The Archer [Book 13 of the Hawkman Series]

by Betty Sullivan La Pierre

  “I'm heading back to my office. I want to make a couple of phone calls before it gets late.” He glanced around the room. “Where's Miss Marple?”

  Jennifer pointed toward the corner where the cat lay curled into a furry ball. “She's discovered the throw I had folded on the corner of the hearth, and took quite a liking to it. So guess she's put her claim on it now.”

  Hawkman grinned and continued to the back of the house. Once behind the desk, he flipped the rolodex until he came to Matt Reynolds’ name, punched in the number and pushed on the speaker phone.

  “Hello, Matt Reynolds speaking.”

  “Hi, Matt, Hawkman here.”

  “Hey, guy, long time no hear from you. Done any hunting lately?”

  “No, missed out on getting a deer tag this year. They were bought up before I applied. How about you?”

  “I went, but didn't have any luck.”

  “You still using a bow?”

  “Oh, yeah, it gets in your blood and is such a challenge. I plan on trying it at pheasant hunting this season.”

  “I'm calling to ask about a compound bow.”

  “You thinking about getting one?”

  “Not at the moment, but I'm working on a case where I think a guy is using that type of bow for scare tactics.”

  “Bad news. It's a dangerous weapon.”

  “Should a person have lessons before using it?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Where would he go?”

  “Here in Medford?”

  “Or nearby.”

  “There are several great places. Usually any of the big hunting supply stores offers classes, or can direct a person to an instructor. Also there are several archery ranges in the area for practice. It has become quite a popular sport.”

  “Is there any way you could calculate the size of the person by one of his arrows?”

  “I don't think so. The arrow size is determined by the bow system.”

  “Won't keep you any longer. Sure appreciate your help.”

  “Good luck on finding the scoundrel.”

  “Thanks. Good luck on getting a pheasant.”

  After hanging up, Hawkman glanced at the notes he'd taken. They didn't tell him much, and he sure didn't feel any closer to finding out who was shooting arrows at his office door.

  Wednesday morning, Hawkman awoke fresh and ready to pursue the case. He headed for Medford after having an early breakfast with Jennifer. Parking in the alley, he'd just climbed out of his 4X4 with his briefcase and arrow in the cardboard roll, when Clyde, the baker, drove up to his spot behind the donut shop. He jumped out of his faded blue Ford Taurus and waved.

  “Hey, Mr. Casey, I hoped to catch you sometime today.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to ask if you were in your office yesterday from noon until about four.”

  “No, I was with a client, and didn't get back until after five. Why?”

  “I heard this loud bang like something bouncing off metal. So I dashed to the back, thinking someone had hit my car.”

  Hawkman's ears perked. “Did you find out what made the noise?”

  “No. My car didn't have a dent in it. That's why I thought it weird. It sure sounded like it came right from inside or behind the building.” He pointed toward the end of the alley. “The only thing I noticed was a black pickup turning the corner onto the street. It must have backfired. You don't hear that happening much anymore, but it's the only thing I could figure. Other than maybe your coffee urn blew up.”

  Hawkman smiled. “No, it didn't. Did you recognize the make of the truck?”

  “No, just saw the tailgate and with my failing eyesight, I couldn't read the indented letters.”

  “Sounds have a way of eluding us from where they originate. It appears everything is okay in our building, so I wouldn't worry about it.”

  Clyde walked with Hawkman to the corner of the stairwell. “Have a good day. I'm a little late in getting the ovens going. Please be tempted this afternoon.”

  Hawkman laughed. “You have nothing to fear. The aroma never fails,” he said, walking up the stairs.

  Immediately, he went to the desk and opened the briefcase, pulled out his pad of notes and added a black pickup to the small list. He realized he'd never gotten a school schedule from Laura, so he had no idea when she'd be home. Maybe her mother would know. He didn't want to call Laura's cell, as he might catch her in class and a professor might just look sourly on a ringing phone.

  He fished through his case until he found the paper where Laura had written down the phone numbers. Picking up the receiver, he pushed the speaker button, then punched in the digits. Pencil in hand, he waited as it rang several times, then a breathless female voice picked up.

  “Hello.”

  “Mrs. King?”

  “Yes, who's this?”

  “Tom Casey.”

  “Is Laura all right?” she said, in a panicked voice.

  “Yes, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to alarm you.”

  “Since you've never called here before, it did scare me a bit.”

  “I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time.”

  “No, I just came in from gathering eggs at the chicken house, and heard the ringing outside the back door. I'm a little out of breath from hurrying.”

  “I need to know when Laura gets out of class today. I neglected to get a schedule from her and hoped you'd know. I didn't want to call her cell for fear I might catch her in the classroom, and professors don't like the interruption.”

  “Laura always told me not to call her during the day for that very reason. Wednesday is her longest day. She won't be home until after four. Do you want me to have her call you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Does she have your number?”

  “Yes, but let me give it to you in case she lost it. Have a pen available?”

  “I sure do.”

  Hawkman recited it slowly.

  “Got it,” she said.

  “Are your hens laying good?”

