Hidden: Part 1

by Linda Berry

  “That works.”

  “Let me give you directions.”

  “No need. Google Maps.”

  She heard him expel a breath. This meeting would be difficult for him, too. “Welcome home, Michael.”

  “My condolences, Mrs. Steeler.”

  “Thank you.” Maggie ended the call. No noise inside the house. Outside, the snow muffled everything. The silence deepened her sense of aloneness and isolation. Every day she was assaulted by acts of kindness. A well-meaning neighbor in the grocery store. Her patients. And now this young man who was Eric’s closest friend and wanted to do the right thing. She understood people just wanted to hear she was okay, as though she could fast-forward through grief like a bad movie. Death, she knew, was a difficult concept. A sucking black chasm that outsiders didn’t want to get close enough to peer into. For their sake, she would continue to be gracious. Over time, the stranglehold of grief would loosen its grip but for now, the pain had nowhere to go. It filled her entire being. She knew she would carry it with her for the rest of her life. Damp and shivering, she willed herself into motion. She had to blow her hair dry, put on makeup, dress for work. One minute at a time. She would endure.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sully and Travis spent the day delivering hay and collecting payment. Driveways were slick with ice making it challenging to negotiate the big flatbed truck weighed down with hay bales. Horse theft was the topic of conversation at every stop. The wealthier ranchers had installed security systems while the poorer ones were doing double duty, working during the day and patrolling at night. Spending extra money and missing sleep made folks short-tempered. There was plenty of anger going around.

  Old Monty Blanchert was last on Sully’s list. Records showed that he had picked up hay from Shankle for six months without making a payment. Sully fondly remembered doing odd jobs for Monty when he was a kid. He paid well, and his wife, Betty, still alive at the time, had always sent him home with fresh eggs or a basket of muffins. Monty used to tell him stories about the history of the county. The Blanchert family once owned thousands of acres and ran cattle. Over the years, they sold most of their property in parcels, forming the smaller ranches that now made up the county, including Dancing Horse Ranch. Blanchert switched to breeding some of the finest quarter horses in the country. Unlike many breeders who hit upon hard times, Monty was well bankrolled and ranched as a hobby. His three hundred acres was prime Oregon real estate, with rolling pastures and commanding views of the Cascades.

  Snow started feathering the windshield as Sully pulled off the highway. With all the hay delivered, the flatbed truck was easier to navigate. He drove a half-mile up Monty’s private driveway and parked in front of the sprawling lodge-style house. Sully sat for a long moment before turning to Travis, whose tense expression matched his own. Something was wrong. Normally three or four barking dogs would have loped across the yard to greet them and a few horses would be standing at attention in the corral. It was mid-afternoon, yet the porch and yard lights were on, and he noticed numerous sets of boot tracks in the snow traveling between the front door and the barn. That much activity was out of character with Monty’s quiet lifestyle. Sully lifted his pants leg and pulled his .38 from its ankle holster.

  Travis lifted his brows. “Really?”

  Sully silenced him with a look. He’d been a civilian for two days. He wasn’t ready to walk around unarmed.

  They left the truck with Sully in the lead. Using hand signals, they inched along the wall of the house and up the porch to the front door. Sully dipped his head in front of the window and saw a body sprawled on the floor. He tried the door handle. Unlocked. He threw the door open and pressed himself back against the outside wall. No noise, just a smell he’d grown too familiar with in Afghanistan. Travis caught it at the same time and raised his bandana over his nose. Holding his gun straight in front of him with both hands, Sully entered the warm living room. Travis followed. They surveyed the overturned furniture, opened drawers, and books scattered across the carpet. In the middle of the floor, Monty Blanchert lay face up in a wide pool of dried blood.

  Sully made a slow orbit around the room, scanning it in slices, missing nothing, then he squatted next to the body. From the state of the corpse and the temperature in the room, he guessed the death had taken place within the last three days. The dead man’s eyes were covered by a milky film and stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Bruise marks covered his face and his bottom lip was swollen and split. Two bullets had pierced his chest. “Jesus. Poor Monty.”

