Leave No Trace

by Sara Driscoll

  Meg exchanged glances with Torres. It was a classic strategy with these kinds of interviews—try to ask as many questions as you could before letting the subject know specifics about the case, at which point they could then start to craft excuses around those details. But often, at a certain point, you had to give minimal information because no one wanted to be interrogated for no known cause. Meg nodded at Torres in encouragement.

  “Because there have been several deaths we feel are related to the land acquisition by the TVA,” Torres said. “Or rather, we feel the deaths are related to stopping that land acquisition. The killer uses a compound bow as his weapon of choice.”

  “You think because the killer hunts with a bow and arrow that an Indian must be responsible?” Outrage colored Cobbrey’s words.

  “Not at all. So far, no one we’ve talked to has been Native American.” Torres’s voice remained cool and collected in face of the snap and fire in Cobbrey’s tone. “I’m looking for an elite hunter who has turned his eye to other prey. Some of the members of your tribe are skilled bowhunters. That’s the only thing I’m looking for. That and motive, which the EBCI also has.”

  “You think one of my people would kill to reclaim our land?” Cobbrey cast his eye to a large framed photo of a group of men and women in two rows in a room lined in stripes of pale, blond wood. “Perhaps you think it’s one of our council members?”

  Meg stared at the photo. The people in the photo covered a range of characteristics—male and female, fair and darker skinned, blond, brunette, black, and gray haired, young and old. Anyone who thought of the Cherokee, or any of the modern tribes, as a stereotype à la the Golden Age of Hollywood didn’t have a clue about the diversity of today’s tribal populations.

  By all appearances, they live together as a diverse population better than their non-tribal neighbors.

  “I’m not pointing fingers at anyone in particular at this time. But I’m currently looking at anyone with means and motive, and that includes the members of the EBCI.”

  “We would also be happy to exclude any members of the EBCI who could not have been responsible.” Meg locked gazes with Cobbrey so he could have no doubt about her sincerity. “If you cooperate with us, we’ll only look at members who had the particular skill set we need to consider. And if they alibi out, that will be the end of the story. Your assistance will make the entire process go faster. You know Special Agent Torres could come back with all the warrants he needs. But we’d prefer to work with you rather than against you. We’ll never be able to truly understand your challenges. But we can try to make the process as easy as possible for you. We have no agenda other than to find the person responsible for three horrific deaths.”

  “Three.”

  “Yes, over the past two and a half weeks.”

  “My people are not responsible. We know better than to use violence to solve our problems. That will only be revisited upon us many times over. We use the court system. A legally binding decision is our only way forward.”

  “That’s how you feel. But how do you know that’s how your people feel?” Skepticism was thick in Torres’s tone.

  “Because they are my people.” One hand came down hard on Cobbrey’s desk. “Can I guarantee the honor of every one of the citizens of our nation? Of course not. That would be naïve. There are over sixteen thousand of us. But we have learned lessons harder than most others. And a few deaths would not stop a government agency. It would be a wasted effort.”

  “Then help us prove that.” Meg looked at the photo of the council members before turning to Cobbrey. “Help us strike you from the list. Then no one else will be able to point the finger at you, either.”

  For a long moment, Cobbrey simply stared at her, the weight of his decision clear in his eyes. To help the FBI might be seen by some of his people as a betrayal. But it was also the best way to prove their innocence. “All right. What do you need?”

  “Hunting records. Archery club memberships. Word of mouth,” Meg said. “Let’s build a list and try to knock it down. And if there’s anyone left standing after that, then help us deal with them fairly. It’s all we ask.”

  His drawn mouth and hard jaw telegraphed both his discomfort with the request and the burden of leadership. But he picked up his phone and dialed a number. “James, come to my office, please. I need your help.” He met Meg’s eyes across the wide expanse of his desk. “The tribe needs your help.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Werowance: A Powhatan word for a local chief, usually at the village level.

  Sunday, April 14, 7:14 PM

  Laurel Ridge Vineyards

  Blue Ridge, Georgia

  The town of Blue Ridge had come out to the town hall in force.

