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

by Larissa Reinhart

  “Bob, I’m so scared. Someone’s trying to kill us,” cried Peach.

  I stared openmouthed as she rattled off a story that involved an ex-boyfriend activist murdered in the woods. The woman’s loyalty rivaled a feral cat’s. I thought about arguing over the plasticity of her version, but felt too exhausted to care. I just needed them to haul ass to the bunkhouse.

  Bob pulled Peach into his arms and she tucked herself inside his shoulder, sobbing and sorry for her sins. I grabbed his pack and hustled them forward, glad he was amenable to the safety of the bunkhouse. The couple confused and disturbed me. I wondered if Peach was up to old tricks, but her cling to Bob seemed genuine. As they walked, Bob murmured comforting phrases about love and forgiveness. Hope blossomed within me. If this flaky pair could make it, didn’t I stand a chance for some kind of happily ever after?

  I hummed, studying the misty landscape for barrel glints and mad killers. Then realized the tune I hummed matched the phrasings of Bob’s words of comfort for Peach.

  Lyrics from one of his redneck songs.

  If I got through this weekend, I had a lot of music to delete from my playlists.

  With Peach and Bob ensconced in the bunkhouse, I breathed easier. Barring a fire or stupidity on their part, they would remain safe until help came. I hid myself in the shadowy eaves of the porch behind a plastic storage bin and worked up my next plan of action. Before locking the pair in the women’s bunk room, I had grabbed my sketchpad and a pencil. Flipping the pages, I reconstructed my suspect list. I was rapidly losing members unless a Figure X roamed the woods.

  Sheepishly, I crossed out Jayce’s soul-patched deer sketch, then Peach’s devil-horns and Bob Bass’s two-faced caricatures. I was left with Rick, the lodge staff, the Gutersons, the Sparks, and the Woodcocks. The only people I knew for sure roamed the woods were the remaining pairs. Max and his outfitter, Tennessee. Jeff Digby and Viktor. Rick and Mike. And despite Viktor’s claims, I knew Max not to be a deranged psychopath.

  At least, the Bear didn’t normally act the deranged psychopath. I ruminated on this idea for a long minute. Could Max have encountered Deed’s camp on his hunt for the hog, heard my distress, and shot Deed in a misguided attempt to save me? Could all these deaths have been accidents?

  My fatigued mental state had entered shaky territory. Now I was thinking like Viktor.

  Woodsmoke joined the deepening fog to cloak the drive, resembling one of Turner’s moody landscapes. Shivering, I reexamined my list of events and checked off the ones meant for Jayce’s shock campaign.

  At the discovery of the slashed tires and cut radio antenna, I stopped. Those tricks were meant to trap us. But not everyone. One incapacitated vehicle meant most could leave. But no one could radio for immediate help.

  One group would be forced to wait for a return vehicle. And in those hours, what might happen?

  My heart sped up, warming my cold fingers and toes. Who was meant to stay? If I hadn’t lost our Gator and Jeff Digby’s hadn’t gotten stuck, would we all be on our way home this morning? Sixteen people and a dog in three Gators and the Mule? A tight squeeze with only fourteen seats.

  Two people would have been left behind. Which two?

  The groups had swapped. Todd and I were expected to stay with Max and our guide, Tennessee. Jenny Sparks had twisted her ankle. If we had all returned to the bunkhouse last night as expected, what would have happened? I chewed my pencil. Jayce’s pellet gun sniping. But no one anticipated Peach stealing out to see Jayce. Or for me to follow her. And then slip out again to get Jayce murdered.

  Was that intended? Would someone have murdered Jayce without my blowing his cover? And how did Lesley and Abel fit into this scheme?

  If all had gone according to plan, the hunt would have started Friday afternoon, gone all day Saturday, and into Sunday. Jayce Deed’s antics would have been expected. Mischief that would agitate the group, possibly making us want to return. Peach had given him a walkie-talkie so he could keep tabs on us. All but one group would have gone back to the lodge.

  Which group? Peach and Bob? Wouldn’t they need someone to drive them?

  My brain hurt. And guilt for getting Jayce Deed killed made my eyes smart. I leaned against the wall. When my head tipped into my shoulder, I jerked awake. How long had I slept? I scrambled to my feet and then dropped to the porch floor at the sound of shuffling from the side of the porch.

