Crossfire Creek

by Melissa F. Miller

“Well, yes.”

  “This is Ar … Rue Jackman. I’m actually calling to leave a message for Rory.”

  “Ms. Jackman, Is everything okay with Rufus? Rory has a note up on the corkboard to walk him afterschool.”

  “Right. It turns out I’m not going to need her to stop by after all. I’ll still pay her, of course.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “Please, I want to. Especially because I’m cancelling on such short notice. Something urgent’s come up. I could actually use your help.”

  “My help?”

  “As a park ranger. It’s about something I found in the woods this morning.”

  His confusion gave way to professionalism … and curiosity. “Of course. I’m just on my way back from the Deep Creek Picnic Area. I can meet you at the visitor center in about three minutes.”

  “That’d be great. Thank you.”

  She ended the call and stowed her phone in her backpack. The Deep Creek Picnic Area was where Demetrius Costa had been murdered. She tried to remember if Ranger Painter had worn the park police badge on his uniform, but she drew a blank. She’d been focused on the missing persons poster, not the ranger.

  The question answered itself two and a half minutes later, when the ranger pulled up in an open-air Jeep. The sun glinted off his Department of the Interior badge. Aroostine made a small fist of victory and hopped into the passenger seat before he killed the engine.

  “Er, Ms. Jackman, I thought we’d talk in one of the offices.”

  “I’d rather talk out here. What I have to say is … delicate.”

  He switched off the engine and turned to face her, tucking his mirrored sunglasses into his breast pocket. “Delicate?”

  “It’s about the murder that happened here over the weekend.”

  He blinked, twice, rapidly, but otherwise gave no outward indication of surprise. “You said you found something in the woods.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it a gun, by chance? The murder weapon hasn’t been recovered.”

  She drew a deep breath, then let it out. “No, it’s not the murder weapon. It’s the witness.”

  This time, his emotionless mask slipped and he gaped at her. “You found Marlene Glasser in the woods?”

  “Yes. And Joy-Lynn.” She congratulated herself on having neatly sidestepped the need to lie. Once a lawyer, always a lawyer.

  His astonishment gave way to a frown. “Who are you, and what are you playing at, Ms. Jackman?” His eyes narrowed. “Are you a bounty hunter?”

  She held up both hands, palms facing him. “No, nothing like that. I swear.”

  He breathed noisily through his nose. “Do you know where the Glassers are now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take me to them.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “Ms. Jackman, this is a murder investigation. I don’t have time to play games with you.”

  “Nor I with you, Ranger. I need to gather up some of their belongings from a cabin they were … borrowing. I’d appreciate it if you’d accompany me. And if you’d get in touch with the ISB special agent assigned to the case and ask him to meet us there.”

  He stared at her for a long, silent moment. She stared back impassively, hoping the noisy thump of her heart wasn’t audible to him.

  Finally, he shook his head from side to side and set his mouth in a firm line. But he picked up his radio. She smothered a smile. Step one, completed.

  Pat stooped and examined the tripwire. He’d been following a poorly maintained footpath that led from the cabin to a semi-circle of cabins built on a grassy clearing of privately owned property. Near the end of the path, just before the birch trees gave way to the meadow, he spotted the sagging wire strung across the path. If he hadn’t had his head down following a set of bootprints, he’d have tripped right over the thing—it was clear someone else had. The line hung loose rather than taut.

  He traced the clear fishing line to a tall, skinny birch to the right of the path and found the knotted end of the line. He peered over the line at the path ahead. There was no obvious ambush or trap, so surely this wire was intended to set off an alarm, somewhere.

  His radio crackled to life.

  “Pat. It’s Luke.”

  He ignored the staticky radio call. Any information the ranger had managed to gather about the anonymous tip could wait. This was far more important. He took several pictures of the wire before crossing over to the left of the path and located a trunk around which the wire had been looped and secured. On this side, the wire wasn’t tied off, but continued on, snaking a line on the ground through the underbrush. He ran his fingers along the wire, following where it led him. He emerged from the long grass directly behind a cabin and stumbled into a pile of beer cans. The alarm system. When someone, or something, had tripped over the wire, it had activated this alarm and the cans had clanged together. He stared up at the cabin.

