The roughly carved face appeared murderous with rage. A flush darkened his bearded cheeks and the set of his jaw reminded me of Hogzilla’s horrible grinding teeth.
“What are you going to do?” I whispered.
“I don’t have time to deal with you now.” His mutterings seemed more for himself than for me. “What did you do with Peach and Bob Bass?”
My hands clenched into fists and I sought to steady my breathing. “Why do you want to know?”
He shook me. “Where are they?”
My vision swam and I bit my tongue. “Just calm down, Jeff. We can work all this out.”
“There’s nothing to work out. I need to know where they are. You tell me. Now.”
I clenched my teeth, shook my head, and popped my knee into his groin. He bent over, loosening the grip on my arms. I jerked my elbows away, turned, and ran. My arms pedaled the air and my boots slid in the mud and leaves. Gasping lungfuls of the cold damp air, I plunged forward.
Buckshot had disappeared. Behind me, Jeff’s boots hammered the spongey forest floor. He made no attempt to muffle his footsteps now. They grew closer. I pushed myself into a sprint. The burn in my thighs matched my lungs. The cold air chapped my face. I could hear Jeff’s puffing gasps. Fingers brushed my back and a shot of desperation jolted me forward.
His tackle sent me sprawling headlong into a drift of sodden leaves and brambles. A spiky sweetgum ball bit into my cheek and the barbs of a greenbrier vine pricked my hands and wrists. I rolled, but Jeff grabbed my legs and yanked me towards him, then sat on my chest while he hogtied my hands and feet.
“You’re not going anywhere. I’ll come back for you later.”
He left me thumping the ground and cursing.
Thirty-Seven
Buckshot reappeared to lick my face. As friends went, her steadfast loyalty matched Todd’s. However, Todd’s opposable thumbs would have been more useful in this particular situation. I lay on my back with my wrists tied to my boots, staring into the branches of a sweetgum and praying a spiked seed pod wouldn’t fall and put my eye out.
“He used nylon rope, Buckshot. I don’t suppose you’d be inclined to chew it?” I demonstrated by gnashing my teeth.
She flopped down beside me, waggled her tail, and laid her head next to mine.
“Do you think Jeff’s coming back to shoot me? Is this a pity party? Let me tell you something, Buckshot. I’ve been in situations worse than this.”
I considered my current feet-in-the-air position which resembled the many armadillos dotting our county roads.
“Well, maybe not this bad. But I’m tired of focusing on the negative. I’ve always been a half-full kind of gal. True, my situation at home has soured me some, but I’m not ready to give up. There are folks counting on me. Peach and Bob Bass. Rick...”
I sighed, staring at my bound wrists and ankles. “Actually, my world view is pretty dim if these are the people worth saving.” Wiggling my feet, I tested the nylon wrapping my ankles.
Buckshot scooted closer and edged her nose into my armpit.
“You’re right. I don’t believe for a minute that Rick is an innocent man. But wrong is wrong. Jayce, Lesley, and Abel sure didn’t deserve to die for Rick.” I squirmed, chafing my wrists against the nylon while twisting my feet within the boots. My right heel slid into the ankle of the boot. I paused my writhing to rest. “And who knows what’s going to happen to the rest of us. Jeff Digby’s gone off his rocker.”
The nose investigating my armpit had drawn away with my jostling. Buckshot returned to lick my eyebrow, then backed away as I resumed squirming.
“I know you like Jeff Digby, but you like everybody,” I said, flopping and heaving against my bonds. “I wish you could meet my Deputy McHottie, Luke Harper. I miss him like crazy, Buckshot, but it’s no good. My family hates him and they’re going through a tough time right now. How can I choose a man over my family? If Luke doesn’t stick around, then where would I be?”
One foot slipped out of a boot. My cramped leg fell into the damp leaves. I wiggled my toes within my sock. Cold and moisture immediately wicked through the cotton. “There’s one down. Good thing I don’t have cankles.”
I worked at the left boot, until that heel also slipped from the confines to fall next to its mate. My wrists remained tied to my boots, but my legs were free. Rolling onto my side, I pushed into a stand then stomped my socked feet.
