My vision narrowed to a single focus. I slowed and shuffled through the carpet of loose straw. I didn’t want to see but couldn’t look away.
A foot extended from one denim-clad leg. The pants disappeared into the pile of motionless hay.
Reaching forward with a trembling hand, I brushed the dried grass from where I figured his face would be.
Riccardo Rinaldi. The young man’s white face was in stark contrast to the blood around his lips. I knelt beside him and touched his neck, feeling for a pulse I didn’t believe would be there.
He opened his eyes, then closed them.
I started to stand and go for help, but the light from the loft glinted on something. I stared at it, trying to figure out what I was looking at. Two pieces of metal. Pointed. Bloody. From the center of his chest.
Bile rose in my throat. Oh no.
Riccardo had landed on a pitchfork.
I jumped to my feet and ran, not stopping until I was out of the barn. I slid to a halt, frantically searching for help. Next to the lodge, Wyatt was unloading the last of the supplies from the wagon. I raced to him, gasping for breath. “Barn. Riccardo. Fell. Pitchfork—”
He dropped the box of fresh vegetables and grabbed my arms. “How bad?”
“Bad.”
“Go find Roy. He should be in the dining room. Tell him to get on the radio and get a medivac chopper here immediately.” He turned me toward the lodge and shoved, then took off running to the barn.
I found Roy just entering the dining room. I was still sucking in air but made an effort this time to make cohesive sense.
Roy blanched as I described what happened. Without a word, he ran from the room.
I turned and found myself face-to-face with Teddy and Nona. Heat rushed to my face.
“Miss Graham, have you seen our—” Teddy peered at my expression. “Where?”
I opened and closed my mouth before I could squeak out, “Barn.”
They rushed past me.
Turning to stop them, I found they’d already crossed the distance to the barn. I should have kept my mouth shut. I’ve probably made things worse—
They entered the barn. Shortly after, Nona let out a guttural scream.
The anguish in her cry cut through me, leaving me dizzy. I should go help her, help someone, do something. I couldn’t move.
The sound drew the others, who gathered around me.
“What’s going on?”
“Who screamed?”
“Is it another bear?”
“What’s happening?”
The questions flew at me like small darts. Their pressing nearness threatened a panic attack.
Someone grabbed my arm and pulled me from the group. Cookie. Her lips were pulled down and a vein pounded in her forehead. “Folks, please head into the lodge. We’ll update you shortly. You come with me, Miz Graham.” She towed me to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. “Tell me what happened.”
After taking a gulp, I explained, trying to control my voice.
Cookie sucked in air, making a hissing sound. “Nasty business.” She looked at her watch. “The chopper will be here soon. You stay here while I—”
“I’m okay now. I want to help. I need to help.”
Cookie nodded. “Very well then. I’ll give you some things to take over to the barn. I’ll get Liam to finish unloading the wagon so we can use it. I’m sure Riccardo’s folks want to be with him, but the chopper can only evacuate one adult plus the patient. We’ll need the wagon to get any others to town.” Without waiting for me to respond, she bustled off, returning shortly with a clean sheet and blanket. “See if they can use these. I’ll try and calm the rest of the guests.”
I took the items and trotted to the barn.
Riccardo was already covered with a blanket. Roy and Wyatt were huddled over him while Nona was sitting cross-legged next to him holding his hand. Teddy stood behind her, hands on her shoulders.
Wyatt took the items from me and used the second blanket to slightly elevate Riccardo’s legs.
I shifted my weight from leg to leg. What should I do now?
You know.
My mind shifted to a symposium I’d attended years before on mass-disaster and crime-scene reconstruction. The presenters told of horrific experiences—Pan Am Flight 103 that crashed in Lockerbie, Scotland. The Challenger space shuttle disaster. The Hyatt Regency walkway collapse in Kansas City. In each case the presenters told what happened, what they did right, and what they did wrong. Again and again they shared how, out of compassion, first responders didn’t do their jobs. They wanted to help but often just got in the way.
I couldn’t help Riccardo right now. I had very little medical knowledge beyond basic first aid. But I did know about potential crime scenes.
I gazed up at the opening to the hayloft. How could Riccardo have fallen through that opening? It was over three feet square.
I backed away and walked to the other end of the hall, where the second access to the loft was located. Grabbing the ladder, I stopped. At that same symposium they talked about the effects of PTSD, which wasn’t well understood at the time. First responders were told they could get counseling, but if they did, it would be viewed as weakness and lack of professionalism. Marriages collapsed, families fell apart, careers ended, and suicides resulted.
Mental health had come a long way since then.
I rested my head against the ladder rung. What’s it going to be? Use my knowledge to look into his fall, or scamper off, tail between my legs, and whimper about having a PTSD moment? I hadn’t signed up for this. I was here to examine some documents. Interview a few people. Find either a pattern or a run of bad luck.
Not investigate potentially lethal accidents.
I scrambled up the ladder to the loft. The center of the barn was filled with hay bales neatly stacked and bound with orange baling twine. The air was rich with the mingled scents of hay, straw, alfalfa, and oats.
