They can only solve the perfect murder

If they work together.

After a shot rings out in the night, park ranger Blaire Afton knows her hard-won serenity is in jeopardy. But when she’s faced with a murder with no motive and no clues, US forest ranger Gus Maddox agrees with her suspicion that this is no random crime. With their shared military past, Blaire and Gus become close. But will their need for each other hinder their quest for justice?

RACHEL LEE was hooked on writing by the age of twelve and practised her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times best-selling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time.

Also by Rachel Lee

Cornered in Conard County

Missing in Conard County

Guardian in Disguise

The Widow’s Protector

Rancher’s Deadly Risk

What She Saw

Conard County Revenge Conard

County Watch

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Murdered in Conard County

Rachel Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09430-6

MURDERED IN CONARD COUNTY

© 2018 Susan Civil Brown

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

About the Publisher

Prologue
Three years earlier

“Have either of you ever heard of Leopold and Loeb? They thought they could commit the perfect murder.”

A large fire burned in the huge stone fireplace, casting dancing tongues of orange light and inky shadows around the cabin’s sitting room. The wood sizzled and crackled, adding its dry music to the light and occasionally loud pops that sounded almost like gunshots.

The log walls, burnished by the years, added weight to the entire scene. Trophy heads of bighorn sheep, elk and deer hung everywhere, beneath each a plaque memorializing a past hunter.

Clearly this was a hunting lodge, one of generous size, able to house a fairly large party. But its heyday was in the past and now only three men occupied it.

It seemed like the last place on earth three men would plot murders.

Dressed in camouflage, their orange caps and vests tossed onto a nearby chest, they sat in a semicircle of comfortable lounge chairs in front of the fire, sipping brandy from snifters. Two of them enjoyed fat cigars with a surprisingly pleasant aroma.

“It was really cold out there,” remarked one of them, a man with dark hair and a luxuriant mustache who appeared to be about thirty, maybe a couple of years older. He’d been the one who had asked the question about Leopold and Loeb, but having received no response, he dropped it. For now.

“Good for the deer, Will,” said the man nearest him. His name was Karl, and he looked like his Nordic ancestors, with pale hair and skin and frigid blue eyes. The deer he referred to had been field dressed and was hanging in a shed outside, protected from scavengers.

“Yeah,” said Jeff, the third of them. He had the kind of good looks that could have gotten him cast on a TV drama, but he also had a kink in his spine from a military injury and he didn’t quite sit or stand straight. He often endured pain but seldom showed it. “It’s probably already frozen stiff.”

“Like a board,” Karl agreed. “Thank goodness we have a sling on our side-by-sides.”

“And tomorrow maybe we’ll get an elk,” Jeff added. They’d won the drawing for a coveted license for an elk, and since they’d been hoping for one for years, this was no small deal.

Silence fell for a while, except for the crackling of the fire. Three men, looking very content, enjoying their hunting lodge after a successful day. Except one of them was not quite content.

Will spoke. “Do you two ever get tired of this hunting trip? Every year since we were boys, coming up here with our dads. Now just the three of us.”

“Something wrong with the company?” Karl drawled.

“Of course not,” Will answered. “It’s just that I was thinking we’ve been doing this so many years, and we’ve never gone home empty-handed. Not much of a challenge, is it?”

Jeff nearly gaped. They’d spent the better part of three days tracking the buck that was now hanging in the shed. “We almost missed that mature eight-pointer. He was smart.”

“We still got him,” Will pointed out.

Karl spoke. “The elk will be even more of a challenge. What do you want, Will? To stop making these trips? I thought we were doing it more for the time away together. Three guys, brandy and cigars, traipsing around in the woods on the cusp of winter... A lot of guys would envy us.”

“We aren’t a lot of guys. In fact, I believe we’re smarter than the average bear. All of us.”

“So?”

“So, how about we hunt a different kind of prey? Not to kill but for the challenge.”

“What are you talking about?” Jeff asked.

“You ever hear of Leopold and Loeb?” This time Will spoke more emphatically.

Both Karl and Jeff shook their heads. “Who were they?” Karl asked.

“Two guys who thought they were smart enough to commit the perfect murder. Back in the 1920s. But they got caught in twenty-four hours.”

The other two men froze into silence.

“We’re smarter,” said Will presently. “Think of all the planning we’d have to do, a lot more than hunting deer or elk. And even without the murder it would be a helluva challenging game.”

