Witness In The Woods. Michele HaufЧитать онлайн книгу.
a conservation officer, he spent 90 percent of his time roaming the woods and lakes in his territory. He knew this area. But he hadn’t spent much time on this lake. It was small and usually only boated by the residents living around it.
Antsy, and wishing he’d taken an hour in the gym this morning to work out, he bounced on his feet. His hiking boots were not the most comfortable for such movement, but he liked to stay limber. He snapped up his knee and kicked out in a Muay Thai move that could knock an opponent flat.
He’d developed an interest in martial arts from watching his mother practice her moves from the karate class she’d taken when her boys were younger. He’d started with karate, but after watching a few National Geographic specials and sports TV, he’d fallen in love with the ultrahigh kicks and swift elbow strikes Muay Thai offered. It was all about brute power. It worked his body in every way possible, and kept him limber and sharp. And a well-honed body only enhanced an ever-growing soul. He was constantly learning. His greatest teachers? Nature and the wildlife he had taken an oath to protect.
But honestly? It was a good means to get out his anger by kicking the sandbag now and then.
Pausing at the harsh, croaking call of a blue heron, Joe lifted his head and closed his eyes. He had to smile at that sound. Such utter peace here, away from the city and major highways. He opened his eyes, scanning the treetops in hopes of seeing the heron nest, but the canopy was thick. The last slivers of sunlight glinted like stars.
A car honked and Joe waved to the approaching patrol car. Brent Kofax was with the sheriff’s department. In cases where someone had been shot, or threatened, they usually joined the investigation. He stepped out of the car and gave Joe a thumbs-up. Joe had worked with Brent on a few occasions when backup was necessary. Usually when he knew he’d be approaching a boat full of drunk fishermen, or that one time Joe had needed someone to help him sort out steel traps from a burned-out Quonset building.
“What do you have tonight, Cash?”
Joe shook Brent’s hand and pointed over his shoulder toward the lake. “The Davis woman who lives across the lake was shot at earlier this evening. Judging by the trajectory of the hit, I’m guessing the shooter might have been in the woods about a quarter mile up. I need another set of eyes. You ready to do some hiking?”
“I always know you’ll give me a workout when I answer your calls. Already changed into hiking boots. Let’s do this!”
From his car Joe grabbed a backpack that contained evidence-collection supplies, water and snacks, as well as a compass and other survival equipment. He never ventured into the woods without it. At his hip, he wore his pistol, a Glock .40 caliber. Brent carried a 12-gauge pump shotgun, standard issue nowadays.
The two men picked carefully through the brush and grasses, dodging roots and ducking low-hanging pine tree branches. Brent was an avid hunter, unlike Joe, but he wouldn’t criticize the man’s need to kill innocent animals for food. The day he started doing that was the day he volunteered to have his life held under a microscope and examined for faults. He had many, but cruelty to animals was not one of them. His anti-hunting stance got him some razzing from his fellow conservation officers. They tended to think that COs with wildlife management training let their love for nature get in the way of their police work. The opposite was true. Joe protected the citizens as well as the animals.
They hiked half a mile through thick pine and aspen. The sun had set, and he and Brent were now using flashlights, but the moon was three-quarters full and there was still some ambient light glimmering off the calm lake water. Thanks to Joe’s sharp eye, they found a deer trail, as well as scat droppings under some fallen maple leaves. Their path kept them within a thirty-foot distance from the lake shore. The shooter would have gotten close enough to the edge of the forest for a good, clear shot, Joe decided. Thankful for the beaten-down brush, he tracked until he spotted shell casings. Ballistic evidence. Excellent.
They stood twenty feet in from the lakeshore, well camouflaged by tall brush and a frond of wild fern. With shell casings just behind him, and the grass trampled down around them, Joe figured this was where the shooter had been positioned. He studied the ground, which was folded-down marsh grass and moss. If it had been dirt, he might have found impressions from a tripod the shooter would have surely utilized to hold steady aim and sight in the Davis property nearly a mile across the lake, as well as shoe tracks.
“You never cease to amaze me,” Brent commented as he bent to shine his flashlight on the shell casings. “What? Did you grow up in the woods like Mowgli, or something?”
“I think Mowgli lived in the jungle,” Joe commented. But there had been a time, in his family, when his brothers had referred to him as Mowgli, until they’d decided on the more annoying Nature Boy.
It wasn’t often a boy found himself lost in the woods for three days, and was finally led out and home by a pack of wolves. That experience had changed Joe’s life. First, his parents had hugged him and showered him with kisses. Then, they’d grounded him for wandering off by himself without taking a cell phone along, despite the fact that it wasn’t easy to call home in the middle of the Boundary Waters where cell towers were few and far between. But Joe had taken the punishment and had used it to study up on wolves, and from that day forward his direction had been clear. He wanted to work with wildlife and protect them from the hazards of living so close to humans.
“You got an evidence kit in that backpack?” Brent asked. “I left mine in the car.” He stood and flashed his beam around where they stood, hooking his rifle up on a shoulder.
“Always.” Taking a pair of black latex gloves out of the backpack, Joe collected the two metal shell casings and put them in a plastic bag he usually used for collecting marine specimens from boats docked on lake shores. He’d seen the two bullet holes in the hitching post by the fire pit.
That the first bullet had nicked Skylar’s ear told him someone did not want her dead. Whoever had pulled the trigger had skills similar to his brother Jason. To come so close without harming her? Such a shot required nerves of steel and perfect timing.
The second shot must have zinged within a foot of her body. Enough to scare the hell out of anyone. Any woman—or man—would have fainted or run screaming. He’d figured Skylar had taken it calmly, until he’d seen her falter beside the fire pit. He’d left her sipping brandy with Stella curled at her feet. She’d insisted she didn’t want protection overnight, but Joe considered sending out a patrol officer to park down the long drive that led to her property.
Or he might do that himself. He’d been up since five, had hit the lake at six and had spent a hot day out on the water. It was late now, and he was exhausted, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep if he left Skylar alone. He’d park at the end of the drive, and she’d never be the wiser. There were worse ways to spend a summer evening.
As he stood up from collecting the casings, his gaze caught something that was neither flora nor fauna. Brent took a step forward, his attention focused across the lake, and—
Joe swore and lunged into a kick that caught the officer on his hip, hitting none too gently and throwing him off course.
“What the hell, man?” Brent had dropped his flashlight and rifle, and splayed his hands in question before him.
The flashlight rolled and stopped with a clink. Both men looked to the spot where Brent had almost stepped. Joe cautiously approached the oak tree. His flashlight swept the ground, taking it all in, watching for a steel trap. But he knew he wouldn’t find it, because the set snare wasn’t usually used in tandem with such a trap.
The flashlight beam fell over the snare trap—a light wire cable anchored to the base of the oak. If any animal stepped on that, the loop would tighten about their leg. Or worse—if they sniffed the bait peeking out from under some wet aspen leaves, it would become a noose and string them up, likely breaking their neck. In a worst-case scenario, the noose would not snap and the animal would be suspended, alive, left to slowly suffocate until the poacher returned.
“Bastards,” Joe muttered.
“I almost