Leave No Trace

by Sara Driscoll

  “Makes the struggle to stop this dam project a little more real,” said Torres.

  “Sure does. But even so, murder isn’t the way to make that happen.”

  Together, they entered the lodge, stepping into a foyer of honey-colored pine. A middle-aged woman smiled at them from behind the reservation desk. “Good morning and welcome to Trammell Lodge. Do you have a reservation?”

  Torres pulled out his flip case and the woman’s smile faltered.

  “Special Agent Torres of the FBI. This is my colleague, Meg Jennings. We’re looking for Jamie and Stephen Trammell.”

  Color leached from her face. “Those are my sons.” The pleasant tone fell away to be replaced by that of a protective mother. “Why do you need to talk to them?”

  “It’s concerning a case. Where are your sons, Mrs. Trammell?”

  She stared at him for a moment and then nodded tersely. “Please go on into the Great Room.” She pointed to a doorway. “Make yourself comfortable in front of the fire. I’ll bring them in to meet you there.”

  Five minutes later, Mrs. Trammell joined Meg and Torres where they sat in deep leather armchairs in front of a roaring fire. Three men accompanied her: a middle-aged, redheaded man in khakis and a flannel shirt, and two twentysomething men with their father’s red hair, but in a more youthful, brassy tone, and whose nearly identical facial features marked them as brothers.

  The two young men looked cautious, whereas the father walked straight to Torres, looked him in the eye, and held out his hand. “Hank Trammell. Mary says you need to speak with our boys.”

  “I do, sir, yes.” Torres stood and shook hands, then flashed his ID and made introductions. The two young men shook hands with him and Meg before taking their own seats together on a sofa with their father. Their mother perched on the arm next to the younger of the two men.

  “We’re investigating a case and your sons’ names have come up during the investigation.”

  The Trammell brothers exchanged confused glances.

  “Agent, we want to cooperate,” said Mary, “but I can’t imagine how my boys could have anything to do with a criminal investigation.”

  “Then let’s ask some questions and get them taken off the list of persons of interest.” Torres turned to the young men. “You’re both hunters?”

  “Yes, sir.” Stephen, the older of the two, looked up at his mother and she smiled encouragingly. “That’s part of what we do here. We’re mainly a fishing lodge, and Jamie and I, we lead fishing expeditions down at the Toccoa. But occasionally we get asked to take a group out hunting.”

  “It’s not just the boys,” interjected Hank. “All four of us are experienced hunters and can lead a party. We’re also fully licensed and we make sure all the guests are as well.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Torres said. “Jamie, what kind of hunting do you do? Strictly firearms?”

  “Mostly, but not always. Any guests I’ve ever taken out have their own rifles, but me and my buddies, we like to bowhunt sometimes.”

  “What kind of bow do you use?”

  “Compound. I—” He stopped when his father’s hand shot out to close over his wrist, his gaze shifting quickly from his father to Torres and back again.

  Hank leaned forward to look Torres in the eye. “Hang on a second. This is about those archery murders, isn’t it?”

  Meg stepped in, hoping a calmer, less authoritative voice would keep the interview on even footing. “Yes, that’s the case we’re working on. And right now, we’re following a wide variety of leads. We’re not looking at charging either of your sons at this time.”

  Hank shook his head in disbelief. “This is ludicrous. Neither of my boys are killers.”

  “It’s the tournaments, isn’t it?” Stephen’s tone was steady and logical. “It’s all our medals. You’re looking for who could make that shot. And, yeah . . . we could.”

  “Stephen!” Mary clamped a hand down over his shoulder.

  He looked up at her and smiled. “It’s okay, Mom. They already know or they wouldn’t be here. They’re just doing what they need to. But they’re not going to find what they’re looking for here, are they, Jamie?”

  “No, they’re not,” Jamie agreed. “But yeah, we could make that shot. I saw a post on Facebook about it. A hundred yards. With a compound or a recurve?”

  “I’m sorry, we can’t share that information,” Torres said.