  He reached for his gun, confirmed it was loaded, and re-holstered it, the safety on. The cabin ahead could be anything. It could be a spot Costa had used for illicit dealings. It could be where his killer was hiding. One thing was certain. Someone in that structure had been sufficiently concerned about surprise visitors to have rigged the tripwire.

  “Agent Banks. Do you copy?” Luke’s voice came over the radio again, flaring with anxiety.

  He thumbed the radio’s talk button. “I’m here. I’m behind the private cabins near the creek. You need to get up here and see this.” He released the button.

  There was a pause. Then, “Actually, Pat, I think you’re going to want to meet me at the other cluster of cabins. The ones closer to the waterfall.”

  Irritation flared in his belly. “Yeah, why’s that?”

  “I’m with a woman, Rue Jackman, who says she knows where Marlene and Joy-Lynn Glasser are. And she’s authorized to work out a deal.”

  Irritation melted away, replaced by interest. “A deal. What is she, a lawyer?”

  Another too-long silence, then Luke said, “She says not anymore. Meet us at the small log-cabin with the bright blue door.”

  “Log cabin. Blue door.”

  “Affirmative. You’ll probably beat us there if you’re back by the creek.”

  “Wait. You know this woman? She trustworthy?”

  “She’s not local. She got in from Iowa yesterday afternoon. I checked her into a campsite. She paid cash. She has a golden retriever named Rufus. That’s literally everything I know about her.”

  “Understood. I’ll see you in a few. Stay frosty.”

  “Will do, Pat.”

  He switched off the radio, snapped some pictures of the beer can alarm, and loped through the grass toward the parking area and his Jeep. He hoped Luke had understood his message. This Jackman woman might have information. Or she might be luring them into a trap. They needed to stay alert and cautious.

  14

  As Ranger Painter had predicted, Special Agent Banks beat them to the cabin. Aroostine studied the ISB investigator while Painter handled the introductions.

  “Pat, this is Rue Jackman. Ms. Jackman, I’d like you to meet Special Agent Patton Banks.”

  Banks looked to be in his late thirties, probably a half-dozen years older than she was. Tall, outdoorsy-looking, with blond hair and the scruffy beginnings of a beard on his chin. But it was his eyes that worried her. A piercing light blue that shone as if he could see right through the lie of her Rue Jackman persona to the soul of Aroostine Higgins.

  She shivered. Stop being a weirdo; he’s not a supernatural being. He’s just some dude.

  “Patton,” she said to cover the awkward silence that had fallen. “Like the general?”

  He smiled, and his eyes crinkled, but they stayed watchful and alert. “Exactly like the general. I’m an Army brat. My dad was a military intelligence officer. Mom was an environmental scientist, so she picked my middle name and made it kind of a joke—River. Patton River Banks, at your service.”

 
He extended his right hand and she reached for it, wondering why he was telling her all this. Judging by the expression on his face, he was wondering the same thing.

  His handshake was strong, but not overpowering, and his warm fingers were calloused, which reminded her of Joe, whose hands were covered with thick callouses from his woodworking and carpentry. She dropped his hand as if it burned and blinked back tears.

  Ranger Painter cleared his throat. “Ms. Jackman says she found the Glassers in the woods this morning.”

  “You just stumbled across them on a nature hike?” Special Agent Banks said, not bothering to hide his sneer.

  His attitude dried any tears before they fell and she fixed him with a placid look. “No. I was looking for them.”

  The agent cut his eyes toward the ranger, who shrugged. “Why?”

  “Because they were missing.”

  “And you’re a one-woman search and rescue team?”

  A smile broke over her face. “As a matter of fact, yeah, I kind of am. I’m a tracker. I find people.”

  “Who asked you to find the Glassers?”

  “A friend of theirs.”