  The scuffling stopped, then receded. My pulse strummed in my throat and the sudden blood flow through my veins stabbed my feet and calves with a thousand pinpricks. I grasped Peach’s camouflaged M&P 15, wishing it were something simpler, like a plain old Winchester. I had no experience in tactical rifles. I didn’t want to use the fancy gun, but neither did I feel comfortable weaponless.

  I crept to the side of the porch and peeked around the corner. Footprints mutilated the mud.

  A waterlogged depression shimmered in the damp breeze. Fear cramped my stomach and I hopped from the porch, wincing at the pins and needles in my feet.

  I hesitated. No one yet knew that Bob and Peach were in the bunkhouse. Should I return to their hunting position and see who stalked them there?

  In the distance, movement caught my attention and I squinted. A spot of Cad Orange broke through the fog, weaving through the pines. It came from the direction of Deed’s camp, west of the bunkhouse.

  The dab of bright orange grew. The person ran at a good clip.

  I darted a look for better hiding spots and rushed toward the tireless side-by-side. Crouching in the muck behind the driver’s side, I watched from over the top of the utility vehicle, my cold fingers clinging to the slick metal.

  Seconds passed. From my squat, I couldn’t see that side of the forest. I tried to slow the breathing that burst from my nose in shots of white vapor.

  Who was running? Why were they running?

  I could hear them now, crashing through the vines and dying weeds. A walkie-talkie squawked. I couldn’t distinguish the walkie’s voice or the words, but the person speaking was agitated. Feet pounded and splashed in the mud. I dropped to the ground to peer from under the Gator.

  Jeans brushed the top of black boots. They paused in the drive, turned toward the bunkhouse, stopped again, and faced the opposite direction. I wracked my brain to place the boots, then realized the lack of camouflage held the answer I sought. Popping up, I settled the barrel of the gun on the hood of the UTV and called to Viktor.

  He started, then spun toward me. “What are you doing here? They are looking for you. Where did you get that gun? Put it away.”

  “No offense, but I don’t trust anyone.” I squinted through the gun sight.

  “I don’t have a weapon.” Viktor raised his hands. “Put it away, please. You know I have nothing to do with this.”

  Sweat broke on my damp neck. “Dangit, Viktor. I’ve gone in circles all weekend. Everything I think I know has been challenged. My nerves are close to short-circuiting and my gut is screaming not to trust you.”

  “You are very tired, I know. You must put the gun down before you cause the terrible accident.”

  “I’m not putting the gun down,” I said, but moved my chin above the sight and my finger from the trigger.

  “Where is Bob Bass and Peach? They are missing.”

  “I’m not going to tell you that.”

  “Did you kill them?”

  “What?” I exploded. “Of course not. I’m trying to save them.”

  “Jeff Digby found Buckshot’s leash at the campsite. And much blood. Who is this blood?”

  I leaned my forehead against the side of the utility vehicle and gulped air. Shit, shit, shit, I thought. Where was Jayce’s body? Did someone move it? Was he alive? I rolled my head to the side and studied the bunkhouse. Should I have trusted Peach? She said a guy had told Jayce about Bob’s invitation to the hunt.

  A ma
n wanted to disrupt the contest.

  A man? That narrows it down, genius.

  Boy, could I use some advice from my Deputy McHottie.

  I could also use the backup.

  “Dangit.” I jerked away from the Mule’s cold frame and raised my eyes to Viktor. My head buzzed from exhaustion and I blinked to wet my eyes.

  Viktor watched me. He had unclipped the walkie from his belt and raised it near his mouth.

  “Don’t,” I said.

  “What did you do?” He lowered the walkie slowly, but didn’t let go. “Whose blood is in the tent?”

  “Jayce Deed’s. Who left the bunkhouse early this morning? Who told everyone that I went to Max’s deer stand?”

  “Where is the dog?”

  I jerked my chin toward the bunkhouse. “She’s inside, resting. I’d never hurt Buckshot. I wouldn’t hurt anyone. Who told everyone I left?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “LaToya told us you fought with Peach. You ran out after the fight. Now we know where you really went.”

  “Peach and I are good now. She might have told some lies about me earlier, but that’s all fixed. Sort of. Why were you running?”

