Jay nodded. “Give yourself a few deep breaths out here,” he warned as he put on his gloves to open the padlock. “It’s not as fresh in there.”
For a moment he weighed the padlock hanging on the hasp. A shard of memory stabbed him. The padlock had been closed the first time he went into the old storage room, too.
“Check to see if one of the windows has been forced,” he said, slipping the padlock free.
“Any special reason?” Cooke asked.
“I found this locked. They had to get in somehow.”
“They?” Barton asked. “We’re talking about two old people. Hell, a kid could have done it.”
“Boot tracks in the blood,” Jay said. “At least two different treads. Man sized.”
He opened the door.
“Davis,” Cooke said. “Give me a piece of your gum.”
Barton pressed forward as Jay walked in and carefully removed the tarp. Three seconds later Barton bolted for the door, knocking aside Davis in a rush for fresh air.
“Told him to stay out,” Cooke said. “He doesn’t listen worth a damn, bless him. Make that two pieces of gum, Davis.”
The deputy handed over another piece, stuffed a fresh one in his own mouth, and followed the sheriff inside.
Jay went out and stood by Barton, waiting until he finished booting whatever he had eaten that day. His crisp jeans and jacket were spattered now.
GQ meets reality.
“I’m—I didn’t expect it to be so—” Barton’s stomach did another round-trip.
“Don’t worry. Everyone does it the first time or two. Natural as breathing.”
“You—didn’t.”
“Here? No. First few times I saw my men blown up? You bet I puked. But puking didn’t help anyone and it wore me out. I learned to swallow whatever came my way and keep it down.”
After a few more heaves, Barton straightened and wiped his mouth with his hand. And he watched the open door where slashed bodies were spotlighted by flash after flash of the deputy’s camera.
“What kind of animal does that?” Barton asked.
“The human kind.”
“But—”
“Somebody once said that civilization comes from the barrel of a gun,” Jay cut in. “Smart man. The Solvangs didn’t get to their guns first.”
The sheriff came out for a fresh-air break. “Times like this I wish I still smoked,” he said, pulling his phone from a pocket. “You’re right about civilization. No enforcement, no law. Damn shame, but people are what they are.”
“You’re saying there’s a lot of crime out here?” Barton asked, his voice hoarse.
“Meth cookers, runners, sellers. Same for pot and unlicensed liquor. Cigarettes. Indian reservations are a revolving door for smugglers of anything the feds tax off reservation or outright forbid. Hell, we even have rustlers, just like the bad old days.” Cooke shook his head. “We have our share of snakes here, same as the city, but usually the crime is centered around money, not murder for the sheer bloody hell of it. There was nothing in Fish Camp to attract this kind of butchery.”
Jay felt the rage bottled up inside shoving at him like a geyser getting ready to blow.
It never gets easier. First impulse is to find who did it and do the same to them. An eye for an eye.
And then some.
He choked the feeling back and spoke evenly. “There are fifty-six paintings, Custer plus a handful of other painters mixed in.”
Cooke’s thumbs danced across his phone.
“Any stolen?” Barton asked. Clammy skin aside, he was back on his game, and that game was money.
“All the slots in the crates were full,” Jay said. “It’s possible the jackals took an entire crate, but I can’t prove it either way. Inge was a strict housekeeper. There wasn’t a convenient clean space in any dust to point to a missing crate.”
“If you had to bet, where would you put your money?” Cooke asked.
“That no crate is missing. Those crates are at least five by six feet and eighteen inches wide, solid wood. It will take a truck to get them out of here. Or a helicopter.” He shifted his shoulders, trying to loosen some tension. “I didn’t see any sign of fresh tire tracks coming in on the road. Same for horses. There were some ATV tracks, but Inge and Ivar both used ATVs. If a helicopter landed, it would have been at Fish Camp itself. I didn’t see any marks.”
The sheriff didn’t ask any more questions. If anybody would know what marks a helicopter left on the land, it would be Jay.