“Told you I’d be all right.” I glanced around, but Buckshot had disappeared into the mist again. Ignoring my disappointment, I used a knee and the tree to pull my boots from their nooses, then shoved my feet back inside. With the boots gone, the rope slipped from my wrists and fell to the forest floor.
Wet socks were the least of my worries, so I disregarded the oozy feeling between my toes and resumed my quest to stop Jeff Digby’s murderous rampage.
Their voices alerted me. I had stumbled around in the thickening fog, sure that I had hiked out of Georgia into some alien planet that didn’t have a sun.
The ghostly soup dampened my skin and curled my hair, and I began to sweat beneath LaToya’s slick coveralls.
The scent of wood rot strengthened as the autumnal colors grew more muted and dull. Beneath my feet, the varying shades of siennas, golds, and umbers became a murky orangish ochre, like someone had mixed in too much Phthalo Green with the red. Tree trunks slashed dark lines through the wispy gray, but other objects remained obscured.
The sounds of the forest were at once distinct and indefinite. It reminded me of swimming in the ocean. Back on Tybee one summer, Luke and I had been body surfing and thought we had heard a child crying and searched to save her, but it had been a gull.
And now I heard bawling. The fog confused me, distorting the sounds and making me spin in circles.
Not a bird.
A man.
The low, shuddering cries came from my right, then the left. I picked my way through the trees, following a drift of voices that accompanied the crying, unable to see beyond a few yards in front of me. I slowed my movement, careful to quiet my footsteps.
“This isn’t your place,” said a voice who sounded like Mike. “She’s my sister. I moved back and I’m taking care of things now.”
That’s right, I thought. The housekeeper had said Jessica’s family moved to be with her. I didn’t know she had meant Mike, but it made sense. Mike and Viktor were the new kids at the lodge. But where was Mike? And where was Rick? I looked for the voices, but could only make out the faint lines of trees.
“She was seeing me when that was all going on,” yelled Jeff. “It hurt me too.”
“You’ve got no claim on her now. Jessica said as much. If you feel guilty, that’s your problem.”
“Me, feel guilty?” Jeff bellowed. “Are you comparing me to him?”
Mike’s voice remained calm. “Of course not. But if you and Jessica hadn’t been sneaking around, leaving Ruby alone so much...it’s not like Jessica was at work all that time. Hell, guilt’s just about eaten Jessica alive. Why shouldn’t you feel guilty too?”
“You son of a bitch. Don’t tell me how I feel. You’ve got no idea what it was like.”
“And how do you think I felt? That bastard stole my family.” Mike’s voice rose above Rick’s sobbing. “And who knows how many other families he’s ripped apart? How many girls he’s ruined?” His words ended in a long, low howl.
His keening cut through me sharper than any knife. I hugged a tree, searching the fog for some movement.
“It can’t end like this.” Mike’s voice returned, choked but more distinct. “Nothing’s worked right. The whole weekend’s gone to shit. One thing after another, and I can’t seem to stop it. And now I’ve got to stop you too?”
“We can end this,” said Jeff. “Let me handle it.”
Behind me, something stirred the leaves. I sp
un, grasping the tree to catch myself from tripping. A squirrel darted up an elm, and I let out a long breath. The squirrel disappeared behind the slithering mist, and as I watched him, a blaze of orange appeared. I crept closer, tiptoeing through the sludgy piles of leaves. The fog shifted, and with it the block of hunter orange. I continued my creep, seeking the color among the dirty gray of the fog, but not finding any orange. I glanced right and the florescent tangerine emerged, half-buried in the leaves. I snagged the vest and fingered the Big Rack label sewn on the front.
Had Jeff forced Mike to take off his safety vest? Or was it Rick’s? The lodge had lent Rick a gun and other gear. All the better to set up his accidents.
I had been so busy avoiding looking at the man, I couldn’t remember what he wore.
Damn you, Jeff Digby, for making me worry about garbage like Rick Miller, I thought, gathering the vest under my arm.
I stole toward the wall of trees before me, then realized the fog had concealed the steep hillside behind them. Looking up, I wondered if someone at the top of the hill had sent the vest sailing into the fog. I dug my toe into a pile of wet leaves, flexed my foot to push off, slipped, and crashed into a pile of fallen branches. I lay spread eagle, afraid to move and make more noise.
