“I’m sorry,” Cutch commiserated when Elise voiced her disappointment. “Do they have a festival every year?”
“Yes,” Elise admitted as they hoofed the ladder and what remained of her glider out of the woods. The sun had dipped below the level of the steep hills and so, though a few hours of daylight remained, the valley, at least, was cast in shadows. “It’s just that I have friends there I was hoping to see. And it’s always such fun.” She didn’t want to share all of her feelings with Cutch, but she’d always been sheltered by her overprotective father, and going to the festival was one of the few opportunities she had, besides flying itself, to get away and be herself.
“I’m sorry,” Cutch repeated. “Is there any way I could make it up to you?”
Elise paused to catch her breath from carrying the cumbersome equipment over the uneven terrain. She looked up at him and felt a familiar tug on her heart. “Just take me home,” she said and sighed.
For a second, disappointment crossed Cutch’s face, but he quickly set his jaw in a stony expression and turned in the direction they were headed. “Sure thing.”
The guilty squeeze in her chest told Elise she shouldn’t be so cold toward him, but at the same time, after the trouble she’d had pulling herself away from him when she fell on him out of the tree, she felt as though she had to push him away. For both their sakes.
They trudged silently toward the truck, and Cutch held the barbed wire fence down again for her to cross over. He tossed the ladder in the back of his truck and helped her stow her glider, unlocking and opening her door before circling around to the driver’s side.
Sore and thirsty, Elise sighed as she climbed into the truck. “I can’t wait to get home.”
Cutch’s voice carried from the other side of the truck. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait.”
She looked out the driver’s side window to find him glaring down at something near the ground. “Why?” she asked with dread in her voice.
“I have two flat tires.”
“You’re kidding. Did we run over a bunch of nails or something?”
“Nope.” Cutch crouched down and inspected the front tire. “They’ve been slashed.”
FIVE
“No,” Elise protested, scooting over to the driver’s side door and hopping out. “On purpose?”
Cutch scowled at the four-inch slice in the thick rubber. “Had to have been. These are newer tires, too. I bet it was that red truck I saw.”
Elise swallowed back the fear she felt rising in her throat. “They might have done all four tires if they hadn’t heard you coming.”
“I guess I should be glad they got scared off instead of attacking me.” Cutch let out a long breath and shook his head. “I’ve only got one spare.”
Elise anxiously swept her hair back behind her ears. Normally she’d offer to call someone to bring them another tire, but she didn’t want anyone to know she was out with Cutch. “I think it’s time to call the sheriff.”
With his head under her glider as he hauled the spare tire out of the back of the truck, Cutch’s grumble was muffled but no less disgusted. “Have him call Gary’s Garage, too, or at least have him give you the number and I’ll call him. Maybe he can bring us another tire.” He tossed the spare down, and it bounced a couple of times before settling on its side.
It didn’t take long for them to complete the calls, and soon both the sheriff and Gary were on their way. Elise looked up at Cutch worriedly as he got off the phone with the man from the garage. “How much do you want to tell the sheriff?” she asked quietly.
Both of them turned to look at the thick trees, which were cast in lengthening shadows, whose dark depths could hide secrets. Or gunmen. Elise shivered, though the late summer evening was still warm.
“I suppose we’ll have to tell him about the anhydrous tank.” Cutch pinched his lips into a thin line. “I’d like to get a chance to look at that site first, but I won’t be going anywhere for a while.” He looked pointedly at the slashed tires.
“And whoever did this knows it, too.” Elise wished she didn’t feel like such a sitting duck. “Don’t they?”
Cutch must have felt the same way, because he looked warily around them and took a step closer to her, lowering his voice. “If I don’t tell the sheriff about the site and he finds out later, it will look like I was withholding information. That will only make me look guiltier.”
Elise began to reach for his arm, but at the last second she corralled her compassionate instincts and shoved her hands into her pockets. She wished she could think of something to say that would make him feel better, but the only thing she could think of was to tell him she still believed in him. And even if that was true, which she wasn’t convinced of, she didn’t want to say anything to align herself with him any more than she already had. McCutcheons were dangerous. Why was that so difficult for her to remember?
Instead she asked, “Want me to help you change the tire?”
“Not yet. I don’t know if it will make any difference, but since the sheriff is going to be here any minute, we might as well let him look at the tires the way we found them. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll recognize the handiwork.”
Elise offered a strained smile in exchange for his optimistic outlook. Before long, they saw the sheriff’s vehicle topping a nearby hill. They stood at attention, waiting as Sheriff Bromley pulled up, his dark eyes on the slashed tires from the moment he stepped out of his cruiser.
Elise stood back while Gideon Bromley interviewed Cutch. Though the sheriff wasn’t even a decade older than she was, he was the youngest son of a large Holyoake family, and he had older siblings who were her dad’s age. So he still managed to resonate capability and reassurance, even if he wasn’t the most experienced member of the department. Gideon Bromley was someone she’d always respected and trusted, and she felt some of the tension that had built up over the day start to recede as Cutch explained to the sheriff all that had happened that day, including their discovery of the anhydrous tank.
“I’d like to see those pictures,” the sheriff said, tucking his pen back into his chest pocket.
