Circles in the Snow

by Patrick F. McManus

  The clerk walked behind the counter, got out a magnifying glass, and ran it along the shaft of the arrow, stopping to study the fletching at some length.

  “Anything you can tell me about it?” Tully asked.

  “I can tell you this, it isn’t a commercial arrow. Somebody made it with hand tools.”

  “They did?”

  “Yeah, the person who used it probably made the arrow himself. Lots of serious archers do that, and we sell them everything they need. The shaft itself looks like it’s from stock we sell here at the shop. I suppose it could be bought all over the country, but we’re probably the only one to sell it within three hundred miles. The person who made it would have needed a fletching jig, which we also sell here.”

  “A fletching jig? What’s that?” The man pointed to a tool on a shelf. “That’s one there.”

  Tully had seen a similar object once before, in the hobby room of Hillory Fester. “Interesting,” he said. “What’s it for?”

  “It’s used to attach the feathers to the shaft.”

  “Anything else you can tell me about the arrow?”

  “Well, yes, it’s illegal.”

  “Illegal? How? Other than it was used to kill a person?”

  “Oh sure, there’s that,” the man said. “Also, the fletching is made from eagle feathers. As I’m sure you know, Sheriff, it’s illegal even to possess eagle feathers, let alone use them for fletching.”

  Tully thought about this for a moment. “I do know that. I guess I just never paid that much attention to the fletching.” His head was spinning. A whole new dimension had just opened up in the murder. The shooting may have been a symbolic gesture of some kind, perhaps using part of an eagle to murder a killer of eagles. Who would he be after now? Some kind of mystic nature nut living in a cave back in the mountains? In Blight County that would seriously limit the number of suspects.

  “Are you all right?” the clerk asked him. “Could I get you a glass of water?”

  “Actually, I could use a glass of water, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “None at all,” the clerk said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He soon returned with a glass of cold water. Tully drank it all down, almost in a single gulp. He shook his head. “Man, I needed that! Well, sir, I much appreciate your help. And your water!”

  “No problem, Sheriff. One more thing. As I mentioned, we do sell the same kind of stock that was used to make that arrow shaft. So it’s possible its owner was one of our customers. Another thing, it’s a rather short arrow, which suggests it was used either by a young archer or by a woman, perhaps a small man.”

  “Thank you. That could be a big help.” Tully pointed to a back wall. “Those big round green things on your back wall, what are those? Targets?”

  “Yes, they’re made of a very tight fabric that keeps the arrow from penetrating all the way through but holds them firmly. The arrow can easily be removed without its being damaged. They’re favored by bow hunters for practice in shooting large objects at greater distances.”

  Tully nodded. “I don’t suppose you keep the names of your customers and what they buy.”

  “Actually, we do. Oh, we don’t keep track of what they buy, but we do have a little catalog we send out a couple times a year to anyone who shops or even visits our store—a list of specials, archery classes, that sort of thing. So we do keep the names and addresses of customers.”

  Tully couldn’t believe his luck. “Sir, would you mind if I checked your list for any addresses in Blight County, Idaho?”

  “Well, I shouldn’t give you a copy of our list, but to save you the trouble of getting a warrant, I’ll make an exception. Would it be all right if we emailed you a list of Idaho customers’ names and addresses? People who have made purchases over the past year?”

  “Yes, it would. That list might be an enormous help.” He gave the clerk the address. “By the way, sir, what’s your name, if you don’t mind?”

  “Ed Simpson. I’m the owner of Ed’s Archery.”

  “Thanks for all your help, Mr. Simpson.”

  As he was leaving the store, it occurred to Tully where he had seen one of the large green archery targets before: hanging on the side of a barn at the Fester ranch. It hadn’t been a wreath at all.

  Ah, one more little chore to take care of while in Spokane. He drove around to Jean Runyan’s Art Gallery and parked in front. He was pleased to see that the display window was filled with only his paintings, apparently the result of the sale Jean had made the day before. He walked in and was greeted like a conquering hero. Alice, the clerk, ran up and gave him a big hug. Jean walked over smiling. “So, Bo, now you can give up that stupid job and become a full-time painter. You can live on that little farm of yours, grow most of your own food, cut your own firewood, and spend the rest of your time painting.”

