The Guardian. Cindi MyersЧитать онлайн книгу.
seat creaked as he shifted his weight. “We’re an interagency task force formed to address rising crime in the park and surrounding lands—much of it drug related.” He cut his eyes to her. “Just be careful out there. Good idea to carry that Sig.”
“When I applied for my backcountry permit at the ranger station, they told me to watch out for snakes. No one said anything about drug dealers or murderers.”
“Most tourists will never know they’re there. And how many people who visit the park ever step off the main road or popular trails?”
“Not many,” she said. “I almost never see anyone when I’m out in the backcountry.” Which had made her encounter with Mariposa all the more remarkable. “If I do see anything suspicious, I’ll stay far away,” she said. “All I want to do is collect some plant specimens and get back to my research.”
They both fell silent as the Cruiser bumped over the rutted, sometimes muddy road. Though it was already early June, most of the usually dry arroyos trickled with snowmelt, and grass that would later turn a papery brown looked green and lush. Abby spotted several small herds of deer grazing in the distance, and a cluster of pronghorn antelope that exploded into life as the vehicles trundled past, bouncing away in stiff-legged leaps.
Finally her GPS indicated they were near the area where she’d found the body. “Pull over anywhere,” she said. “We’ll have to walk in from here.”
Michael stopped the Cruiser alongside the road and Graham slid his vehicle in behind them. The officers opened up the backs of the Cruisers and pulled out packs, canteens and, in Graham’s case, a semiautomatic rifle. They were going in loaded for bear, she supposed in case they ran into any of the bad guys.
Graham indicated she should lead the way. GPS in hand, she set out walking. The officers fell in behind in classic patrol formation. Abby’s heart raced. She slipped her hand into the front pocket of her jeans and wrapped it around the rabbit charm. Nothing to worry about, she reminded herself. You’re in Colorado. In a national park. No snipers here.
But of course, the dead man she’d found earlier reminded her that the serene landscape was not as safe as it seemed.
They walked for an hour before they came to the patch of desert parsley she’d harvested earlier. She noted the freshly turned earth where she’d dug up her specimen. “There’s the boulder I hid behind.” She pointed to the large rock, then walked over to it, trying to remember everything she’d done in those moments before she discovered the body. “I started walking this way.”
She led the way, the other three moving silently behind her. A few minutes later she spotted the pink bandanna she’d left tied to the branch of a piñon. “There.” She pointed. “The body is by that tree.”
She stopped and let the three officers move past.
She watched from a distance as they surveyed the body. Carmen took a number of photographs, then they fanned out, searching the ground—for clues, she supposed. She stood in the shade of the piñon, wishing she were anywhere else. She’d thought she’d put killing and bodies behind her when she left Afghanistan. The wilderness was supposed to be a place of peace, not violence.
Michael returned to her side. “You doing okay?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
She felt his gaze on her, but he didn’t press, for which she was grateful. “Which direction did the men you saw come from?” he asked after a moment.
“From over there, near that wash.” She nodded in the direction of the shallow depression in the terrain.
Graham joined them. “We’ll need to seal off this area and send a team out to collect evidence.”
“We need to figure out where he came from,” Michael said. “There might be a camp somewhere nearby.”
“Where are you camped, Ms. Stewart?” Graham asked.
“I’m in the South Rim Campground.”
“Let us know if you decide to move into town or return to your home, in case we have questions,” Graham said.
“I’d planned to stay here for another week to ten days,” she said. “I’ve only just begun collecting the specimens I need.”
“This part of the park will be off-limits to the public for most of that time, I’m afraid,” Graham said. “Until we determine it’s safe.”
He was going to close the backcountry? “That really isn’t acceptable,” she said. “I’m not some naive tourist, stumbling around, but I really need to collect these specimens to complete my research.”
“You’ll have to find them somewhere else. Until I decide it’s safe, this section of the park is closed.”
The three officers studied her, expressions impassive, implacable. She turned away, and her gaze fell on the body on the ground. All she could see was the feet, but they lay there with the stillness of a mannequin. Lifeless, a cruel joke played out in the desert.
She hated having her plans thwarted, but she knew Graham and the others were right. Until they knew who had killed this man and why, they had to err on the side of caution. “Fine. There are other places in the backcountry where I can look for specimens.”
“Let us know...”
But Graham never finished the sentence. Bark exploded from the trunk of a tree beside her. “Get down!” Michael yelled, and shoved her to the ground as bullets whistled over their heads.
In the silence that followed the burst of gunfire, the drum of Michael’s pulse in his ears was so loud he was sure everyone could hear it. He slowed his breathing and strained his ears, alert for any clue about the shooter. Beneath him, Abby shifted, and he became aware of her ragged breathing. She shoved and he realized he was crushing her. Better crushed than shot, he thought, but he eased up a fraction of an inch, putting more of his weight on his hands, braced on the ground beneath his shoulders, and his knees, straddled on either side of her.
They lay in a depression in the ground, a shallow wash pocked with rocks and low scrub and a few stunted piñons. Turning his head, Michael spotted Graham and Carmen about five feet away. His eyes met Graham’s. The supervisor looked angry enough to chew nails.
“Who’s shooting at us?” Abby whispered, her voice so low he wondered at first if he’d imagined the question.
“Sniper,” Graham answered. “I make his hide site about three hundred yards to the south, on that slight rise.”
Michael turned his head, but he couldn’t see anything except grass and dirt and the trunk of a piñon. They were too exposed here for him to even lift his head.
“He must be wearing a ghillie suit,” Carmen said. “I can’t see a thing.” Michael turned back to look at her and realized she was half sitting behind a boulder. She’d pulled binoculars from her pack and was scanning the area.
“What’s someone out here doing with a ghillie suit?” Abby asked.
Michael had been wondering the same thing. In a training course he’d taken, he’d seen men in the cumbersome camouflage suits covered with twigs and leaves so that when the wearer froze, he blended in completely with the surrounding landscape. It wasn’t something you could pick up at your local outdoor supplier.
“They could have stolen one from the military, or made their own,” Graham said. “These drug operations spare no expense to protect their business. That sniper rifle he’s got is probably military issue, or close to it.”
Graham shifted, reaching for his radio; the movement was enough to draw another blast of gunfire, bullets spitting into the dirt in front of them. Abby flinched, jolting against Michael. “Are you okay?” he whispered.