  “Someone beat him up good,” Travis said sadly, crouching next to him.

  Sully studied Monty’s hands. “Looks like gun powder residue on his right hand and shirt cuff. He shot a handgun several times.” No gun lay nearby. “Maybe he wounded someone.”

  “Hope to hell he did.”

  Both men were silent.

  “Let’s get away from this smell,” Sully said.

  They strode out of the house into the gripping cold. Vapor steamed from their mouths as they gulped in clean air. No matter how many times he’d seen a corpse, Sully would never get used to it. “Call the sheriff, Travis,” he said, voice neutral, gut tightening with fury. “I’m gonna check on the horses.” Gun held low, he followed the multiple footprints to the barn. The door was wide open. With his back to the wall, he peered quickly into the interior. Quiet. No movement. He entered and searched every stall. All twelve were empty.

  Something moved behind him. Sully spun around, finger on the trigger. A feral cat shot out from behind a grain bucket and knocked it over with a sharp clatter. Sully’s finger froze. He lowered his .38 and took a moment to steady his nerves. Through the back door, beyond a soft veil of falling snow, he saw bare trees in the pasture pocked with ravens. Something else was dead. Several ravens flew out of the stiff grass as Travis joined him. Together they took in the carnage; the frozen carcasses of four dogs frosted with snow, blood pooled beneath their bodies.

  “Four good ranch dogs,” Travis said bitterly, squatting over them one by one. “Shot.”

  Feeling a tremor of sorrow, Sully turned away and holstered his weapon. He studied the maze of boot and hoof prints crisscrossing the ground. “A shitload of tracks have passed through here, Travis.”

  “At least a dozen horses,” Travis agreed. He crouched and brushed new snow from a few frozen tracks. “These are the same horses that were hauled away with Gunner.”

  Sully squatted next to him.

  “Monty’s farrier stamped his shoes with this symbol that looks like an arrow,” Travis said, pointing it out. “It was on all the prints at the campsite.”

  Sully blew out a breath. “Stolen the same night as Gunner. Gives us the time of Monty’s murder.”

  They followed the tracks the full length of the pasture to the edge of Monty’s property. Wild Horse Creek ran beyond the fence, stretching fifty feet across at that point. The streambed was strewn with boulders and the water cascaded noisily into rapids for a quarter of a mile. “The tracks go through the fence and into the creek.” Sully fingered the wire. “It’s been cut and loosely rewired.”

  “If a neighbor glanced over, he wouldn’t notice anything out of place.”

  In both directions, the banks of the creek were hidden by evergreens, now coated in white. “No use looking for their exit point,” Travis said. “The tracks will be covered by now.”

  Anger rose in Sully’s chest and he heard it spill into his words. “These rustlers are fucking smart. They’re targeting ranches along the creek. The water covers any noise they make, and the creek gives them an escape route no one can see.”

  “They’re smart all right.” Travis scratched his head. “What the hell are they doing with all these horses?”

  “Black-market buyers, the sheriff said. Sold offshore where they can’t be traced back to American owners.”

  Travis’s hat and shoulders were layered with snow and he was rubbing his chafed hands.

  “Where’r
e your gloves?”

  Travis shrugged. “Left ’em at one of the ranches.”

  Sully slapped him fondly on the back. “Let’s head back.”

  Through the gauzy curtain of snow, they watched a patrol car bounce into the yard and ease to a stop. Sheriff Matterson got out, dressed in a thick jacket, collar turned up, hands gloved in leather. The muffs of his hat were pulled down over his ears. Sully and Travis met him in front of the house and quickly relayed what they knew.

  “Christ. Can’t believe Monty’s dead.” Matterson shook his head, breathing out puffs of white. “The thieves cleaned him out?”

  “Ain’t a horse left,” Travis said, stamping his feet, hands shoved into his pockets.

  Matterson flipped the bill of his hat up from his face. “Jackson’s place is just across the creek. Last month, when four of his jumpers were taken, Monty didn’t hear a thing.”

  “The roar of the creek covers the sound,” Sully said. “They could’ve entered from anywhere, exited anywhere.”

