Leave No Trace

by Sara Driscoll

“Thank you. Hawk, come.”

  The group moved down the hallway. Meg pulled open the door and stepped into a long room with bows and other equipment neatly stacked or racked at one end of the room opposite a series of lines painted on the floor, breaking it into individual lanes, each lane ending at a round bull’s-eye target at the far end. Dressed in civvies, Wilcox stood beside a rack of bows, studying the equipment.

  Meg raised a hand in greeting. “Captain, thank you for meeting us.”

  Wilcox turned to the group. “I’m off duty. Just Mark will do.” He held out his hand to McCord. “We haven’t met. Captain Mark Wilcox, Georgia State Patrol.”

  McCord shook his hand. “Clay McCord, the Washington Post.”

  Wilcox let go immediately, his gaze shooting to Meg. “You brought a reporter?”

  “He’s okay. He’s helping us with research on this case. And he’s promised discretion.”

  Wilcox eyed McCord with undisguised suspicion, as if he’d never met a reporter with that particular trait. “Uh-huh.” His eyes locked on Webb next. “And you are?”

  Webb extended a hand. “Lieutenant Todd Webb, firefighter /paramedic, DC Fire and Emergency Medical Services.”

  Wilcox still looked slightly confounded, but the lines on his face eased. Clearly, a fellow first responder was familiar ground. He shook Webb’s hand and turned back to Meg. “You travel with an interesting group of people.”

  “You have no idea.” Meg studied the long expanse of the range. “Thank you for making time to meet us here tonight. I’m trying to get into this killer’s head, but I feel like I’m missing a piece of the puzzle because of the weapon.”

  Wilcox indicated the Glock in the holster on her hip. “You’re obviously familiar with firearms.”

  “Both Brian and I are. I have additional experience with the Remington 700 during sniper training, but absolutely no archery experience. I’d like to see how the long-distance experience differs. That might give me some insight into how he’s planning his kill shots and taking advantage of the terrain, since that’s clearly part of his MO. And that might help make the beginning of our searches more efficient.”

  “Where did you get sniper training?”

  “Richmond, Virginia, at the academy. I was Richmond PD K-9 patrol for six years before joining the FBI.”

  Wilcox nodded his approval. “Good to know. Okay, then, let’s show you around a different kind of weapon. But don’t get the idea this is more low-tech. Modern compound bows are as complex as a rifle.”

  “Are you showing me the recurve as well?”

  “No, we’re going to stick with the compound. That will give you the idea of the skill required, but only more so for the recurve. Basically, all the skill and technique required for an accurate compound shot, it’s all exponentially more difficult with a recurve. But the planning for the actual shot is identical. And in a lot of ways, it’s not that different from a sniper rifle.” He eyed Meg up and down and hesitated, one hand lifted toward the bows. His hand tracked left, then right, before he lifted a bow from the rack.

  The body of the bow was a narrow curve that arched out to two flexible outer limbs curving in the opposite direction. An off-center cam and pulley system of wheels on the end of each limb connected them behind the body of the bow through a series of strings and cables to form an undulating letter D.

  McCord stepped closer. “That looks pretty high tech.”

  “Part of the high tech is in the construction itself. This center curving section is called the ‘riser.’ It includes the grip to hold the bow, the front sight, and the arrow rest. The flexible arms, or limbs, and the cam system at the end of each limb are the key to how the bow works. The recurve doesn’t have that, so as you pull back on the bowstring, it gets harder and harder to go each extra inch. Then you have to hold the bowstring steady at that full draw weight as you line up your shot and smoothly release it. Significant strength is required. Mostly men shoot recurve. But with a compound bow, the cam system functions so the majority of the draw weight is at the beginning of the draw. In this way, a sixty-pound draw can be maintained before shooting with only about twenty pounds of draw because of the storage of kinetic energy throughout the bow. This makes it a more manageable weapon for children and women. You look strong, so I’m starting you out with a forty-pound draw. The maximum draw weight women usually master is fifty pounds. I bet you could handle that, but for a first lesson forty pounds is plenty.”

