Laughing, Faith Ann began pulling Rush toward the plot. Nemo ran ten feet ahead of the kids, the ridge of hair on his back standing like a Mohawk.
5
Faith Ann’s deer hung by his spread back legs in the open-air shed beside the RV. After Winter had skinned the animal, put the meat in the chiller, and placed the caped head on the concrete floor, Rush suddenly turned. “Somebody’s coming,” he said. “They took the chain off the gate.”
The north gate to the property was seventy-five yards away down a gravel road that curved through the woods. After a few seconds Winter heard a vehicle approaching. He reflexively touched the handgun at his side. Since the front gate was kept locked, whoever was coming in either had a key or knew where the spare key to the padlock was hidden. Billy Lyons had said he wasn’t coming down, nor were they expecting any of the other men that sometimes hunted on the four hundred acres. He put the wide-bladed skinning knife down and peeled off the surgical gloves he wore to keep his hands blood-free.
The truck was a silver-gray extended cab Toyota Tundra with large tires and a five-pointed star on the front license plate. The driver cut the motor and climbed out of the cab. There was something familiar about the tall man who walked over to the shed. He wore a short coat that broke above his sidearm, a Colt Python. The letters TCS were emblazoned on the brown baseball cap he wore.
“Hello,” the man called out as he approached the shed.
An alert Nemo growled and looked up at Winter.
“It’s okay, Nemo,” Winter said.
“Hello, Winter,” the stranger said. “You must be Rush and Faith Ann.”
“Who are you?” Faith Ann asked as the tall man came into the shed.
“I’m Brad Barnett,” he said. “I’m the sheriff in Tunica County.”
“Brad Barnett,” Winter said, shaking the sheriff’s proffered hand. “Billy’s buddy from Ole Miss. I thought you looked familiar. Been a long time.” Barnett was six one or so, forty pounds heavier than he had been the last time Winter had seen him, but he looked as fit and quick as he had years before. He had a pleasant, boyish face and an easy smile, his brown eyes radiated intelligence.
“Twenty years, give or take,” Brad said. “Who killed the monster?” he asked, bending down and turning the heavy antlers on the animal’s head for a better look.
“I killed him,” Faith Ann said proudly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a nicer buck taken in these parts,” Brad said.
“It was her first one too,” Rush said, smiling. “She killed it in deer-defense.”
“Deer-defense?” Brad asked.
“He was beating up this other buck,” the boy said. “Faith Ann decided the fight wasn’t fair, so she rang the bell.”
“You wanting to hunt?” Massey said.
“I wish I had time.”
Nemo sniffed at Brad’s leg, wagging his tail. The sheriff reached down, let the dog sniff the back of his hand, then rubbed the animal behind his ears.
“You smell my dog, Ruger? Last time I saw you, Winter, was homecoming weekend my junior year,” Brad said. “You stayed with Billy. He set you up with a blind date he ended up marrying.”
“Yeah.” Winter smiled. “And Ole Miss lost that game.”
“I believe so.”
Winter saw Brad’s eyes go to his handgun, a custom-made stainless.45 automatic with stag grips.
“Nice-looking piece,” Brad said. “Wilson or Kimber?”
“Neither.” Massey took out the.45, ejected the loaded magazine into his hand, pocketed it, ejected the shell from its chamber, let the hammer down gently, and handed the weapon over to Brad. “Custom gun maker named Kase Reeder made it.”
“Beauty,” Brad said, turning the gun to read what was inscribed on the weapon. “Flagstaff, Arizona. I’m not familiar with his work.”
“It was a gift from my wife, Sean,” Winter said. “Faith Ann’s great uncle read about it in a handgun magazine. When Sean asked him what she could get me for my last birthday, he called Reeder and he made it for me. First.45 I’ve ever carried, but it’s the most accurate gun I’ve ever owned.”
Brad whistled and handed the Reeder Rekon Kommander back to Massey, who reloaded it and slipped it back into its holster, snapping the thumb brake closed.
