Eyes at the Window

by Deb Donahue

  “Just passing through. Needed a cheap place to stay till I hit the road again.”

  “That’s a lie. You’ve been here for a week at least.”

  “I never said how soon I was planning to hit the road. You mind if I put my hands down now?” he asked casually, as if standing in front of a loaded gun was something that happened every day. “Arms are getting tired.”

  Miranda’s cheeks burned, and then grew even hotter as she grew angry with herself for feeling foolish. She was the one in the right here. In some states, she could have shot him on sight as a trespasser without breaking any laws.

  “I like them better where they are,” she told him. “This is kind of lonely country to just be ‘passing through.’ Sounds pretty fishy to me.”

  “I follow the harvest is all. No one’s been hiring this year.” He shrugged. “It happens.”

  “Well maybe you should make it happen somewhere else. Somewhere not on my property. Or would you rather I call the sheriff? I’m sure he’d be happy to offer a nice comfy cell to crash in. Free of charge, even.”

  “I figured you already did. Call the cops, I mean. To report the gunfire I just heard. Or was that just you hunting?” He nodded toward her .38. “If you were hunting rabbits with that thing, I’m not surprised you’re empty handed. Unless your ferocious hound ate your kill for his supper already?”

  The way he emphasized the word rabbits made it clear to Miranda that this was the person who had left the strange “gift” at her door.

  “Don’t make fun of Rufus.”

  “Rufus? That’s a strange name for a dog.”

  “It’s better than Butch,” she spit out indignantly. “Were you drunk when you picked that out or something?”

  Luke laughed and reached down to scratch behind the Shepherd’s ears. Butch looked up with lolling tongue and the biggest grin Miranda had ever seen on a dog’s face. “No, but he might have been. Butch loves his beer, don’t you, boy?”

  It was only then that Miranda realized Luke’s hands were no longer in the air. He cupped them both around his dog’s face and ruffled his neck playfully. Miranda sighed. She was starting to feel a little ridiculous, standing there pointing an empty gun at him. She should either turn tail and run now, or give it up and let him come down the ladder to talk. She was getting a crick in her neck.

  “Mind if I come down now?” Luke asked.

  Miranda felt flustered that he seemed to have read her thoughts. “No. Well, maybe. I … Okay, I guess so, but don’t—”

  “I know, I know. Don’t try any funny stuff. I watch old movies, too.” He started to back down the dilapidated rungs of the ladder.

  Miranda backed up, getting closer to the door, just in case. “You don’t seem at all worried about pissing off the lady with the loaded gun, do you?”

  “I’d probably be more worried if the gun actually was loaded.” Reaching ground level, he turned slowly, putting his hands up again momentarily.

  “How did you—”

  “I can count,” Luke answered. “I heard six shots. Plus now that I’m closer I can see for myself. Unless you’ve got one left in the barrel.”

  Miranda’s whole face felt red now, ears included. She holstered the useless weapon, but moved a few steps closer to the door. Butch had dropped from the loft edge onto a stack of musty hay bales, then to the ground to stand at Luke’s side again. Rufus sniffed in the Shepherd’s direction, clearly interested in investigating the other canine more closely, but took his cue from Miranda and remained by the exit.

  “So what was it?” Luke asked. “Squirrels? Target practice? Blowing off some steam?”

  Miranda shuddered as she remembered the reason for her panicked reaction at the creek. “No,” she said weakly. “It was—a body. A skeleton. I found human remains down by the water.”

  Luke froze and the lazy, half amused expression on his face drained away to pale shock. “Where? When? Who was it?” He took two steps closer but stopped as Miranda half turned to flee. Taking a deep breath, he made a visible effort to get his emotions under control. “Wait. Start from the beginning. Tell me exactly what you found.”

  She wanted to, she really did. Now that she felt no threat from Luke for some reason, the horror of what she had seen came back to her full force. If she could talk about it, maybe some of the fear would go away.

