Deputy Sergeant's fishing vest, but a bit of Norwegian flesh as well.
"Sorry." Jessie grimaced, then disentangled Jack's hooks.
"Aw, it's okay. See, he likes me, all right. 'Course, I got a comfortable lap."
She was positive a small grizzly bear would find the big man's lap comfortable but held her tongue and followed him into the station, Jack looped over one shoulder, his claws now digging into her back.
The Sheriff's Department was a relic with good architectural bones. Solid marble steps led to wide double exterior doors covered with a triangular pediment. On each side of the door were granite columns topped by scrollwork.
The heavy doors opened into a spacious lobby that had seen better days. The office door on the right was open, but there was nobody behind the desk.
"Blanche is out for a minute, I guess." Arvid said. "She said we'd need to use Russell's office. Hope it's open."
"You don't have an office?"
"Ja, I do. But while I was on my fishing trip, the guys surprised me and had the hardwood floors refinished. The varnish needs another day to dry. I planned to stay longer, but Sheriff Stendahl flew to California to visit family. He wound up having a heart attack while he was there, then a triple bypass. I was away fishing, so he made Russell acting sheriff. I knew Russell would be short staffed, so I came home to help out."
Arvid led the way down the hall, opened the door to Russell's office and seated her near the corner of a massive oak desk. A glass paperweight with a distorted version of Russell and a smiling youngster, both with fishing poles, sat on a stack of notepaper. Jessie looked closer.
1 Death on Canvas Page 2