  “Doesn’t matter which,” Stephen said, “because we could do it with both. But we didn’t. Give us the dates and we’ll show you. Mom, can you go get the booking calendar?”

  Mary sprang to her feet and rushed out of the room, nervous energy speeding her way.

  Both men pulled out their phones and reviewed their schedules with the help of the lodge booking calendar. In the end, the men were able to give alibis for two of the three deaths—out together with a fishing party for one, and at the lodge for the second—but only Stephen could substantiate an alibi for the third killing.

  “Do you remember, Dad? You sent me to Chattanooga to meet with that supplier.” Jamie distractedly tapped a finger against the back of his phone. “I left first thing and didn’t get back until mid-afternoon because of that crash on I-75.”

  Meg didn’t see as much as sense Torres’s interest sharpen.

  “How do you normally drive to Chattanooga?” he asked.

  Torres’s tone was so casual, Meg bet Jamie never realized the importance of the question.

  “I go there once or twice a month on lodge business. Always take GA-5 to US-74 and from there to I-75 into town. Why?”

  US-74. The winding road that followed the Ocoee. Jaime had driven right past Ocoee #2 to get to Chattanooga.

  “That route took you close to the site of the murder that occurred that day.” Torres refrained from saying “close” was literally under five hundred feet. “It would hardly have been out of your way, and with an archer of your skill, it wouldn’t have taken long to do the job.”

  “But I didn’t kill anybody.” Horror tipped Jamie’s words. “Mom, Dad, I swear I haven’t hurt anyone.”

  Hank’s grip tightened. “We know,” he said simply.

  “Do you have anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts that day?” Torres asked.

  Jamie shook his head. “Not while I was in the truck driving back and forth, but I can get the supplier to confirm when I arrived and when I left. But I didn’t have any of my bows with me. Why would I need one to pick up supplies?”

  “Even if we can confirm your bows were here at the lodge, that doesn’t mean you couldn’t have another one with you,” Torres pressed. “Maybe one your family didn’t know about.”

  “But I didn’t. Why would I kill someone I don’t know?” Jamie’s tone was starting to rise in pitch as his stress level skyrocketed.

  “Agent Torres,” Hank broke in, “this is nonsense. My boy didn’t kill anyone. And he couldn’t have done the previous two murders.”

  “We have to keep all our options open,” Torres replied.

  “Are you saying we need a lawyer?” Mary asked.

  “No, but we will need you to stay in town and remain available for the duration of this investigation. And I need the name and contact information of that supplier.”

  When they were back in the car, Meg looked at Torres. “Jamie isn’t our killer. I absolutely believe him. It’s simply a coincidence that he happened to be on the same road that morning, but he wouldn’t have had the time to follow the flume in to the dam, make the shot, and then follow it back out.”

  “I agree, but I needed to make sure. I’ll confirm with the supplier, but he seemed genuine to me.”

  “Good. So where to next?”

  “Thomas Atwell of Atwell’s Garage and Wrecking. Because of the space needed for the wrecking yard, he has a place here in the valley. He’s not an archery champion, but he’s high on Beverley’s list because he has a high kill count on his harvest records.”

  They found Atwe
ll on his back on a creeper dolly under a beat-up sedan with only the oil-stained, ragged legs of his coverall and worn, filthy boots sticking out.

  “Mr. Atwell?” Torres called.

  The man ignored them and kept working, his body jerking rhythmically as if he was wrenching something into place.

  “Mr. Atwell?” Torres rapped his knuckles on the quarter panel.

  “Busy!” a voice growled.

  “Mr. Atwell, I’m Special Agent Torres from the FBI and I need to talk to you.”

  The body stopped moving, remaining motionless for a few seconds, and then the dolly rolled out. Thomas Atwell was in his midforties with a grizzled beard shot with gray, a heavily lined face streaked with grime, and a scowl. He held a heavy ratchet wrench in his right hand. His gaze shot to the badge Torres held out to him and then settled on Torres’s face, his eyes narrowing.