  “Now we got this damned snow,” Matterson said. “Hides everything. Well, let me take a look inside.” He entered the house and came out five minutes later, his ruddy complexion darkened with anger. “Every room’s been tossed. Safe’s open. Gun cabinet’s cleaned out.”

  The three men stood silently for a moment, expressions tight. Big, light flakes floated to the ground like goose down.

  “This the first time they entered a house?” Sully asked, feeling his ears going numb.

  “Yeah. My guess from these boot tracks, Monty came out and surprised them in the act, shot at them. They got the best of him, brought him back to the house. Then who knows what happened.”

  “He may have recognized them,” Sully said. “If so, he figured he was a dead man, so he fought back.”

  “Forensics will scour the place. They’ll find the attacker’s blood, if there is any.” Matterson shook his head. “Poor old Monty. Senseless.”

  “I found a few things out tracking yesterday,” Travis said.

  The sheriff looked hopeful. “Whatcha got?”

  “Follow me.”

  The three men headed to the truck, now covered in snow. Travis retrieved the baggie and handed it to the sheriff. “I found those butts at an abandoned campsite out on the McKenzie.”

  “Hand-rolled,” Matterson said, studying them. “Forensics might be able to trace the paper and tobacco. Maybe pick up some DNA if it hasn’t been compromised by weather.”

  “There were tire tracks made by a couple hauling trucks. They were used to move Gunner and Monty’s horses out.”

  “How do you know they were Monty’s horses?”

  “Monty’s farrier stamped his shoes with an arrow symbol. Didn’t know they were his horses until I saw the same prints here.”

  “This happened the same night they took Gunner?”

  “Yep. I took pictures of the tracks left by the trucks. They’re on my cell phone. I’ll e-mail ’em to you.”

  “Good work,” the sheriff said with warm appreciation. “Having a timeline helps.”

  They all turned toward an approaching white county car, tires grinding over the icy drive. “Forensics,” Matterson said. “Coroner’s on his way, too. Looks like it’s gonna be a late night.”

  “Let us know if there’s anything we can do to help,” Sully said.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Sully scraped snow off the windows of the truck and joined Travis in the cab, his hands and face numb with cold. He started the ignition, got the heat blasting, and pulled out of the driveway. Two men dressed in coveralls toting forensic kits were crunching through the snow toward the house. Matterson went to meet them, baggy in hand.

  “Don’t envy their job,” Sully said.

  “Nasty,” Travis agreed.

  They drove home in silence. The smell of death seemed to linger on their clothes, in Sully’s nostrils. He pulled over at the mailbox, climbed back into the cab sorting through bills and junk mail, and found an envelope with their address hand-scrawled across it. “From Monty,” he said sadly. “Postmarked the day he died.” Sully tore it open and pulled out a business check. “It’s for all six months.”

  Travis nodded at the note attached to the check. “What’s it say?”

  “Hi, Joe. Sorry this is late coming. Never got a bill. I heard Sully’s coming home. Tell him to stop by for a beer. Monty.”

  The two men sat in silence, listening to the wipers squeak across the windshield. Sully heard Travis blow out a long breath.

  “One day, Travis, we’ll find who did this.”

  “You can count on it. Then, they’re gonna pay.”

  “Damn straight.”

  Back at the house, Sully took a long, hot shower. No matter how much he scrubbed, he couldn’t erase the memories of Monty and his slaughtered dogs and the smell of death. He didn’t have time to eat before heading out to see Eric’s mother. Just as well. He had no appetite.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Maggie’s head hurt. Her eyes hurt, too. Weeping made her face feel like a washcloth that had been wrung out too tightly. Here at home she could cry without restraint but now Eric’s squad leader was coming over and she’d have to put on a brave face. Act stoic. She stripped off her work clothes and tunneled through her walk-in closet, grabbing a pair of stonewashed jeans, then scanning the racks for a top. She pulled out the cashmere sweater Eric had given her for Christmas before his first deployment. “This teal matches your eyes, Mom,” he had told her. Eric said the color reminded him of the Caribbean Sea and the cruise they took together after his high school graduation.