  But she didn’t dare confide in this man she did not know. “It has nothing to do with you. You’re just trying to distract me. I want you off my property. Or—” Glancing outside, she saw how low the sun was in the west. It would be dark soon. Panic at that thought made her want to turn and run to the house, no matter who was sleeping in her barn. “I’ll let you stay tonight,” she said. “But I’m calling the sheriff as soon as I get back and if you’re not gone in the morning, I’ll have him arrest you for trespassing.”

  She did turn then, ready to return home.

  “Don’t!” Luke exclaimed, then, in a calmer voice. “I mean, you don’t— You don’t need to. I was lying before. I’m not here because I’m looking for work. I’m a ranger with the Department of Fish and Game. The sheriff already knows I’m here. We’ve been trying to catch some poachers. A lot of deer being hunted out of season. I’ve been hold up out of sight here trying to keep my eye out for them.”

  Miranda didn’t know what to believe. That story certainly sounded more plausible than the idea of a homeless field hand hanging out sleeping in an old pile of straw.

  “Tell me where this was,” Luke continued. “The—the body you found.” He was trying very hard to sound official, but his face lacked color and his voice trembled. Miranda felt sure he wasn’t as calm and collected as he was trying to appear. “Was there—” He blinked rapidly and his eyes glistened as if tears gathered. “Was there any identification found?”

  “I didn’t look closely enough to know.” Relenting, Miranda described the scene she’d found in the scooped out earth. She decided it wouldn’t do any harm to tell him what she’d found, even if he was lying. She even tried to explain how far down the creek bed the remains could be found.

  “Rufus did find a scrap of cloth.” She dug in her pack and pulled out the green sleeve.

  “Oh my God.” Luke stepped forward and snatched it from her. “Where did you—” There were tears in his eyes, Miranda was sure of it now that he was closer. “Tell me exactly where you were, what you saw.”

  So she went through it again, for all it was worth. There were no significant landmarks close to the spot that she remembered. “Just keep walking,” she said. “You’ll find it if you’re looking. Now I’ve got to—” The night had come, the dark gray sky slowly turning to black, no stars in sight yet despite the absence of clouds. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call the sheriff’s office when I get home,” she added.

  “No!” He cleared his throat and spoke without taking his eyes off the sleeve he held. “Let me call. I have a cell phone in my pack up above.” He looked to see if she believed him. “Wait here and you’ll see. I’ll call them myself.” He was halfway up the ladder by the time he finished talking.

  But courage failed Miranda once he was out of sight. With the dark dropping from the sky faster than she could have thought possible and the vivid memory of the skull trapped in earth and roots, she ran the rest of the way to the house, locking the door behind her and turning on every single light she could find.

  Chapter 12

  Luke wasn’t sure what he would have done if Miranda had called his bluff about contacting the sheriff. He only hoped it had worked and that she didn’t pick up the telephone as soon as she got inside. As soon as she left, Luke threw his flashlight and an extra box of bullets into his backpack. Looping one arm through the shoulder strap, he grabbed his rifle and strode to the ladder. With his foot on the top rung, however, he paused in his descent.

  His heart raced. His breath came in jerks and gasps as if he’d been running a long way. Groaning, he collapsed in a ball on the hayloft floor, head buried in hi
s hands. He began to sob, hay dust clinging to his wet cheeks.

  When finally his grief loosened, he pulled himself to a seated position, wiping one jacketed arm across his face. The gesture, however, reminded him of the green scrap of cloth Miranda had given him and the tears began to flow again. It couldn’t be his brother. It just couldn’t be. Wouldn’t he know if his twin was dead? The brothers had developed an uncanny sense of knowing when the other was hurt or in trouble. Wouldn’t he have felt something at the exact instant the life left his body?

  It was that hope that helped him get his emotions under control. His senses returned as well. It was useless to try finding the body in the dark. He gritted his teeth, fists clenched. Just because the jacket sleeve resembled one his brother once had, didn’t mean the body was his. And whoever it was and however they had died, recovering the remains tonight wouldn’t do the person any good anyway. The best revenge was to find out what had happened, and Luke felt certain the key to that lay in continuing to watch Harlan Hunter.