  “What would be the draw weight for a man?” Webb asked.

  “Fifty-five to sixty-five pounds.” Wilcox eyed him. “A big, muscular guy like you, though, he could manage seventy pounds. The higher the draw, the more energy stored, the farther your arrow can go.”

  “What about this killer?” Meg asked. “What would be your draw weight estimate on him?”

  “With the distances we’re looking at, the lowest draw weight would be fifty pounds. Anything less wouldn’t go the distance.”

  “So fifty to seventy, then.” McCord pulled out his notebook. “You don’t mind if I make notes?”

  Wilcox’s eyes narrowed. “What are you planning on doing with those notes?”

  “Nothing right now. Not until the FBI clears it. But a story is like an iceberg. You see what’s above water, not all the research underneath supporting it that never gets overtly spelled out.”

  Several seconds of silence went by. Then, “Fine.” His lips tight, Wilcox turned to Meg. “A few more features to show you.” He tapped on the black bar that projected from the front of the riser and the small black circular piece that jutted out from it to the left. “This will be familiar to you. This is the sight. It’s a single pin sight with a small level inside to help with your form as you hold the bow. Now, do you remember at the first location when I told you the shooter would likely be carrying maybe three or four arrows? As an outdoorsman, you want to be streamlined when you’re hunting, so some bows come with a built-in quiver. It essentially looks like a rack, perpendicular to the riser, that carries four to six arrows compactly on the side of the bow. If you’re hunting and need another arrow in quick succession, it’s right there for your release hand to grab and slide onto the arrow rest only an inch away. But remember, an elite hunter only needs one arrow to make a kill.” Wilcox looked toward the bull’s-eye on the target. “That’s the kind of hunter we’re looking at here.” Wilcox dug in his pocket and pulled out a maroon metal loop with a short tail shaped with finger notches. “To shoot a compound bow, you’re going to need a release aid for the bowstring.”

  Meg studied the metal object that reminded her vaguely of a compact version of brass knuckles. “You don’t shoot the bow with your fingers?”

  “It can be done, but you’ll get a much cleaner shot with a release aid.” He held out the gadget for her. “You’ll see this particular style has a safety, just like a firearm, to keep from dry firing the bow, possibly before you’re ready or have properly aimed at your target. You’re right-handed?”

  Meg nodded.

  “Hold out your right hand.” When she did, he showed her how to seat the release aid and use the safety. He extended the bow to Meg. “Now, let’s get you shooting.”

  She took the bow, wrapping her fingers around the grip, and looked back at Brian.

  “I have them,” Brian said before she could ask. “Lacey, Hawk, come. Let’s stand by the wall so the crazy lady doesn’t accidentally shoot us.”

  Meg threw him a dirty look. “You’re hilarious.”

  He bent into a shallow bow and then stepped away with the dogs.

  Wilcox led Meg over to the shooting lanes. He pointed down at the circular bull’s-eye in concentric circles of black, blue, red, and yellow at the center. “To put it in perspective, that bull’s-eye is twenty-five meters away, which is a little over twenty-five yards. Inside, with controlled conditions, so no air currents and on a flat course. The killer is outside, in high-altitude winds, shooting about four times as far over mountain terrain.”
>
  Meg shook her head as she stared at the target, imagining the shot from the perspective of the killer. “If it wasn’t for the deaths, that would be a pretty impressive feat. Okay, let’s see if I can even hit the target.”

  “You might surprise yourself. You’ve obviously got a steady hand. Now let’s get your stance perfected.” He showed her how to stand sideways, straddling the line with her left foot toward the target. Eyeing her position, he gave her left boot a small nudge with his. “Back a bit. Perfect. That opens out your hips and shoulders toward the target.” He demonstrated how to hold the bow and watched her mimic his stance. “How’s it feel?”

  “Comfortable. Not too heavy.”

  “Good.” He stepped closer and showed her where and how to attach the release aid, how to nock an arrow, and how to position her hand for the draw. “Now draw the bowstring back until you hit the mechanical stop.”