  “Because Mike reported Peach and Bob Bass are missing. He and Rick wished to move farther out. When he went to tell them this, he could not find them. I ran back to search the bunkhouse.”

  “Where’s Max?”

  “He is looking for you,” said Viktor. “Or so he says. The Bear has been out all night as well. Did you meet him at this camp? Did he kill the man staying there?”

  “No,” I hollered. “Get off your flippin’ high horse about Max. He’s not doing anything.” My feet ached from my squat. Gravity drew me toward the ground, making my thighs and back scream in pain. I shook out a hand, rolled my shoulder, and replaced my hand on the gun’s stock.

  “I don’t believe you are a bad person, Miss Tucker,” Viktor murmured in a sorrowful voice. “I think you are tired and confused and scared. I can help you. But you must lay down your weapon.”

  “A man invited Jayce Deed to camp during the tournament. He knew Jayce would use pranks and disturbances to scare Bob Bass. They also knew it would disrupt the hunt and we’d have to return to the lodge. But not all of us. One hunter would be left with a staff member...”

  Viktor waited.

  I jumped to my feet. “Rick.”

  Thirty-Six

  “Where’s Jeff Digby?” I yelled, scurrying around the side of the Mule with Peach’s rifle.

  Viktor’s hands flew back in the air. “After we find the leash and blood, we split up. I came back to the bunkhouse to find Peach and Bob Bass. Jeff is tracking you.”

  “Damnation and hellfire.” I clamped a hand on my forehead to stop my head from spinning, then pointed at his walkie-talkie. “Can you radio on separate channels on that thing? Warn Mike and Tennessee that Jeff Digby is dangerous. He wants to kill Rick. He’ll probably try and stop me first. I know too much. Just like Lesley and Jayce.”

  “Cherry.” Viktor’s voice soothed and he strolled forward, holding out his hands. “Give me this gun. Let’s go inside the bunkhouse. I’ll make anything you want to eat. Anything at all. And you can rest in front of the fire. It is nice, no?”

  “Dammit, Viktor. Like I could think about food at a time like this.” I swung the stock away. “If you aren’t going to warn Rick and Mike, I’ll find them myself.”

  I spun from him and ran diagonally toward the northeastern border of the drive. Into the dying canopy I dove, not looking to see if Viktor followed. The morning mist continued to thicken with the rising temperature and trapped moisture. I leapt over the olive green roots of shriveling poison ivy and crashed through a raw umber clump of leafless viburnum. My feet pattered over wet pine straw turned coppery Indian Red Lake. While my eyes sorted color and shape in the fog, my ears attuned for the sound of shots, and my mind flashed over what I knew about Rick. The abuse of Jessica’s daughter. Jeff slipping into the bunk room to watch Rick sleep.

  I shook off a tear stuck on my nose. I didn’t want to protect a repulsive piece of crap like Rick. Hell waited for scum like that.

  “A miserable son of a bitch that deserved worse than death,” Jeff had said.

  Justice wasn’t served. Jeff burned with revenge. It took a year of planning. The hog would have been the excuse he needed. Charge a ridiculous amount for tickets that no local could afford, but offer one winning ticket in a lottery that Rick would win. Get the Woodcocks to announce it on the news before the rest of Swinton found out and protested. And like a magic trick, provide a big distraction like Jayce Deed’s Ban Sapiens to keep everyone’s eyes off Rick.

  A hunting accident was the perfect cover for an act of country retribution. At the clay shoot, Bob had switched places with Rick and then I had gotten in the way. Had Jeff set up the teals to launch at Rick’s position? Rick’s borrowed gun had exploded, but he hadn’t been killed.

  Did Jeff expect these accidents to kill him or only injure? A bullet might be too swift and merciful for Rick’s death, but that exploding gun could have maimed him for life. Traveling at ninety miles an hour, a clay disk would have given him serious brain damage if it hadn’t killed him.

  In the old days, they would have strung Rick from a tree and left him there to warn other men who hungered for young girls.

  I couldn’t condone his plan, yet I understood Jeff Digby. But somehow his scheme had spun out of control. Why would he kill Abel, Lesley, and Jayce? That wasn’t vigilante justice. Was Lesley also invited to the lodge to provide a distraction? Were Jeff’s earlier attempts to stop Lesley from entering the forest a ruse? Lesley had made it clear he didn’t trust Jeff. But Jeff hadn’t expected Lesley to catch a ride into the woods with Jayce.