“Who else knew you were coming up?” Cooke asked, taking notes as he spoke.
“Henry. The ranch hands. Sara. The Solvangs. Plus anybody who called looking for me and was told where I’d gone. I wasn’t exactly on a black ops mission.”
“Any chance you were being tracked?”
“I got a sense of being watched by humans, but it was earlier in the day. Skunk alerted.”
“Why didn’t you go after them?” Barton asked. “You’re supposed to be hell on wheels tracking and shooting.”
“Probably,” Cooke drawled, “Jay didn’t want to leave Sara and some really pricey cattle to fend for themselves while he chased what was ninety-nine percent sure to be harmless hikers.” He turned back to Jay. “Anything else?”
“Later on, a cougar tracked us.”
“How did you know it was a cat?” Barton asked. “Did you see it?”
“Once, when I shot it, just before it took a calf. Damn, I have to call it in to the rangers. The cougar was injured and half starved, but not part of any study that I could see. No tags, no collar.”
“The rangers can wait,” Cooke said drily. “Dead humans take priority here, no matter how much of a howl the animal rights folks put up. What about earlier? Was it the cat then, too?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?” Barton asked in disbelief.
“I’ve been hunted by men. It’s different.”
“I’ve been hunted by men,” Barton said, “and I—”
“Dumb, hired muscle thumping on people who don’t pay loans isn’t the same as real hunting,” Cooke said, never looking up from the notes he was taking on his phone.
Jay’s eyebrows climbed. He hadn’t heard about that incident in Barton’s checkered past.
“That didn’t happen here,” Barton said. “It’s none of your damn business.”
“When Boston PD warns me that there might be some out-of-town talent headed my way, it’s my business.”
“I took care of it,” Barton said.
“Bless you.” Cooke glanced back over his shoulder to the open door. “What I’m seeing is a couple of men came across Fish Camp and thought they’d rob it. Then maybe Ivar jumped one of them. Things went to hell and two people ended up dead. You said the place looked like it had been searched?”
“Nothing thorough,” Jay said. “Some drawers opened, cupboards, furniture pushed out of place, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds like the kind of search frightened assholes might make before they run,” Barton said.
“Lots of bad luck in this world to go around,” Cooke said. “Looks like too much of it landed here.”
Barton glanced at the open door. “Sure as hell did.”
Cooke stuffed his phone back into his pocket and resettled his gun belt. “Okay, Jay, let’s do some investigation. There’s not much chance of finding something after the rain, but we have to try. Barton, stay here and wait for Davis while Jay and I go cut some sign.”
“I can—” Barton began.
“How many deer, elk, cougar, and bear have you hunted?” Cooke asked.
“I eat game at high-end restaurants like a civilized man.”
“Bless you,” the sheriff said. “How many stray cows have you tracked? Search and rescue on hikers?”
Barton’s face flushed.
“That’s what I thought,” Cooke said. “Stay here like I told you or I’ll fine your civilized ass for interfering at a crime scene. Hear me?”<
br />
Barton kicked dirt, coming perilously close to the sheriff’s boots. After a moment, the younger man deliberately lit a cigarette and walked stiff-legged toward the boathouse.
Cooke shook his head. “The best part of that boy ran down his mother’s leg. Bless him.”
CHAPTER 17
SARA WAS STIRRING hash at the stove and trying very hard not to think about what the gum-cracking crime scene tech might be doing. The sudden opening of the mudroom door made her jump. Three more cardboard cartons thumped onto the floor.
“Did you find anything?” she asked quickly.
Jay was too busy eating her up with his eyes to answer right away.
“If you count questions, we found a lot,” Cooke said.
“Rain took out most of the trail,” Jay said.
He removed his hat and whacked it across his thigh. Drops scattered. The trees were still wet from last night’s rain.
Both men used the boot cleaner and shook out their jackets before entering the kitchen. The room was warm from the stove and fragrant with coffee and the pot of canned hash and freshly chopped onions bubbling on the stove.