“Billy told me you were the sheriff in Tunica now,” Winter said.
“He told me you’re off the job,” Brad said. “Something about working for a big security company.”
“I’m just a consultant on protection programs for their corporate clients.”
“Who’s mounting the head for you?” Brad asked.
“Calvin Patton,” Winter said. “He’s at his shop now. That’s why I’m hurrying.”
“Patton’s about the best there is around here,” Brad said. He looked at Faith Ann. “You know what kind of mount you want?”
“A left-hand sneak mount,” she said. “I’m going to put it over our fireplace.”
“Good choice,” Brad said.
“Faith Ann always knows what she wants,” Winter said.
“That way he’ll always look like he’s smelling that other buck’s heated-up does just around the corner in the kitchen,” Rush said.
“What brings you way down here?” Winter asked Brad.
“Well, fact is, Billy told me you were out here. I called him to find out where you were.”
Winter was perplexed. “Why are you looking for me?”
“Well, your name came up and I wondered, if you had some time, maybe you could take a couple of hours and visit Tunica County,” Brad said. “I tried to call the number he gave me but there was no answer.”
“I don’t have my cell on.”
“I hate to interrupt your hunt, but I sure could use your help.”
The motor home door opened and Sean came out carrying Olivia on her hip. She strode over and stood beside Winter.
“My wife, Sean,” Winter said. “Sean, this is Tunica County sheriff Brad Barnett. He’s an old friend of Billy’s. We spent a wild homecoming weekend together at Ole Miss some years back.”
Sean’s smile was warm and her eyes sparkled with interest and kindness. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “This is Olivia, our daughter. She’s two and very shy.”
As if on command, Olivia hid her face in Sean’s down vest, then peeked at Brad and smiled.
“Cooww go moo,” she said, pointing at the deer.
“Cow,” Rush said, laughing.
“What’s going on in Tunica County?” Winter asked.
“I’d like to have your input on a case I have.”
“What kind of case?” Winter asked.
“Homicide,” Brad replied.
Sean Massey’s smile remained in place, but her eyes changed.
“Cool,” Rush said.
“I was a deputy U.S. marshal,” Winter said. “If you need my opinion on how to locate a fugitive, or how to best serve a warrant, I’m your man. Other than that…” He shrugged.
“I understand all that. Just a quick look. Three hours, tops.”
“I wouldn’t be any help with it,” Winter said.
“This one looks like a professional killing. It’s the first one like it I’ve run across, and I think I’m in over my head.”
“The Mississippi Bureau investigators are your best bet,” Winter said.
“I have a nineteen-year-old victim who was shot from almost half a mile away with a high-powered rifle. It will be treated as an accidental shooting because it’s hunting season. Other than a polished casing, I’ve got nothing but some boot prints and tire treads. She’s a local girl who finished high school last year. She was a young black girl from a good, hard-working family.”
“Maybe she was a target of opportunity.”
“It’s possible, but the place I’m talking about isn’t one anybody would just happen upon.”
Sean Massey was silent, thinking. “Rush, Faith Ann,” she said. “Come in and wash your hands. Lunch i
s ready. Sheriff Barnett, will you join us?”
“I’d love to, but I’m sort of in a hurry.”
Winter watched the family until the door closed, then turned his now-serious eyes on Brad. “What’s the real deal here, Brad?” Winter said. “I know my reputation better than anybody. You have a killing with a rifle, and I’m close by hunting with a rifle? I haven’t left this land in two days. And half the people on earth can shoot a rifle better than I do.”
“Well, I don’t think you were involved, but somebody wanted me to,” Brad said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a plastic bag containing a business card. Winter took it and did a double take as he recognized the card.
It read WINTER JAMES MASSEY, DEPUTY U.S. MARSHAL. It was definitely his, with the Charlotte, North Carolina, address and phone numbers.
“That was left at the scene where the shooter set up. Best I can come up with is that he wanted me to think you were there. Anybody else might have believed that was the case, but I know better.”