On the far side was a matching loft holding bales of the distinctly green timothy hay.
This loft had no bales, only a thick mat of loose hay. From where I stood, I couldn’t see the opening over Riccardo. I slowly walked forward, looking around for anything out of the ordinary.
I stopped when I reached the place where Riccardo had fallen, then knelt and inspected the area.
Below me, Riccardo’s parents were praying over their son.
Several new-looking nails had been hammered into the wood around the opening. Caught on one nail were several strands of orange baling twine.
Rocking back on my heels, I put a possible scenario together. Someone could have created a wolf pit type of trap. If baling twine was looped around the nails to form a base, then the loose hay spread over the top, the opening would disappear. Anyone could bait the trap by placing something on the far side. If Riccardo was the intended victim, most any electronic device would work. He’d head straight for the device. The twine wouldn’t hold any weight, and the victim would crash through, fall backward, and land on the conveniently placed pitchfork.
Cleanup would involve pulling any remaining twine and removing the bait.
I shook my head. Of course, all of this was speculation. Riccardo might have been exploring without looking where he was going.
When I was working for law enforcement, I could run my observations past my coworkers to be sure I was being objective. But here? I ran into a bear and thought it had been lured to that spot. A young man fell through a hayloft and I thought it was attempted murder. The therapist at Clan Firinn warned me that PTSD could warp how I viewed life and events.
The distant thumping of a helicopter announced help was on the way. The much closer barking of the dogs revealed an impending earthquake. The barn seemed to sigh and a cloud of dust rose with the mild quake.
Nona let out a short scream below me, and Riccardo moaned.
A lump formed in my throat. I hope he can get to a hospital in time.
I rose and moved toward th
e other end of the loft. By the time I climbed down the ladder and left the barn, I’d decided that whether it was imagination or reality, I needed to photograph the twine, then bag it as evidence.
And I had a whole lot more work to do to get to the truth.
Chapter 9
Roy was outside waving to the arriving helicopter. I stayed next to the barn until the copter landed.
Bram was the first to exit the chopper. He was out of uniform but had a holstered gun and carried a leather messenger bag.
My heart thumped a bit harder. Unbidden, Cookie’s comments rose in my mind. We’ve even started a betting pool as to who will get enough nerve to ask you on a date first: Bram or Wyatt. I squeezed my hands into fists. Silly and pointless speculation in the midst of a crisis.
I stepped out of his line of sight. I needed to stay focused on the events, not complicate anything by adding a layer of . . . Go ahead, admit it. Attraction.
If I had a phone, I would call Scott Thomas, my counselor, or caraid, as we called them—Scottish Gaelic for “friend.” I’d ask him for advice. My nightmares were back. I was having panic attacks. I wasn’t sure how well my brain was working. And I wanted to run and hide.
I could talk to Cookie. She’d been through something pretty horrific if she’d ended up on the farm. Clan Firinn didn’t rehabilitate only first responders and law enforcement. They took people who’d reached rock bottom, who’d destroyed their families and careers and were on the verge of ending their lives.
The three stones in my pockets pressed against my legs. Maybe while I’m talking to her I can ask what I’m supposed to do with the rocks.
The medical group from the chopper had entered the barn, so I trotted over to the lodge, my prosthetic leg squeaking with each step.
All the guests and a few staff were seated in the main lodge. Everyone stopped speaking and stared at me as I entered.
Low profile. I did an about-face to leave when Roy came in behind me, blocking my exit. “There you are. I just went looking for you.” Roy turned to the group. “The medivac will take Riccardo and his mother, and Mr. Rinaldi has arranged for a second helicopter to pick him up and take him to the hospital in Idaho Falls. Mrs. Eason, you indicated you wanted to leave with your daughter, Lauryn, as did you, Mrs. Kendig. Mr. Rinaldi has offered seats in his helicopter to all of you. You’ll have to arrange to get your cars from Targhee Falls. Or you can go with Liam”—he pointed to the young man—“who will be taking the supply wagon back to town.”
The chuff, chuff, chuff of the helicopter taking off made speaking difficult for a few moments. When the sound retreated, Roy continued, “We’ll be serving lunch soon, and the art class will resume after that.”
The staff got up and moved to the kitchen.
Someone touched my shoulder.
I spun, almost falling. My leg let out a protesting squeak.
Bram caught my arm and steadied me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Do you have a minute?”
My face grew warm. “I . . . um, yes.” I was acutely aware of his hand on my arm.
He glanced around the room, seemingly aware of the sideways glances and grins coming from the people around us. “How about the picnic table outside?” He guided me to the grassy area under the pines. Once I sat down, he let go of my arm and moved to the other side of the table. I could still feel the impression of his warm hand.
“Are you here investigating Riccardo’s fall?” I asked.
“Is there something to investigate?” Bram leaned forward. “I spoke to both Roy and Wyatt. It seems it was just a terrible accident.”
My neck tingled.
He straightened. “Is there something I need to know?”