“Smells like heaven,” Cooke said.
“I didn’t know when you had eaten,” she said. “Not much here except canned stuff, but it will keep your stomach walls apart.”
“Anything I don’t cook is a good meal,” the sheriff said. “Thank you. Mind if I pour some of that coffee?”
“I’ll get it,” Jay said. “Sit down, Sheriff. Your day started sooner than mine.”
“Won’t argue that.” Cooke settled into one of the old wooden chairs, rubbed his face, and sighed.
Jay went to the stove where Sara was stirring some pepper into the hash. Her face was flushed with heat and something more, the same thing that had his heartbeat increasing just at the sight of her. He slid his arms around her from the back in a slow, gentle hug.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
She nodded.
The clean scent of lavender teased his nose. “You took another shower,” he said, his voice too low to be overheard. “I must smell like a mountain goat.”
She leaned back against him and murmured, “You smell good. Cold air, evergreens, and last night’s rain.”
“Sweet liar.”
She laughed softly at his use of her phrase.
He brushed a kiss over her neck, felt her shiver of response, and knew he had to step away from her before he embarrassed both of them.
“You get the coffee,” Sara said, her voice a bit husky. “I’ll bring the mugs. Where’s Barton?”
“With Davis,” Jay said.
“Poor Davis,” she said under her breath.
No sooner had she finished than a pounding came from the front door and Barton’s voice called, “Let me in! It’s cold out here.”
“Come around to the mudroom,” Jay called back as he lifted the heavy coffeepot.
“But—”
“Just do it,” Jay said impatiently, “like everyone else.”
“Bless him,” the sheriff said. “He’s trying. Very, very trying.”
Sara covered the sound of her choked laughter by rattling the crockery mugs she was carrying. As she put one in front of the sheriff, he winked at her.
She winked back.
“I’ll warm some plates,” she said. “Then we can eat.”
The mudroom door opened so hard it banged against the outside of the house before it bounced off and closed again. Like the self-absorbed child he was, Barton hurried toward the warmth of the kitchen.
“Boots,” Jay said.
Barton looked up. “Huh?”
“Mud.”
“Disgusting stuff. That’s why I live in a city.”
“Clean your boots,” Jay said, pouring coffee.
“Hell, I always forget.”
Barton scraped his boots before he rushed back toward the warm stove. “What’s for lunch?”
“Corned beef hash,” Sara said.
“I hate that shit.”
“Warm up a can of chili,” she suggested, turning to the cupboard for plates.
Cooke choked on a swallow of coffee.
Jay tried not to do the same. “Grab a mug from the cupboard. Coffee is hot.”
“I don’t drink brewed coffee,” Barton said.
“At Fish Camp you do or you go without.”
Barton got a cup, waited for Jay to fill it, took a sip, and grimaced. “Well, you sure aren’t keeping her around for her talent in the kitchen.”
Jay focused on his brother like a cougar sighting prey. “This hasn’t been easy on anyone. Think about that before you run your mouth.”
“Hey, I was just trying to lighten the atmosphere. Doesn’t anyone around here have a sense of humor?”
“Say something funny and we’ll see.” Though not loud, Sara’s voice was as clear as the mountain air. Cold, too.
The sheriff saluted her with his mug of coffee. “This is prime western coffee, ma’am. Just the thing for a working stiff like me.”
“Thank you. The hash is ready when you are.”
“That would be now,” Cooke said. “Sit down. I can serve myself.”
“Thanks, but it’s no trouble.” She smiled at him. “I haven’t been doing anything more taxing than opening cans and making coffee.”
Cooke smiled back, pure male appreciation in the curve of his lips.
“I went out to ask the pilot if she wanted to come in,” Sara said, “but she was sleeping soundly.”
“Reg had two emergency runs before she picked us up.”
“Is she holding up all right?” Jay asked.