“They’re on the computer at the airfield office,” Elise explained as a Gary’s Garage truck pulled to a stop behind the sheriff’s cruiser.
“Then that’s where we’ll head next,” Gideon Bromley told her, “as soon as we get these tires changed.”
While Cutch and Gary started in on the tires, the sheriff got on his radio. Elise could hear him updating whoever was on the other end—probably the dispatcher—about where he was going to be. Cutch started quizzing Gary on who he knew of who drove a cherry-red truck, having explained to the older mechanic about how his tires had been slashed.
“Who drives a red truck in this county?” Gary repeated the question. “Dozens of people, maybe even hundreds. I could go through my records and give you a list if you think it will help.”
The sheriff finished his conversation on the radio and stepped over. “Red trucks,” he inserted himself back into the conversation. “We could do a thorough computer search with the county vehicle registrations. But boys, you’ve got to remember who owns the truck and who drives it might be two different people. Mayor Wilkins owns a red truck, but it’s his son you always see driving it. My brother Bruce has a red truck, too, but he’s got a fleet of other vehicles he’s just as likely to drive, and any of his employees might drive the red truck. As far as leads go, the connection with a red truck is about as helpful as saying the perpetrator had a knife big enough to slash your tires with. Most everybody has access to a knife like that. Just like anybody could get their hands on a red truck.”
While the sheriff spoke, Cutch and Gary finished changing the tires, and Gary loaded the slashed tires into his truck before promising to send Cutch a bill. Cutch thanked the man for his help before Gary drove off.
When the three of them were alone again, the sheriff shook his head. “If it weren’t already dark out, I’d h
ead into those woods with you two to see what you saw. But it’s in such a remote area it would be hard to bring adequate lighting out there, and at this point we’d probably just mess up the crime scene.”
“Do you want to take a look at it tomorrow?” Cutch asked.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” the sheriff replied in a thoughtful voice. “And it’s Labor Day weekend. My staff is stretched tight, and I’ve got somewhere important I need to be, but I guess I could be a little late. You give me a call after church, and we’ll see what we can find. For now, our best clue is those pictures you took. You two want to lead the way to the airstrip?”
Cutch and Elise hopped into the truck, and the sheriff followed in his cruiser. As Elise had expected, the lights were all off when they pulled in front of the airfield office. While Cutch unloaded Leroy’s ladder, Elise hurried to the door and let them in with her key, turning on the lights and heading straight for the computer, which was still turned on. She roused the sleeping monitor to find her photo file still dominating the screen.
“Here are the pictures we downloaded today,” she explained, clicking through the aerial shots of the corn maze. As she came to the last of the corn maze pictures, however, she was surprised to find herself clicking back through the first of the corn maze pictures.
Cutch gave her a worried look. She clicked through the pictures again. “That’s strange,” she muttered when the shots they’d taken over the pecan grove failed to appear.
“What’s strange?” the sheriff asked.
“The pictures of the anhydrous tank are gone.”
Cutch felt the worry pouring off Elise as she tried to locate the missing files. “How odd,” she whispered under her breath. “Maybe they didn’t download correctly.” She grabbed the camera and plugged it back in to the universal port. “Let me try downloading them again.”
As they waited on the computer, Cutch felt a sick feeling of dread fill him. When a message popped up on the screen announcing that the camera’s files were empty, Cutch wasn’t really that surprised.
Elise spun to face him, “You didn’t erase the camera’s memory card once we’d downloaded the pictures, did you?”
“No.” Cutch took a step back, disappointed that she’d so quickly place the blame on him, though he knew he shouldn’t ultimately be surprised. “I wouldn’t do that without asking you first.”
Sheriff Bromley quickly intervened. “Okay, you two. Just step back from the computer. If those pictures got erased, whoever did it probably left fingerprints, so don’t touch anything else. Elise, who has access to this office?”
“Uncle Leroy and Rodney Miller. Aunt Linda comes in once in a while, and anybody who has business setting up a field spray or paying their bill. This is a public business, after all, though a lot of our regulars set things up over the phone. But when the doors are unlocked, anybody can come in here.”
“But the doors were locked when we arrived, correct?” Gideon Bromley pressed.
“Yes.”
“Was anyone else in here that you know of—in particular, when the pictures were being downloaded?”
“Well, of course I was.” Elise hesitated. “And Cutch.”
Cutch heard the fear underpinning her words and realized how much the overwhelming events of the day must be piling up on her. He wanted to help. “I know. Elise, call your uncle and find out who came in today,” he suggested.
“Good idea.” The sheriff nodded. “I’m going to see what I can do about lifting fingerprints from the computer. I’ll take a full set of prints on you two, too, so we can rule those out.”
While Elise got on the phone and the sheriff ran back out to his cruiser to get the tools he needed, Cutch stepped back out of the way, his mind spinning. He prayed God would help them sort out what was going on. Everything seemed to be going from bad to worse, but nothing pointed toward any suspects—other than him.
Leaning one shoulder against the tall file cabinet set back in the corner near the window, Cutch felt the cool breeze that fluttered against the faded curtains. Something in the back of his mind stirred. It was odd, he thought after a while, that Leroy would have locked up the building but left the window open. Wondering if perhaps he ought to close it, Cutch looked down.
