High in Trial

by Donna Ball

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “Kind of. I feel bad about making you drive back this morning.”

  We’d reached the far end of the field and Cisco, twenty feet ahead, plowed into the brush. Shielding my face against flapping branches with my arm, I gamely followed him.

  “You didn’t make me do anything. But that does remind me. What’s the story with the random creep playing games?”

  “Hold on,” I said.

  “No chance. I’m not going anywhere until…”

  I took the phone away from my ear and concentrated on keeping my balance as I struggled after Cisco through the piney woods and undergrowth. I thought I heard a scuffling in the distance and a movement in the undergrowth. I called out, just in case, “Marcie?” There was no reply, so I tried instead, “Flame! Here, girl!”

  I heard a muffled voice from the phone in my hand and I spoke into it. “Seriously, Miles. Hold on. I think I’ve got her.”

  He said something, but it was drowned out by the sound of Cisco’s sharp bark. The leash had gone slack in my hand.

  “Weird,” I murmured. Cisco had been trained to sit and bark when he found his search object, but the search object was generally static—an injured victim or an inanimate object. A runaway border collie wasn’t the kind of target he would give the “find” signal for, unless… unless the dog was injured and unable to move. “Oh, no,” I said and started to run.

  “Where are you?” Miles demanded. “I’m coming that way.”

  My breath hissed and gasped into the receiver as I clambered over fallen saplings and broken rocks to where Cisco, half-disguised by the shadow of foliage, sat and barked again. I managed, “Wait, it’s okay.” And then I sucked in my breath, stumbling to a stop.

  “Oh God,” I whispered.

  “Raine? Raine, are you okay?”

  I couldn’t answer. Cisco was sitting, as he’d been trained to do, looking anxious and alert beside Flame. Flame was lying down, head between her paws, staring fixedly at something half-concealed in the undergrowth. That something was a woman’s leg.

  I moved slowly forward, one step and two, and then sank to my knees when they would no longer support me. For the longest time all I could do was stare at the Golden Retriever Club of America sweatshirt, streaked with blood and loamy earth, matted with crushed leaves. Gently, I reached forward and pushed a clump of tangled hair away from a face that was so swollen and disfigured it was barely recognizable. I felt for a pulse with shaking fingers but knew already it was pointless.

  “Miles,” I said hoarsely, “hang up and call 9-1-1. It’s Marcie. I think… I think she’s dead.”

  ~*~

  TWELVE

  Five hours before the shooting

  Buck stopped by the office at change of shift, as was his habit. Even on his rare Saturdays off—of which this was not one—he liked to get a report from the night shift and check for bulletins or updates that might have come in on the computer overnight. This time of year things were pretty quiet around the county; the kids were still in school and the tourists hadn’t started getting lost in the woods or running their cars off a cliff, and if anything major had happened while he was away someone would have called. Still, he liked to check.

  “Four DUIs, two domestics, one B and E,” reported Ham Broker, his night Charge Officer.

  “Turns out it was the complainant’s son, trying to sneak back into the house after curfew. Syd Evans ran his car into a tree over on Blue Moon Trail, but he’s okay. The man’s blind as a bat after dark. We’re going to have to do something before he hurts himself.”

  “Sounds like a light night for a Friday,” Buck said. He glanced through the duty log on the way to his office. He called good morning to the guys who were filling their coffee cups and good night to the ones who were just leaving.

  “You know what else we need to do,” Ham said, following him.

  “Hire two new deputies.”

  “At least. One good case of flu and this county will be wide open.”

  “I’m working on it, Ham.” Because he knew that sounded a little short, he glanced up and added, “I appreciate the job you boys are doing.”

  Ham rubbed his cheek wearily. “Ah, hell, Buck, we know you’re doing the best you can. It’s just with tourist season coming on and some of the guys are worried about vacation time…”

  Buck said, trying for that just right note between patient understanding and confident authority that Roe always used to master so effortlessly, “I know. I’m working on it.”