I told him about the raccoon, the trashed art room, the bear, the baling twine caught on new-looking nails.
“Are you here on assignment from Clan Firinn?” he asked.
I was silent for a moment. “Why do you ask that?” Answering a question with a question after a significant pause is a sign of possible deception. I hoped Bram wasn’t an expert in the field. Just because I could recognize deception didn’t mean I was any good at lying.
“From your answer, I would guess you are here to investigate the incidents.”
Flapperdoodle. “Please don’t mention this to anyone. I’m supposed to be checking things out. I do need to interview you on what you’ve uncovered.”
He smiled, showing those perfect teeth, and placed his hand over mine. “Then we need to work together.”
Double flapperdoodle. My brain went blank. The air grew thinner, the day suddenly hotter, my vision much narrower. “Um . . .” I cleared my throat. “What did you need to speak to me about?”
“Your work as a forensic linguist.”
I scratched my neck. “You’ve been investigating me.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Darby. I’m not stalking you. I just need your help.”
I gently extracted my hand. It was too hard to think when he was touching me. “We have a deal. Me first. I was about to get my camera and photograph that baling twine caught on the nails, then bag it for evidence. I was also going to bag any twine found on the floor under Riccardo. Now that you’re here, could you do that?”
“Sure.”
“And tell me if, in the past, you’ve been out here investigating . . . anything.”
Bram stared off into the distance. Birds chirped and twittered, and a chipmunk lectured us from a nearby tree. The slight breeze brought the scent of dried grasses. He finally said, “Here? Not really.” He rubbed his chin. “I mentioned the hikers who fell at Devil’s Pass.”
“Yes. Roy said they were guests.”
“Right. Roy had one of the most popular, and I’m sure most expensive, team-building experiences in the country. Rock climbing, rappelling, wilderness camping, you name it.”
“I was reading a brochure on it. It’s one of the angles I want to look into.”
“Good. Anyway, even though the two hikers started out here, they were supposed to be hiking to the east, toward Yellowstone Park, not in Devil’s Pass. The maps found on them showed they had strayed miles from where they were supposed to be. The court acquitted Roy and the Mule Shoe of all liability, but it really shook him.”
“I read his insurance carrier withdrew coverage and he had to drop the program.”
“He took a big hit, that’s for sure. He’s scrambling to set up less dangerous programs this summer, hence the art class this week.”
“I hear a but in what you just said.”
He sharpened his gaze on me. “You are good. Does anything get past you?”
“A lot. I don’t usually listen that carefully unless I need to.”
“Roy also started thinking about selling the place and retiring. But”—he frowned—“he seemed to run into more . . . glitches.”
“Now these so-called glitches have taken a nasty, if not possibly fatal, turn.” I adjusted my glasses. “Thank you. Now it’s your turn. How can I help you?”
He opened the messenger bag, pulled out a file folder, and set it on the table. “As you surmised, we do have a serial arsonist. Counting yesterday, eight fires. The fire six months ago killed two men.”
“So it’s more than arson. It’s murder.”
“Probably—”
“Probably? What do you mean by that?”
“We assume the two men died in the fire.”
“Assume?” I pulled my glasses down and stared over the rim at him. “An autopsy would show—”
“There wasn’t an autopsy.”
“Why not?”
“The sheriff can’t order one in this county, although if she asked, I’m sure there would have been one. Anyway, it was clear the two men died when a hot water tank exploded and started the fire.”
I cleared my throat and tried to marshal my thoughts. “If the fire started from an exploding hot water tank, how can that be arson?”
“Someone rigged the tank to explode.”
He shifted in his seat. “Anyway . . . the arsonist has sent a series of taunting notes to the sheriff’s office. With your background, I was hoping you could look at the notes and maybe give me some insight.”
“No.”
“But we don’t have any leads—”
“No.”
“Look, I realize you took a trouncing with the Butcher of Sedro-Woolley case, but you were right.”
The name caused my heart to hammer in my brain. I opened and closed my mouth, but didn’t have enough breath to speak.
“You correctly identified the man who physically wrote the notes, Daday. It wasn’t your fault that the author of the notes was writing down what the butcher said to him.”
I wanted to jump up and run, but my muscles wouldn’t respond.
“I also have some idea of all that you went through, but—”
“Do you?” My voice shook. Five years. I’d spent five years battling demons. Learning how to walk again. Discovering my new normal, my new identity. I shouldn’t have been so shaken over Bram’s request.
His eyes had widened at my reaction.
I couldn’t leave him with the idea that I was a wack job. Why not? Did I want to admit that I liked him?
Taking a deep breath, I folded my hands in my lap and looked down. What verse had Scott Thomas sent? This is my command—be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.
I finally looked up. “In your obvious research on my background, you must have read about Clan Firinn.”
He shifted in his seat, then nodded. “A place for law enforcement to recover from their work-related PTSD.”
“That’s how they phrase it, but working in law enforcement today leaves most with emotional and often physical damage, as you well know.”
“Yes,” he said quietly.
Woman in Shadow Page 8