  “I don’t want to talk to any Fed.” He reached up to grab the edge of the car to drag himself back under, but Torres neatly slipped the toe of one shoe behind a wheel, blocking the motion.

  “We won’t take much of your time, but we need to ask you some questions.”

  With a muttered curse, Atwell rolled to his feet with surprising coordination. “Make it quick. I got a business to run.”

  “Do you like to hunt, Mr. Atwell?”

  Atwell stared at him, his face a mottled red. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re wasting my time for that?”

  “I’m not wasting your time, Mr. Atwell, but I do have a few questions for you.”

  “And I don’t need to hear any questions from a beaner. You’re not welcome here. Get the fuck out of my place.”

  It was subtle, but Meg watched Torres’s face go blank at the racial slur. “Sir, this is for a criminal investigation. I know your time is valuable, but I do need to ask about your whereabouts on several occasions.”

  “You gonna arrest me?”

  “Right now, all I’d like is some information.”

  “Well, you’re not going to get it. I’m done Hispander-ing. Go back to wherever you came from.”

  “Hey!” Meg wasn’t about to stand by and listen to any more. “Mr. Atwell, Special Agent Torres is a law enforcement officer. Show some respect.”

  “I don’t got no respect for his kind.” His gaze raked down and then back up her body before taking a step toward her. “But you, honey, I can show you lots of respect.”

  Meg balled a fist, prepared to use it if Atwell laid a grimy hand on her, but Torres already had him by the arm, yanking him back.

  Atwell shook him off. “Get your greasy hands off me or I’m pressing charges for assault.”

  “Come on, Meg,” Torres said through gritted teeth, evidently seeing it was a fruitless situation. “We have everything we’re going to get here for now. Next time we want to talk to Mr. Atwell, we’ll take him into custody first.” Torres ushered Meg out of the garage, and only once she was safely out did he follow her.

  “Oh yeah? You and what army?” Atwell bellowed from behind them.

  Once they were driving away, Meg turned to Torres and took in his locked jaw and the high color on his cheekbones. “What a great guy.” Sarcasm dripped from her words. “Hates Latinos on sight and thinks women exist exclusively for his sexual pleasure.” She shuddered at the thought. “Clearly, he’s a lowlife.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “If we want to talk to him again, we may want to send Brian in since we didn’t do so well. Where to next?”

  “Mason and Will Cavett. Let’s hope it goes better than Atwell. I guess it can’t go any worse.

  Famous last words. But Meg refrained from saying it out loud.

  CHAPTER 16

  Georgia’s Land Lotteries: Seven times between 1805 and 1832, Georgia used a lottery system to raffle off the land taken from the Cherokee and Creek Nations. These lotteries were unique to Georgia; no other state used a lottery system to distribute land, and almost three-quarters of the entire state was distributed under this system. Applicants could only be white males over 18 or 21 (depending on the lottery), orphans, or widows. Lot size varied widely, even in the individual lotteries. The largest lots distributed were 490 acres in the 1805 and the 1820 land lotteries. The smallest were 40-acre gold lots raffled off during the Gold Lottery of 1832.

  Saturday, April 13, 10:34 AM

  Cavett Family Farms

  Blue Ridge, Georgia

  “Wow.” Meg leaned forward to stare out the windshield of Torres’s SUV. “That’s the family farm?”

  “Has been for nearly two hundred years.” Torres brought the SUV to a slow stop in front of a pair of double wrought iron gates. “Though when the Cavetts settled here, it would likely still have been heavily treed. The family had to clear most of this land.”

  “How much land do they own?” Meg asked.

  “Currently, fifty-five acres. But when Jedidiah Cavett won this parcel in the 1832 land lottery, it was one hundred and fourteen acres. Over the years, the family has sold off pieces of it and made a pretty penny doing so. Now they’re down to the existing acreage, which is what they need as horse breeders.”

  “Friesian breeders.”

  “Isn’t that a kind of horse?”

  “It is, but a very desirable horse with a high value. The kind of value that keeps a fancy farm like this running.”