Silence, except for the fire, reigned for a while. Then Jeff said, “You are talking about a game, not a real murder, right?”

Will waved the hand holding his cigar. “The game would be the planning and stalking. Just like when we hunt deer. The kill hardly matters at that point. We only follow through because we want the meat and the rack. You can’t hang a man’s head on the wall.”

That elicited a laugh from Karl. “True that.” Even Jeff smiled after a moment.

“The most challenging game of all,” Will continued. “How do we do it without leaving any evidence? How do we creep up on our prey?”

Karl snorted. “Men aren’t as smart as deer, Will.”

“But they’re almost never alone.”

After a bit, Jeff said, “Sorta like playing D&D when we were younger?”

“Like that,” Will agreed. “Plotting and planning and stalking. That’s all.”

Presently all the men were sitting easily in their chairs and began to toss ideas around. If nothing else, it was an entertaining way to spend an icy evening.

Chapter One

Blaire Afton slept with the window cracked because she liked the cool night breeze, and the sounds of animals in the woods. As park ranger for the state of Wyoming, she supervised a forested area with a dozen scattered campgrounds and quite a few hiking trails, most all the camps and trails farther up the mountain.

Her cabin was also the main office, the entry point to the park, and her bedroom was upstairs in a loft. The breeze, chilly as it got at night, even in July, kept her from feeling closed in. The fresh air seemed to make her sleep deeper and more relaxed, as well.

It also seemed to keep away the nightmares that still occasionally plagued her. Ten months in Afghanistan had left their mark.

But tonight she was edgy as all get-out, and sleep stubbornly evaded her. Maybe just as well, she thought irritably. Nights when she felt like this often produced bad dreams, which in turn elicited worse memories.

Sitting up at last, she flipped on the fluorescent lantern beside her bed and dressed in her park ranger’s uniform and laced up her boots. If sleep caught up with her finally, she could crash on the sofa downstairs. Right now, however, early coffee was sounding delicious.

There was absolutely no way she could make her boots silent on the open wooden staircase, but it didn’t matter. All her staff were home for the night and she could bother only herself. Right now, bothering herself seemed like a fairly good idea.

The electric lines reached the cabin, having been run up the side of this mountain by the state, along with a phone landline that extended out to all the campgrounds in case of emergencies. Neither was perfectly reliable, but when they worked, they were a boon. Especially the electricity. Phone calls about vacant campsites didn’t light up her life, nor did some of the stupid ones she received. Want a weather report? Then turn on the weather.

“Ha,” she said aloud. The good news was that she had electric power this night. She walked over to her precious espresso machine and turned it on. A few shots over ice with milk and artificial sweetener...oh, yeah.

And since she was wide awake and had the power, maybe she should check her computer and see if she had internet, as well. Monthly reports were due soon, and if she had to be awake, she might as well deal with them. Reports weren’t her favorite part of this job, and sometimes she wondered if some of them had been created by a higher-up who just wanted to be important.

When her coffee was ready and filling her insulated mug, she decided to step outside and enjoy some of the night’s unique quiet. It wasn’t silent, but it was so different from the busier daylight hours. Tilting her head back, she could see stars overhead, bright and distant this nearly moonless night. The silvery glow was just enough to see by, but not enough to wash out the stars.

Sipping her coffee, she allowed herself to enjoy being out in the dark without fear. It might come back at any moment, but as Afghanistan faded further into her past, it happened much less often. She was grateful for the incremental improvement.

Grateful, too, that the head forester at the national forest abutting her state land was also a veteran, someone she could talk to. Gus Maddox guarded a longer past in combat than she did, and there was still a lot he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, talk about. But he’d been in special operations, and much of what they did remained secret for years.

In her case, her service had been more ordinary. Guarding supply convoys sounded tame until you learned they were a desirable target. She and her team had more than once found themselves in intense firefights, or the object of roadside bombs.

She shook herself, refusing to let memory intrude on this night. It was lovely and deserved its due. An owl hooted from deep within the woods, a lonely yet beautiful sound. All kinds of small critters would be scurrying around, trying to evade notice by running from hiding place to hiding place while they searched for food. Nature had a balance and it wasn’t always pretty, but unlike war it served a necessary purpose.

Dawn would be here soon, and she decided to wait in hope she might see a cloud of bats returning to their cave three miles north. They didn’t often fly overhead here, but occasionally she enjoyed the treat.