“As well as any girl—woman—who was dumped by her husband while she was overseas.”
Barton pulled out a kitchen chair. “Maybe she should have stayed home.”
Sara bit her lips and gave the hash a hard stir. The more she was around Barton, the more he grated. She grabbed the three warm plates and put one in front of everyone but Jay’s brother.
“What about me?” he asked.
“You don’t like hash.”
She went back to the stove for the pot of hash. When she came back, her plate was in front of Barton. The condiments she had put neatly in the center of the table were scattered, along with the forks and napkins.
Jay pushed his plate into the empty spot in front of Sara’s chair. It was an automatic gesture. After Barton could walk—and talk—Jay had spent too much of his time keeping his half brother from annoying JD.
As Jay started to stand, Sara’s hand came down on his shoulder, holding him in place. “I don’t mind getting another plate. Barton is doing the dishes.”
“Like hell,” Barton said.
Jay looked at his brother with hard blue eyes. “You’ll do them, you’ll do a good job, and you’ll keep your mouth shut while you get it done.”
Barton turned the color of a ripe tomato. Silently.
Jay flashed back to too many meals that had ended just like this, with Barton angry and everyone else impatient. Jay picked up his own coffee, swallowed, and said, “Thank you, Sara. That will get me through the rest of the day.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Want more before I bring the hash?”
His stomach growled audibly.
She smiled. “Hash it is.”
A few moments later, she put the pot of hash on the table and laid a big serving spoon beside it.
“Help yourself, Sheriff,” she said. “Today it’s boardinghouse rules. That means it’s rude to ask anyone to pass something if you can reach it while still keeping one foot on the floor.”
The sheriff dug in and passed the hash to Barton, who grimaced at the smell. But he served himself and passed the spoon to Jay, who filled Sara’s plate before he served his own. She brought slices of bread and a quart of the home-canned peaches she had found in the pantry.
“Dessert or side dish, take your pick,” she said, putting the sealed Mason jar and another spoon on the table.
Barton reached for the peaches. He gave the sealed top a twist. The only thing that moved was his hand on the lid. He made a few more passes and asked, “Where’s the opener?”
“Sitting next to me,” Sara said without looking up.
Jay took the jar, gave the lid ring a hard twist. Reluctantly the ring loosened and came free. He put his fingernail under the circular metal that remained behind, broke the suction, and set the two parts of the top aside.
Barton grabbed the jar and began forking succulent peach halves onto his plate. “Did you find anything out there?”
The sheriff looked at Jay, who shrugged and said, “Someone flew a helo to a landing zone in a small clearing just the other side of the ridge.”
“The one toward town?” Barton asked around a chunk of peach.
Jay shook his head. “The other one. There’s a landing mark and enough debris to tell me that the helo clipped a few branch tips on the way down. Real tight landing spot.”
“But a great view of Fish Camp,” Barton said. “You can damn near count blades of grass in the pasture.”
“When were you up here?” Jay asked.
“I—” The second half of a peach slipped from Barton’s fork and landed with a messy plop in the hash. He muttered something and speared it again. “I took a helicopter ride with one of the mining consortiums I told you about. Must have been late last summer.”
The sheriff shoveled hash like a man used to being called away from meals.
“These skid tracks were a lot newer,” Jay said. “Like yesterday. Faint signs of an ATV trail to Fish Camp. Or from it. Add in the two separate boot tracks, and it looks like someone landed a helo, off-loaded a two-man ATV, and butchered their way through Fish Camp.”
Barton paused before forking in another peach half. “Graphic, bro. I just got some appetite back.”
“Maybe an hour on the ground, max,” the sheriff said, reaching for more hash. “No sign of torture or rape in the Solvang cabin.”
“I’m eating,” Barton said.
“Whatever they stole,” Cooke continued, setting down his heaping plate, “if they stole anything, had to be small enough to take out on an ATV.”
Perfect Touch: A Novel Page 17