  Meg had thought they’d be early when they pulled into the parking lot at 6:15 PM, but it was already over three-quarters full of cars and dirt-splattered pickup trucks—it wasn’t just the residents of Blue Ridge in attendance, but also their more rural neighbors from surrounding areas. Two large buses occupied one corner of the lot, and there was heavy foot traffic around the main buildings, the parking lot, and over to the far west side of the lot, where an elevated platform looked out over neat rows of grapevines marching down the west face of the slope. On the far side of the lot, a line of news vans was parked at the edge of the asphalt. Beyond, the ridges and valleys of the Appalachian Mountains rose and fell in shades of emerald, kelly, and hunter green in the early-evening sun.

  Now, a quarter hour into the session, the banquet hall overflowed into the foyer beyond the double doors. When more cars continued to pull into the parking lot, the vineyard’s social director threw open the glass French doors leading out onto the patio, and more townsfolk crowded in. Blue Ridge Mayor Cassie Taylor had taken the change in stride, having the podium removed from what had been the front of the room and turning the space into a theater-in-the-round. Now she stood, surrounded by packed chairs and a standing room–only audience, a cordless microphone in her hand as she slowly turned in a circle, taking care to include every person in attendance in the discussion. Camera crews were set up against one wall, and the reporters were clustered in one of the impromptu aisles, each holding a microphone and glancing at their own camera crew, perfectly coiffed and ready for a close-up on their killer question.

  With Hawk wearing his FBI vest and sitting patiently at her feet, Meg stood toward the back of the banquet hall as Mayor Taylor called Blue Ridge Police Chief Danvers forward and handed him the mic. While Danvers talked about area law enforcement’s joint investigation—or at least the information they had all agreed was safe to release—Meg scanned the room.

  Torres had handed off his time at the microphone to Danvers because he wanted the case to have a familiar and trusted face. He now stood by the main entranceway, his back to the wall while he constantly scanned the room. Brian stood buried in the crowd spilling onto the patio, just inside one of the French doors, Lacey at his side, but hidden in the crush of bodies. McCord sat in the second row on Meg’s side, having eschewed his more obvious notepad for the voice recorder on the phone in the pocket of his shirt. Webb sat toward the rear on the opposite side from McCord. And sprinkled throughout the crowd, Meg spotted many of the faces of the law enforcement officers she’d met that first day.

  Like her, they were watching the crowd, not the police chief.

  There were familiar civilian faces in the crowd as well. Principal Chief Charles Cobbrey attended with two members of his tribal council. The Trammell and Cavett families were both there. McCord had pointed to a woman who looked to be in her early fifties and mouthed Beverley.

  Thomas Atwell was conspicuously absent.

  The crowd’s mood was a combination of fear, resentment, and vigilantism. Danvers, however, was doing an excellent job of explaining the investigation without revealing what the team suspected was the killer’s motive. He cleverly handled the media, firmly putting them in their place when they tried to interrupt him with questions after ev
ery sentence. Claiming the floor again, uninterrupted, he made it clear the killings were not random, the few specific people who were at risk were being informed, and steps were being taken to safeguard them. The crowd seemed to relax slightly then, the couple in front of Meg reassuring each other in whispers that since the cops hadn’t talked to them, they must be safe.

  Danvers was stretching the truth, but he did it in order to keep the townsfolk calm. It was true that if the Copperhill Dam was the flashpoint for the suspect, then there were specific targets; however, that number could be quite large and could involve residents from several states and even Washington, DC. Torres had already contacted the CEO of the TVA, who immediately moved to take steps to quietly warn his people, even as Torres was working his way through the list of state politicians who might also be targets. They all knew there was a good chance they’d miss someone, but most of the people in this room were safe because they were never targets in the first place.

