False Cast: a small town murder mystery (Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Series Book 5)

by S. W. Hubbard

  Frank’s left foot sank ankle deep into cold water. Blackflies, utterly unrepelled by his insect repellent, crawled under his collar and chewed off chunks of his flesh, the better to lap up his blood. He put one foot in front of the other and tuned out his misery with fantasies of a cold beer and a hot shower.

  And the vision of bringing Ronnie down with one shot.

  The fantasy didn’t take RJ into account. What if the boy were with his father? How would Frank capture the father without harming the son? Was RJ wising up to craziness of his father’s worldview? Or was the kid still his father’s staunchest ally?

  The sun sank lower in the sky. If Ronnie were hunting, he would most likely come out at dusk as the animals became more active. Frank didn’t want to bump into him unexpectedly. He needed to move while Ronnie was hiding, and hide when Ronnie was moving.

  He trudged along the perimeter of the lake, searching for any trampled area that might indicate canoeists had carried their boats through to the adjoining pond. Occasionally, through the trees, he caught a glimpse of sunlight glittering on Veazey Pond, but the underbrush seemed impenetrable. No one had carried a canoe through here. Where was the portage?

  His nose twitched. Was it his imagination eager for a clue, or did he smell something different than the scent of wood decaying in the dank mud? He inhaled deeply: rotten flesh. Something dead lay nearby.

  If that was the deer Ronnie had killed, then the path must open up soon. Trees grew right up to the edge of the pond here, but further down the shore he could see a small, muddy clearing. An ideal place to land a canoe. He picked up his pace, and sure enough, he saw drag marks in the mud, broken twigs, and a narrow, overgrown path leading to the next pond.

  Frank headed down the path, and the stench of rotting meat grew stronger. A small animal scurried through the underbrush—he had disturbed its meal. A twist in the path and he came upon it: a young, three point buck shot cleanly through the neck. Animals had been gnawing on its extremities, but a large piece of meat had been neatly cut out of its flank. A few days’ worth of food for Ronnie and the rest of the meat wasted since he had no way to preserve it.

  Frank scanned the woods for the tree stand. Only by calculating from which direction the deer had been shot could Frank discern it: just a few strips of wood nailed into a maple tree to form a crude ladder, and a tiny platform barely wide enough for a man to stand. But the location was ideal, overlooking a path the animals took to drink at dawn and dusk.

  According to Rusty, the lean-to was half a mile northwest of this point. But to avoid a chance encounter with Ronnie, Frank would have to hike around Veazey Pond in the other direction and hope that he would come up on the lean-to from behind. Reluctantly, he left the relatively easy hiking of the trail to bushwhack around this much larger pond. Low branches slapped his face. He succeeded in placing his other foot into a shallow inlet, so both boots and socks were equally drenched. He kept a birch that slanted out over the pond in sight as a marker of where he’d left the trail and the tree stand. In an hour, he was directly opposite it. Time to leave the shore of the pond and head inland to look for the lean-to.

  The afternoon light grew dimmer. Periodically he paused to listen for the sound of other human footsteps. But all he heard was the scuttle of chipmunks and grouse and the splash of a heron fishing in the pond.

  He consulted the compass frequently. If his calculations were correct, the lean-to should be right in this area. But no matter how he reviewed the logic of his work, the lean-to refused to appear. Clumsy with exhaustion, he caught his toe on a root and nearly fell. Time to sit down and rest. He perched on a fallen log and fished a granola bar out of his pack. The forest looked different from this angle. Away from the water, there was less undergrowth. He could see twenty feet in every direction between the tall, widely spaced hardwood trees.

  Green. Brown. Gray.

  The lean-to would also be grayish, would blend in with the landscape.

  His gaze continued to roam—right to left, left to right.

  A spot of orange.

  Wearily, he pushed himself up to investigate.

  Just lichen growing on a log.

  Behind the log, he saw it: a spent rifle shell casing. Still shiny. It hadn’t been there long.

  Crouched on his knees, Frank could discern a faint path descending through the trees, the natural way one would walk to avoid obstacles.