Broken glass littered the floor.
“Okay, then. Thanks, Uncle Leroy.” Elise hung up the phone and met his eyes.
“What did you find out?” he asked her.
“Nobody.”
Cutch cringed but kept his eyes locked on hers. “Come over here and take a look at this, but be careful where you step.”
“What is it?”
Pointing to the broken glass, Cutch asked, “Was this window broken earlier?”
Elise’s eyes widened, and she shook her head. “No. I think we would have noticed if it had been.”
Cutch called to the sheriff, “We’ve got a broken window here. You might want to take more fingerprints.”
They spent another hour at the office with the sheriff before Cutch finally dropped off Elise close enough to her house that she could carry her wounded glider home but still far enough away that her father wouldn’t see who she’d been with. Cutch wasn’t sure how the woman figured on keeping the day’s events a secret—especially not after her phone calls to her uncle Leroy—but he wasn’t about to protest when she placed her request. She’d had a long enough day. They both had.
Cutch arrived home hungry and tired a full twelve hours after his father’s scheduled checkup—the one he’d said he’d be there for. He found his mother scrubbing away at her already-impeccably clean kitchen. That was how she dealt with his father’s cancer. She cleaned things, as though by scrubbing away every last fallen crumb and speck of dust behind the stove and under the refrigerator, she could somehow erase the invasive cancer.
His heart went out to her.
“How is he?” Cutch asked.
Looking up from where she was bent over scrubbing the faces of the cupboards, Anita McCutcheon gave him a weary smile. “Resting. He had a good day today. He’s tired.”
“And you?”
“Not tired enough to sleep.” She washed her hands at the sink. “Did you have supper?”
Cutch’s stomach growled. “There wasn’t time.”
“I made pork chops, green beans and red potatoes.”
“I can heat it up.” Cutch headed her off as she stepped toward the fridge. “So, what did the nurse have to say?” he asked as he fixed a plate for himself and popped it into the microwave.
Anita McCutcheon shrugged. “He’s not going to get better. But then we knew that. Right now it’s just a matter of time.”
“Did she say how long?” Though he didn’t want to press the issue, Cutch needed to know what to expect. He’d given up his apartment in town three years before to move back out to the family farm to help his folks when his father had been diagnosed with cancer for the second time. His father had fought it back then, but before Cutch had the chance to move back into town, the cancer had returned with a vengeance. And Henry McCutcheon III had chosen not to fight back with another round of chemo. His condition had been steadily declining.
“Might be a few weeks, maybe even months. It’s hard to say with cancer. The nurse says she’s not surprised by anything anymore. And your dad’s a fighter.”
“That he is,” Cutch concurred, digging into his dinner. So there wasn’t much time. At one point, Cutch had hoped to clear his grandfather’s name before his father died, so his father would know his own father hadn’t been a total failure. But the way things were going, he didn’t see how that could possibly happen. The odds were stacked against them both.
Eager to change the subject, Cutch raised an issue that had been bothering him ever since he’d seen the red truck driving away earlier. “Have you talked to Grandpa Scarth today?” He knew his mother tended to maintain daily contact with her aging father, and he hoped she’d be able to give him a clear alibi for the afternoon.
Instead, his
mother scowled and shook her head. “I don’t know what he’s been up to. Lately he’s never home, and when he answers his cell phone—which isn’t often—he always sounds preoccupied and in a hurry to get back to what he was doing.”
Cutch didn’t like the sound of that. “Does he still drive that red truck everywhere?”
“Yes.” Anita let out a frustrated breath. “And too fast, too. You’d think he was seventeen instead of eighty-seven.”
Swallowing another bite of pork chop, Cutch asked, “So you don’t know what he’s been up to?”
“I’ve asked. He won’t tell me.” She sighed. “He’s a grown man. I guess he’s entitled to keep his secrets.”
“I guess,” Cutch agreed. His grandfather could do whatever he wanted—as long as he wasn’t up to something illegal.
Elise stashed her glider in the barn before letting herself in the back door of the old farmhouse where she’d been raised. There were plusses and minuses to continuing to live in her dad’s house. On the plus side, it allowed her to save money for her aerial photography business and the new plane she hoped to buy, while at the same time, helping her father with cooking and household chores. But on the definite minus side, it meant she was still under his oppressively overprotective thumb.
The kitchen was dark and quiet, and Elise poked her head into the refrigerator, wishing she’d thought to bring the pan of lasagna back home with her. She found some cold, charred burgers in a plastic bag on the top shelf. Her dad had been grilling again. As she opened the bag, memories came back, like they always did, at the smell of the grilled meat.
She hadn’t known her mother would be leaving. Sure, her mom had taken “trips” before, when she’d disappear for days at a time, leaving Elise alone with her father and his limited cooking skills. Grilling was one of the few ways Bill McAlister could reliably prepare a decent meal. In retrospect, she’d often wondered why the fact that her dad had been grilling hadn’t tipped her off to the possibility that she wouldn’t see her mother again for four years.
Out on a Limb Page 6