The drone of sobbing cut off. “Who’s there?” Rick’s voice drifted in the fog. “Help me.”
My heart stuttered. “Shh,” I whispered, squinting into the fog.
Above me, the blaming and cursing amplified. Mike sounded wild with rage. His anger shook me, bringing back the memory of Lil Joe’s reprimand. Mike had been under a lot of pressure. Saving the lodge. Protecting the staff. Keeping the Woodcocks happy. Helping his sister. Organizing the event. And all his careful planning had unraveled. He’d kept calm during each of Jayce’s escapades, pacifying the hunt members by keeping them focused on the competition. And now he was losing it.
I struggled up the ascent, slippery with wet leaves, grabbing the thin trunks of saplings to haul myself up the slope. The fog billowed and rolled with me, hiding chunks of granite poking through the clay.
At the top, I clambered through a clump of ferns and found Rick tied to the base of a young hickory. His face was wet with tears, and I felt ashamed by my disgust.
“Help me,” he sobbed.
“Did you mess around with Jessica’s daughter, Ruby?” I couldn’t stop myself. I could see it in his eyes, and yet I didn’t want to know. If he said yes, I didn’t know what I would do. I felt sick with hatred for this man and the revulsion coupled with exhaustion made my vision roll and my hearing crackle. Nausea punched my gut. I dropped the vest and stumbled away to relieve myself.
“Come back,” he called.
“Shut up,” I hissed. “You’ll get us both killed. Just sit tight. God Almighty, can’t you at least keep quiet?”
I rubbed my eyes and gave my head a good rattle, summoning energy and searching for wisdom. Generally, instinct was more my game. Like a hound on a scent, I had kept circling back to that damn Braves cap of Abel’s.
Reminding me of that Big Rack cap constantly twisting in Mike’s hands.
The hill fell off into another shallow ravine. A soft rush of water splashed over the exposed granite. The same creek that had caught Lesley downstream. Disliking that ominous thought, I left Rick to follow Mike and Jeff’s shouting. A chain of trees grew along the ridge, and I moved through them one by one, careful of the roots that spilled out of the eroding hillside toward the ditch below.
In sudden contrast to the wispy fog, Mike and Jeff’s solid forms emerged. Mike’s hat had been balled up in one hand, an aid for waving and pointing while he raged. A rifle hung around his shoulders. He faced me, shouting almost incoherently at Jeff. Jeff’s rifle lay in his hands at the ready, his feet planted and body turned slightly. It was difficult to tell if the stance was defensive or for attack. Probably both.
And what could I do? Two grown men with weapons. Another tied to a tree, like a rabid animal prepared to be put out of society’s misery.
Dangit, I thought, all I wanted was a weekend getaway with a side of commissioned painting. How was that asking too much? And where the hell was Max? I hadn’t let myself think about him too much for fear of that answer.
How badly I wanted to crawl back to Halo, even with the awful mess of contempt and suspicion surrounding my family.
Crouching at the foot of the tree, I hoped the fog and LaToya’s camo would keep me from their notice. I peered out at Jeff and wondered, once again, if such a person could be capable of murder. Maybe in a hot passion, but in this shrewdly calculated weekend?
I watched the two men, studying their reactions. Listened to the growing argument that condemned both in terms of motive.
I liked Mike. But wasn’t this carefully planned weekend Mike’s baby? Jeff had been worried about safety, whereas Mike seemed more concerned with the lodge’s welfare.
Always subdued, Mike fed the hunters’ appetite for competition while downplaying the incidents.
Jeff had warned, “Nervous people make mistakes. They’d be a danger to others and to themselves.”
A stray skeet. A misfire. An accidental fall or bullet to the chest. Only one was needed to end Rick and the police could be told everyone was keyed up by the odd threats made by Ban Sapiens activists.
I had ruined everything with my questioning of Abel’s accident and insistent nosiness into all the lodge pranks.