  “They don't like cold or hot weather, but I get enough eggs to take care of our needs, so I'm happy. They'll do much better in the spring.”

  “I've never raised chickens, but I've heard that. Thank you, Mrs. King. Have a good day.”

  “You, too.”

  He hung up and jotted a note that Laura wouldn't be home until after four, and a reminder to get her school schedule. Taking the phone directory from the drawer, he flipped through the yellow pages to the sports stores. There were several in town and he knew them all, but decided to make a few calls and find out which ones had archery classes or instructors. It would save him time and leg work.

  Close to an hour passed before he finished going through the list and making notations on four stores who supplied these services. He still had plenty of time before Laura got out of school to pay them a visit, as he always liked to ask pertinent questions in person.

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  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * * *

  Hawkman stopped at the first big sporting goods store and went inside. He'd been in this place several times, but had never paid much attention to the archery section. Meandering toward the guns, he figured he'd find the compound bows nearby. Sure enough, there were dozens of them from different manufacturers hanging on a slotted wooden rack. He scratched his head as he examined the row. Soon a salesclerk approached and asked if he could help.

  “I'd like to talk to someone who could help me find a class on how to learn the art of archery using a compound bow.”

  “Sure,” the salesman said. “You're in luck, he's in the store right now.” He pointed toward the front of the building. “Tell the cashier you'd like to speak with Roy Summers. He'll page him for you.”

  “Thanks,” Hawkman said.

  He waited behind a small line of customers, and when the last one walked out, Hawkman approached the cashier and ask for the man.

  “Hold
on a minute, I'll page him.” He picked up the phone, pushed a button and spoke into the receiver. “Roy Summers, you're needed at cashier station one.”

  After he hung up, he nodded and pointed toward the side. “If you'll just step over there, he'll be right with you.”

  “Thanks,” Hawkman said, and moved out of the aisle.

  Soon, he spotted a tall man, close to his own height, with the physique of a football player, approach the clerk, who pointed at Hawkman. The man stepped toward him.

  “Hi, I'm Roy Summers, how can I help you.”

  “My name's Tom Casey. I'm a private investigator, and would like to ask you some questions about your archery classes and the students.”

  The man's expression turned somber. “Is there a problem?”

  “I'm not sure. Is there a place where we can talk in private?”

  “Let's go to my office.”

  He led Hawkman to a door at the back of the building, through the warehouse and finally to a small alcove near the large sliding door for the big trucks to bring in merchandise.

  “Excuse the long walk, but I'm not here enough to warrant a fancy office in the main store. I just need a few hours a week to catalogue my classes.”

  “I understand.”

  Roy entered a small room and scooted behind a metal desk, then motioned for Hawkman to take the card table chair facing him. “So what's on your mind?”

  “I'm not even sure my questions are going to help, but there's the possibility you might be able to give me a lead. How long does a class on the compound bow take if a person has never been exposed to archery?”

  “It really depends on the student and how fast they catch on. I've had those who finished and could be classified as experts. While I've suggested to others they should retake the class as they're really not ready to go out and hunt.”

  Hawkman rubbed his chin. “How long is your class?”

  “We meet once a week for two hours, and it goes for six weeks. I suggest my pupils work every day on what they've learned.”

  “Where do they practice?”

  “There are several indoor and outdoor archery ranges in the area. Those are the safest. People can set up their own, preferably in a rural area and away from livestock. I also encourage my students to exercise the methods of how they will hunt.”

  “How long have you taught?”

  “I've held classes here for the past five years, but have been in this business for over a decade.”

  Hawkman stood. “Mr. Summers, I'm working on a case right now where archery is involved, and I'm trying to lay some ground work for myself since I know little about the sport, as I'm a shotgun or rifle hunter. Once I get my bearings, would you be willing to talk with me again?”

  “Sure. Here, let me give you some literature which will help you learn what archery is all about, and the processes one needs to do to become a good bow master.”

  Hawkman took the booklets. “Thanks, appreciate it. I better get on my way; I have an appointment.”

  He left the office feeling he had gained more knowledge of the rudiments of the sport, and now with the reading material he'd have a much better background to pursue this guy with the stray arrow. Once he had an inkling of who it might be, he could speak with Mr. Summers on his present or past students.

  He checked his watch and drove back to the office where he opened the safe and removed Laura's file and the tube with the arrow inside. Then he waited for Laura's call.

  It wasn't long before the phone rang.

  “Tom Casey.”

  He listened for a moment, then responded, “Hello Laura, I need to talk to you and your folks this evening, if possible.” He nodded to himself. “Great, I'll be there about seven.”

  Since he still had some time before heading out to the farm, he made a few more calls to different sports stores and discovered that many referred new archery students to Roy Summers. The impression he'd gotten was Summers worked solely for the store he'd found him in. He'd erred in not asking if he offered private classes. More than likely, the guy who shot at the building took lessons from this man.

  The time soon came for him to leave for Laura's. Picking up the briefcase, and the cardboard roll with the arrow inside, he left the office. He checked the alley as he drove out, but didn't see any black pickup, or any other strange vehicle.

