“Are you in any pain, sir?”
He ran a hand over his thinning hair. “Bumps and bruises. No blood.”
“Chest pain? Difficulty breathing?”
“No. I’m just plain angry at that fool in the pickup who tried to kill me. And look at what happened to my truck.” His voice rose. “That’s my own rig. It’s how I make my living. I’ll never forget that man’s face. Never.”
“I need you to sit quietly until help arrives. Maybe over here—on this log?”
“I need to take a look at my truck first. If—”
“Sir, you need to stay quiet. It’s always possible to have internal injuries after something like this, and we don’t want to aggravate anything now, do we?”
He grumbled, but finally let her lead him to a place to sit down. She checked his pulse and his pupil dilation—equal, thank goodness—then ordered him to sit still while she hurried up the steep bank to grab some items from her patrol car, leaving the top light bar flashing and doors locked.
Back at his side, she performed another limited assessment. He’d been alert and angry before. Now, his heart rate was faster and his skin felt clammy. In the harsh beam of the flashlight it was hard to tell, but he appeared to be more ashen.
She urged him to lie down on one of the blankets she’d brought from her car and covered him with the other one, after elevating his feet. Where were the EMTs and others who should be on their way?
“I need to ask you some questions while we’re waiting, sir.” She took a quick health history, including his medications and allergies, as much to keep him talking as to gather information for the EMTs in case he lost consciousness before they arrived.
Still, the absolute stillness of the night continued. But wait— Was that the faint sound of a siren? Please, God, help him get through this. Return him to his family and his job in good health. And protect those who are coming to his aid.
With all of the deep valleys and steep elevations out here, it could still take a long while for help to arrive. “Well, let’s do the accident report, okay?”
He gave a vague wave of his hand, as if to brush away an irritating fly.
“Then you won’t need to worry about it later. And that should help you with your insurance claim, too. Okay?”
She got his name—Carl Wilson—and made it through the first few questions when his eyes opened wide in panic and he rolled his head to look at her. “I want that guy found,” he rasped in a thready voice. “And I want you to throw the book at him. You hear? Don’t…don’t let him get…away with this.”
“Can you give me a good description of him? Anything—anything at all?”
“Black…hair…” The man’s eyes rolled back and his hand fell at his side.
She leaned forward and felt the carotid pulse at the angle of his jaw. Weak. So weak.
And once again, she started to pray.
Her eight-to-eight dayshift the next morning came way too soon, after she’d put in hours of overtime at the scene of the accident, then couldn’t sleep once she got home.
“So, you had quite a night,” Hal said, leaning back in his chair and stacking his hands behind his head. “Any news on the truck driver?”
“I called the hospital around four in the morning. The staff wouldn’t tell me anything, but a nurse turned the phone over to Carl’s daughter. As I thought, he had internal bleeding. But worse, he suffered a heart attack on the way to the hospital.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” Hal glanced down at the report she’d written. “Older guy. Obese. Smoker. A lot of stress. He’ll be lucky if he pulls through.”
“His daughter started crying on the phone. She said his prognosis wasn’t good.” His poor family. And him, too—an innocent guy who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“You wrote here that he could identify the driver of the black pickup.”
“Wilson would’ve had a ringside view, with his bright headlights and the flat, vertical front of the cab of his semitractor. But he may not remember anything after what he’s been through, even if he does manage to survive.”
“You saw this guy, too?”
“Just the back of his head—so brief that I can only guess at the driver being male with dark hair. I think it was really suspicious that the guy was heading up to the Fairland place after dark, then took off when he saw me. It was probably the burglar coming back for another haul.”
“Any idea who it was?”
“Not yet. But Fairland had to leave, so while I waited for the carpenter to arrive, I lifted prints from a number of items that were thrown around. I’ll run them today to see if they match anything in AFIS.”
“I’ll have Ewan run the prints. He hasn’t been half as busy as you.”
“Great. Then I’ll check on the Fairland place and take a run up to the Halfway House Tavern. I’d like to see if the barkeeper remembers seeing the two guys I ran into that Saturday night.”
Hal shuffled through the papers on his desk, then looked at her over his reading glasses. “I actually sent Wes up there last night. I figured you’d want to go back, but decided it would be better if that crew didn’t see you in uniform, in case they put two and two together.”
Megan blinked. “But…Wes wasn’t even there on Saturday night.”
“He used the description you put in your report. The bartender definitely remembered ‘Milt.’ He said snappy dressers and dudes stick out like Angus in fresh snow at that place. He thinks the guy has dropped in a few times, but doesn’t remember when and doesn’t know his real name. Since it’s all cash-only there, there wouldn’t be any credit card records. He’s probably long gone, though. Thrilling the ladies with his charm and fancy business card somewhere else.”
“So that’s a dead end for now. Just some guy passing through. What about Lane?”