  As she slipped the soft fabric over her head, memories flooded back—sun-baked days, salty air, tanning lotion, burns on noses and shoulders. She could almost feel the gentle sway of the dock that stretched out over the sea and the shimmering heat on her body as she basked in her lounge chair. She occasionally looked away from her novel to watch Eric gliding under water as clear and smooth as glass, his snorkeling tube carving a V-shape on the surface. He came up with a splash from time to time to show off some treasure he’d found: polished glass from an old bottle, an orange starfish dislodged from a coral reef that she immediately told him to throw back in. “Don’t disturb nature,” she’d always drilled into him. On their many hikes through national parks, they tried to leave nothing behind but footprints.

  The cruise had been their last vacation together before he left for Oregon State University, pre-med. Still recovering from the fallout of being an empty nester, she was stunned to learn after his second semester that he’d decided to drop out of school to enlist in the Marines. Christ almighty! What a trying period. She’d tried to reason with him to stay in school, and she remembered discussions that turned into fiery debates, often punctuated by Eric’s bedroom door slamming shut against the sound of her voice. In the end, she came to accept his decision. She and David raised him to be a man of principle, and to follow the noble calling of his heart. The country was at war. Terrorists had attacked American soil three years earlier. Many of his friends had enlisted. “The only way evil can triumph is for good men to stand by and do nothing,” Eric had said, quoting Edmund Burke. His idealism both impressed and saddened her. His motives were so pure, so naive.

  Homer circled the bathroom rug twice, and finally settled into a resting spot while Maggie stood in front of the mirror taking inventory. Her shoulder-length auburn hair looked dull. Easy fix. She pulled it back into a ponytail. Her face was another story. Sleepless nights had taken their toll. She looked haggard, older than her forty-two years. A little concealer covered the violet shadows beneath her eyes. Lipstick added a touch of color. Voila. Back to the realm of the living, barely.

  Michael Sullivan would arrive momentarily. He was her son’s closest friend from that alter-world, Afghanistan, where men and women died sudden, violent deaths. Michael understood her son in a way she never could. He understood Eric’s warrior mentality and the controlled insanity of surviving
in an alien place where the enemy looked just like the people they were trying to protect. Michael had witnessed her son’s bravery firsthand as Eric tended to Marines with horrific wounds, often while his squad was under fire. Expedient medical treatment in those first critical minutes saved lives. But in the end the odds were against her son and he became a casualty no one could save.

  She placed frozen lasagna in the oven, threw a salad together and set it in the fridge. She’d use dinner as an excuse to hustle Michael out the door if his visit dragged on too long or triggered a crying jag.

  Promptly at six o’clock the doorbell chimed. Homer shot down the tiled entryway and skidded to a stop, barking, until Maggie grabbed his collar and opened the door. It was a frigid night, yet the young man standing on her porch with a cardboard box tucked under one arm was coatless; dressed in a long-sleeved t-shirt, jeans, and work boots. Around six feet tall, startling blue eyes, straight posture, muscular build. A Marine. The right side of his face was pocked with fading scars. Inflicted the night her son died?

  “Hello, Mrs. Steeler.”

  “Hi, Michael.” She smiled and took his outstretched hand. Strong grip. Calluses. “Come in.” Maggie led him into the great room, seated herself on the couch, and gestured toward the brown recliner. Eric’s chair. Homer sniffed Michael enthusiastically until he patted his big blond head, then he settled at Maggie’s feet.

  With his tanned face and casual dress, she thought Michael could pass for one of the local snow boarders. Someone with a carefree life. Then she imagined him as Eric must have seen him, dressed in combat gear with an M16 strapped across his shoulder; tough, seasoned, protective of his men, and even more so of Eric, who as a medic didn’t carry a weapon. The image seemed at complete odds with the culture of this small resort town, where the ongoing war in some remote corner of the world didn’t touch most lives. Michael sat on the edge of the chair with the box balanced on one knee. She sensed he didn’t want to get too comfortable or stay too long. Just do his duty and go. Sunlight from the window highlighted the grave, angular contours of his face. Something raw behind his eyes. Wounded. She understood.