  Ranger Painter shuffled his feet and looked away.

  The special agent’s face flashed with anger. “Name.”

  “I can’t do that. Listen, I’m on a schedule and I need to get into this cabin and gather up their things. So, we can talk while I do that.”

  She hoped her tone was convincingly unconcerned, because inside she was a quaking bundle of nerves. She headed for the door.

  “Step aside,” Special Agent Banks demanded.

  He brushed past her and banged on the door with fist. “Park Police. Open up.” He waited ten seconds then took two paces back and pulled out his weapon.

  She watched in disbelief as he planted his feet and took aim at the lock.

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Blasting this lock off the door. Do you have a better idea?”

  “Well … yeah. If you’ll point that thing somewhere else.”

  She reached up and removed her bobby pins from her hair, which promptly cascaded over her face in a long wavy curtain. It took her less than a minute to fashion a rudimentary pick and tension wrench from the two hairpins. She crouched in front of the door and, another minute later, she’d set the lock’s binding pin with the tension wrench and had popped the lock with the flimsy pick.

  She twisted the doorknob and opened the door with a flourish. “Voila. No doors were harmed in this breaking and entry.”

  “Very nice,” the park ranger said in an impressed tone.

  “Although illegal,” Special Agent Banks pointed out.

  “But not destructive,” she countered before crossing the threshold.

  “Before we go inside, may I have a word, Pat?” she heard Ranger Painter ask.

  15

  From behind his tree, Boyd watched as another Jeep came into view and parked alongside the first. A park ranger and a Native American woman got out of the Jeep. Boyd’s stomach clenched and he sucked in his breath when he glimpsed her, but he let out a disappointed sigh when she turned. Not Marlene. This woman was taller and less worn-looking. Marlene always seemed tired and beaten down. This woman strode with purpose and confidence.

  He kicked at a rock. Another dead end.

  Still, he watched as the trio shook hands, and then, with the woman in the lead, approached one of the cabins. The man who’d arrived separately turned, and Boyd’s mouth went dry when he read the bright yellow lettering on the back of the guy’s windbreaker: POLICE FEDERAL AGENT.

  He was too late. They were in that cabin, and the feds had gotten to them first.

  This was it. It was all over. He should go. Now. And yet, he couldn’t drag his eyes away.

  He watched in amazement as the federal agent prepared to blast the lock off the door. This guy wasn’t messing around. But … surely, he wouldn’t do that if he suspected Marlene and Joy-Lynn were inside.

  The agent moved aside. The woman fiddled with the door for a minute and entered the cabin.

  Boyd leaned forward, waiting to see who or what would emerge from the cabin.

  “What’s going on with you?” Luke asked in a loud whisper as soon as Rue Jackman was inside.

  Patton shook his head. He didn’t have a clue. He was reacting to this woman—he knew that much. And he didn’t trust her.

  “I don’t like the way this is going down. She’s trying to wrest control of the investigation. You saw that, right?”

  Luke gave him a sidelong glance but, wisely, didn’t answer. “We should go inside. I mean, we’ll be liable if she steals something.”

  Pat nodded and raked his fingers through his messy hair, leaving a wake of spikes. “You’re right.”

  “Did you want to tell me something first?”

  He’d already forgotten. “Right. There’s a tripwire strung behind the other set of cabins, and it’s been tripped. Did Costa use the park regularly to do business? Could he have drugs or guns or cash stashed in one of the cabins?”

  Luke rubbed a finger across his lip as he thought. “He could’ve. But if he did, I never heard any whispers about it. Usually, that crew gives the park wide berth. Why commit your crimes on federal property when you have the local district attorney in your pocket? Most of Porchino’s illicit activities go down in Crossfire Creek … or out at a roadhouse near the casino.”

  “Why was Costa up here then, the night he was killed?”

  Luke shrugged. “He wasn’t dressed for hiking, that’s for sure.”

  “But his killer was. There were imprints of hiking boots in the dirt.”

  “Yup.”