  Ham looked as though he wanted to say something else, but settled for, “Well, I’m ready for some shut-eye. Oh, Rosie said before she left last night to make sure you saw that.” He gestured to a printout on top of Buck’s desk. “An APB on some fellow by the name of Jeremiah Berman. Came in after you left yesterday afternoon. She said you’d tagged him.”

  The Hanover County Sherriff’s Department was routinely notified of all APBs in the tri-state area because of their proximity to the junction of North Carolina, South Carolina, and Tennessee. The sheer numbers would have been overwhelming, so only those alerts with a specific reference to Western North Carolina—or those that had been specifically requested by law enforcement in the area—were directed to the Sheriff’s Department inbox. After learning of Berman’s parole violation yesterday, Buck had put in a routine request for an alert if and when his name came up in the system. He hadn’t expected such a quick response.

  There was such a jumble of papers on his desk that Rosie had taken to flagging the important ones with red sticky notes. Now there were so many red sticky notes that the word “urgent” had lost its meaning. Buck scrambled among the papers until he found the printout of the computerized bulletin and scanned it quickly.

  “Looks like he drove off without paying at a gas pump in South Carolina,” Ham supplied. “The police traced the plates and found they were stolen. Parole violation, theft by taking, armed and dangerous.”

  The printout included two camera shots: one of a thin-faced man with a scraggly beard, the official prison ID photo, and the other of a six-year-old blue Chevy pickup truck. Unfortunately for Berman, the angle of the camera also clearly showed the presence of an M14 rifle casually stored behind the passenger seat. Failure to report to his parole officer was one thing. Possession of a firearm while in commission of a crime was something else altogether. And Buck couldn’t help noticing the irony of the fact that the technology that might have proven Berman’s innocence twenty years ago was now going to send him back to prison for what might be a very long time indeed.

  “Do we need to keep a lookout for this fellow, Sheriff?”

  Buck frowned as he read the paper. “Killianville?” he said. “That’s nowhere around here, is it?”

  “Nah, it’s farther toward the coast. You’re headed toward Charleston, you’ll see exits for Surreytown, Killianville, Pembroke. Two hundred miles away, easy.”

  Buck relaxed. “Well, that’s something anyway.” He slid behind the desk and unlocked his computer, still puzzling over the printout. “Why the hell South Carolina?”

  Ham said uncertainly, “Something we need to know, Sheriff?”

  “Hmm?” Buck tapped the Enter key impatiently, urging the screen to come up. He glanced at Ham absently. “No. Nothing yet. Get some sleep, Ham. Tell Adele hi for me, okay?”

  “Yes, sir. Okay, will do. Have a good day now.”

  But Buck was already deep into the information on the screen, and he didn’t even notice when Ham left.

  He was still researching updates when his cell phone rang ten minutes later. He glanced at the caller ID and answered with, “Hey. Listen to this. Berman apparently left Georgia yesterday after ‘borrowing’ his brother’s pickup truck with an M14 in the back. Changed license plates somewhere in South Carolina and stole a tank of gas late last night in Killianville. Abandoned the truck in a mall outside of Pembroke, where we can assume he picked up another car. The rifle wasn’t
found.”

  Wyn said, “Good morning. I love you too.”

  He winced and refocused. “Hey, hon. I’m sorry. I can’t get this thing off my mind.”

  “That’s okay. Actually, great minds obsess alike. I had an idea after we talked last night. Remember we sent Smokey Beardsley upstate for possession five years ago? I did an inmate search, and guess where he ended up? Marion Correctional Institute, same as his old buddy Berman. Now, I’m not saying they were cozying up together or anything, but what do you think the chances are that the two of them didn’t get together to talk about old times?”

  Buck sat up straighter. “Damn it, you’re right. Smokey got out last spring. He’s been keeping his nose clean, more or less…”

  Wyn gave a disbelieving sniff. “As far as anyone can tell.”