Winter had a hard time forming his thoughts, his eyes locked on the card.
“I can make time,” Winter said firmly, handing back the card. Somebody was calling him out.
6
Back inside the Motor Home, Winter was washing his hands at the bathroom sink when Sean appeared in the doorway behind him. “Your buddy is still sitting in his truck outside,” Sean said.
“He’s waiting for me,” Winter said. He dried his hands and passed by her. Taking off his shirt, he went into the bedroom to change clothes. Sean followed him and eased the door closed. “Wants me to go with him to look at a crime scene.”
“So you’re going to take a quick trip to Tunica to look at this crime scene.”
“Two, three hours. I’ll put the head in the Jeep, if you don’t mind taking it to Calvin. There’s a map in the bedroom. Don’t leave the gate unlocked and keep an eye open. Keep the Walther close.”
“I always keep the Walther close. So why the concern?” she asked.
“The killer left one of my old marshal cards at the crime scene. That’s why Brad’s here.”
“He doesn’t think you…?”
“No, he doesn’t think I left it. At least he says he doesn’t,” Winter told her. “I have to check this out. Best to be very careful until I know what’s going on. And get ready to pull out. We’re done hunting.”
He pulled on a pair of jeans, ran his belt through the loops and slipped it under the magazine pouch and his holster. He stuffed his wallet into his back pocket and put on his chukkas. Sean led him from the room and picked up his jacket.
“Kids, I have to go out for a while with Sheriff Barnett,” he said to their inquisitive faces.
He was at the door when Sean said, “Mr. Massey?”
“Yeah?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” She put her hands on her hips and frowned.
He made a show of patting his pockets while he suppressed a smile. “Wallet. Weapon. I don’t think so.”
“Winter Massey!” she said, shaking her head. “Think about it.”
“She wants her good-bye kissy kiss,” Rush said.
“Kiss her good, Winter!” Faith Ann called out.
“Do it, Daddy!” Rush said, puckering clownishly. “Plant one on her she’ll remember.”
Winter pushed his hair back dramatically, gathered Sean into his arms, leaned her back, and gave her a kiss that drew applause from Faith Ann and Rush. Olivia joined in, clapping and laughing, unaware of what the celebration was all about.
“Cowboy love!” Faith Ann squealed.
7
The Mississippi delta is an alluvial plain shaped like a spear point, seventy-five miles across at its widest and stretching two hundred and twenty-five miles north from Vicksburg to just south of Memphis, Tennessee. Winter often joked that if it weren’t for the trees, you could stand on a kitchen chair and see the levee from the other side of the Delta.
The murder had occurred on Six Oaks, a cotton plantation eight miles from downtown Tunica. There was nothing obvious to distinguish it from most of the working plantations Winter was personally familiar with. Vast fields with the occasional narrow, dead-looking stream, thin ribbons of woodland serving as windbreaks. The cotton had been harvested, and the left-behind wisps of white cotton fiber gave the landscape the appearance of an oceanic thorn field after the stampede of a vast herd of terrified sheep.
The farmhouse was set back a quarter mile from a collection of equipment and storage sheds, on a spacious green meadow surrounded by bleak cotton fields. Six large white oak trees lined the driveway, which curved before a two-story white wooden house with a high-peaked roof covered with slate shingles. The wraparound porch had cypress lattice on the sides, which supported climbing ivy. To the right of the house, separated by an expanse of cobblestone, stood a four-car garage, whose white clapboard exterior mirrored that of the house. The grounds were dotted with mature magnolias and oaks, flowerbeds, azaleas, rosebushes, and boxwoods.
“First, I’ll show you the shooter’s position,” Brad said. He drove past the driveway leading to the house. Fifty yards farther on, he turned down a thinly graveled road that led into the fields toward a tree line.
“We haven’t had a hard freeze yet, and I didn’t see any fresh deer tracks in the field between the tree and the house that could point to a hunting accident.”
Winter nodded. After seeing his business card he had immediately ruled out an accidental shooting.
