The Body in the Landscape (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 5)

by Larissa Reinhart

“Just buy economy-sized,” I said. “I’ll call when I get back from the woods.”

  I couldn’t stop the hunters from continuing the contest just like I couldn’t stop Shawna Branson from ruining my family’s reputation. I couldn’t even stay away from Luke, when I knew we’d have no future. I was just torturing myself with these calls for advice.

  But I knew I couldn’t let those people go into the woods alone without knowing who was behind this or why. Someone had to be wary. I came to Big Rack to get away from trouble, and it looked like by avoiding one kind, I had stepped into something much bigger.

  I hated that my last words to Luke might be advice on shopping for heartburn medicine.

  From the overhang of the Twenty Point, I watched the hunters ready themselves for the trip into the preserve’s back forty. Whereas I wanted to cling to the warmth and aridity of any manmade structure, the hunt contestants trotted about in the drizzle like a pack of terriers, barking excited greetings and occasionally shaking the wet off their insulated rain hats. I squinted at Todd, who looked neither miserable nor excited to stand in the clammy, gray weather. He wore his best poker face, which meant he hid some powerful feelings.

  Or was playing poker in his head.

  “I guess the contestants didn’t call off the hunt,” I said. “How do you feel about going out into the woods with a suspicious person on the loose?”

  “At least the SEC season is finished. I’m not missing any football today.”

  I patted his arm.

  Mike bumped out the Twenty Point’s door, a clipboard in his hand. “Y’all ready to go?”

  “Any news on the skeet software glitch? Did Jeff find any issues with the fences?”

  “Fences were fine. No break-in detected. The skeet company’s going to read through the system log to figure out what happened. Of course, they don’t want to admit any fault on their part, which is why someone is coming out to check the towers.”

  “Mike, think of the consequences if something else happens. You can still cancel now.”

  “It had to have been an unfortunate fluke. I spoke to everyone individually and they all want to continue. The anti-hunting signs seem to spur them on. They’re all determined to win.”

  “Winning isn’t everything. Y’all seem to have forgotten about the death on this property.”

  Mike blew out a sorrowful sigh. “I really am sorry you found Abel. It’s upset you. Are you sure you don’t want to go home?”

  At my headshake, he nodded and slogged out into the rain.

  “I tried,” I told Todd.

  “Do you want to go home?”

  “Are you kidding? Who’s going to watch over this crew?” I waved my hand at the happy hunters. “Besides you, of course.”

  “Thanks.” Todd gave me a heart-tripping smile. “But I’d rather do it with you than by myself. Watch over the crew, I mean.”

  “I wish I could find this Jayce Deed before we leave. He wasn’t in his room when I checked. He might have seen something.” I turned toward the restaurant door. “I’ll check here one last time. I could use some coffee anyway.”

  Like a harbinger of doom, Viktor passed through the Twenty Point door, carrying a large plastic tub. “No coffee. The hog will smell you.”

  “Pigs don’t like coffee either?”

  “I see you did not take the advice I offered.”

  “To go home?” Too many people wanted me homeward bound. “My friend, Mr. Max, is determined to win the hunt. I’m not abandoning him.”

  Viktor delivered me an eyeball full of bitter repugnance. “What is the saying? It is your neck in the line.”

  “On the line. Not in.”

  “I think you get my meaning.” He dipped his head and hurried to load his tub in the back of one of the utility vehicles.

  I tried not to think of his meaning. My nerves couldn’t handle many more portentous messages.

  “Artist, are you ready to mark this day in history with the canvas and paintbrush?” Max limped through the Twenty Point door, a thick walking stick in hand. “What has happened to your coat?”

  I glanced down. “The chartreuse puff paint is running. I don’t think it’s waterproof.”

  Contrary to most of the Big Rack population, Max didn’t wear camo weather gear. He was outfitted in a gentlemen’s field coat, matching tweed slacks, knee-high rubber boots, and a tweed flat cap. He pulled a silver flask from an inside pocket. “Here, warm yourself with this.”