  Meg studied the fields and buildings spread out before them. Past the double gates, the driveway wound up a gentle rise. Both sides of the driveway were flanked by bright white wooden fencing enclosing horse pastures on either side. The left side was hidden behind the tree line that provided privacy from the road, but from their current position, several horses were visible in the opposite pasture. At the top of the driveway, a two-story barn stretched atop the rise, with a row of doors leading directly to a long run of stalls.

  “I guess we’ll have to buzz in.” Torres’s words drew Meg away from her examination of the property. He pointed at the small intercom on a curved metal post peeping out of one of the bushes lining the driveway.

  “Looks like it. Want me to jump out?”

  “No, I’ll do it.” Torres opened the door, climbed out, and strode over to the intercom. A buzz sounded, followed by about ten seconds of silence. Then a muffled voice came over the intercom. Meg couldn’t hear Torres’s words, just the timbre of his voice. The gates swung open and he hurried back, jumped in, put the car in drive, and pulled forward into the gap.

  “Who did you talk to?”

  “Not sure. Female voice, fairly strong accent. She invited us up.”

  As the gates closed behind them, they wound up the driveway bisecting the pastures.

  “I researched the family business,” Torres said. “They’re well-known and have an excellent reputation as breeders. It sounds like they get top dollar.”

  “This is an expensive operation, so they’d need to.” Through the break in the trees to their left, Meg spotted a second building. “Over there. That must be the house.”

  “She said to take the left at the fork, so that makes sense.”

  When the driveway split, Torres turned and followed the curve to the left. From the top of the hill, Meg had a quick glimpse of more pastures past the barn and several equine transport trailers parked behind it. A young man—one of the farm hands?—came out of one of the external stall doors leading a massive black stallion, his mane and tail blowing gracefully in the breeze. Then they disappeared behind the trees lining the edge of the road to the house.

  Torres drove toward a house with clearly historic origins, one the family had expanded over decades, or possibly centuries. Built partly of rough-cut pine boards and partly of fieldstone, the house boasted wide picture windows, large stone chimneys, and a steeply pitched roof. The mix of styles might have been jarring on another structure, but here it lent the house the trappings of genteel history.

  Torres pulled the car up to the house on the circular driveway and cut the engine. “Let’s hope this inter
view goes better than the last one.”

  It struck Meg in that moment how young Torres looked. She pegged him in his early thirties, but discomfort, likely born of years of snide comments and little jabs, sketched shadows across his features and melted years off him.

  Their knock at the front door was answered almost immediately. The door opened to reveal a tall, slender blond woman in her midforties. Her long, wavy hair spilled over her shoulders and halfway down her back, and she wore a loose, pale-blue chambray shirt over a pair of dark wash skinny jeans. “Good morning.” She greeted them with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes or mute the confusion there. “Please come in, Special Agent . . . I’m so sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” Her accent was soft and fluid, drawing out her vowels almost to a throaty purr.

  “Special Agent Torres. And this is my colleague, Meg Jennings.”

  She offered a delicate hand. “Savannah Cavett. So nice to meet you. Please come in. Can I offer you sweet tea? Or a soda? Or I could put on some coffee.”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Cavett. This isn’t a social call. We’d like to speak to your husband and son.”

  Confusion darkened into alarm. “Mason and Will? Whatever for?”

  “We have some questions for them. Are they here, Mrs. Cavett?”

  She led the way into a comfortable living room. “They’re out at the barn or in the fields, but I’d be happy to call them for you.”

  “Yes, please, Mrs. Cavett.”

  “Please make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

  After she disappeared through the doorway and down the hall, Meg nudged Torres’s arm. “Look at that.” She crossed the room to a large, glassed cabinet. Inside was an impressive display of trophy cups, medals, and framed certificates. “Sam, you need to see this.”

  Torres joined her at the cabinet. “Impressive.” He leaned in to read the names. “These are all for Will. From a range of different competitions. Some national, some state.”

  Meg bent to look at some of the items displayed on the lower shelves. “The older ones are down here. Smaller competitions. Are those the newer ones?”