Brad parked near a downed tree accented with yellow crime-scene tape. “It’s difficult to imagine that anybody could make a shot at this distance that wasn’t an accident,” Winter said.
“The right man could do it, given the conditions we had this morning,” Brad said.
“You know much about long-range shooting?” Winter asked.
“I know as much as other Marine snipers.”
“How accurate is a sniper rifle at this kind of range?”
“Match-grade.308 ammo is accurate at eight hundred to a thousand meters. The brass this guy left was from a.338 Lapua Magnum. Its trajectory is a whole lot flatter and longer than the.308 and can deliver what the shooter can see.” Winter saw Brad’s eyes lose their focus as he remembered. “It was like an alligator grabbed her head and tore most of it off. I’ve seen my share of bad death, but this is one I’ll remember forever.”
“This where you found my card?”
Brad pointed to the trunk. “About here, weighed down with the polished shell casing.”
“And the footprints?”
Brad pointed at the ground. “From here…” He turned to point through the woods. “Straight back that way a quarter mile to tire tracks.”
Winter was looking down at the leaves when he saw something red stuck into the ground through a leaf, something small and perfectly pointed. Kneeling, he lifted the leaf and saw what it was.
“Got an evidence bag?” Winter asked.
“What is it?”
“Looks like the shooter left another calling card.”
“That a toothpick?” Brad asked, handing Winter a plastic bag.
“Got a business card with you?”
Winter took a card from Brad, folded it, placed the flats on either side of the point and slid the toothpick out of the ground, dropping it into the bag.
Brad looked at the toothpick, darkened where it had been in the damp dirt.
“He chewed the end,” Winter said, smiling. “It isn’t a driver’s license, but it’s better than nothing.”
“Son of a bitch. That means it’ll have the perp’s DNA on it.”
Winter put the open bag to his nose and sniffed. “Damn,” he said.
Brad leaned over and sniffed it also. “What is that?”
“Oil of clove,” Winter said, feeling the way he had felt as a kid when he happened upon a snake he hadn’t been prepared to see. Son of a bitch!
“You all right?” Brad asked.
“That smell triggered a b
ad memory.” In the realm of understatements, that one took a blue ribbon.
“Judging from the way it knocked the color out of your face, must be a powerful memory attached to that toothpick,” Brad said.
“I’ve run across toothpicks soaked in clove oil before.”
“Somebody you chased for the marshals service?”
“The man I’m thinking about is someone I knew in New Orleans a couple of years ago. It’s complicated. I’m not going into it right now.”
“You’re shitting me?”
“There are good reasons not to discuss him just yet.”
“What can you tell me? I mean, it’s sort of important I know who did this. And you seem to know.”
“The guy I have in mind is a professional killer. Don’t know about his shooting at this kind of range, though he most likely has the training. But the man I’m thinking about probably didn’t do this. It seems more likely somebody wants to make me think that guy was here.”
“You don’t think he’d kill an innocent girl?”
“There’s no telling how many innocent civilians he’s killed. No question he would do it, but if he did, somebody would be paying him a lot of money. That or he’s working on his own with another purpose.”
“What other purpose?”
“Killing me,” Winter replied.
Brad pulled up to the house’s garage and the two men climbed out of the Tundra. Through the only open garage door, a dirt-streaked white Lincoln sat with its rear end visible.
“She’s home,” Brad said, suddenly stern-faced.
“Who?” Winter asked.
“The owner, Leigh Gardner. She’s been out of town picking up her daughter, Cynthia, from college. The victim stayed overnight with Hampton, Leigh’s son. He’s ten. The maid heard the shot, saw her down, and called nine-one-one.”
Winter said, “What time did it happen?”
“Call came in at six-thirty-nine this morning. Jesus!” Brad said as they walked toward the house. “Some idiot hosed off the crime scene! Where’s the crime-scene tape?”
On the wide wet cobblestone walkway, Winter could see no evidence of bloodstains. Water was pooled in a low spot, and the strong smell of bleach rose from the bricks.
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