  As he drove toward the farm, he wondered how Olly would take the archery story. He knew it would upset both Laura's parents. Somehow he'd have to convince them this man would never shoot at their daughter.

  He soon pulled up to the farmhouse, where they'd put on the yard light for him. As he walked up to the porch, to his amazement, a baby lamb came charging around the corner of the house bleating. The small ewe butted him on the leg. Hawkman laughed as Laura came running after it.

  “She is such a pill,” Laura said as she grabbed the lamb's collar. “Wendy, you get away from him right now.”

  “Is she your pet?” Hawkman asked.

  “Yes, I've bottle fed her ever since her mother died. She's definitely got a mind of her own.”

  He grinned. “She's cute as a button. Is she extremely small or is it my imagination?”

  “You're right, she's a runt. Ed and Clay were going to destroy her, but I couldn't stand the thought, so they put her in my charge.”

  “I didn't notice any sheep on the ranch.”

  “We only have a few, and they're kept in a smaller field behind the house. Mom likes them for their coats and she makes all kinds of hats and purses from their wool, then sells them at the different bazaars in town.”

  “Very ingenious idea.”

  Laura quickly dashed up the steps, opened the door, and yelled, “Mom, Dad, Mr. Casey is here.” She motioned for Hawkman to go on inside. “I've got to put Wendy in her pen. I'll be right back.”

  Hawkman stepped into the house, as Laura led the lamb around the corner and out of sight. Soon, they were all gathered in the living room. The family stared at Hawkman with inquisitive expressions.

  “I'm sure you're wondering why I needed to talk with you tonight. First, I want to ask, if any of you know someone who uses a compound bow to hunt?”

  “Yeah, there's a couple of guys who use them,” Olly said.

  Hawkman took his legal pad and pen from the briefcase. “What are their names, and where do they live?”

  “John Higgins, he lives at the first ranch to the south of us. Then there's Bob Riley, he's at the house on the left, just as you hit the dirt road.”

  Hawkman glanced at Violet. “You know anyone who uses a bow besides these two men?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “How about you, Laura?”

  She frowned. “Why are you interested in archery?”

  “I'll tell you in a moment. Do you know anyone?”

  “A couple of guys at the college have talked about practicing with their crossbows and compound bows. Whether they've ever hunted with them, I don't know.”

  “Do you know their names.”

  “Jason Calderidge and Blake Russell.”

  He wrote the two down, then asked, “Do you know their addresses?”

  “I think they're local, but have no idea where they live.”

  “I'm sure you're wondering why I'm interested in people with compound bows.”

  He pulled the arrow from the cardboard tube and related the story of finding it under the eaves above his office door. Then he took the note from his brief case, which he'd put in a plastic see-through bag, and passed it around. “The person obviously didn't realize he'd shot into a steel door, causing the arrow to ricochet. The note fell off and the person retrieved it, then shoved it through the mail slot. He either couldn't find the arrow or didn't take the time to look for it.”

  Laura covered her mouth with the fingers of one hand as she held the note with the other. With wide eyes, she read the lettering on the piece of cardboard.

  Olly ran his hands over his face, then stood. “I don't lik
e this a bit. This man, I'm assuming it's a man, has a dangerous weapon. He could kill my daughter in an instant. I'm tempted to send her to my brother's place until it's safe here.”

  Laura jumped up and faced her father. “Dad, I can't go to Uncle Jeb's. He's out of state, and I've got school to attend.”

  He pointed a finger at his daughter. “School can wait. It won't do you no good if you're dead.”

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  * * *

  CHAPTER NINE

  * * * *

  Olly had fire in his eyes when he faced Hawkman. “Mr. Casey, I'm not sure I want to hear what you have to say. We're talking about the life of my daughter. The thought of burying her before she's had the chance to become a wife and mother doesn't bode well with me.”

  “Olly, you're being rude,” Violet said. “Let Mr. Casey say his piece.”

  “Okay, speak up before I truly forget my manners.”

  “Mr. King, this man is not going to harm your daughter.” Hawkman said. “He's infatuated with her and hopes to win her over.”

  “Harrumph,” Olly grunted. “He's crazy and might think if he can't have her, nobody can. The world is full of these kinds of nuts.”

  “I'll make a deal with you. Give me a week to flush him out. If I haven't found out who he is, then you can send Laura to your brother's.”

  Olly paced the floor, then stopped, whirled around and glared at Hawkman. He held up a finger. “One week, not a day more. If you haven't found the bastard by next Wednesday, Laura's out of here.”

  “Fair enough. Now, I need your help. I'm assuming you pay for Laura's cell phone.”

  “Yeah. What do you want me to do? Take it away from her?”

  “No. Go in person to the office of the phone's carrier. Take identification so they can verify you're the owner and pay the bill. Ask for a copy of Laura's phone records for the past six months.”

  “Will they let me have them?”

  “They should. If they ask any questions, just give them a song and dance about checking up on your daughter. I'm hoping they might give us a clue to who this guy is and where he lives.”

  “I'll do it first thing in the morning.”

  “Good. Call me when you have them. It might take a few hours, and you might need to do a bit of hassling; but keep after them until they give you the copy.”