Leave No Trace

by Sara Driscoll

  “Fine,” Meg conceded. “But I want you horizontal. What about the couch?”

  “That’ll do.”

  “Come on,” McCord coaxed, pulling Webb forward. “Let’s get you settled. I was about to grab a beer. Want one?”

  “No,” Meg and Cara said in unison.

  “Apparently not,” Webb said. “Which is a crying shame because I could really use one right now.” He turned imploring eyes on Cara. “If I can’t have beer, can I at least get some coffee?”

  “Absolutely.” Cara waited until he smiled his thanks, and then said, “Decaf. No caffeine while you’re recovering. It can interfere with your sleep patterns.”

  Webb’s smile fell away. “This is seriously no fun.”

  “You’re not supposed to have fun.” Meg led the way into the living room, Hawk and Saki at her heels. “You’re on medical leave.”

  As he went by, Cara poked McCord in the biceps. “And you can have coffee, too. It’s not fair for you to have a beer when Todd can’t.”

  McCord and Webb exchanged dour glances. “You nailed it,” said McCord. “This is seriously no fun.”

  A few minutes later, Webb was carefully settled on the couch, a pillow under his head and his injured shoulder supported by the rear cushions. Saki, a trained therapy dog, lay on the floor by his head, as if instinctively sensing his injury, while Hawk and Blink piled on the dog bed by the sliding door next to the deck, and Cody settled in nearby to gnaw on his favorite rubber bone. Meg bent over Webb, adjusting his pillow and asking for the second time if he’d like a blanket. He caught her hand and tugged her down to sit on the hassock at his hip.

  “Don’t do that. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that arm.” Webb waited until she met his eyes. “It’s okay. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. Just sit with me.”

  Meg slumped, bracing her elbows on her knees. “I’m turning into my mother, fussing over you like you’re an invalid.”

  “Worse things could happen. Eda Jennings is a fine woman.” He squeezed her hand. “And you’re not totally wrong about the invalid bit. But even for this hellish day, you’re on edge. You know I’m going to be okay, so it has to be work. Tell me about what happened in Georgia.”

  “You were in Georgia?” McCord fell into Meg’s comfortable, ratty old recliner, a piece of furniture she couldn’t bear to part with, no matter its ugliness. “You and Hawk were on assignment?”

  “Possibly the beginning of a serial murder case.”

  “I take it you haven’t caught the killer?”

  “Not even kind of.” She looked up as Cara carried a tray of mugs, cream, and sugar over to the coffee table. “Do you need a hand?”

  “Nope. Coffee is still brewing and I’ll bring out the pot when it’s ready.” She laid the tray down and sat down in the armchair. “You went bolting out of here this morning. You were headed to the airport?”

  “Yes.” She frowned as her memory suddenly recalled her last trip from the airport. “Damn. When I left the airport on the way back, I was going to stop at the Hoover Building to talk to Craig. It’s too late to talk to him now. I’ll have to do that first thing tomorrow.” She took a breath to center her overtired brain. “Okay, let me start from the beginning.” She fixed McCord with a pointed stare but didn’t say anything.

  McCord rolled his eyes. “What does a guy have to do to get a break on a story around here?”

  Meg continued to stare at him silently.

  “Okay, okay, all of this is off the record and if there’s a story in it, I’m under a gag order until I get the green light.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You know, we do this every time. How about we make a pact that if it’s your case, until you tell me otherwise, it’s confidential. But then you don’t go giving the story to anyone else, capiche?”

  “That’s not always in my control. The Press Office might object to my making a blanket statement on that.” When McCord continued to stare at her, she rolled her eyes at the ceiling as if asking for strength. “Fine, I capiche. As long as they also clear it.”

  “Good enough for me. Proceed.”

  Meg started at the beginning, taking them through Craig’s phone call telling them about the death of the Georgia State Patrol officer, to the teams’ arrival in Georgia, the arrow, the bow, the search, the bear, the unsuccessful conclusion of the trail, and finally meeting with Torres. By the time she finished, they were all halfway through their first cup of coffee.

