by B. J Daniels
As the Winchester Ranch came into view, McCall realized with a start that he could have been watching the house, could have maybe even seen people inside that morning.
Today the old lodge looked dark and cold under the cloak of clouds, lifeless behind the blank windows and weathered shutters.
A tumbleweed blew past on a gust, the wind howling around her, as McCall lowered her binoculars and wondered where a person might get rid of a large black Chevy pickup.
Sage-and pine-studded ridges ran out to rocky points as the land fell for miles toward the Missouri River. All those ravines. Wasn’t it possible the pickup had been dumped in one? As wild as this country was it could have gone unnoticed for years.
But not twenty-seven years. Someone would have spotted it from the air or a hunter would have stumbled across it. Trace Winchester’s pickup would have been known around the county—just as his antics were.
Where then? Where could you hide a vehicle so that it would never be found? She scanned the remote countryside, turning slowly in a circle, studying this unforgiving landscape.
Had the killer lured Trace out here, planning to kill him? Or had Trace’s death been impulsive? Possibly even an accident? If it had been a hunting accident, why wouldn’t the shooter have reported it—instead of burying the body and disposing of the pickup and rifle?
The ridge was far enough from Highway 191 that the killer wouldn’t have been seen while burying the body. No need to hurry and yet the killer hadn’t taken the time to dig a very deep grave. Nor had the killer taken the time to move the body to a better burial site.
Neither indicated premeditation.
So after digging a shallow grave and burying the body, then what?
Her father hadn’t been out here alone. But had the killer ridden out here with him in his pickup? Or had the killer met him here? Either way, the killer needed to dispose of Trace’s pickup quickly since it was so recognizable.
He would have probably gotten rid of the pickup, then come back and gotten his own rig as long as he didn’t have to take the pickup far. He couldn’t chance someone seeing Trace’s truck, and since the only way out of here was Highway 191—
In the distance, McCall spotted something that made her pulse jump. Water the color of rust.
She focused the binoculars on the spot, her heart pounding as she saw a stock pond. Not just a stock pond, but one visible from her father’s grave. The killer could have seen it or even known it was there.
How much water would it take to hide a pickup? Eight feet minimum, she estimated. As she started to lower the binoculars a windmill caught her eye and past it, a set of corrals.
She felt light-headed as she realized whose place she was looking at. The old Crawford ranch, where Luke Crawford was now building his house.
Over the wind and her thundering heart, McCall didn’t hear the vehicle pull in. Nor did she hear someone approach from behind her until she felt the hand drop to her shoulder.
Chapter Eight
McCall jumped, startled. She spun around, her hand going to her holster, stopping short of her weapon as she recognized the man now standing on the lone ridge with her.
“I thought I might find you out here,” Sheriff Grant Sheridan said, raising his voice to be heard over the wind. Frown lines deepened the furrows between his brows as the first drops of rain splashed down, hard and cold. “Let’s talk in my rig.”
McCall followed him back through the rain to his patrol SUV parked next to her pickup and climbed in, wondering how he’d known she’d be here, let alone why he’d driven way out here to look for her.
“What’s up?” she asked, shaking raindrops off as she settled into the seat.
He started the engine, turning on the wipers and the heater. Rain pounded the roof and pinged off the hood.
“You tell me,” he said as he looked past the rain and the rhythmic slap of the wipers toward the ridge. The rain slanted down in angry slashes, pelting the puddles already forming in the mud in front of the SUV. Fortunately the road back to the highway was rocky or they might have trouble getting out of here.
“I didn’t realize you could see the Winchester Ranch from here,” he said finally and glanced pointedly at the binoculars on the strap around her neck.
McCall followed his gaze to the ranch in the distance, but said nothing, her apprehension growing. Was this about Pepper Winchester?
That could explain why Grant looked worried. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” he asked.
“You mean, what I’m doing out here?” she asked, going on the defensive, fearing what had brought him all this way. “I wanted to check the site before my shift. Just as I figured, some locals have been out here digging around.”
“But there wasn’t anything to find, right?”
“I did a thorough search of the area the first time,” she said, afraid of where this was going. “If there was anything to find, I found it.”
The sheriff sighed. “McCall,” he said his voice softening. “I got a call from the crime lab this morning.”
She closed her eyes, surprised she was fighting tears even though she knew what the results of the DNA test were going to prove. She’d known the moment she’d found her father’s hunting license in the muddy grave.
She heard the rustle of papers and opened her eyes to look over at him. He had his head down and she saw the faxed report now lying on his lap.
The patrol SUV suddenly felt too small. She lowered her window a few inches even though the cold rain blew in soaking one side of her to the skin.
“According to the report, the bones are from a male in his early twenties,” Grant said without looking at her. “The lab estimates the body has been in the ground for the past twenty-five to thirty years. But I would imagine none of this comes as a surprise to you, does it.”
“What about the DNA?” McCall asked, her voice breaking. “Was it a match?”
His gaze softened as he looked over at her and nodded. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes burned.