Currently there was a great deal of worry among biologists about a fungus that was attacking the little brown bat. She hoped they managed to save the species.

A loud report unexpectedly shattered the night. The entire world seemed to freeze. Only the gentle sigh of the night breeze remained as wildlife paused in recognition of a threat.

Blaire froze, too. She knew the sound of a gunshot. She also knew that no one was supposed to be hunting during the night or during this season.

What the hell? She couldn’t even tell exactly where it came from. The sound had echoed off the rocks and slopes of the mountain. As quiet as the night was, it might have come from miles away.

Fifteen minutes later, the phone in her cabin started to ring.

Her heart sank.

* * *

TEN MILES SOUTH in his cabin in the national forest, August Maddox, Gus to everyone, was also enduring a restless night. Darkness had two sides to it, one favorable and one threatening, depending. In spec ops, he’d favored it when he was on a stealthy mission and didn’t want to be detected. At other times, when he and his men were the prey, he hated it. The protection it sometimes afforded his troops could transform into deadliness in an instant.

As a result, he endured an ongoing battle with night. Time was improving it, but on nights like this when sleep eluded him, he sometimes forced himself to step outside, allowing the inkiness to swallow him, standing fast against urges to take cover. He hated this in himself, felt it as an ugly, inexcusable weakness, but hating it didn’t make it go away.

The fingernail moon provided a little light, and he used it to go around the side of the building to visit the three horses in the corral there. His own gelding, Scrappy, immediately stirred from whatever sleep he’d been enjoying and came to the rail to accept a few pats and nuzzle Gus in return.

Sometimes Gus thought the horse was the only living being who understood him. Probably because Scrappy couldn’t talk, he often added in attempted lightness.

But Scrappy did talk in his own way. He could communicate quite a bit with a toss of his head or a flick of his tail, not to mention the pawing of his feet. Tonight the horse seemed peaceful, though, and leaned into his hand as if trying to share the comfort.

He should have brought a carrot, Gus thought. Stroking the horse’s neck, he asked, “Who gave you that silly name, Scrappy?”

Of course the horse couldn’t answer, and Gus had never met anyone who could. The name had come attached to the animal, and no one had ever changed it. Which was okay, because Gus kind of liked it. Unusual. He was quite sure the word hadn’t been attached to another horse anywhere. It also made him wonder about the horse’s coltish days five or six years ago.

Scrappy was a gorgeous, large pinto whose lines suggested Arabian somewhere in the past. He was surefooted in these mountains, though, which was far more important than speed. And he was evidently an animal who attached himself firmly, because Gus had found that when Scrappy was out of the corral, he’d follow Gus around more like a puppy than anything.

Right then, though, as Scrappy nudged his arm repeatedly, he realized the horse wanted to take a walk. It was dark, but not too dark, and there was a good trail leading north toward the state park lands.

And Blaire Afton.

Gus half smiled at himself as he ran his fingers through Scrappy’s mane. Blaire. She’d assumed her ranger position over there about two years ago, and they’d become friends. Well, as much as two wary vets could. Coffee, conversation, even some good laughs. Occasional confidences about so-called reentry problems. After two years, Scrappy probably knew the path by heart.

But it was odd for the horse to want to walk in the middle of the night. Horses did sleep. But maybe Gus’s restlessness had reached him and made him restless, as well. Or maybe he sensed something in the night. Prickles of apprehension, never far away in the dark, ran up Gus’s spine.

“Okay, a short ride,” he told Scrappy. “Just enough to work out a kink or two.”

An internal kink. Or a thousand. Gus had given up wondering just how many kinks he’d brought home with him after nearly twenty years in the Army, most of it in covert missions. The grenade that had messed him up with shrapnel hadn’t left as many scars as memory. Or so he thought.

He was tempted to ride bareback, given that he didn’t intend to go far, but he knew better. As steady as Scrappy was, if he startled or stumbled Gus could wind up on the ground. Better to have the security of a saddle than risk an injury.

Entering the corral, he saw happiness in Scrappy’s sudden prance. The other two horses roused enough to glance over, then went back to snoozing. They never let the night rambles disturb them. The other two horses apparently considered them to be a matter between Scrappy and Gus.