  “Sounds wonderful, Jean. I may just do it. Right now, though, I have a problem—a nasty murder to solve.”

  “One of these days, Bo, it will be your own murder that needs to be solved and there won’t be anyone around to do it.”

  “Oh, I have many capable people on my staff, Jean. On the other hand, it might take them some time before they quit partying. I run them pretty hard and keep their pay to a minimum, just to save our taxpayers a little money. So, I do believe you have a check for me.”

  She handed it to him.

  “Wow! I’m rich.”

  “You may notice that I haven’t deducted my usual commission.”

  “I see that.”

  “I wanted to keep the twelve thousand in one lump sum, so you can make a copy of the check to frame for your studio. I’ll take my usual cut out of your next big sale. This will help keep you painting and make us both rich.”

  “Jean, you are absolutely the best agent I’ve ever had.”

  She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’m the only agent you’ve ever had.”

  As Tully was driving back into Blight City, the radio squawked. It was Florence. “Any available deputy, there’s a knife fight at Slade’s Bar. Go break it up, before someone gets killed.”

  Tully clicked on his radio mike. “I’ll take care of it, Flo! Call the guys off.”

  “Be careful, Bo. That’s a rough place. Motorcycle gangs hang out there.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  He double-parked in front of Slade’s Bar & Grill, got out, and walked in the door. Two motorcycle types were circling each other, switchblades thrusting this way and that but no blood in sight. A rough-looking crowd was shouting encouragement, wanting to see blood. Tully walked up and made one wide swing with his bag of shot, laying both combatants out cold on the floor. The tavern went silent. He bent over and removed the switchblades from limp hands, folded them shut, and slipped them into one of his pants pockets. He walked over to the bar, the bikers spreading back like a parting of the Red Sea. “Joey, I need a glass of beer. I seem to have worked up a thirst from that bit of exertion.” He sat down on a barstool, took out his phone, and called the office. Daisy answered.

  “Sweetheart, get a couple of deputies to swing by Slade’s and pick up two unconscious bikers, who will probably be conscious by the time the deputies get here. Tell the deputies to put the morons under arrest for assault with intent to kill. But they should first be taken to the hospital and checked for concussions. I don’t want to be responsible for killing them, even if they are too stupid to live.”

  “Got it, Boss.”

  He clicked off. Joey slid a foaming glass of beer in front of him. A big biker plopped onto a stool next to Tully. “It’s always educational to watch you work, Bo.”

  Tully turned to him and smiled. “You think maybe I should charge tuition, Mitch?”

  “I know a lot of folks here who could profit from the class.”

  Tully called to the bartender. “Joey, give my friend here a beer. Put it on my tab.”

  “You don’t have a tab, Bo, but the beers are on the house.” Joey
drew a beer and shoved it in front of Mitch.

  The biker took a sip. “Working on any interesting crimes these days, Bo?”

  “Naw, just the usual. Got a murder out on South River Road that’s kind of interesting.”

  “Oh yeah, I heard about Ole Fester. He was a piece of work. You got any idea who done him?”

  “No. You heard anything, Mitch?”

  “Not really. He messed around with some of the women who hang out here at Slade’s. Their boyfriends and husbands might be good candidates, although I’m not sure why. If I hear anything of interest, I’ll pass it along to you.”

  “I’d appreciate hearing anything you turn up.”

  A siren wailed faintly in the distance. “I’ve got to hit the road, Mitch. Look after the two morons and my deputies while they’re here, okay?”

  “You got it, Bo.”

  Chapter 11

  The next morning, having picked up his daily breakfast of Egg McMuffin at McDonald’s and munched it on his way into the office, Tully parked in his reserved space behind the courthouse and got out, brushing the breakfast crumbs from his jacket.