  “That’s a pretty wide field of potential suspects to start with,” McCord said.

  “Considering the scope of the project,” Cara said, “that’s not a surprise. Imagine having family land for more than a hundred years, making your livelihood off that land, and then being told unceremoniously you have to give it up. They may not even be fairly paid for it. Do you know those kinds of details?”

  “Not so far, but hopefully Agent Torres is looking into it.”

  McCord’s mug hit the coffee table with a light thump as he levered himself out of the recliner.

  Meg watched him with suspicious eyes. “Where are you going?”

  “Where do you think?” McCord disappeared out of the living room and returned about twenty seconds later with his laptop bag in hand. He sat down, pulled out his laptop, and booted up.

  “You know, sometimes I think you hang out so much because you’re looking for a new story.”

  “That might have been true at the beginning until your sister worked her wiles on me.” He winked at Cara, who sat back in her chair with her coffee mug, looking smug. “But now it’s a happy side gig.” He met Meg’s gaze. “For both of us, and you know it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I do.”

  “So it’s not just about my listening and then not passing on the information. You actually want my help.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Meg sighed. “Of course I do. How would we manage without you?” At his quiet chortle, she shook her head at him. “Don’t let it go to your head or you’ll be impossible to work with.”

  “Would I do that?”

  Cara snorted, then hid her smile behind her mug. “Okay, maybe I would do that.” McCord opened a blank document, pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose, and started making notes.

  “The trick, as always, is convincing each new agent in charge of the case that you’re trustworthy and reliable. You know a lot of them don’t have good relationships with investigative reporters. They think you’re searching for a way to make them look bad or to leak confidential information that could lose them their suspect or their whole case.” Meg threw up a hand in McCord’s direction before he could argue. “I know that’s not you; I’m just telling you what many agents experience from other reporters. Keep everything on the down-low until I have a chance to run this by Torres.”

  “Can do. Now let’s run the list of involved parties again. In favor of the project we have the TVA—the Tennessee Valley Authority—Atkins Power, Roswell Engineering, the towns of Copperhill and McCaysville and all their residents, Fannin County, the state of Georgia, and the US government. Against the project we have current valley residents, local businesses, and the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians. Where is the town of Blue Ridge on the project?”

  “That’s a good question, but one I can’t answer.”

  McCord stopped typing and sat back to study his monitor. “When you think of all the individuals involved, this could be a pretty big suspect pool.”

  “With a lot of high emotion,” Webb said.

  Meg looked down to where Webb lay propped into a half-sitting position against the pillow, a mug of coffee cradled in his right hand. His color was starting to return and his eyes seemed sharper. “You look better. How’s the head?”

  “Headache is starting to back off a bit. Part of that is probably getting out of the glare of the ER. More of it is being here with you guys. Either way, I think I can rub a few brain cells together now. That was harde
r a few hours ago.”

  “I bet. By high emotion, do you mean the landowners?”

  “Yeah, but also the Cherokee. They got screwed and they’re trying to get some of their own back. And that’s going to be tough. Not only because of the current political climate, but simply because of past history and bad blood.”

  “How much do you know about the land lotteries?” McCord asked.

  “Some. Probably a little less right now because my brains are scrambled. But I know it predated and was a part of the Trail of Tears.”

  “My high school history is pretty foggy and I think this is going to be important, so that’s not good.” Meg scooted forward on the hassock to pour herself another cup of coffee. “McCord, you’re the history buff—”

  “Try walking encyclopedia,” Webb interjected.

  “That too. I bet you can bring us up to speed on it?”

  “I can. I know the basics, but it’s not my area of expertise. I’ll want to dig in deeper and make sure what I know is correct if that history could be a basis for a killing motive, and it sounds like it could be. Give me time to do some research. But in very rough terms off the top of my head, in the early nineteenth century there was a system in Georgia to give away parcels of land to qualifying applicants of European descent. The problem was, as far as the Native Americans occupying the territory were concerned, it wasn’t the US government’s to give away. That led to forced relocations and the deaths of more than ten thousand Native Americans. It was a horror show.”