  He followed this path up a slight rise. To his right, a hearty hemlock had sprouted in a tiny patch of soil on top of a huge boulder then sent its tenacious roots down to find nourishment on the forest floor.

  He smelled burnt wood.

  Frank edged around the boulder and there was the lean-to: a wooden platform wide enough for two men to stretch out on, framed by three rough walls and covered by a sloping roof. Although the front side was completely open, the lean-to still provided decent protection against the rain and the cold, damp ground.

  Charred logs rested inside a circle of stones in front of the lean-to. The camper had rigged a bag high between two trees to keep his food supply away from bears. Signs of Ronnie were everywhere: the sleeping bag he’d stolen from the house on Giant View, the backpack he’d taken from the first vacation home. A pair of socks hung to dry over a support beam. No direct evidence of RJ, but he could be sharing this camp.

  No Ronnie. No gun.

  He was out on the hunt.

  Frank found a secure hiding place on the far side of the boulder.

  He settled in to wait.

  Two hours later, a single rifle shot echoed in the distance.

  No more.

  If Ronnie had been successful, he’d be heading back to eat his catch. Frank took the opportunity to stretch. Then he drew his weapon and positioned himself for the best view of the lean-to.

  Within fifteen minutes, Frank heard footsteps. He strained his ears: one walker or two? Certainly, there was no attempt at stealth.

  Out of the twilight shadows, Ronnie appeared at the crest of the hill holding a dead possum in his left hand and his rifle in his right.

  Frank held his breath and watched the trail behind his prey.

  No sound. No movement.

  No RJ.

  Humming under his breath, Ronnie propped the rifle against the side of the lean-to. Then he sat on the floor, pulled out a knife from his pack, and began to skin the animal. Frank couldn’t imagine how hungry he’d have to be to eat that.

  A scruffy, reddish-brown beard covered Ronnie’s face. His filthy hands shook slightly as he worked—that’s how hungry he must be. “C’mon now, get outta there.” Ronnie spoke to the dead possum as he scraped out its entrails. Who else did he have to talk to?

  He arranged the possum on a spit made of sharpened sticks. Then Ronnie set about making his fire.

  The wood was damp and the breeze had kicked up, so the spark of flame refused to catch. Ronnie became completely engrossed in his project, cursing his failures.

  The target was twenty feet away. Facing Frank, yet unaware of his presence. Frank knew he could shoot Ronnie right now and then place the hunting rifle in the fugitive’s hands.

  Clearly, self-defense. There wouldn’t even be an investigation.

  Do it.

  He saw Earl crumpled like a discarded doll at the base of that ledge. Saw him wired to machines and tubes in the hospital.

  Do it.

  Saw him patiently negotiating…saw him rescuing the kids at Happy Camper. Saw him accepting his award for Best Community Policing.

  When Ronnie hunkered down over the fire with his face inches from the ground, Frank sprang.

  In one movement, he kicked the rifle toward the woods. Ronnie looked up and found Frank’s Smith and Wesson inches from his head.

  “Lay flat on the ground. Put your hands behind you,” Frank ordered.

  The feral rage of a cornered animal glowed in Ronnie’s eyes.

  Would Ronnie resist? Would he force Frank to kill him?

  Frank pressed the g
un into Ronnie’s temple. “It’s over, Ronnie. Time to come in.”

  The tension drained out of him. Ronnie Gatrell stretched out on the ground and allowed Frank to cuff him.

  Frank stood and studied his prey.

  Could the end be that easy?

  “You can’t leave me here tied up overnight. That possum will attract bears.” Ronnie had begun complaining within minutes of his capture. “I have grease and blood on my clothes. I’ll be mauled to death.”

  What a fitting end for Ronnie that would be! “Don’t tempt me,” Frank growled. “We’re hiking out of here at dawn.”

  Frank lit the fire and cleared away the disgusting possum.

  “Hey, I’m hungry. I wanted to eat that.”

  Frank said nothing, just continued to set up the camp. He unrolled his sleeping bag on the platform and threw Ronnie’s over him as a blanket where he sat tied to the post.

  “This ain’t warm enough,” Ronnie complained.

  Frank stepped out of the circle of firelight and relieved himself against a tree.