  Meg glanced at Webb. He grinned and gave her an encouraging nod. Closing her fingers more firmly around the release aid, she drew back the bowstring. There was weight behind the bowstring, but it moved smoothly, drawing the two limbs toward the center line of the bow as she pulled. As her hand got close to her face, there was a sudden change in the draw weight, jerking her hand slightly as the off-center cams stopped rotating.

  “You felt that jerk and the drop in draw weight?” Wilcox asked.

  Meg nodded.

  “That’s the ‘let-off.’ That’s what lets you take your time to set up a shot, especially on a living, mobile creature like a deer.”

  “Or a human,” McCord said.

  “Or a human. You can take your time, make sure your aim is dead on, and then take the shot without the kind of fatigue you’d get with a recurve bow, the kind of fatigue that would make you miss. Now line up the top of the pin in the front site with the center of the target. Gently release the safety. And now comes the hardest part. Maintain your form and aim while you pull back steadily until the back tension releases the bow string.”

  Meg wanted to wipe her damp palms on her pants, but her hands were full.

  “No pressure . . .” McCord murmured.

  Without moving, Meg sent him a sideways glare. “You try this for the first time with everyone watching your every move and see how you do.” Her eyes narrowed as a plan formed. “Actually, you will try this. You’re next, hotshot.” She smiled as his eyes widened with surprise, and turned her gaze to the target.

  Meg instinctively fell back on techniques she’d used as a sniper. She steadied her breathing and focused all her attention on the target. She moved her thumb off the safety, exhaled, and at the end of the exhale, drew the bowstring back.

  The arrow moved so fast, Meg couldn’t differentiate the snick of the release with the thunk of the arrow striking the target twenty-five meters away. She lowered the bow to her side as she stared down the lane.

  “Well done!” Wilcox sounded immensely pleased. “Seven points! For a first try that’s very good. Let’s try it again. This time, try to keep your draw hand a little more relaxed. When you tensed up, you pulled the hand into a fist and that offset your aim slightly.” He handed her another arrow.

  She nocked the arrow, drew back the bowstring, aimed, and made her second shot much faster this time.

  “Eight points, getting better. Grab a quiver and some arrows and keep going.” Wilcox rounded on McCord, who actually took a step backward in response. “The reporter and I are going to have a go at it next.”

  Webb followed Meg over to the rack. “That was amazing.”

  She made a show of polishing the back of her fingers on her collarbone. “Not bad, if I do say so myself.” She ruined the gesture by laughing and extended the bow to Webb. “Here, hold this while I grab some arrows.”

  “That is seriously neat.” Brian ambled over with the dogs. “You make it look easy.”

  She selected a quiver, buckled it around her hips, and shifted it to lie against her thigh. “Don’t kid yourself, it’s not. I fell back on extensive sniper training when it came to actually taking the shot.”

  “I figured as much. So now you’ve had a tiny taste of archery, what’s your opinion of our killer?”

  “I’m very impressed by his skills and planning.” She grabbed a fistful of arrows, set them point down in the quiver, and turned to the men. “The advantage with the compound bow is being able to draw back and line up the shot, and then wait if you have to. This killer is selecting locations where the victims will be. He may be in place long before he expects them to be there. Then, when they appear, he can take the time to line up the shot, wait for the perfect moment, and then let the arrow fly. Do you remember how Sheriff Maxwell described the arrow with the mechanical, expanding broadhead? As a three-inch, high-speed drill carving through soft tissue.” She pulled an arrow out of the quiver, turning it point up. “We’re not talking a small arrowhead like this with a profile in line with the shaft of the arrow. We’re talking about what is essentially an arrowhead four or five times as wide composed of razor blades.”

  “Brutal,” Webb said, his eyes fixed on the arrowhead. “There’s a layer of cruelty there.”

  Meg cocked her head in question. “What do you mean?”

  He tapped the tip of the arrow. “This works best as a soft tissue weapon, even the more damaging ones, especially when you’re considering the distances in question. At twenty yards, that broadhead might break a rib and pass right through, but at farther distances—”

  “Like a hundred yards?” Brian interjected.