  “I’m not taking a shot and then climbing in a Gator for a bone-shaking two-hour drive. I’d rather keep my lunch, thanks.” I eyed his getup. “You do realize we’re stalking a hog in the rain, not pursuing a fox on horseback?”

  His glacier eyes increased my shivers. “Englishmen hunt in such weather. I find traditional clothes the more comfortable.”

  “Glad I’m not English. I miss the sun.” A frenzy of icy raindrops increased their spatter. “I didn’t bother to bring my oils. I brought my soft pastel kit and sketching gear instead.”

  “Excellent.” By the arc of Max’s chin, I had a feeling the English field outfit had more to do with posing than hunting.

  Max turned and I followed his line of sight to the Gator where Peach Payne and Bob Bass waited. Bob had also dressed for the occasion. His usual peacock-feathered cowboy hat accompanied a thick, charcoal-colored wool field coat with a sheepskin collar. Catching Max’s eye, Bob held out his arms to shoot him with a mock rifle, then flashed his whitecapped smile.

  “Considering all that’s going on, I don’t find fake shooting very funny,” I said.

  “Lighten upward, Artist,” said Max. “Bob Bass will be defeated today.”

  With a laugh too hearty for a soggy afternoon, Bob Bass shot Peach with a finger Uzi.

  “I can see why some anti-Bob Bass fanatic might have done those pranks,” I remarked. “He would incite the most harmless into crazed stalkers.”

  “I agree. But the stalker will have much difficulty following us so deep into the wood. Now we can focus on the competition and not the hijinks.” Max clapped me on the back and limped toward the group of utility vehicles, calling out to the Sparks and LaToya.

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

  Todd rubbed my shoulder. “It’s probably all the trail mix and Funyuns you’ve been eating.”

  We followed Max, lugging our bags into the rain. Between the five UTV side-by-sides, Jeff Digby barked orders to his crew of outfitters. The contestants handed over their rifles to Mike to place in the long, cushioned fire box strapped in the back of the Mule, the only two-seated vehicle.

  Once again, Rick clung to the sidelines. Darting a look toward me, his eyes met mine then flew away. Hunching his shoulders against the rain, he trudged to the far end of the parking area to smoke.

  “I wonder if the skeet accident shook up Rick,” remarked Todd.

  “That man’s more jittery than a cat in a room full of rockers. But considering what we just went through, it makes sense. I’m not sure why everyone else is taking it in stride. You’d think they had clay pigeons shot at their heads every day.”

  “You seem fine.”

  “You know me. The school psychologist suspected I have an underdeveloped amygdala. How about you?”

  “The school psychologist warned me not to hang out with you. But I didn’t listen then either.”

  A yelp carried across the drive. From the front seat of an empty Gator, a brindle with expressive eyes and a stocky body rose on her hind legs, then barked a greeting.

  “That’s Abel’s dog.” I hurried to meet her. Dumping our bags in the rear cargo space, Todd and I swung into the back bench.

  “Hey girl, good to see you again,” I said, leaning over the seat to pet the excited creature. “I met your comrades. Don’t you worry, I’m on the case. You know that, don’t you?”


  Mike walked toward us carrying a bungee cord and hooked it over the mounded gear behind us. “That’s Buckshot. She sure has perked up. Real miserable in her pen, but now that we’re headed for the hunt, she’s back to her old self.”

  “You’re not going to let Buckshot go after this behemoth hog, are you?” I rubbed her soft, floppy ears. “With the purported size of that monster, it’s liable to eat her.”

  “No, ma’am.” Mike circled to face me. “Buckshot’s a bayer. If we need her to track, she’ll holler when she scents the hog.”

  “She’s a sweet dog,” said Todd. “Are you hunting too, Mr. Neeley?”

  “I’m just along to make sure everything goes to order.” Mike adjusted his gaze and waved to someone behind us. “I’ve got to help. Talk to y’all later.”

  A hand grasped the roll bar and Jeff Digby swung into view. Jeff wore the rain clothes of normal hunters, Mossy Oak Gortex. A heavy five o’clock shadow accentuated his features.

  “Y’all set?” Jeff asked.

  “Did you find Lesley Vaughn?”