Why hadn’t I seen it? Constantly, Mike had told me I was upset. Suggested I go home. Reminded me the police had ruled Abel’s death as accidental. I had believed Mike’s insistence that there was no security footage of my room break-in. Mike had the means and opportunity to leave the warning in my room.
But then so had Jeff.
If Hogzilla hadn’t found me, would I have been shot like Jayce Deed?
Distant barking broke my concentration. The argument trailed off as the men became conscious of the outside world. The barking grew louder and the fog bore the sound of Buckshot crashing through the undergrowth near the bottom of the hill. Jeff spun to glance behind him and, at that moment, Mike raised his rifle. Grasping it in both hands, he lunged at Jeff.
Without thinking, I leapt out and screamed. Jeff whirled around and brought his rifle up to block Mike’s thrust. They struggled at the lip of the ridge, like two goats with locked horns ready to push the weaker off a cliff.
“Mike,” I screamed. “Let it go. It’s over.”
My command had the opposite effect. Mike surged forward, driving Jeff’s heels toward the ravine’s ledge. Jeff teetered, but regained his footing and pushed back. As the bigger man, Jeff’s struggle surprised me, but Mike’s wiry build had the strength of desperation. Had Mike honed these skills on similar terrain with Abel and Lesley? Down the hill, Buckshot’s baying continued to distract me. I gave up on stopping the hand-to-hand struggle and ran back to Rick.
“Where’s your gun?” I avoided looking at him, straining to see the men through the mist. “You must have borrowed another rifle for the hunt today.”
“Mike took it.”
“Dammit.” I glanced at Rick. “What did he do with it? Come on.”
“Let me go.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” I screamed. “You deserve this. But Jeff sure as hell doesn’t deserve to get killed trying to stop the man whose niece you destroyed. Now tell me where the rifle is.”
“If I deserve this, why are you helping me?”
“Because if we all got what we deserved, this world would be even more hellish than it already is. The law doesn’t always work, but we need order.”
“Mike wanted me to shoot myself,” sobbed Rick. “Held his gun on me. But when he heard Jeff Digby coming, he tied me here and tossed the rifle.” He pointed to a massing of the long, fronded leaves of a Georgia buckeye shrub.
I dove at the bush. My hands graspe
d the wooden stock and I snatched the rifle. I scrambled to my feet and ran through the trees. Ten yards from the men, I stopped. They continued to grapple, grunting and panting with vicious desperation. Without checking to see if anything was chambered, I pushed forward the safety and aimed at the tree line across the ravine.
The rifle cracked. Mike flinched and caught himself, turning toward the shot. Jeff’s reaction was quicker. He charged, knocking Mike onto his back, and pinned the rifle against Mike’s chest.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Jeff, raising his Marlin. The butt crashed against Mike’s skull. His head lolled to the side.
Satisfied, Jeff climbed off his chest to stand and face me.
Damn, I hope I’m right, I thought, staring at the brawny man.
His .45 would make a bigger hole than my .30.
Thirty-Eight
The mist made the scene eerier, less real. Hard-edged and hostile, Jeff loomed over Mike’s unconscious body. I tightened my hands on the Winchester, knowing it didn’t serve much protection against the adrenaline rush coursing through the giant before me.
“How’d you get away?” Jeff’s brown ochre eyes narrowed.
“I have slender ankles.” My scowl deepened. “I don’t appreciate getting tied up.”
“I don’t care. You were getting in the way.” His shoulders twitched. “I didn’t need your help.”
“The hell you didn’t.” I glanced at Mike. “How bad is his injury?”
“He’s going to have a hell of a headache.”
I blew out a deep sigh and lowered my gun. “Did he kill Abel and Lesley?”
“Not sure about Lesley. Mike found him watching the bunkhouse and said he chased him off. Lesley could have slipped. But Abel?” Jeff paused. “Mike met with him when Abel brought Buckshot to the lodge. Usually I take care of the kennels, but I was busy. I suspected Abel overheard Mike and Jessica talking about Rick. Abel must’ve said something to Mike. Now I’m sure Mike met him walking home and chased him into that ravine. At the time, I had no proof and wasn’t going to rat on Mike to the police if he didn’t do anything. I didn’t want to believe it.”
The Body in the Landscape (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 5) Page 26