Grant cleared his throat. “I can’t imagine that this was just a hunch on your part. How did you know?”
“I found my father’s hunting license where the body had been buried before the rainstorm washed the remains down into the gully,” she said quietly. “The license was still in the orange plastic case.”
“You knew it was a probable murder scene and yet—”
“I documented everything I found with photos,” she said quickly. “I treated it as a murder scene.”
“You withheld evidence.”
“I couldn’t be sure until the DNA report came back.”
He was shaking his head, clearly angry and disappointed in her. “You’re my first female deputy. Do you realize how hard I had to fight to get you on the force?”
She could imagine. “I appreciate that. But he was my father, I had—”
“You’re a deputy first and foremost. The moment you found this you should have roped off the crime scene, you should have come to me—”
“I bagged everything at the scene and photographed it. I knew once Rocky got back to town and started talking every looky-loo would be out here—especially if I’d roped it off with crime scene tape, and I couldn’t be sure until I got the DNA report back.” She took a breath. “And I knew that the minute I turned that hunting license over to you that you’d pull me off the case.”
“Pull you off the case? Hell, I have no choice but to suspend you, McCall. You’re lucky I don’t fire you on the spot.”
“I understand.” She reached for her gun and badge.
He studied her as she handed over both, then pulled the hunting license in the orange plastic case from her pocket and gave him that, as well.
It was hard to give up the license, but she’d made two copies of it, knowing this day was coming. Those were hidden in her pickup.
The sheriff shook his head as he dropped the license into an evidence bag. “You destroyed any fingerprints on t
he license.”
“The killer didn’t touch it. If he had, he would have taken it along with Trace’s wallet, his boots, his truck and anything else that made identifying the body possible twenty-seven years ago.”
Grant didn’t look any happier to hear that. “I heard you’d been asking questions around town about your father.”
Had Sandy told him? Somehow McCall doubted that. But he must have wondered what McCall had been doing at his house that day.
“When I saw you headed out this direction this morning, I just had a feeling…” he said now. “I thought it had to do with the Winchesters but I never imagined…”
“My father didn’t leave town,” McCall said, her voice breaking. “Someone killed him and buried him out there.” She pointed at the cloud-cloaked ridge. “For twenty-seven years, he was there and someone knew he was there.”
“Anything else you’ve withheld from me?” Grant asked.
She shook her head and watched as he folded the report and put it into the breast pocket of his coat before looking over at her again.
“You have already compromised this investigation. If you care about your job, you’ll take your two-week suspension and do nothing else to jeopardize your position with my department. In the meantime, this is a crime scene and you’re officially suspended and off the case. Is that understood?”
“Yes.” She opened her door and stepped out into the rain. The sheriff did the same, bringing with him a large roll of yellow tape and a handful of wooden stakes.
He didn’t look at her as he began to cordon off the crime scene twenty-seven years too late.
BUZZ CLEARLY HAD SOMETHING on his mind when he finally answered his cell phone. “What’s up?” he asked, sounding impatient.
“Did I catch you in the middle of something?” Luke asked.
“No, I’m just on my way to Billings so I might lose cell phone service at any time. What’s going on?”
“Billings?” Luke said, forgetting for a moment his real reason for calling his uncle.
“Eugene and I are going down to talk to the guy he owes the money to, see if we can work something out.”
So Eugene was with him. “You sure that’s a good idea?” Luke regretted the words the moment they were out. None of your business. He mentally kicked himself as he heard the anger in Buzz’s voice.
“Compared to the alternative?” his uncle demanded. “Or we could just let him get what’s coming to him. Is that your plan?”
Luke didn’t have a plan. Nor did he think he should be expected to. He held his tongue, trying not to let Buzz tick him off any more than he just had.
“I was calling to ask you about that old pickup you keep in your barn,” he said, anxious to find out what he wanted and get off the line.
“What about it?”
“I guess I’m surprised you still have it.”
“It’s not worth getting rid of. Why do you care?”
“Does it still run?”
“It did last time I drove it.” His uncle’s irritation wasn’t lost even though the line was filling with static. “Is there something you wanted?”
“We can talk when you get back. When is that?”
“Tomorrow. Listen, I’m losing you. I gotta go.” And with that his uncle was gone.
Luke snapped his phone shut, worried about Buzz and Eugene going to Billings given the people they would be meeting with. Even more worried about Buzz’s old pickup that should have been in the barn last night when McCall was being run off the road.
As dusk settled over the Missouri River Breaks, Luke thought about going to Billings, telling himself he needed to know the truth and it couldn’t wait until Buzz and Eugene got back.
He tried his uncle’s cell again to find out where they would be staying only to get voice mail. He’d have to wait until they returned to Whitehorse.
He’d spent most of the day checking fishing licenses and tags down on the Missouri. Now, headed home, Highway 191 rose up out of the river bottom to trail along the high ridges. From here he could see how the land had eroded into deep gullies and ravines as it fell to the river.