  “Like a hundred yards,” Webb continued, “you hit bone and you’ll do damage, but I’d bet there’s not enough kinetic energy in the arrow to kill. For that you need soft tissue.”

  “Like this killer is doing,” Meg said.

  “Right. But even with what you described, depending on what was hit, it could take minutes to bleed out. And it would be excruciating, like being gut shot. There’s no mercy in a shot like that.”

  “Interesting. I didn’t think about it that way. I wonder what Rutherford would say about it?”

  “You haven’t brought him into it yet?”

  “It’s not my case. But we’ve hit the three-victim threshold, so maybe it’s time to push for it. I’m getting a better feel for our suspect, but he’d be able to clarify things. I’ll talk to Torres about it. He may have never worked with the BAU before, so maybe I can smooth the way for him there. It might also help to have someone streamline the connection, in which case Craig can be the intermediary to contact Rutherford and get the ball rolling.” She took a step toward the lanes and then stopped. “Did either of you want to try it?”

  “It looks like fun, but I’m not stressing this shoulder in any way,” Webb said. “Besides, I’m happy to watch you whoop McCord’s ass.”

  “And I’m happy to watch with you,” Brian said. “You go ahead. The dogs are fine hanging out with me and I’m more than entertained.”

  “If you’re sure.” The thump of an arrow striking the target at the far end drew Meg’s gaze, and she had to work quickly to wipe the smile off her lips at the combination of McCord’s disgruntled expression and his arrow vibrating several inches outside of the outer ring of the target.

  “See? I told you. A whooping.” Webb’s murmur sounded in her ear as he leaned in.

  “Behave,” she scolded quietly. “Don’t destroy the man’s ego.”

  “I won’t have to. You’re about to do that all by yourself. Go for it.” He winked at her.

  Meg returned to her lane, stepped into place at the shooting line, nocked her arrow, and attached her release aid with the safety engaged. Then taking a deep breath, she raised the bow to the correct height and drew back. As she lined up the sight with the center of the target, the old stillness came over her as her brain filtered out the voices and sounds around her. It was just her, the weapon, and the target.

  Release the safety. Inhale. Exhale. Pull back on the bowstring.

  She couldn’t keep the satis
fied smile off her face when the arrow hit the bull’s-eye.

  CHAPTER 15

  Georgiafornia: A term used by members of anti-immigrant movements to describe Georgia, once a part of the Old South, that is now almost 10% Hispanic and Latino.

  Saturday, April 13, 8:08 AM

  Trammell Lodge

  Blue Ridge, Georgia

  Meg got out of Torres’s car and turned in a slow circle, taking in the valley around her. Surrounded by natural beauty, the plight of the local residents became crystal clear.

  When Meg had called Torres following her lesson with Wilcox the night before to discuss her thoughts on the archer, he’d told her he planned to do interviews the next morning. She’d heard the thread of reluctance in his tone and had offered that she or Brian, or both of them, accompany him. If his Latino background was a disadvantage here in rural Georgia, then maybe they could help balance it out. Torres had accepted her offer. In the end, Brian offered to stay home and work through their standard training exercises with the dogs since they’d missed the previous few days. Besides, he’d reasoned, with her background in the Richmond PD, she’d be a better interrogator than him. If a call came through while they were gone, he’d bring the dogs in the SUV and meet her on-site. Meg had agreed, and Torres had picked her up on his way into town.

  They started early, wanting to catch the Trammell sons before they were out and about for the day. Now they stood opposite Trammell Lodge. Located on a rise above the Toccoa River, the lodge itself was fashioned from rustic timber logs and set deep into the forested hillside, looking out over the winding valley below. The sun was up, but the morning was still cool and mist pooled down in the valley, masking the hills in tones of blue-gray.

  “This is all going to be underwater after the dam is built.” Meg stepped away from the car to move closer to the edge of the hill. She looked north and then followed the river to the south. Down below, she could see houses closer to the river and roads leading into rural communities. “It’s all going to be lost.” She turned and looked at the lodge and the hill that rose behind it. “Including this property.”