  “Hey, untie my hands for a minute. I need to pee, too.”

  Frank spun around. “Piss down your leg. You never get to choose again, understand? Earl can’t feed himself. Earl can’t take himself to the bathroom. Earl can’t cover himself. So now you get to live like that too. That’s your future, Ronnie.”

  Ronnie squirmed against his restraints. “I didn’t mean to shoot him. It was an accident.”

  Frank crouched down two feet from Ronnie’s face. “When you shoot a gun in the direction of a police officer and the bullet hits him, that’s assault with intent to kill. The law doesn’t care if you took careful aim or not.”

  “I only hit his leg. It’s not my fault he landed on his head when he fell.” Ronnie whined like a ball-playing child claiming a lamp had leapt to its own demise. “A good lawyer can get me off.”

  A lawyer? Ronnie sounded like every other two-bit punk Frank had ever arrested. Where was the revolutionary? “I thought we were on the brink of war,” Frank goaded. “When the banks collapse and the new world order begins, won’t your Resist or Die comrades liberate you from jail?”

  Ronnie laughed, an ugly sound that morphed into a hacking cough. “Had everyone going pretty good with that one, didn’t I?” He wheezed and spit into the bushes. “Money is the only thing that liberates anyone. Don’t you worry, my liberation is coming.”

  “So the game was just a way to get RJ and other people to help you?” Frank stood over Ronnie and prodded him with his boot. “You know your son is out here somewhere looking for you?”

  “Stupid kid shouldn’t have brought that girl with him. I told him, bitches mess with your head. I wouldn’t be in this fix now if he’d’a listened to me and done things right.”

  “Done what right? Who’s helping RJ?”

  Ronnie curled on his side. “You talk too much, Bennett. You better get your beauty sleep if we’re hiking out at dawn.”

  A mix of adrenaline and anger kept Frank awake all night, but he didn’t feel sleepy when he loaded his backpack for the hike out. He rousted Ronnie, shoved a granola bar in his mouth to silence his complaints, and set about instituting the plan he’d developed to control his prisoner on the hike out. He loosened the rope binding Ronnie’s legs just enough to allow the prisoner to take short, shuffling steps. Then he looped a rope around Ronnie’s waist and tied it to his own waist with five feet of play in the line. He fastened it with a slipknot. If Ronnie tugged, the rope would tighten, but if Frank pulled the short end the knot would quickly release.

  The prisoner had to lead, so Frank strapped the headlamp to Ronnie’s head. Slowly, they made their way down the trail in the dim light. Ronnie stumbled frequently and twice fell to one knee, howling in protest. Truthfully, it was hard to hike without being able to use his hands for balance, but Ronnie had proved he couldn’t be trusted. If the hike out took twice as long as the hike in, so be it.

  When they reached Veazey Pond, Frank figured the hike would get easier. Yesterday, he had bushwhacked around the far side of the pond to get to the lean-to, but today they could stay on the marked trail keeping the pond to their right. He checked the map and estimated they had only two more miles to go. They trudged along in silence, Ronnie finally accepting his fate.

  Half a mile further on, Frank’s ears pricked at the sound of rushing water. He hadn’t encountered that on the way in. They climbed a short hill, and the stream came into sight, tumbling headlong down the slope to their left and eventually emptying into the pond. In the summer, you could probably cross the stream by stepping from rock to rock, but the spring rains and snowmelt had swollen it to a raging torrent. All stones except one large boulder were submerged in the swift current.

  Ronnie turned and grinned at Frank. “Now what, boss?”

  Slightly downhill from where they stood, a large tree had fallen across the stream, its trunk about a foot above the surging water. Using this log as a balance beam was the only way to cross the stream. The alternative would be to backtrack and circle the pond, adding two more miles onto the hike.

  Ronnie must have passed this spot multiple times on his way to the tree stand, so he knew they’d encounter this obstacle. He hadn’t warned Frank because he wanted to put him in this bind. Risk the crossing or endure the long detour.

  “I can’t walk that log with my hands tied behind my back.” Ronnie shook his tied wrists. “Untie me until we get across.”