  Jeff rolled his eyes. “No. But I told the staff to look for Lesley. He’s meant to check out today. But someone did try to sneak through the reserve gate before dawn. The alarm went off.”

  My personal rain cloud magnified and grew stormy. “Dadgum, I should have stayed on that guy. I could’ve camped outside his door.”

  “Not really your job, is it?”

  “What if Lesley’s intent is to do us harm?”

  Jeff eyed my troubled features. “Don’t worry. Lesley’s spent plenty of time here at Big Rack. He can be a nuisance, but he wouldn’t hurt anyone. I don’t think he went anywhere, even if he tried. He can’t get far without a vehicle. These woods are thick as molasses. If he’s on the trail, we’ll spot him.” With a nod, Jeff turned to bark more orders at his crew.

  I looked at Todd. “If Lesley or someone else is trying to stop this hunt with ‘accidents,’ that hog is not the only thing that’s going to be stalked in those woods.”

  Twenty-One

  The trip to the bunkhouse included two plodding hours of bumping and jerking through the cold and wet, plus an extra hour tacked on for pushing the side-by-sides out of deep mudded ruts. The forest seemed devoid of any life, including one Lesley Vaughn. I hoped he had given up his hog tracking and gone back to his room to dry off and warm up like any sensible person would. Unfortunately, Lesley didn’t strike me as sensible.

  The roar of the UTV motors and churning of wet clay made discussion impossible. In the first hour, the hunters and guides hooted joyfully at each tree-root bump and fling of mud. By hour two, we huddled miserably, fearing each mud bog might be a side-by-side’s last. No one wanted to end our travel with a long trek through steady rain, even if it meant the possibility of sneaking a peek at the Great Pig.

  I gave up on friendzoning and clung to Todd for warmth and for fear that I might get bucked into the downpour. Huddled betwixt Todd’s amply muscled pecs and guns, I grasped his damp coat with one hand and the edge of the seat with the other. He held me tight with both hands. I could only imagine such stability derived from clenching the seat with his well-defined glutes.

  A picture I tried to pass from my mind unsuccessfully.

  After too much time alone with my thoughts, the path curved and presented a break in the forest. A tin-roofed cabin, wide and long with a low overhang and deep porch, appeared. White Christmas lights had been strung along the rafters and a fresh wreath hung on the door, welcoming us with a bit of holiday cheer. My heart, sore butt, and stiff spine gladdened at the sight. Immediately, my stomach woke, shouted, and scared Buckshot into a barking frenzy.

  The side-by-sides slowed to a stop, spitting mud against the porch railing.

  Max turned in the front seat and eyeballed us. “So cozy.”

  The man didn’t suffer a drop of mud splatter and had remained as cool as whipped topping through each jostle and mud stick. Beside him, Buckshot also turned to observe our backseat clinch. She gave a happy yelp of approval and climbed over Max to bound into the surrounding bushes.

  “Very funny,” I replied, prying my stiff fingers off Todd’s coat. “And now I understand why we’re staying in the bunkhouse. But if this place doesn’t have hot water, I’m walking back.”

  “It’s got hot water all right,” muttered our outfitter. “I suppose y’all might call it roughing it, seeing as how we’ll share bedrooms and there’s no TV, internet, or cell phone service out here. Other than that, most folks could live pretty comfortably. Better than my kin, anyways.”

  “It is these comforts that make me happy to be American,” mused Max. “At home, the hunt weekend means to sleep in open air. Maybe a tent. In America, you have the house for sleeping everywhere. Even in, as you say, the middle of nowhere.”

  “Only Americans with your size of wallet, Bear.” I turned to our bearded driver. “I’ve been thinking you look real familiar. Hard to tell staring at your back and with you covered in camo. But didn’t I meet you at the Double Wide last night?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Caleb Guterson.” Hopping from the Gator, he ducked his head against the rain and followed the cluster of outfitters to the porch, where Jeff Digby stood, handing out orders.

  “A Guterson working for Big Rack?” I said. “That doesn’t make sense. Don’t they hate the Woodcocks’ takeover of this area?”