  “But if a guy like Berman wanted a contact on the outside…”

  “It might be worth a trip down a dirt road to talk to him.”

  Buck closed his eyes slowly. “Damn,” he said. “I miss you.”

  “Always just a phone call away,” she returned brightly.

  “And seventy-two miles.”

  “Well, there’s that.”

  After a silence, he said, “What are you doing today?”

  “Buying oranges, getting my hair cut, going for a run, doing laundry. You?”

  “Talking to Smokey Beardsley.” He hesitated. “Not too short.”

  “What?”

  “Your hair. I like it long.”

  She laughed. “Later, alligator.”

  “Hey,” he said. “Good morning. And I love you.”

  Her voice was soft. “Back at you, big guy.”

  She disconnected with a click, and he was once again alone with the computer screen.

  * * *

  Everyone gathered in the far corner of the parking lot, the one nearest the woods, and watched the coroner’s van take Marcie away. There was a crime scene van, three police cars, two detectives, two hotel security guards, and a growing contingent of hotel guests with their dogs. A frantic hotel manager with spiked blond hair kept a cell phone pressed to his ear while he paced back and forth, and a couple waitresses from the dining room brought trays of coffee and Danish, their eyes big with curiosity and dread. A portion of the field and the parking lot had been taped off, and most of the curious onlookers were kept on the far side of that tape. Those of us who were considered material witnesses, however, were confined inside the barrier. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

  The detective said, “So you were walking your dog this morning when you found the victim in the woods. Is that correct?”

  I wasn’t sure how many times I’d repeated my story. I wasn’t sure how many times I’d have to repeat it before they got it right.

  “No,” I said. I felt Miles’s hand on my shoulder, gently kneading the knots that were tightening at the base of my neck. I took a breath and spoke more calmly. “The victim’s—Marcie’s—dog was running loose. My dog is a trained search dog. He tracked the runaway dog. But it was her dog, Flame, who led us to her.”

  “Is that a fact?” The detective looked up from his notebook, appearing interested. “A trained search dog, huh?”

  “We’re with Mountain Wilderness Search and Rescue,” I explained wearily. “Western North Carolina.”

  He pursed his lips in a way that was meant to indicate he was impressed. “So what are you doing down this way?”

  “There’s a dog show.”

  He glanced around at all the dogs and uneasy-looking handlers gathered both inside and outside the taped barrier. “No kidding? My wife has a poodle. She always talked about showing it.”

  “This isn’t that kind of dog show.”

  I glanced down at Cisco, who’d grown bored with all the standing around and was lying at my feet. Miles had wanted to take him back to the room, particularly at the height of all the excitement and confusion, but he clearly didn’t understand how it was with us. My hand was melded to the leash now. Without the warmth of Cisco’s body heat against my foot, I would’ve felt like a part of me was missing. And I wasn’t the only one. None of the women who gathered around with such anxious, disbelieving looks on their faces had seen fit to leave their dogs in the car. When you’re scared, you want your best friend with you. That’s just the way it is.

  Miles said, “Someone called Raine’s room last night trying to get her to come to the front desk. You’ll find a complaint on record with the night manager. It looks as though someone was trying to lure women from their rooms in the middle of the night.”

  Of course, in the horror of the moment, the whole story of the call in the night, as well as the story of the man who’d tried to sneak into the building under Sarah’s key card, had come tumbling out. The white line that appeared around Miles’s lips when I finished telling it was still visible.

  I repeated the story of the incident now to the detective, who took it down dutifully. When I finished, he said, “Yes, I have a statement already from a Sarah Lissick about the man who tried to get into the building. Her description was fairly general, but it was something to go on at least.”

  I swallowed hard. “Marcie wasn’t at dinner when we were talking about it. We all agreed to walk our dogs in the courtyard last night, but Marcie didn’t know.”

  The detective said, “Thank you, Ms. Stockton. I think we have everything we need now. We have your cell phone number if we have any more questions.”