  “I seem to remember they all got sent west of the Mississippi because the government at the time never thought they’d need to expand west of the river,” Webb said.

  “And look how well that turned out. It delayed additional conflict, but certainly didn’t end it.” McCord met Meg’s eyes. “You realize you may be looking at both sides of those lotteries in this case? Not only the Cherokee who gave up or were forced off their land, but the descendants of the settlers who won those parcels and may be the current landowners.”

  “Some people would call that karma,” Cara said. “With the government’s help, they forced Native Americans off the land they’d likely lived on for centuries. And now nearly two centuries later, the government is forcing them off that same land.”

  “Or the TVA is,” McCord supplied, “but while it’s not strictly a government body, it essentially fulfills that role as a federally owned corporation. So, yeah, karma.”

  “I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t see it that way.” Meg thoughtfully took a sip of coffee. “The question is—would they be willing to kill to keep their land?”

  “Some of them, absolutely,” Webb said.

  “We’re going to need detailed lists of who holds land in the valley, both residential and business. Then we need to know who wants to lay claim to that land. Then, out of those, we need to find out who the hunters are. Past that we need to find out who has the skills to kill like that. Then you need to start collecting alibis.” McCord looked up from his screen. “This case more than most, it’s going to be a process of narrowing down the list. That’s assuming we’re starting with a full list. What if we’re missing someone? Or several someones?”

  “What if it’s not someone who wants the project terminated, but only delayed?” Cara asked. “What if it has to do with time lines and expired contracts for construction? It doesn’t have to be just someone who feels the land is threatened. It could be someone who is threatened by the project in its current form.”

  McCord was already adding to his list. “That’s a solid point. We need to make sure we include all possibilities right from the start.” He lifted his hands from the keyboard and turned to Meg. “I know where I’m going with this. What about you?”

  “We’re on hold for now. Until the next call comes in. But the truth of the matter is, we’re too far away to be useful. We’re hours behind before we even find the starting line. If this continues, I think we need to be there on-site. That would allow us to follow in near real time. That’s what I wanted to talk to Craig about earlier today.” She hid a yawn behind her hand.

  Webb rubbed a hand up and down her back. “You sound exhausted.”

  “It’s been a hell of a day, no doubt about it. I think I’m ready to turn in. And I’m taking you with me, tired or not.” Meg put their coffee mugs down on the tray.

  “I think I could sleep now.” Webb slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. He gave himself a few seconds for his head to acclimatize before he swung his feet to the floor. Standing, Meg offered him her hand. He grasped it and she steadied him as he pushed to his feet. “Thanks.”

  “You have everything you need, McCord?”

  “For now, yes. Let me do some research and I’ll get in touch in a couple of days.”

  “Hopefully we’ll have more time than that,” Meg said.

  “But if the killer gets wind of the fact that local law enforcement is tying the deaths together, we may not have long to wait.” She met McCord’s eyes. “I’d prefer it’s not another death pushing this case forward. Let’s try to beat him.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Old Copper Road: Built in 1853 to link the copper mines in the Copper Basin of Polk County, Tennessee, and Fannin County, Georgia, to the railroad terminus in Cleveland, Tennessee. The twelve miles of the road that winds through the Ocoee Gorge is known as the Ocoee National Forest Scenic Byway.

  Wednesday, April 10, 11:03 AM

  Forensic Canine Unit, J. Edgar Hoover Building

  Washington, DC

  “Meg!”

  Meg looked up from her desk and swiveled her office chair around, carefully placing her feet around Hawk, who was sprawled on the floor next to her. Through the glass wall of his office, Meg could see Craig Beaumont on his feet behind his desk, a phone to his ear, his dark head bent.