  Leaving the worried Butch to stand guard in the loft, Luke made his way to the overlook he had set up for himself a couple of days after his arrival in Greenville. Miranda’s timberland edged right up to the side fence of Harlan Hunter’s property. Luke had discovered the remains of a hunting blind built in the branches of a tree that was high enough up to give him an excellent view of the house and surrounding outbuildings. Many days and nights had been spent sitting on the worn floor boards with binoculars trained on the view looking for clues.

  Tonight, however, Luke’s adrenaline was too pumped to sit at a distance and be the ever vigilant observer. Tonight he wanted answers, and he would find them. When he reached the fence line, he crouched low, assessing the situation. The ground floor of the two story farmhouse was lit up and he could see silhouettes passing behind the curtains of the room he knew to be the kitchen. That was a good sign that they were probably eating supper right now.

  Across the driveway from the house was the huge white barn and stockyard. The cattle had been penned in for the night, most of them full of feed now and peacefully chewing their cud. A tool shed sat to the right of the barn and a long, sheet metal lean-to on the left sheltered a row of tractors and farm implements. At the back of the house a small chicken coop sat ringed by chicken wire. The hens had all gathered inside already.

  In the quiet he could hear the sleepy cackle of the hens and occasional deep mewl of a cow. The smell of roasted meat from the kitchen mingled with the stink of manure and fertilizer. Somewhere, far off, he could hear the distant whine of a motorcycle as it passed by on the county road.

  The building Luke was most interested in was the workshop on the other side of the chicken coop. He’d seen enough activity back and forth over the days to know it served as Hunter’s office as well as a machine shop. He also knew that Harlan Hunter was careful to lock it after him with a thick padlock any time he left it alone.

  Chances were that somewhere behind that locked door was a clue to his brother’s disappearance.

  Luke hopped the fence and crouched low, checking for observers before dashing across the open field to a line of trees behind the workshop. His destination was a small square window on one side of the office. It faced the chickens, however, and was close enough to the coop he would have to be especially careful so as not to disturb them. If they raised an alarm, someone in the house was bound to rush out to investigate, probably with gun in hand assuming they would have to confront a hungry fox.

  Crouching at the trunk of the last tree, Luke carefully scanned the area. Insects and the dark shape of a bat flitted around the yard light at the corner of the farmhouse. The elongated shadows of the two outbuildings stretched toward him, offering a cover of darkness just out of reach. Sprinting across the open grass to get there, however, would leave him in plain sight of anyone looking out the farmhouse windows.

  He took a deep breath and ran, crouched low. He reached the corner of the workshop without incident, but stayed in a squat, listening for quite a while to make sure. The hens were louder now. A couple of them still pecked periodically at the dirt outside as they made their slow way to the coop entrance. One looked at him with tilted head and took two steps toward him as if hoping he had feed to offer, but she changed her mind and turned away. He could hear a dispute of some sort take place inside the coop as two birds squawked and beat their wings against each other. It didn’t last long, and thankfully had not been loud enough to attract undue attention from the house.

  The workshop window was locked just like he knew the door was, but the wood frame had rotted enough from years of weather that it did not take too much prodding with his pocket knife to dig the latch loose from the outside. Wood scraped loudly against wood and the sash counterweights rattled as he opened the window. A thick stick lay along the inside of the window well and Luke used it to prop open the window.

  The sill was about shoulder high, and the opening barely large enough to fit through. Luke stuck his flashlight in his back pocket and left his pack on the ground before levering himself up with a hop. His stomach scraped across the cracked and slivered wood sill as he pulled himself inside head first. A workbench had been built just under the window and several tools clattered to the floor before Luke make it all the way across. Jumping down from the table, he paused again, listening and breathing hard. Nothing stirred. Even the chickens could not be heard from in here.

  A careful sweep with his flashlight showed the room had been divided in half. The office half created a huge contrast to the rustic workshop along the opposite wall. A mahoghony desk faced the door, fronted by leather wing chairs. Against the wall behind the chairs was a matching sofa. A bronze statuette of a Hereford cow sat on the coffee table in front of it.

