by Olson, Mal
In less than a minute, Blade was back. He surfaced behind the shelter of the boulder, their dry pack in his hand.
“Can you make it underwater to that next boulder?” He pointed downstream.
She nodded.
Gulping in a breath, she dove under alongside Blade and swam until she couldn’t hold her breath anymore. When she surfaced, she was beyond the designated boulder. Blade hovered between her and the direction from which the arrow had originated.
At the water’s edge, the forest reached toward the bank. “On three,” Blade whispered, “take off for those trees.” Holding her hand, crouching, he counted, “One, two, three!” He shot up and sprinted, urging her along.
Once they stood in the shadows of a stand of aspens, he dug his phone out of the dry pack. Brandy steadied her breathing and focused on bringing her heart rate down.
****
“For a quiet little resort area, this county has more than its share of excitement,” Blade said to Christiansen, the first to respond to his call.
He and Brandy led their fellow deputy back to the raft.
“It’s not bow season,” Christiansen drawled.
“It’s obvious Brandy and I were the target.”
Christiansen inspected the impaled tree. “This,” he said, “is an arrow from the local Native American tribe. A Scuppernong arrow.”
Blade kneaded the back of his neck. “Why would the Scuppernongs suddenly start using us for target practice?”
“Maybe they’re disgruntled because the extremists are trying to run them out, and they don’t know who’s who. Thought you were a couple of the Neo Nazi clan.” Christiansen tugged on plastic gloves, carefully extracted the arrow from the tree, and bagged it. “My guess is the birch trunk was the target, and if the arrow had been meant for you or Brandy, one of you’d be hurting right now. Maybe this was a warning.”
“You didn’t come across anyone?”
“No, but so far we’ve only done surveillance in the immediate area. Nada.”
“Then we may as well continue looking for the missing raft,” Brandy said.
“The next leg of the river gets kind of wild.” Christiansen looked downstream.
Blade studied his rookie. Ready to get back in the hunt.
Brandy grabbed a life vest and waded into the water. “At marker ten, I think we should take the land route and bypass the wild ride.”
“You’re willing to miss all the excitement?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “The rapids wouldn’t bother me, but I think we’d be more apt to find evidence if we weren’t wrestling with whitewater.”
She had a point. Blade hitched his thumbs on his hips. While Brandy hefted herself aboard, he gave instructions to Christiansen and then vaulted into the raft. They continued downstream. When they reached marker ten, they banked and carried the raft over a trail that continued to follow the Shoshone. Up and down multiple rises and descents. After navigating one last steep drop in grade, they stopped next to a basin where Quicksilver Falls took a freefall.
If there was one thing Blade could count on, it was Brandy’s determination to do her job to the best of her ability. Another was her toughness. She obviously would have enjoyed tackling the rapids, as he would have. And carrying the heavy raft was no picnic. But she never complained. By the time they collapsed on the ground next to an eddy at the base of the falls, they’d muscled the nine–foot–plus inflatable, weighing just over eighty–five pounds, close to a mile over a rutted, rocky mountain trail.
Sprawled on the ground, they caught their breath next to a spectacular water display. The Shoshone put on quite a show as it cascaded over boulders and fell into a bowl of granite, swirling like a giant whirlpool bath. Blade’s senses rioted at the extravaganza of stimuli—the cauldron of glass–like polished rock, the serenade of roaring water, and the fragrance of fresh mountain air. And Tendre Amour.
Brandy stretched out on her back, mist and perspiration glistening on her skin. Neither the damp T–shirt nor the outline of the swimsuit beneath left much to Blade’s imagination. But hell, his imagination didn’t need a lot of probing to go off on a tangent.
He sucked in gulps of air along with her.
She glanced aside and caught him admiring her.
“Soaking in the scenery,” he replied.
“Quicksilver Falls is fabulous, isn’t it?”
“Yup.” Almost as fabulous as the woman. The woman who thought he was living proof that the bad genes theory was pure BS. You’re a good man, Blade.