“That’s his real name, actually. Arnold Lane. He’s a ranch foreman for the K Bar L ranch. It’s right on the county line, about twenty miles straight south of the Halfway House. He’s a loner. Single. Known for his temper. But we checked his legal name in the NICS and didn’t come up with any priors other than a drunk and disorderly charge, back ten years. Wes is making a run up to the ranch today, to check in on him. And then…” Hal sighed heavily. “Be here in the office at five, because we need to have a meeting. I’ve gotten a report from the highway patrol about a woman who was held by our suspect, then released with a threatening message.”
“What kind of threat?”
“An arrogant promise that the killings aren’t going to end. I’m waiting for a fax of the message itself, so we can discuss it later. We’ve also got to do something about our short-staffing situation, until at least one of the men on leave can come back.”
“I thought there wasn’t any extra funding.”
Hal’s short laugh was laden with bitterness. “Funny how serial murders and the threat of lost tourism can loosen the county’s purse strings. I think we’ll get enough to cover an extra officer maybe three days a week for the next month, and I already have a man in mind.”
She lifted her gaze to Hal’s, her stomach starting to pitch. “Who?”
“That friend of yours. Scott Anders. I did a little calling yesterday, and he comes with excellent references. We couldn’t do any better—especially on such short notice.”
“Right,” she said faintly. Except for the possibility that Scott—despite her intuition—just may have been involved in the semi crash, and a breakin, to boot. “Have you asked him?”
Hal made an expansive gesture with his hands. “Nope—but I plan to. Great idea, don’t you think? And the man has a lot of experience. I’m sure he can teach our department a thing or two while he’s at it.”
She winced, imagining just how much Scott would have to say to her, if he had free rein. “Maybe he won’t want a job.”
“I’ll count on you to help me convince him, then, since you’ve talked to him more than the rest of us have.”
Megan h
eaded to the elementary school to do her annual end of the school year presentation on summer safety awareness, then continued on a long loop through her section of the county.
A domestic disturbance call at the Bufords’—an almost weekly situation.
A call about a dead deer on the highway west of town.
Neighbors feuding over the ownership of an old truck.
All the while, last night’s events kept playing through her thoughts. The accident, which might end up taking a man’s life. The black pickup.
The way that pickup had slammed backward into a tree when the driver was trying to escape.
The more time she’d spent with Scott, the more foolish she’d felt about ever suspecting him of criminal behavior. He was a good man, with a gentle heart. One who took in damaged animals to simply give them a decent home. A man with a dry sense of humor. Yet…she couldn’t let personal feelings interfere—too much was at stake.
And the make, model and color of his truck matched the one she’d seen leaving the Fairland place, while that driver had executed the kind of lightning-fast three-point turn that few people besides law enforcement officers were trained for, and who practiced it. A lot.
She turned around on a side road and headed up into the foothills, sure that she was wrong. Convinced there was no need to even check. Knowing that Scott would probably see through any pretext she came up with to check out his truck. But with lives on the line, how could she not follow every possible avenue?
She turned up the road to his place, half hoping he wouldn’t be home.
Jasper bounded out to the mailbox to greet her when she drove in. “So much for wishing,” she murmured to herself.
The black pickup was by the tractor he’d found at the auction, and from behind the barn, in the vicinity of Attila’s corral, came the sound of pounding.
She parked behind the pickup and got out, carefully surveying the tailgate and rear fenders for any evidence of damage. From the sound of the impact last night, it should show fresh dents and the gleam of newly damaged metal. Instead, she could see only an assortment of nicks and scrapes, none of which appeared to be new. Thank you, Lord.
“Looking for something?”
She jumped, startled at the sound of his voice so close by. Heat rushed to her face. “I was out and about, and thought I’d stop in and say hi. I…um…didn’t mean to be nosy, but I…noticed your truck has some scratches and chips. Might want to get those fixed this summer, before winter snow. The salt on the highways is tough on vehicles, believe me.”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” he said dryly, fixing her with a knowing look. “Anything else?”
She glanced at the hammer in his hand. “I take it you have the goat here now?”
His expression softened. “I hired a guy with a trailer, and he brought them all over. The goat is closed in a box stall until I can reinforce his fence. The goose is around here somewhere…probably chasing the barn cats.”
“And the pony?”
“He’s in with Attila, and I think they’re new best friends. Good thing, because the pony needs a guide.”
“Guide?”
“He’s blind.”
Her heart melted. “Poor guy.”
“He’s actually doing really well. Their enclosure is free of obstacles, and he just hangs close to Attila’s flanks to get around, or listens for where his buddy is.”
She looked up into depths of kindness in Scott’s light blue eyes. “You really are one very cool guy.”
He reached up and touched her cheek. Just a feather-light, brief touch, but it sent a delicate jolt clear through her, then settled around her heart.
“I…” He hesitated, and cleared his throat before continuing, the flash of tenderness in his voice gone. “Good luck with your case. If that’s all, then I’d better get back to work here.”
“Right. And…I’ve got to run, too. See you later.”