  He walked into the briefing room, the heels of his boots klocking nicely on the marble-chip floor. The place was empty, except for Daisy. She gave him a smile. “You’ve been busy, Boss.”

  “Yep, one thing after another.”

  “You pick up your check?”

  He smiled. “Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t leave it with my agent for another minute. Actually, she was very generous. She didn’t take out her share. So I’ll make a copy of the check, frame it, and hang it on my wall, just as a reminder.”

  “Of what?”

  “Beats the heck out of me. I’ve never in my whole life seen this much money in one place, at least not money that belongs to me.” He looked into his office. Lurch was sitting in his chair, his feet up on Tully’s desk, reading what was probably Tully’s newspaper.

  “I see the Unit is as busy as ever.”

  “Yeah,” Daisy said. “Lurch is working his finger to the bone.”

  “Just one finger?”

  “You don’t want him to exhaust himself, do you, Boss?”

  “I guess not.” Tully strode into his office.

  Lurch’s feet hit the floor and he leaped up. “Geez, Boss, you took me by surprise. I didn’t expect you in before noon.”

  “Couldn’t sleep. So what have you come up with?”

  “Just what I told you, the tracks in the woods.”

  “Okay, here’s what I want you to do now. Call all the airlines and find out which one Hillory Fester flew out on. If they won’t give you the information over the phone, ask them to fax the information to Blight County Sheriff Bo Tully at the office fax number. If they won’t give us the information at all, call the FBI in Boise and ask the feds to get it for us.”

  An hour later Lurch knocked on his door. Tully waved him in. “What did you find out?”

  “The clerks I talked to said they would have to get permission from their bosses to release any information about passengers. So I asked them if they could release information on persons who weren’t passengers. They did some checking and said they had no information that a Hillory Fester had ever been a passenger.”

  “All airlines?”

  “All in the region.”

  “That’s weird.”

  The Unit said, “Yeah, I thought so, Boss. Maybe she’s still here.”

  “No, she’s not. I called and talked to her in Mexico. Anyway, don’t forget to take that cast you made of the truck track in the woods and see if it matches any of the pickups at the Fester ranch. Talk to Sheridan first. Then I don’t think anyone will give you any trouble.”

  “Should I wear my gun, Boss?”

  “No!”

  Chapter 12

  The following morning Tully pulled into the parking lot of the Silver Tip Hotel. He rang the doorbell and Ed answered. “Bo, back so soon?” He held the door for Tully.

  “Yeah, Ed. I’d like to talk to your chef, if she’s not busy.”

  “I think the ladies are all finished with breakfast, Bo. I’ll see if I can hunt Sasha down for you. Man the door for a bit while I go look for her.”

  Tully had no more flopped into a chair than the doorbell rang. He got up and answered it. Three young fellows stood there looking up at him. He guessed them for college students, probably freshmen.

  “May I help you, gentlemen?” he said.

  “Well, yeah,” said the fellow who was probably the leader of the group. He must have been older and more experienced, possibly a sophomore. “We heard about the Silver Tip and thought we’d stop by and check it out.”

  Tully stroked his mustache and nodded thoughtfully. “I see. Well, I don’t see a problem with that, gentlemen. I will, of course, have to check your IDs, to make sure you are twenty-one or older.”

  “How come?” asked the apparent leader of the group.

  “Well, in case one of you isn’t twenty-one and he drops dead on the premises, as often happens with some of our more extreme treatments, I would be able to notify the next of kin.”

  “Geez!” one of the younger ones said. “If I dropped dead here, I certainly wouldn’t want my parents notified. Let’s go!” They hurried out the door.

  Ed came out and looked around. “I thought we had some customers. What happened to them?”

  “One of them just remembered an important appointment. You find Sasha?”

  “Yeah, she said she’d meet you in the dining room in a few minutes. Go on in, Bo.”

  Tully walked into the dining room and sat down at a table. One of the ladies came over with a tray containing a pot of coffee, two cups, sugar, cream, and two cinnamon rolls. “Hope you like cinnamon rolls, Sheriff. They’re hot out of the oven. Sasha said to tell you she will be right out.”