“How far do we keep going before we give up on the raft? We have to be at least two miles past the spot where we found the body.”
“Another team will take over at marker fifteen.” Blade drew in a breath.
Brandy sat up and scoped the water’s edge. She tensed. “Blade—” she said, rising onto her knees and pointing. “Over there.”
Tattered red debris sat in a sea of waterlogged branches, bobbling on the river’s edge fewer than ten yards away.
Blade’s pulse kicked up.
He scrambled down the path, scuffling through dried leaves. The scent of musty loam filled his nostrils. Brandy tailed him until they reached the deflated Tour d’Alene raft. He waded into the river and wrestled the raft free from the sodden branch that had snared it. At the same time, his foot connected with something. He peered through the water and scooped his hand blindly into the silt. Something half buried in the mud broke loose. A drenched day pack.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Standing next to the Tahoe in the gravel parking lot, Blade opened the pack and pulled out a pistol. A melted–down excuse for a weapon. Someone had practiced their forging skills on it. The barrel appeared to have been worked over by an anvil and hammer and left melted together. And that wasn’t all. As he examined the hand gun, he discovered a smooth spot on the frame. The serial number had been filed off. And it no longer had grips. He looked at Brandy.
Eyes narrowed, she glared at the battered gun. Once upon a time it had been a deadly .45 pistol.
“So much for running ballistics on this for–shit piece of evidence.” She continued to glower at the weapon.
“Who knows, it still might tell us something.” Blade tried to sound encouraging.
“Looks like we’ve got more digging to do.”
No sign of defeat. He was discovering this was one rookie whose determination he should never underestimate.
Once they bagged what was left of the .45 semi–automatic, Blade dragged the remains of the deflated raft to the Suburban. His phone chirped as he and Brandy muscled their raft onto the carrier.
When Blade picked up, Sheriff Nobel said, “You’ve got the go ahead for that pack trip to check out the compound.”
****
The next morning, dressed in camouflage cargo pants tucked into hiking boots and an olive T–shirt, Brandy checked the duct tape she’d wrapped around the tops of her boots like Blade had done to keep out ticks. She then hefted a backpack onto her shoulders and followed Blade and Rambo into the Coeur d’Alene Forest.
Surrounded by thick foliage, she and Blade trudged forward, ascending, always ascending. He periodically checked the compass. Rambo was in his glory, scurrying along, taking the lead, scampering through the brush, advancing, then impatiently retreating to see what was taking them so long.
The day wore on. They discussed their procedure and where they’d stop for the night. How close they would progress the next day to the encampment. What they didn’t discuss was yesterday’s discovery. No mention of the weapon they’d found. By the time forest shadows started closing in and they reached the chosen campsite, Brandy was determined to know her lieutenant’s thoughts about the weapon he’d dredged from the river.
As he pounded tent stakes into the rocky soil and she unpacked supplies, she asked, knowing he would know what she was talking about, “Okay, so the firearm was a Colt .45 semi–automatic.” A pistol that could no longer be used in forensic testing. That d
idn’t mean it wasn’t a pertinent piece of evidence. It was a freaking Colt .45. “It’s the same kind of weapon that put a bullet—an ACP—in Marilyn Abbott’s heart. The same kind of weapon Skip Coogan owned, the one that mysteriously disappeared from the evidence files before the murder trial.”
“The Colt .45’s a popular weapon. It’s been around for a long time. There are thousands of them in circulation.”
“But this one showed up at the site of a dead body. The body of Skip’s quote–unquote friend.”
“Back up a minute to the original murder. Why would Skip want to kill Marilyn Abbott? And if he were going to kill someone, why would he use his own pistol?”
Okay, she didn’t know the answer to those questions, not yet.
Meanwhile, Blade changed the subject. “We’ll eat and turn in early so we can get up and log some time before the morning sun gets too hot. That’ll get us to our destination with plenty of time to set up for surveillance before dark tomorrow.”