Waving her fingertips, she climbed into the patrol car and drove away, feeling an uncomfortable sense of guilt. She’d had to check his truck, just to make sure. Even if he’d been nothing but kind and thoughtful, to the point of trying to protect her back at the tavern, nothing could stand in the way of being thorough…and definitely not her personal feelings.
Her cell phone rang.
She negotiated a tight turn out onto the county road, then picked it up to check the screen, half expecting to see Scott’s name. But it was an unfamiliar number.
Frowning, she pulled over to the side of the road, punched a button on the phone and lifted it to her ear. All her work-related calls came through the county dispatcher. She never gave out her private number…so who could it be?
“Just as I thought,” a man growled. The note of satisfaction in his voice made her shiver. “You had to go see your ‘friend’ because you had to check on him, just in case. Sad isn’t it, finding you can’t fully trust even the people you know?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He ignored her. “You had to see if the truck was his, didn’t you? I knew you would, because I know you very well.”
“Who is this?”
She blinked, then pulled the phone away from her ear and took another look at the number on the screen. He sounded eerily familiar, yet not—as if he were trying to mask his voice through a heavy layer of cotton. Had she overheard him in the crowded tavern? At the auction, or on the streets of Copper Cliff…or sometime in the past?
Perhaps she’d even arrested him—which could account for the edge in his voice.
“Maybe…we could meet somewhere. You could tell me what this is all about.”
He swore under his breath. “Don’t play games with me. You won’t like my rules.”
“Who is this?”
“Ahh. Perhaps I’ll let you find out. Perhaps not. Let’s just see how good you really are at your job. So long, sweetheart.”
“Wait. Talk to me—”
“Later,” he whispered. “You’ll like it, I promise.”
And then the connection went dead.
Megan stared out the window of the cruiser, sorting through her thoughts. Even now she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
The caller had figured that she’d drive up to Scott’s to look for damage on his truck. He knew she had done so. Of even more interest, he’d called her within minutes after she left Scott’s place. Had he tailed her on the highway and watched her head in this direction? Or had he been hiding somewhere close by?
Maybe he’d seen her with Scott sometime on Sunday, then had driven his own black truck last night, hoping that anyone who spotted him near the Fairland place would assume Scott was behind the wheel.
But if so, it made no sense for him to call and taunt her about it. An intelligent suspect—though granted, the label was an oxymoron more often than not—would simply drop out of sight.
She called Elaine, the dayshift dispatcher, and asked her to run the caller’s phone number, plus any Montana registrations for a black 2003 Ford F-350 crew cab pickup, then headed for the Fairland property to make sure there hadn’t been a breakin after she left.
Elaine called back within minutes. “I checked with the DMV. There’s just one of those vehicles registered in Marshall County, to a Scott Anders here in town. Statewide, there’s over two hundred in that year, model and color, but none in the neighboring counties.”
“Put out a county-wide bulletin on that model, especially one with any sort of rear damage. But see if you can get the plates on the Anders vehicle and exclude that one. I’ve already checked it out.”
“Got it.” She paused for a long moment. “I have bad news on that phone number. It’s for one of those cheap, prepaid cell phones that you can buy with cash at a discount store. There’s no way to track it. Buyers can activate them online by just punching in a zip code.”
Which of course could be false.
“Thanks. I figured as much.”
So the anonymous caller wasn�
��t entirely stupid—she could give him that much. Yet why would he taunt her about the truck?
Unless he had another agenda.
One far more dangerous, and he was getting his jollies by inviting her to play. Her heart picked up a faster beat as she drove.
She’d play, all right, but he’d soon discover his mistake in taking that chance.
Because his days of freedom were numbered.
TEN
A couple of traffic stops slowed her down, but Megan finally reached the Fairland place at three o’clock.
She half expected to see windows broken and the new door wide-open, but as she stepped out of her car, the door appeared to be shut tight and the pristine expanse of westward-facing glass gleamed in the midday sun.
A folded yellow sheet of paper was fluttering on the door. Not a good thing to leave there if it was a dated invoice from the carpenter, given how long Fairland would be gone.
“Nothing like letting the bad guys know he’s not home,” she muttered under her breath as she strode up to the door.
The door threshold would be too tight to slide the paper inside, but she could at least put it in an envelope and mail it to him here, because surely he had his mail held while he was gone.
She reached for it, then froze. It wasn’t an invoice from the carpenter. Her name was written on it in an elegant computer font. But no one should have expected that she’d have any reason to be here today.
She turned slowly, surveying the property for any suspicious movement. Anything that might have been disturbed since she was here last. Then she slid a fingernail through the cellophane tape seal and opened it wide.
Again, the fancy, swooping font.
So you are here. I thought as much. You really are so predictable.
The amusing thing is, I am not…and you will have to jump at my bidding. I’m so glad there will now be an element of fun.
Happy hunting, my dear.
My own hunt will be successful if yours is not.
BIG SKY SECRETS 03: End Game Page 9