  Danvers was finishing up. “For the overwhelming majority of you, you are not at risk. However, I understand your desire to protect yourselves just in case, and there are a few things you can do. Be aware of your surroundings. One hundred to one hundred and twenty yards is the range to consider. Anything beyond that, an accurate shot is not possible for this archer with this weapon. Keep in mind the archer is likely wearing camo and will not be visible within leaf cover, but you are safer in town due to its open spaces and lack of an escape route. If you live out of town and can’t avoid forested areas, stay in motion. The archer needs to be able to aim at the victim, and a body in motion is a poor target. And keep the terrain and line of sight in mind. If you can’t see a location, someone in that location can’t see you, either.”

  A voice from somewhere outside the open French doors bellowed, “Send the son of a bitch my way. Me, Smith, and Wesson will teach him a lesson he won’t forget!”

  That got chortles and whoops from men around him, but a cool stare from Danvers. “This is not a man to be trifled with. He’s not a man to engage with. If you think you know who the archer may be, you will tell law enforcement and we’ll follow up on it. This is not a moment for vigilante justice.” His stare drilled into the speaker. “You probably wouldn’t live long enough to regret the decision, so don’t go down that road.” Danvers turned his back on the man and continued to address the crowd. “Be aware, be smart, but don’t let paranoia rule your life. Now, any questions?”

  A flurry of hands shot up with a sudden babble of voices. Holding a microphone, a stylish brunette dressed in a pencil skirt and slingback heels stepped forward from where she stood in the crowded aisle between rows of chairs. Danvers nodded at her.

  “Penelope Grand, WXIA News. Chief, as we all know, Atlanta is a hub of illegal drug distribution by the Mexican cartels. Is the methamphetamine trade the flashpoint for the attacks? Or the influx of Chinese opioids?”

  “We’re certainly considering all possible motives, but we aren’t able to share our conclusions at this time. You there, sir. In the second row.”

  “Who should we be looking out for? Is he young? Old?”

  “That isn’t information we can share at this time.”

  “So we should be suspicious of everybody?” Alarm drove the man’s tone of voice higher.

  “Not at all. This is only one person. You know your neighbors, and the people you do business with in town. You know us. Have faith in the people you know.”

  “It sounds like you don’t know nothin’,” a voice bellowed from the back. “We pay your salary. You gotta protect us. Do your goddamned job.”

  Danvers opened his mouth to speak, but Taylor stepped forward and slipped the mic out of his hand with an apologetic smile. “Wayne, that’s not helping. It’s a difficult case and it’s taking some time, but they’re working diligently. In the meantime, we have to do our best to stay watchful, but avoid being paranoid. I understand you’re scared, but you have my word on it that all the agencies involved are cooperating and sharing information, and they’re doing their level best to solve this as soon as possible.”

  “But are you sure they’re—”

  “You have my word, Wayne.” Taylor smoothly cut him off. “Now sit down and let someone else ask a question.”

  There was grumbling from the rear of the room, but the man sat down. Taylor returned the mic to Danvers and stepped back.

  A woman stood up near the cameras. “I read on Facebook that this is a deep state op. How do we know you’re not part of it?” A murmur ran through the crowd.

  “Ma’am, this case is not a conspiracy theory. None of the law enforcement agencies involved have a vested interest in anything other than apprehending this killer.”

  Meg noticed the camera crews really zooming in on both Danvers and the questioner. When the town hall hit the news, she had a bad feeling that it wasn’t going to be the tale of a careful police investigation that headlined the story, but the threat of a dark conspiracy.

  “But big corporations run our government and—”

  “Ma’am,” Danvers snapped, his temper clearly starting to wear thin, “there is no room for conspiracy theories here.”

  “That sounds like something a deep state operative would say.”

  “There is no one like that here, ma’am.” Danvers turned his back on the woman. “Yes, you sir.”

  An older man stood up, but paused, looking over the crowd.

  “Sir?” Danvers prompted.

  “My neighbor, Larry, he has a bow.”

  “Just because he has a bow, sir, doesn’t mean he’s the killer. Lots of people legally bowhunt and don’t kill their neighbors.”

  “But Larry doesn’t care about hunting seasons.”

