Chapter 8 #2
Cash balked at the sudden change of temperature in the conversation, exchanging a glance with Colcord. No matter—-this was something better looked into with a warrant.
The sound of a horse nickering floated through the window, with someone shouting. Brooksfield’s brow furrowed at the gravelly sound of an approaching car.
Paul came ambling in the front door, and Margie jumped up to embrace him. Even though she was fairly tall, the top of her head hardly reached Paul’s chest.
“You all right? Must have been horrible finding him like that,” Cash heard Margie whisper to Paul.
Paul grunted in assent, stroking the back of her head fondly, before gently moving past her so he could address Cash and Colcord.
“Do you need anything else from us?” Paul asked. “It’s been a long day, and we’re both tired.”
“Just a couple of questions for you,” said Cash. “Margie mentioned a problem with hikers sometimes trespassing on your land. Has that happened recently?”
“Yes—-four of them passed through not that long ago.”
“When did you see them?”
“About a week, or maybe more.”
“Can you think back, please, and be more specific? The date could be important.”
After a moment, he said, “Nine days. I’m sure of it, because it was the same day that Adam—-that’s my son—-got bucked off and took a spill.”
“Can you show us where?” Cash asked.
Paul nodded.
“I’m going to check on the bees,” Margie said, trotting out the front door.
Paul motioned for them to follow him out the back door. They left the covered porch and rounded a paddock recently seeded with grass.
“This paddock isn’t being used right now,” Paul explained, picking his way around some old cow patties. “We use rotational grazing. Rests our grass and distributes the cow shit best. But these back pastures are harder to monitor, since they’re behind the hill.”
At the far of the paddock, a line of pines started beyond the fence. Paul pointed to the trees.
“This is where I last saw them. All four duded up in fancy Gore--Tex camo. I bet they never hunted a day in their lives. Denver yuppies who think they can just hike through private land.” He glowered. “I’ve got a loaded shotgun here. One of these days, I’m gonna give ’em a scare.”
“You’re sure there were four?”
“I just got a glimpse of them from afar—-could’ve been more.”
“Packs?”
“Yeah. They were loaded down.”
Colcord turned his eyes to the ground. Beyond the fence, along the verge of the pines, was a layer of soft moss, and in it, he could see some indented footprints. He motioned for Cash, pointing them out. She nodded.
“Thank you, Mr. Brooksfield. You’ve been very helpful, and I appreciate you answering our questions. Mind if we look around some more?” Cash asked.
Paul assented, and they said their goodbyes. His big frame ambled back over the pasture over the hill toward the house.
Colcord had spent months in mountainous terrain in northern Iraq, desert landscapes like Anbar, and in the dense urban streets of Baghdad and Fallujah early in the Iraq War.
He had learned to track with sensors and other surveillance tech as well as without.
Despite his experience, when he knelt to inspect the moss to see if anyone had passed through, it took a couple of minutes of searching before he could find any sign of travelers.
The hikers seemed to have been careful, and nine days was a long time for tracks to be preserved.
Luckily, it hadn’t rained. Finally, he found more faint tracks across a boggy patch of moss at the tree line.
Four individuals, going into the wilderness.
No return tracks visible. Colcord snapped a few pictures with his cell phone.
“I’m gonna follow these tracks.” Colcord straightened, looking for the next sign. “Only step where I’m stepping, Cash.”
It took him awhile, but around twenty feet farther into the woods, he spied it: a crushed fern.
He took another photo. Around thirty more feet into the forest, Colcord found a patch of marsh grass that bowed in the opposite direction as the other blades.
Upon closer inspection, he realized that it had been flattened and then, curiously, it seemed like someone had attempted to restraighten the grass manually.
He was sure of it now: Whoever had been through here was covering their tracks.
After a few minutes more of searching, Colcord found a pine cone that had been scuffed from the forest floor.
A quarter mile in, they reached an old barbed wire fence that was evidently the property line.
Searching along it, Colcord located the place where the wires had been pulled apart to climb through, and then re-adjusted to give the impression that nobody had passed.
He saw more signs of displaced needles and forest litter on the ground on either side.
After climbing through the fence, they continued on.
Whoever had come through here had been extremely careful in placing their feet. There were almost no clear footprints, something difficult to achieve in this swampy terrain. He had to admit, he was impressed.
“Camo,” Cash said. “Is that usual outside of hunting season?”
“Everyone wears camo these days,” said Colcord. “It’s become a fashion statement.” He took out a compass and took a bearing. “It appears as if their trail is heading straight for Solitary Lake.”
Cash swatted at mosquitoes that were now swarming around them in clouds. “I’m getting eaten alive here.”
“Whoa, take a look at this.” He spied half a clear footprint in a pocket of fine sand. Colcord knelt. “Fresh lugs, new boot.” He took some photos,
marked the location on his GPS, and straightened. He walked along farther, hunched over and peering at the ground, looking for a sign, but try as he might, he couldn’t pick up the trail again. “We need to get Romanski out here.”
“Nice work, Indiana Jones.”
“Fortune and glory, kid.” Colcord grinned.
Bitten and muddy, Colcord and Cash made their way through the back pastures toward the driveway once more. Colcord tried to make sense of what he had seen. Four individuals wearing camo, hiking
toward Solitary Lake, covering their tracks, carrying big packs. This wasn’t just some lone killer. But why this elaborate effort to torture and murder an old man living in the mountains—-if not for his money—-and then embalm him? Colcord couldn’t make sense of it.
A high--pitched whinny interrupted his ponderings as he walked by the front pasture.
He watched as a teenage kid with cornrows tried to control an Appaloosa colt.
The horse reared above the boy, who shouted, pulling on the lead, raising the other arm instinctually.
That was certainly the wrong move, and the horse—-wide--eyed and frothing—-squealed again as it came down hard, jerking the rope out of the boy’s hands and galloping toward the fence, the lead flapping after it—-straight at Colcord.
Spotting a rope coiled around a fence post, Colcord sprinted toward it.
The horse launched over the fence. Colcord breathed hard, concentrating.
He would only get one throw before the colt was out of range.
Coils in his left hand, tail and loop in his right, Colcord swung and tossed the rope as he had so many times on his own ranch as a kid.
He was rusty and thought for a second the loop would slide off the side of the colt’s nose, but it landed square around the Appaloosa’s neck and tightened.
The colt reared again, dropped back down, and, feeling the rope around its neck, finally stopped, blowing hard through its nostrils.
“Darn, I’m sorry, mister.” The boy vaulted himself over the fence, kicking up dust. “Fritz doesn’t usually get boogered like this. That was some nice roping there.”
Cash jogged up. “Wow, everything okay?”
Colcord cautiously approached and laid his hand on Fritz’s neck, noticing the horse was shaking and slick with sweat. “He’s not just spooked, he’s terrified.”
“They’ve all been skittish for a while, for some reason. My name’s Adam, sir.” Adam held out a hand politely.
“Colcord. What’s the cause of it, do you think?”
Adam shrugged, then shaded his eyes to look across to the mountains. “I don’t know. Wolves, maybe. They released some around here last year.”
Colcord looked around, noticing the other horses were shifting about nervously. Something was making these horses restless, and he could feel it too—-the same sense of malignancy he had gotten at the cabin.