Brandy bit her tongue at his about–turn. She knew they’d reach the compound before dark tomorrow. What she didn’t know was what he thought about Coogan’s connection to the weapon they’d found. “Have you got a theory about why a pistol that could possibly be Skip’s would show up buried in the Shoshone in our victim’s backpack? You must have some thoughts on the subject.” Come on, dazzle me with your cop instincts, Beringer.
He pushed off the ground and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’ll wait until all the reports come back.”
Brandy ground her teeth and dug out a metal pot from the mess kit and plopped a couple of freeze–dried entrees down beside it. When it came to Coogan, Blade was loyal to a fault. But he was also a smart, honest deputy. Given the right evidence, he wouldn’t stand by a man who was guilty. Would he?
They had eaten and finished cleaning up when Blade said, “Look, Brandy, I can’t say the tampered–with Colt hasn’t got me thinking. I’m just not ready to make judgment until I work out all the angles. I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”
Okay, that was a start. It was possible his stubbornness regarding Skip Coogan’s sainthood had a chink in it. Which was encouraging, except she needed an excuse to stay agitated with him before they zipped up in the eensy little igloo of a tent for the night.
She untied her sleeping bag. “So, how do we do this?”
He raised a brow.
She gestured toward the tent, and he smiled.
Her heart bobbled.
Shrugging, he said, “It’s hot tonight. If you want, I could sleep under the stars, and you and Rambo can have the tent.”
Rambo stretched his forepaws in front of him and lowered his head, his brown eyes looking first at Blade then at Brandy before he let out a soft yelp.
“Who asked you?” Blade tossed his Stetson on Rambo’s head. The dog shook it off and scooted next to Brandy.
“We’ve got a chaperone.” She laughed and ran her fingers through soft canine fur. “And I meant, which way do you want the sleeping bags? Do you want your head at the back of the tent or at the side?”
“Any position you choose is fine with me.” He still wore a grin.
Brandy tried not to read his comment the wrong way. Meanwhile, shadows from the surrounding pines covered the campsite like a black velvet quilt, and she realized how tired she was. Not so tired that her common sense would allow her to let down her guard. Sleeping next to Blade’s hot body was going to be a challenge. Especially when she thought about their romp in the river yesterday and the resulting kiss. They were chalking up too many kisses.
And they were on an assignment.
She fully intended to keep her vow to steer clear of any personal relationship with her FTO, serious or not. Now all she had to do was convince her hormones and keep her hands to herself.
They went their separate ways in the darkness to take care of personal tasks. Once Brandy finished brushing her teeth, she stepped into the small clearing where they’d set up camp.
She sensed something behind her. She flinched, ready to throw her elbow back. Turning to glance over her shoulder, she saw nothing.
“Blade?” she whispered, reaching for her pistol with one hand and grabbing for her Swiss Army Knife with the other. She circled around the tent, then backed toward the edge of the woods, near the place she’d last seen Blade when he’d set off into the trees. And collided with a concrete wall. An unrelenting mass of muscle.
Blade grunted. “It’s me.”
In the dark, they’d rammed into each other, back to back.
They turned to face each other, and he reached down to engage the safety on her pistol, his hand resting atop hers.
“Jeez, I thought I heard something,” she said as tingles pricked her arm.
“Me, too.” His other arm came around her shoulder.
Barely able see his expression in the dark, and trapped in a band of steel, she stood in his embrace, soaking in his heat. When she tried to pull away, she found herself trapped in yet another way, locked in his gaze.
He leaned toward her, and his mouth came sharply into focus. Shivers raced down her spine and arms. He was going to kiss her.
And she was going to like it. Too much.
“Always watch your back, Deputy, no matter where you are.” He released her. “Come on, let’s get some rest.”
What?
She was an idiot for even thinking about kissing him. And sure, she was going to fall asleep with her heart beating like a bobcat fleeing a forest fire.
Why in hell hadn’t he kissed her?
Because they were on assignment.