  “What about her boyfriend?” Miles said. “Neil…”

  He glanced at me questioningly, and I supplied, “Neil Kellog.”

  “He seemed pretty upset when he was arguing with her yesterday,” Miles said, “and more than capable of violence. I heard him threaten her. Someone should talk to him.”

  “He’s on our list,” the detective assured him.

  I said, “They were arguing about the dog, Bryte. Neil wanted to take her home, but yesterday afternoon when Marcie came back to the hotel, she had Bryte with her. And there was a man with her too. I don’t know who he was.”

  The detective was taking notes again, but I was concerned with more immediate matters. “Someone needs to get the dogs home. Does anyone know who’s supposed to be in charge of the dogs?”

  A member of the hotel staff had unlocked Marcie’s room at the request of the police, and poor Bryte was finally freed. Who knew how long she’d been locked in there alone, barking for help? I volunteered to put both dogs in my SUV until someone made a decision about what to do with them.

  The medical examiner said the cause of death was most likely strangulation, although the bruises and lacerations on her body suggested she’d been badly beaten first. I hadn’t heard her give a time of death, but it wasn’t hard to figure out. Marcie had been wearing the same clothes she’d worn yesterday, so it was probable she’d been lying out in the woods all night. Of course, she might have gotten up this morning and put on the same outfit just as I had done, but I had a different theory. At dinner she’d mentioned Flame had an upset stomach. She must have taken her out sometime last night, and she’d never come back. When the assailant grabbed Marcie, she would have dropped the leash, and Flame got away. The poor dog spent the entire night running in hopeless terror, looking for help, until she’d spotted Cisco and me this morning. And even then, we hadn’t understood what she’d been trying to tell us. Or at least I hadn’t.

  When I travel, I keep an emergency contact form for my dogs right next to the emergency contact information on myself, so whoever is in charge of taking care of me will know who to call to come get my dogs. Maude would drive any distance for my dogs, and so would Buck if it came to that, so those are the numbers I list, along with specific instructions that my dogs are not to be taken to an animal shelter and a promise to pay any boarding or vet fees that accrue. Why doesn’t everyone do that? And why doesn’t the premium form for every dog event require you to give specific instructions for the disposition of your dog in case you’re incapacitated?


  My mind was wandering, and I almost missed the detective’s question.

  The detective said, “Can you describe him?”

  I blinked, surprised to feel the hot wetness in my eyes. “Who?”

  Miles squeezed my shoulder reassuringly and pressed another paper cup of coffee into my hand. I said, “Oh. The man. He was tall, light-haired. Broad-shouldered. I didn’t see his face. I got the impression they were close. Marcie seemed upset and he comforted her. I thought he might be staying here with her, but I guess not.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “No. But I’d never seen Marcie before yesterday, either. Someone who knows her could probably identify him.”

  “But he wasn’t with her when you saw her at dinner last night?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t think it was my place to ask about him. Like I said, I didn’t know her that well.”

  The detective said, “Thank you for your help, Ms. Stockton.” He handed me a business card. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything more.”

  I said, “If I were you, I’d check the emergency rooms for dog bite cases.”

  He looked puzzled and I explained, “If she was walking her dog when she was abducted, the man probably had to fight off Flame. Her dog. Border collies can be nervous. They have a reputation for biting first and apologizing later when they’re threatened.” I shrugged. “Just an idea.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Not a bad one. I’ll put someone on it.”

  He moved away and Cisco stood and stretched, ready now to get on with his day. Miles kept his hand on my back as we left the cordoned-off area, lifting the tape for Cisco and me to duck under. “Why don’t you give Cisco some breakfast and get your things packed?” he said. “I’ll settle the bill.”

  It’s funny how the mind works. I wasn’t really planning to go to the fairgrounds and run jumpers-with-weaves today as though finding a fellow competitor murdered in the woods was just a minor interruption to my schedule, but for some reason I hadn’t considered not going, either. I certainly hadn’t planned to just pack up and go home.