  “Not an option.” Frank studied the log, reviewing everything that could go wrong. Only ten steps across, but a stumble would be disastrous. He couldn’t cross tied to Ronnie and risk being pulled into the water if Ronnie fell. If he untied the rope that joined them without untying Ronnie’s hands, Ronnie could try to run on the other side while Frank crossed. But he couldn’t run fast, and Frank was armed. The bigger worry was that once across, Ronnie might kick the log to knock Frank off.

  They should turn around.

  Frank knew this, but he couldn’t bear the extra miles. Two more miles of bugs. Two more miles of hunger. Two more miles of exhaustion. He wanted this over.

  Ronnie would cross that log with his hands tied and wait on the other side or Frank would blow his head off. Simple as that.

  Frank untied the rope from his waist, leaving it dangling from Ronnie’s. He drew his weapon, using it to direct Ronnie. “Walk across and wait for me by that rock next to the trail. Don’t try anything stupid.”

  Ronnie’s eyes met his. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. The petulance and defiance had drained out of him. Ronnie nodded, turned, and started across, the rope trailing behind him like a long tail.

  Frank stood on the bank holding the rope loosely so it wouldn’t trip his prisoner. Ronnie stepped onto the log, swayed, righted himself. Wisely, he didn’t look down but kept his eyes focused on a tree on the other side.

  Three steps. Four. He was out in the middle now, the water roaring just inches beneath his feet. Five more steps and he’d be across. Once Ronnie moved away from the log, Frank would toss the rope across and make his own journey, keeping his weapon drawn.

  Ronnie took two more steps and the rope grew taut. Frank had misjudged. He might have to let the rope go before Ronnie reached the far bank. Frank took a step closer to the log and draped the rope along it.

  Ronnie stopped.

  “What’s the matter?” Frank called, but his words disappeared in the roar of the water.

  Ronnie turned ninety degrees.

  Then Frank heard it. “Dad? Dad!”

  Ronnie went into the water.

  Chapter 44

  Frank lunged for the rope he’d just laid down. It ripped through his fingers as the brutal current swept Ronnie downstream.

  Jumping in after Ronnie was pointless. No one could swim in surging whitewater. Frank crossed the log so quickly he didn’t have time to feel nervous.

  As he stepped onto the bank on the other side, RJ emerged from the woods.

 
“Where’s my dad?” Filthy, cold, scared—the kid looked half his fourteen years.

  No time or energy for explanations. Frank pointed to the rushing stream and raced down the trail toward the pond. As the raging water coursed beside him, he caught one flash of Ronnie’s green jacket tumbling past.

  His mind churned as quickly as his legs. Had Ronnie jumped? Is that really what he’d seen? In the split second before Ronnie had left the log, Frank could have sworn he saw Ronnie bend his knees to push off.

  Or had Ronnie lost his balance because Frank had made him walk across the log with his hands tied? Or because RJ had startled him?

  Maybe Frank simply wanted Ronnie to have jumped.

  Would Ronnie be drowned by the time the stream deposited him in the calmer water of the pond? Drowned because of Frank’s irresponsibility? Or was this Ronnie’s last crazy bid for freedom in front of his son? Could a man in a drenched down coat, heavy boots, and shackled legs pull himself out of the water?

  Maybe a man couldn’t, but what about a cat with nine lives?

  Frank reached the mouth of the stream. Ripples fanned across the pond. Two loons swam by. No sign of a body. No sign of footprints on the bank.

  Frank spun around. Where was RJ? Hadn’t he followed Frank down the trail?

  “RJ? RJ! Come here.”

  The only sound was the water surging into the pond.

  Is this how the long chase ended? What if the police divers never found Ronnie’s body? Would he live on as a folk legend out here in the backcountry, people whispering that Ronnie Gatrell still roamed the forest? Roamed it with his son?

  A wave of rage surged up in Frank’s gut. He shut his eyes and screamed.

  Chapter 45

  For once, Frank had to agree that Meyerson’s anger at him was entirely justified.

  “You went after Gatrell with no back-up, lost him again, and now his kid’s missing too.”

  “Ronnie’s gotta be dead. Even if he made it out of the water, he’d die of exposure with no dry clothes,” Frank said, trying to convince himself.