She sauntered back to the tent and slid atop her lightweight sleeping bag because it was too hot to crawl inside of it. Five minutes later, Blade and Rambo joined her, the chaperone squeezing between her and Blade. Smart dog.
****
Maybe she’d slept. She only remembered trying to fall asleep. Yet her state of grogginess told her she had been out, and she wasn’t yet totally alert, which was the reason she reacted so positively to the warm tongue that touched her neck, tickled her ear. Trailed to her cheek. Her heart went pitter pat, and she turned into Blade’s arms.
But unless Blade had sprouted gorilla hair, it wasn’t his ripped body she turned into. Rambo had welcomed her awake in the dark morning, bathing her face with warm kisses.
“Agg. Yuck!” She wiped her face.
The tent flap flew open, and Blade stuck his head in. “Come on, sleepyhead,” he said cheerfully. As he had promised, they were starting before the sun cleared Eagle’s peak. And cripes, the man was one of those creatures who woke up happy even before caffeine.
She mumbled something even she couldn’t decipher and pushed a tangle of curls away from her eyes.
Yesterday’s thermos of coffee served as lukewarm wake–up juice, which she savored because any caffeine was better than no caffeine. Blade pulled breakfast from his pack. High–protein drinks and apples.
They hit the trail in the purple haze before sunrise and kept a steady pace, stopping to re–fuel with power bars. Lunch break consisted of dried fruit, nuts, and peanut butter sandwiches on whole grain bread that Brandy had prepared the night before. Then it was back on the trail, figuratively speaking, since they’d reached the point where their trail became makeshift.
By late afternoon, they reached their destination, stopping to set up camp a quarter of a mile from the perimeter of the Neo Nazi encampment. They dug themselves in, scooping out enough dirt from the forest floor to make a foxhole. Blade laid the tent down as a barrier against the dampness and spread their sleeping bags on top before they camouflaged their nest with a roof of aspen branches and pine boughs. Now all they had to do was lay low until midnight.
****
Bewitching hour crept closer, arriving in blackness illuminated only by the stars, while the new moon lounged behind the Earth’s shadow.
The satellite phone in Blade’s pack buzzed softly. Brandy retrieved it. A message from headquarters
. Sheriff Noble’s text informed them there was no way the pistol they’d found yesterday could be traced.
Damn, no way to prove it had been Skip’s. Like Blade had said, it was one of thousands of Colt .45s that had been marketed at the time. And, just as Brandy had feared, there wasn’t enough left of the barrel for ballistic testing, so they wouldn’t be able to prove that it had chambered the APC that authorities held in the Marilyn Abbott evidence file. Nor would they be able to prove that it had not been fired by a left–handed shooter such as Amanda Wilcox, but rather a right–hander as Brandy believed. A dead end on all accounts.
The news hit Brandy like a sledgehammer in the solar plexus. She had imagined any number of scenarios, all of them connecting the dots between Secada and Coogan and exposing a cover–up conspiracy of lies and evidence tampering.
A second bit of information from the Sheriff pertained to the arrow they’d retrieved from the birch tree. It had been traced to an elderly man from the Scuppernong tribe named Two Elk, to whom Patrolman Greenwald had given a citation recently for causing a disturbance at Smokey’s, the local bar. Two Elk had apparently mouthed off to the wrong guys about stupid European Americans stealing land from the natives and had told them they should go back where they came from.
“The guy’s got a point,” Brandy said, shoving aside the bad news from Sheriff Nobel.
“What guy?”
“Two Elk. The native Americans got a bad deal.”
“True, but there has to be a better way to get your message across. I’d like to hear the whole story about that ruckus in the bar. There’s always two sides to every story.” He pondered a moment. “Like in Coogan’s case. Maybe you should channel your efforts in a different direction. What about the alleged witness who could disprove Secada’s statement about being with Coogan the night of the murder? Why didn’t that come out during the trial?”
“The guy mysteriously disappeared and never testified.”
“So what are the chances of anyone ever finding him?”
Very good to excellent. “The chances are actually looking quite good. My lawyer got a call from a guy—”