  “I reckon a paycheck’s a paycheck,” said Todd. “The lodge probably called out to local hunters as extra guides for this weekend. And if they poach, I imagine he knows the lay of the land pretty well.”

  “I don’t like it,” I said. “All these weird incidents, with the last one almost killing someone. Lesley Vaughn could be on the loose, looking to protect his monster pig. The Bob Bass haters haven’t come out of the woodwork to protest, but there’s always that possibility. And now one of the Big Rack enemies is employed for the hunt? What is Mike Neeley thinking? He should have called this off.”

  Max turned to study the man working a key in the lock of the door. “Mike Neeley strikes me as the man with the concern for others more than himself. He must keep Big Rack going. Too many lives depend on the jobs. He has not worked here long. Less than a year.”

  “Mike Neeley is going about this all wrong. With a cancellation, Bob Bass might have spread bad press for Big Rack, but the lodge may never get over the publicity of two deaths.”

  The Bear twisted to shoot me a hard look.

  “Two deaths?” said Todd.

  “Don’t you see?” My voice worked into a furious whisper. “It’s all I could think about on this ride. Now we’re out in the wilderness, where someone can easily hide. And unless we turn around and go back as a group, we’re trapped. We’ll be spread out in the deer stands like sitting ducks.”

  “Artist, you must save your creative expression for the artworks.” The Bear reached over the seat to rub my knee. “Do not worry so much. I will not let anything harm you. Besides, we’re all armed.”

  “That’s exactly why I’m worried. Everyone’s armed and there’s a nutjob on the loose.”

  As promised, before sundown we found ourselves sitting in deer stands with enough night vision equipment and arms to supply a CIA mission. After deliberating over whether to stay in the warm bunkhouse with Viktor or huddled next to a space heater in a deer stand with Max’s team, I chose the stand as my first watch. I didn’t like leaving Buckshot behind but trusted her to remain vigilant with a whispered word to watch Viktor.

  After thirty minutes of non-hog sightings, the walkie-talkie squawked.

  My ears perked and I listened to the garbled, whispered report from the Group Two guide.

  Our team outfitter, Tennessee, reported our status and fell back to watching the quiet forest through thermal imaging binoculars.

  “Tennessee,” I said, scooting across the wooden box to h
is side of the blind. “Please translate that message. Did someone get hurt?”

  “Mrs. Sparks twisted her ankle, ma’am.” Tennessee gave Max a look of marked impatience. Having tired of shushing me himself, Tennessee looked to the other male group members for assistance. Max and Todd knew me better than to try. This was the very reason my brother had rarely taken me hunting.

  “Twisted her ankle running away? Or fighting off someone?” I listed ten other desperate means one might twist an ankle until Tennessee interrupted to call the Sparks team leader for more information.

  “Mrs. Sparks twisted her ankle jumping out of the deer stand when she went back to the Gator to get a thermos of coffee,” reported Tennessee. “The ankle’s swelling and they’re taking her back to the bunkhouse.”

  “She has coffee?”

  “Maybe you’d like to join her, ma’am.”

  “If only it was possible, Tennessee. Somebody’s got to remain alert for intruders.”

  He delivered a look that told me Tennessee would have trouble maintaining female companionship. Turning back to the window, he resumed his pig watch.

  Max snorted. “It is for this reason I am glad I persuaded you to not bring your gun, Artist.”

  “An oversight on my part, Bear.” I looked at our guide. “I’ve got a Remington Wingmaster, Tennessee. My daddy’s shotgun. She’s a classic.”

  “You could use a twelve gauge, but I wouldn’t try for more than a hundred, hundred fifty yards.”

  “I’m not interested in shooting Hogzilla. This would be for protection.”

  This seemed to only increase Tennessee’s irritation. He jammed the binoculars into his sockets with an intensity that would cause bruises.

  “Cherry,” whispered Todd.

  I crawled to the opposite window.

  Todd also had binoculars trained through the blind’s opening. Scooting close to him, I squinted through the window. “Do you see anything?”

  Todd dropped the binoculars, slung an arm around my neck, and set his mouth to my ear. “No. Actually I’ve been thinking about what happened at the clay shoot.”