  “Great! Thank you very much. The cinnamon rolls smell wonderful.”

  The lady gave him a big smile and left. Sasha soon came rushing out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.

  “Hi, Bo. Sorry to keep you waiting. I had some stuff to finish up.”

  “No problem. I just had a few questions to ask you. When you were hunting, did you use a bow or a rifle?” He pinched off a piece of a cinnamon roll and popped it in his mouth. Delicious!

  “A rifle. Why?”

  “Let me ask the questions, Sasha. What caliber of rifle?”

  “A twenty-five twenty.”

  “That’s awfully light for hunting.”

  She smiled. “Not if you know what you’re doing, Sheriff.”

  Tully smiled back and nodded. “You must have been a pretty good shot.”

  “Always aimed for the head. One time when I was fourteen I was out deer hunting by myself. Didn’t see any, but walking back home along Sand Creek, I saw this flock of birds fly into a little leafless tree ahead of me. I didn’t know what kind they were. They looked like grouse, except smaller, but I knew grouse didn’t go around in flocks. They looked good to eat, though. I took aim at the lowest one on the tree so that when I shot he wouldn’t fall through the rest and disturb them. I then worked my way up the tree, picking them off one by one. After I’d killed about half the flock, the others caught on to what was happening and took off. I can tell you, Sheriff, those birds were tremendous eating! My family loved them, but it was years before I figured out what kind they were.”

  “And they were?”

  “Huns! Hungarian partridges.”

  “No wonder you didn’t know what they were. Huns are very rare around this neck of the woods. They were probably some experiment the Fish and Game Department was trying out, to get Huns established in this area. Maybe you wiped out half the project for them.”

  “Well, they were delicious, anyway. So why did you want to know if I ever hunted with a bow?”

  “Just cleaning up a few details in my investigation. I know you have a keen interest in birds, despite murdering all the Huns in Blight County. Strange to come across a fl
ock of them around here.”

  “Yeah. Speaking of strange, have you ever seen a big circle drawn in fresh snow with no tracks leading to or away from it?”

  Tully frowned as if to search his memory. “No, can’t say I ever have.”

  “Well, I have!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, it was in a small field next to a woods not far from here. But there was a nasty barbwire fence between me and it, so I couldn’t get near enough to see what might have made it. There were no tracks leading to or away from it. Do you have any idea what could have made such a thing?”

  “Maybe a flying saucer?”

  “Be serious!”

  “I am. What else could have made it?”

  Sasha said, “I don’t know. But I think it must have been a sign meant to tell us something. Shoot, maybe it was made by a flying saucer.”

  Tully was silent for a moment. He chose not to tell Sasha about his own close encounter with the silvery disk or his circle in the snow, either. “That would be my guess. You have any idea?”

  “No. Maybe it was made by birds to tell us some-

  thing?”

  “You think a bird is smart enough to communicate with us?”

  “Not just one bird but maybe a whole flock?”

  “A whole flock?”

  “Yeah! Suppose a whole flock of a hundred eagles, say, is perched together in a woods. Think of each of them as a single cell in one large organism, the flock, which has a single intelligence spreading through it. Each eagle is tuned in to the same flock mind. Maybe one of them is told to fly over and make the sign.”

  Tully smiled. “I’m having a little trouble with this theory, that a flock of birds could have a single intelligence. You are telling me the circle was quite large and appeared to have been drawn in the snow with a giant protractor? Suppose that a flock of eagles is that smart, where would it get a giant protractor? Do you actually think a flock of birds is that smart, Sasha?”

  Sasha frowned. “Bo, have you ever seen a big flock of starlings in the fall, getting ready to fly south, maybe a thousand birds all together? Suddenly they take off and form a wide flat ribbon of birds in the air, and that ribbon ripples and turns this way and that, then rises straight up in the air, plummets back toward the ground, spreads out, and makes a huge wave?”