  “Poaching’s not the issue we’re dealing with, sir. We’re investigating a capital offense, not someone breaking the law under the Georgia Department of Natural Resources.”

  “But crime is a slippery slope. Once you start down that road—”

  “Thank you, sir. I don’t hear a question, so I’m going to move on.”

  The questions went on for a few more minutes, but Danvers had already shared everything he could and the crowd was getting restless with the lack of any new information, so he shut down the questioning.

  Taylor stepped forward to close the meeting. “Thank you all for attending tonight and for your questions. We will do our utmost to keep you all apprised of critical information. Chief Danvers and I will stay afterward if you have any remaining questions or personal concerns. And if you have any questions after tonight, please don’t hesitate to contact my office, the Blue Ridge Police Department, or the Georgia State Patrol. Stay alert and stay safe. Good night.”

  The noise level in the room exploded as the crowd stood to leave or chatted with their neighbors.

  Time to move.

  Turning, Meg saw Torres was already weaving his way through the door on his way to the parking lot to continue watching the crowd. She tightened up on Hawk’s leash, forcing him to stay close in the crowd, and stepped forward. “Hawk, come. Excuse us.”

  They slowly pushed through the throng of townsfolk—excuse me, pardon me, sorry, if we could just get through—toward the outside doors. Then they were out in the fresh spring evening, where the temperature dipped dramatically in comparison to the overly warm banquet room of packed bodies. Meg gratefully sucked in a long breath of cool air as a gentle breeze wafted the clean scent of freshly turned earth and new life past her.

  In the distance, the sun had set, but the last of the day’s glow lit the sky in tones of amber and russet, highlighting wispy clouds sketched across the deepening bowl of sky. The vineyard was located down the west slope of Rocky Mountain on a long, shallow, fertile stretch of land perfect for the neat rows of vines. This early in the year, the plants were two-foot-tall woody stumps, each with a bright green shock of leaves bursting from the top to wind their way along the supporting guide wires. The vibrant fields were now shrouded in twilight, but still stretch
ed out as far as the eye could see before fading into the shadows.

  The vineyard tours were over for the day, and the parking lot was now empty of the tour buses that had taken up large swaths of asphalt earlier. Townsfolk streamed out the double doors in a crescendo of voices as they headed toward their cars. A few paused to chat with friends and neighbors before leaving, but most pulled out right away, traveling toward home and the oncoming workweek. Meg climbed a few steps up a winding concrete staircase that circled the banquet center to curve up the slope toward the upper fields. From here, she could see most of the parking lot and much of the empty surrounding fields.

  Fifteen minutes later, the evening light was fading fast, shrouding the fields in gloom. The brightly lit parking lot was mostly empty as stragglers continued to wander out of the banquet facilities. Disappointingly, no one in attendance stood out to Meg in any way; she could only hope one of her colleagues had seen something distinctive. Otherwise, while the session had been useful for the residents of Fannin County, it had not been helpful for the law enforcement team.

  The sound of raised voices attracted her attention as a group surrounding Mayor Taylor came out of the building. Meg wasn’t close enough to hear the conversation, but angry tones carried clearly in the evening air. Across the parking lot, Torres and Brian stood in opposite corners watching closely. As the group angled toward Meg, she identified Mason and Will Cavett in the pack, and it was Mason’s voice that carried over everyone else’s. The argument went back and forth between Cavett and Taylor, and while Cavett towered over her, and had bulk and sheer anger on his side, Taylor didn’t back down, meeting each strident statement with a calm, measured tone.

  Is that about the city’s position on the dam, or does it have to do with the legal action mounted against it? Either way, Mason Cavett is not happy about how the mayor is dealing with the situation.

  The group stopped behind a Mercedes SUV, but the argument continued. Torres clearly decided enough was enough and started across the parking lot, weaving between cars as he slipped his hand into the breast pocket of his jacket, where he kept his identification. If he was going to break up the escalating argument, he clearly meant to do it as a law enforcement officer.