Climbing out of the Breaks, the highway skirted the Little Rockies, the pines shimmering in the sunlight. As the land opened up into rolling prairie dotted with sage and antelope, Luke usually felt a sense of peace.
Today though, he couldn’t shake the bad feeling that seemed to follow him like a threatening thunderhead. He didn’t know if this sense of foreboding had to do with his cousin’s gambling or the poaching and pickup.
He drove past the turnoff to his place and through Whitehorse on out to Nelson Reservoir. This time he didn’t need to sneak so he drove right up to his uncle’s barn.
A wall of hot air hit him as he got out of his pickup, surprised at how hot the day must have gotten up here compared to down on the Missouri River.
This time, the moment he stepped into the barn, he cut his flashlight beam to the spot where the pickup should have been.
And was.
The rusted red truck sat in the spot Luke remembered it residing for years. He felt the hood. Cold. When had it been returned? he wondered as he opened the driver’s side door and glanced inside.
The keys were in the ignition—just as they always were. He shone his flashlight across the bench seat, then onto the floorboards.
Mud. A large piece not quite dry. He looked closer, hoping to find a boot print he could use. No such luck.
He searched the rest of the pickup, finding nothing unusual, then closed the door and turned the flashlight beam on the tires. By now he knew the tread of his poachers’ rig by heart. They had matched the tread in the dust where this truck had been parked before it was returned. All he needed was—
Luke frowned. To his surprise, the treads on these tires didn’t match those taken at the poaching sites. Someone had changed the tires.
He moved along the side to the truck bed. It had recently been washed out. A red flag since the rest of the pickup hadn’t been washed.
Had Buzz used the truck for something? The bad feeling he’d had earlier intensified as he ran a finger along the edge of the tailgate, his finger coming away tinted red.
Blood.
MCCALL DIDN’T WANT her grandmother or her mother finding out about Trace before she could tell them herself.
She’d crawled out on a limb when she’d withheld evidence from the sheriff. Now she was about to saw that limb off. But in her heart, she knew what she had to do. She knew the sheriff would wait until he had another DNA sample and report before he’d go to either Ruby or Pepper about the bones found on the ridge.
It wouldn’t be enough that McCall’s DNA had matched because her parentage was considered questionable. Just as it probably wouldn’t be enough proof for her grandmother.
As she drove toward the Winchester Ranch for the second time within days, McCall didn’t let that bother her. She owed her father this, she told herself as the green landscape rolled past.
The sky was clear, the day warm for this time of year in this part of Montana. She loved spring. It had been a long, cold winter, but this was her home, country she loved, land that she knew.
She put down her window, letting the fresh air blow in and told herself her grandmother would see her. Enid wouldn’t be able to stop her.
The nice thing about the Winchester Ranch being so far from civilization was that even if her grandmother called the sheriff, by the time he got to the ranch McCall would be gone. Of course, if Grant was determined to arrest her, he would know where to find her.
She smiled, realizing she might be more like her father than she wanted to admit.
As she turned into the ranch yard, she saw a curtain move on the second floor and the old dog came out barking and growling. Well, they know I’m here, anyway.
She got out of the pickup, no longer fearful of the dog. Her grandmother really should get a meaner, younger dog if she was serious about keeping people away.
She didn
’t even get to knock before the door was flung open. Enid, looking like an ugly old bulldog, stood blocking the doorway, her lip curled in a snarl.
“Mrs. Winchester—”
“Will see me,” McCall said cutting her off. “Tell her I have news about Trace.” It surprised McCall how angry she was. Her mother said she’d inherited her father’s temper, and he had apparently inherited it from his mother—if the fury McCall saw in her grandmother’s face was any indication when she appeared.
“You were warned not to—”
McCall waved the copy of Trace’s hunting license she’d brought her grandmother. “Do you want to know what happened to your son or not?”
Pepper Winchester stopped in midsentence. Enid offered to call the sheriff and was headed for the phone when Pepper stopped her. “Leave us alone.”
Enid looked as if she were going to argue. Instead, she left in a huff, clearly furious at being sent away like hired help. McCall had to wonder again about the woman’s relationship with her grandmother.
“If this is some kind of ruse to—”
“The sheriff hasn’t called you?”
Pepper’s hand went to her throat. “Why would Sheriff Sheridan—”
“My father never left town.” She glanced past her grandmother and saw Enid lurking down the hallway, eavesdropping. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
Pepper had gone very pale. McCall had the feeling that her grandmother had been expecting this visit from her, had known after McCall’s last one that something other than curiosity had brought her here.
This time her grandmother led her into a small office. It appeared it hadn’t been used in years, like most of the rest of the massive lodge.
Pepper closed the door but continued standing. “What is this about my son not leaving town?”
“A man named Rocky Harrison found some bones,” McCall said, talking quickly, knowing any minute her grandmother could send her packing. “The bones had been washed from a shallow grave on a ridge.” She stepped to the window and pushed back the curtain. “That ridge.”