  “What’s going on?” Lauren Wycliffe asked. The tall, stylish blonde sat at her desk writing the report from her latest outing with Rocco, her black and white border collie, who was currently snoring beside Lacey under Brian’s desk. Brian had just drawn the short straw and stepped out to get them all coffee.

  “I’m not sure.” Meg stood and stepped over Hawk, who raised his head. “I’m going to go find out. Hawk, stay.” She quickly wove between desks to Craig’s office. She paused in the doorway with one hand on the jamb.

  Craig bent over his desk, the phone pressed to his ear and a pen in his right hand as he quickly made notes. “Chattanooga, got it. I’ll get them on that flight. Thanks.” He hung up and straightened. “There’s been another death in Georgia.”

  “Is someone closer going to handle it?” Meg asked the question, but considering what she’d heard before Craig hung up, she already knew the answer.

  “No. That was Torres. He wants you. Says he understands your concerns about the delay, but there aren’t resources available to him.”

  “But—”

  “I know, what about the GBI? He says they can’t do it. Maybe they don’t have dogs trained and ready to go. Either way, it’s you and Brian. Brian!”

  “He stepped out for coffee, but he’ll be back any second. I’ll brief him as we go. What do we know?”

  “A little more this time.” Craig unbuttoned his suit jacket, sat down in his chair, and picked up a notepad covered with almost illegible scratchings. Hieroglyphics, as Brian once coined Craig’s writing. “The victim’s name is Gord White, and he’s with a construction company. He was at a Tennessee dam to oversee repairs when he was shot with an arrow and killed.”

  “Same type of arrow?”

  “Torres says yes. So you’re on your way to Turtletown, Tennessee. I’m going to get you on the flight to Chattanooga that leaves from Reagan in”—he checked his watch—“just over an hour. Grab your stuff and get out there. I’ll text you the details.”

  “Got it. We’re off.”

  Meg strode to her desk. “Hawk, come. Time to go.”

  “Craig’s sending you out?” Lauren asked.

&n
bsp; “Yes, Tennessee this time. Same case, though.” Meg bent and pulled her go bag from under the desk and double-checked the firearm at her hip. She reached for her phone. “I’m going to text Brian to get back here ASAP, but if he doesn’t get the message—” She broke off as Brian came through the door with a cardboard tray of takeout coffees. “You’re back. We need to go.”

  Brian stopped dead. “Why?” His voice was full of suspicion.

  “For exactly the reason you’re thinking. There’s been another killing.”

  “Damn it. And we’re going to be hours behind again.” He handed Lauren her coffee and then grabbed his go bag. “Lacey, come.” He extended the tray to Meg. “You can drink your coffee in the car.” Once she’d taken her cup, he grabbed his and tossed the tray onto his desk.

  “Good luck,” Lauren called as they jogged out of the office.

  We’re going to need it.

  Wednesday, April 10, 1:32 PM

  Ocoee Dam #2

  Turtletown, Tennessee

  Torres pulled his SUV into a parking spot next to several Polk County Sheriff’s Office vehicles. “This is it. We’re supposed to meet the sheriff and he’ll take us to the kill site, which is on private land. You’ll go on from there. It doesn’t sound like we’ll be back here in the short term, so bring everything you need for the search.”

  “Sounds good.” Meg turned in the passenger seat to where Brian sat in the back with the two dogs. “You ready?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  They got out of the SUV, gathered their packs, and leashed the dogs; then Torres led them down the parking lot. To their right, US-74 curved along the river bank, wedged in between the waterway and the surrounding Appalachian Mountains. A sheer rock face slanted steeply down to the road, the site of a previous significant rock slide, while a pine forest rose above it on a ridge towering 400 feet over the road. To their left, the Ocoee River pooled peacefully behind a 450-foot-long timber and rock dam, with only a small amount of water snaking down the rocky riverbed thirty feet below the top of the dam on the upstream side. A narrow wood and cable suspension bridge hung over the dam, stretching from bank to bank and leading to a cluster of buildings on the far side.