Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Barrett
I wait at the trailhead all damn evening.
You’d think any law enforcement would be in a hurry for a murder investigation.
Nothing could be further from the truth when one solitary deputy’s vehicle finally pulls up.
“You’re the one who reported a gunshot wound?”
It’s the same guy as before, who came up to my cabin to tell me he couldn’t do anything about the thief.
“I sure am. Are you the only one coming?”
“Well, if someone’s already dead, I don’t think I need backup, do I? Unless you’re the shooter, haha!”
This young man is a buffoon.
I blink at him, suddenly thinking I should keep my mouth shut.
I watch him examine the body from a distance, snapping pictures with his phone and scribbling in a notepad.
“Aren’t you going to call the forensics? Homicide?”
The deputy chuckles. “A homicide unit. Where do you think you are? Billings?”
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“Serious as a doornail.”
That makes no sense, but I don’t respond. If I do open my mouth too much, I’m afraid I’ll get all riled up and punch this moron in the throat.
I stand there with my arms crossed, watching him text someone on his phone.
“Pretty sure you call in the FBI if you don’t have a unit to handle this. And depending on where he was shot and where the body was dumped, a crime could have occurred on Native land.”
Deputy Mark, all of 24 years old, shoots me a condescending look. “Are you in law enforcement?”
I don’t answer. He doesn’t need to know dick about me.
“Didn’t think so. I suggest you be on your way, Boy Scout, and let me do my job investigating this hunting accident.”
Hunting accident?
Instead, I park my ass back on the fallen log and wait. I don’t know what it is about this guy, but I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him.
“You’re now interfering with a police investigation by loitering.”
If this guy decides to book me, I plan to smile in my mug shot. “Don’t you need a statement from me, the guy who found that poor son of a bitch?”
Suddenly, three more units come wailing down the gravel road and pull over at the trailhead.
An older officer gets out, slams her driver’s door, and shouts, “Deputy, why the hell is this not roped off yet?”
Sure wish I had some soda and popcorn instead of homemade trail mix while I watch the shitshow.
After a thorough dressing down, the sergeant turns to me and takes a statement.
We exchange contact information in case she has more questions later.
I shake her hand. “I’ll be in touch if I see anything suspicious.”
“We appreciate that.” She turns to Mark in a commanding tone. “Deputy, you’re dismissed. Please give this man a ride back to his house. It’s too dark to hike back to wherever he came from.”
The last thing I want is to spend another minute with that dude, but I will enjoy the fact that his sergeant put him in his place.
Despite this guy’s running commentary, I say nothing on the drive back up Windgrave Mountain.
“Bet your wife is wondering where you are.”
Silence.
“You must be one of those rich Hollywood guys buying up land in Montana like it’s your personal playground.”
Again, silence.
“Hey, I remember this place,” he says as his headlights illuminate the front of the cabin. “You’re the one who reported a hiker stealing some firewood. Crime of the century, haha!”
I say nothing as I exit the car, closing the passenger door a little too roughly because I want to get away from his energy before I pop him in the nose.
I arrive home tired, cold, starving, filthy—and nauseated from seeing that dead body.
And I’m happy to be home. I watch the patrol car disappear down the mountain before I’m ready for a hot shower.
As soon as I get clean, I plan to eat a steak the size of my house, then sleep for ten days straight. Maybe call my therapist. Or maybe I’ll hibernate until spring comes in earnest because I don’t want to deal with other humans for a long time. No more people, cops, and, least of all, dead bodies.
I kick off my boots on the porch and go inside.
It’s not until I’ve stripped down in the bathroom that I sense something is off.
My spine stiffens at the sight of little puddles of water in the tub. Not just water, but foam residue.
Pretty sure I didn’t take a bubble bath before I left.
No one has touched that fancy shit since my sister visited and insisted on leaving it behind in case I ever have a “special friend” visit in the future.
That was over a year ago.
Maybe she’s back, I tell myself.
But that can’t be right. Rachel would call me first. She knows better.
Then I notice it’s not just the tub that is off. The bathroom TV remote is perched on the window’s ledge next to the tub, not where I usually leave it—in a basket on the counter.
I pick my jeans up off the floor and unsheathe my hunting knife while my heart races inside my chest. It’s a bad habit, leaving that lying on the floor with my dirty laundry, anyway.
Someone is here—or was, recently.
Leaving the bathroom, I look behind every door and peer into every shadowy place.
In the great room, my eyes scan everything before catching several things wrong with this picture. By the sofa is a pair of hiking boots and a depression in the leather cushion on the end. And the built-in recliner hasn’t been put back properly. I tighten my grip on the handle of the hunting knife. Someone’s gonna get stabbed.
I sniff the air, noticing something else strange.
Then I see it: there’s a small saucepot on the stove. With my knife at the ready, I spin around and scan my surroundings, making sure I’m not about to get jumped.
I approach the stove and look in the pot, prepared to see a boiled bunny or something equally horrific. Instead, it’s the remains of …oatmeal? And whoever made oatmeal here also left the honey and cinnamon sitting out, and a sticky ring on the counter.
My logical brain tells me this has everything to do with the killer on the loose and that it must be the same person who I caught trespassing and stealing my shit in my security feed.
Someone is in my house. I can feel it. They have a gun, and all I have is a hunting knife.
I should leave right now. I should call the sergeant who gave me her number, but I know it’ll be that Mark guy who responds. I’d rather get jumped than talk to that guy again, frankly.
I examine every nook and cranny, leaving the bedroom for last.
That’s the only place left he could be.
Backing myself against the wall next to the bedroom door, I count down from three, getting ready to knock someone on their ass if they wave a gun at me.
Three, two, one.