  Hunter trusted the padlock on the door enough that he hadn’t bothered to lock up either his desk or his file cabinets. In one cabinet, Luke found an assortment of veterinarian supplies and medications, most of them clearly marked. He turned each label toward him as he read. Diclazuril Solution for parasites, Metronidazole, Ivermectin. One label was so faded he had to bring the vial close to read it. Phencyclidine. His heart rate picked up. This drug was rarely used by vets these days due to its frequent misuse by humans—PCP. Could Hunter be involved with producing or selling PCP?

  The small vial was the only source of the drug he found, however, and nothing else indicated any kind of illegal drug paraphernalia. In fact, there didn’t seem to be evidence of any misdoing anywhere. Luke looked carefully through it all and the only other thing he found which was marginally interesting was a monthly day planner in a bottom desk drawer.

  Every second Sunday had the day’s number circled. The circled dates corresponded to the days Luke had observed Meeks and Hunter arriving at Miranda’s farm house. On the alternate weeks, every Thursday had the initials H.M. penciled in, followed by a time. The time was different on each entry, but the interesting thing was that the time on the last Thursday corresponded roughly to the same time Luke had seen Bob Meeks talking to the stranger in the BMW.

  If he was right, H.M. was the guy in the car. To use the Occam’s Razor rule of the simplest solution being the most likely, those visits had something to do with the Sunday activities that always happened the following weekend.

  Luke thought of taking the calendar with him, but its absence would only put Hunter on the alert. There was really no point anyway, since it proved nothing by itself. He had to find out who H.M. was and what he, Hunter, and Meeks were up to. Then he’d have something he could run with.

  Luke shoved the calendar back in the desk drawer where he’d found it. When he did so, it bumped into something at the back of the drawer that made a tinkley sound. Pulling the drawer out further, Luke peered into it, reaching in to retrieve a small music box. The box’s lid was hinged and painted with a pink and white lacquer. When he opened it, a miniature ballerina popped up out of the perfume-saturated interior and started dancing to a childish tune.

&nbs
p; “Let me call you Sweetheart, I’m in love—”

  Luke slammed the lid shut, even though he doubted it had been loud enough to be heard outside. What on earth was a little girl’s music box doing in Harlan Hunter’s desk? The man had no children and never had that Luke knew of. And from the background check Luke had done, he hadn’t seen evidence of any nieces and nephews either.

  Luke shrugged and put the music box away. Whatever it meant, it had nothing to do with him. He didn’t see how it could possibly be tied to the mysterious comings and goings he’d been witness to. He had risked a lot on this move to break in here and had gotten very little gain out of it.

  He blamed his frustration over this as the reason for his next carelessness. Exiting the shop through the open window again, he was thinking about what his next move should be instead of looking before he leaped. It wasn’t until he jumped to the ground and picked up his backpack that he heard someone exclaim, “Hey, what’s going on there? Who’s out there?”

  Ducking, Luke ran for the line of trees at the back. He’d almost reached their cover when he felt a searing pain in his shoulder and a split second later the sound of a gunshot. The impact of the bullet sent him flying flat into the dirt and brush under the first tree. He lay there a second, stunned, not quite understanding what had happened.

  “He went into the trees at the back,” he heard Bob Meeks shout.

  Those words galvanized him into action. He grunted as he raised himself to one knee. The pain in his shoulder almost made him cry out, but he ignored it and ran. There was no way to escape without running across the open area between tree line and fence. All he could do was run as fast as the screaming pain in his shoulder would let him. Shouts reached him, followed by the spit of bullets hitting the ground around him.

  His breath tore through his lungs and his legs ached, but he made it over the fence and into the timber. Even then he didn’t stop running, couldn’t stop running. Branches tore at his jacket and face, one time catching hold of the pack he held in one hand. The snag caught him short and he fell to his knees. Reaching out, he tugged the pack with both hands to release it. He stifled a scream as the movement caused unbearable agony in his arm.