  “I also found some bootprints near the tripwire. We should make a cast, see if they’re a match.”

  Luke jotted a note on his notepad. “I can do that while the phone guys run down your tipster’s number. I got them started on it before Ms. Jackman and I came up here.”

  Pat sighed. “Speaking of Ms. Jackman, I guess we’d better go make sure she doesn’t take anything that doesn’t belong to the Glassers.”

  He paused on the threshold of the cabin and squared his shoulders as if he were going into battle. Some part of him, deep inside, suspected he was.

  He stepped into the cabin with Luke on his heels.

  “Start talking.” Pat leaned against the butcher block kitchen counter and watched as Rue swept through the small space.

  “Marlene Glasser doesn’t trust Chief Wagner or the district attorney,” she began as she zipped up a duffel bag and dumped it on the counter near Pat’s left elbow.

  “With good reason,” Luke volunteered.

  Pat gave him the stink eye. Luke clamped his mouth shut.

  Rue returned with a laptop bag and a tote bag filled with art supplies. “She’s willing to tell the ISB everything she knows in return for meaningful protection—ideally, relocation.”

  Pat waited.

  She ducked into the bathroom and emerged with a large toiletries case, which she added to the pile. When there were no more bags, she stood in the middle of the room and scanned it for stray items.

  She looked straight at Pat and pinned him with her warm brown eyes. “But Marlene won’t ever be able to identify the shooter in court because—”

  “Joy-Lynn’s the one who actually witnessed the murder,” Pat finished for her.

  She opened and shut her mouth, wordlessly, and stared at him for a beat. “That’s right. How did you know?”

  Luke opened the refrigerator and stuck his head inside. “Bicycle tracks at the murder scene. A kid’s bike. Any of this stuff theirs?” he called over his shoulder.

  “I doubt it,” she told Luke before turning back to Pat with a sad smile. “So you see the problem.”

  “Sure, but we can work with that. The National Park Service hasn’t released Marlene Glasser’s name as the eyewitness. We’ll have the girl testify if we ever get to court.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s gonna be
a problem. Joy-Lynn Glasser has a condition called prosopagnosia, or face blindness. Her ability to recognize faces is significantly impaired.”

  Pat nodded. “How impaired?”

  “She identifies her own mother by the hat she’s wearing or a bracelet she never takes off. And Marlene emphatically does not want Joy-Lynn’s condition to be made public.”

  Pat swore under his breath.

  “Yeah. There’s more. They’re hiding because whoever shot that Costa man is coming after Marlene. She heard him in the woods yesterday.”

  “Could’ve been a bear.”

  “He tripped an alarm.”

  Pat swore again, aloud this time.

  “She can’t risk him coming after Joy-Lynn.”

  Luke closed the fridge. “Are you sure the girl’s totally face blind. She seems to recognize Rory okay.”

  “Rory and Joy-Lynn know each other?”

  “Yeah, Rory goes to the Cherokee school. They usually sit together on the bus.”

  Pat watched Rue’s eyes flicker as she processed this new information. Her entire face was alive.

  “Is Rory the only white girl in the middle school?”

  Luke frowned. “Probably. I’ve never asked her. Why?”

  “Because she’d be distinctive. Easy to place.” Another thought must’ve taken hold because her eyes lit up. “Does Rory always wear mismatched socks?”

  “Well … come to think of it, she does.”

  “I think it’s their signal for one another. Joy-Lynn wears mismatched hair ribbons.”

  Luke grinned. “Well, I’ll be.”

  Unmoved by the friends’ secret code, Pat grimaced at the mess his murder investigation was becoming. “I’ll figure something out. We’ll protect the Glassers.”

  Despite his growly tone, the woman let out a relieved breath. “Thank you, Special Agent Banks.”

  He waved off her gratitude. “Who owns this place, anyway, friends of theirs?”

  “Something like that.”

  With that cryptic answer, she turned and crossed the room to the small bed nearest the window where she slipped her hand inside the pillowcase and removed several sheets of paper.