  If I hadn’t interrogated Jayce or detained Lesley would they have died?

  I cringed at the thought, but continued moving forward.

  And what about Abel? Abel had become a splinter lodged deep in my heel. Everywhere I stepped, his death pricked at my conscience.

  Vaporous tendrils of fog choked the forest like an invasive case of kudzu. Visibility grew worse and my run became a bumbling gallop. With lungs threatening to explode, I halted my not-so-speedy gait. Trembling, I rested a hand against a sweetgum and searched the milky landscape for swatches of florescent orange. My ears thudded with my heartbeat, and I gulped in moist air that tasted of pine and mildew.

  Footsteps pattered on damp pine straw.

  My breath caught mid-pant and the hairs on my arms rose, chilling my flushed, damp skin. I swung the harness of Peach’s rifle off my back, grasped it in both hands, and lifted it to my shoulder. Sliding behind the tree, I searched the fog for the intruder and strained my ears for the direction of the footsteps.

  The padding slowed and stopped.

  I dropped to a crouch, my finger on the rifle’s safety. With a burst of speed, the footfall slapped against the pulpy leaves. I let out a breath, braced myself against the tree, and steadied my eye through the gun sight.

  Breaking out of the mist, Buckshot galloped, charging toward me.

  My finger flew off the safety and I almost dropped the gun. Slinging the harness over my shoulder, I stood and wiped the dew from my forehead with a shaky hand.

  “I almost shot you, for mercy’s sake. Go on home. Get. I don’t want you here.”

  She slowed to a trot, but ignored my order.

  “Buckshot,” I hissed. “Go home.”

  Reaching my side, she dropped to a sit and gazed up at me, panting. I sighed, reached to pet her, and pointed once again toward the bunkhouse. “I can’t have you here. It’s dangerous. This is a one-woman show.”

  Unfazed by my tizzy, she circled my tree, wagging her tail with doggish glee.

  “Seriously,” I said. “I don’t need nor want a partner. I don’t know what’s going to happen.
We’re dealing with a dangerous individual. Jeff could easily take you hostage. Hell, you’d probably jump into his arms willingly, and then what could I do?”

  She bent to shove her nose in a thick entanglement of greenbrier and pulled out with a snort.

  “You want to chase rabbits, do it on your own time.” I kicked a pile of leaves at her. “Get out of here.”

  Buckshot’s head drooped and she fixed me with those sad eyes that reminded me of Abel’s other dogs waiting for his return. The knife twisted deeper, but I steeled my gaze and showered her with another clump of leaves. The wistful look continued and her haunches remained glued to the ground. I pushed her and swore. Stomped my feet. Threw a stick. Finally, I leaned a forearm against a loblolly and buried my head in a camo’d crook.

  “Why don’t you just leave?” I cried. “I’m so flippin’ tired. I can’t deal with protecting you too.”

  She nosed toward my belly, wedging her head between the trunk and my legs, then shoved her body into the gap. Her moist doggy breath further dampened LaToya’s coveralls.

  “Why don’t animals ever listen to me?” I wiped my eyes against my arm, but left my weary head to rest. Exhaustion tricked my eyes into closing and I pulled in a deep breath. “Just give me a minute.”

  Buckshot yipped and darted from the protection of my body.

  “Where are you going?” I wearily lifted my head from my arm, stepped back, and smacked into the barrel of a gun.

  “Give me that rifle,” said Jeff Digby.

  He jerked the sling off my shoulder, caught my arm, and freed the gun with a yank that caused pain to shoot from my neck to my fingertips. The barrel of his rifle punched the bruise left by the Super Swine and I staggered into the tree, smacking it with my forehead.

  “Jeff, you’ve got to listen to me,” I said, rubbing my head. “I know how much you hate Rick. I understand. But it’s not too late. He might confess.”

  “Can’t you just shut your mouth for once? None of this is your business. Why don’t you just do as you’re told?” He grasped my arm and whipped me around to face him. Both rifles hung from his broad shoulders and his large hands gripped my forearms, pinning them to my sides. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing.”