Shortly he led the freshly saddled Scrappy out of the corral. Not that he needed leading. He followed him over to the door of his cabin where a whiteboard for messages was tacked and he scrawled that he’d gone for a ride on the Forked Rivers Trail. A safety precaution in case he wasn’t back by the time his staff started wandering in from their various posts. Hard-and-fast rule: never go into the forest without letting the rangers know where you were headed and when you expected to return. It applied to him as well as their guests.

Then he swung up into the saddle, listening to Scrappy’s happy nicker, enjoying his brief sideways prance of pleasure. And just like the song, the horse knew the way.

Funny thing to drift through his mind at that moment. A memory from childhood that seemed so far away now he wasn’t sure it had really happened. Sitting in the car with his parents on the way to Grandmother’s house. Seriously. Two kids in the back seat singing “Over the River” until his mother begged for mercy. His folks were gone now, taken by the flu of all things, and his sister who had followed him into the Army had been brought home in a box from Iraq.

Given his feelings about the darkness, it struck him as weird that the song and the attendant memories had popped up. But he ought to know by now how oddly the brain could work.

Scrappy’s hooves were nearly silent on the pine needles that coated the trail. The duff under the trees was deep in these parts, and he’d suggested to HQ that they might need to clean up some of it. Fire hazard, and it hadn’t rained in a while, although they were due for some soon to judge by the forecast. Good. They needed it.

The slow ride through the night woods was nearly magical. The creak of leather and the jingle of the rings on the bridle were quiet, but part of the feeling of the night. When he’d been in Germany he’d learned the story of the Christmas tree. The idea had begun with early and long winter nights, as travelers between villages had needed illumination to see their way. At some point people had started putting candles on tree branches.

Damn, he’d moved from Thanksgiving to Christmas in a matter of minutes and it was July. What the hell was going on inside his mind?

He shook his head a bit, then noticed that Scrappy was starting to get edgy himself. He was tossing his head an awful lot. What had he sensed on the night breeze? Some odor that bothered him. That could be almost anything out of the ordinary.

But the horse’s reaction put him on high alert, too. Something was wrong with the woods tonight. Scrappy felt it and he wasn’t one to question an animal’s instincts and senses.

Worry began to niggle at him. They were getting ever closer to Blaire Afton’s cabin. Could she be sick or in trouble?

Maybe it was an annoying guy thing, but he often didn’t like the idea that she was alone there at night. In the national forest there were people around whom he could radio if he needed to, who’d be there soon if he wanted them. Blaire had no such thing going for her. Her employees were all on daylight hours, gone in the evening, not returning until morning. Budget, he supposed. Money was tight for damn near everything now.

Blaire would probably laugh in his face if she ever guessed he sometimes worried about her being alone out here. She had some of the best training in the world. If asked he’d say that he felt sorry for anyone who tangled with her.

But she was still alone there in that cabin, and worse, she was alone with her nightmares. Like him. He knew all about that.

Scrappy tossed his head more emphatically and Gus loosened the reins. “Okay, man, do your thing.”

Scrappy needed no other encouragement. His pace quickened dramatically.

Well, maybe Blaire would be restless tonight, too, and they could share morning coffee and conversation. It was gradually becoming his favorite way to start a day.

Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, ringing through the forest. At a distance, but he still shouldn’t be hearing it. Not at this time of year. Not in the dark.

“Scrappy, let’s go.” He touched the horse lightly with his heels, not wanting him to break into a gallop that could bring him to harm, but just to hurry a bit.

Scrappy needed no further urging.

* * *

“WE THINK SOMEONE’S been shot.”

The words that had come across the telephone seemed to shriek in Blaire’s ears as she hurried to grab a light jacket and her pistol belt as well as a shotgun out of the locked cabinet. On the way out the door she grabbed the first-aid kit. The sheriff would be sending a car or two, but she had the edge in time and distance. She would definitely arrive first.

The call had come from the most remote campground, and she’d be able to get only partway there in the truck. The last mile or so would have to be covered on the all-terrain side-by-side lashed to the bed of the truck.

If someone was injured, why had it had to happen at the most out-of-the-way campground? A campground limited to people who seriously wanted to rough it, who didn’t mind carrying in supplies and tents. After the road ended up there, at the place she’d leave her truck, no vehicles of any kind were allowed. She was the only one permitted to head in there on any motorized vehicle. She had one equipped for emergency transport.

She was just loading the last items into her vehicle when Gus appeared, astride Scrappy, a welcome sight.

“I heard the shot. What happened?”

“Up at the Twin Rocks Campground. I just got a call. They think someone’s been shot.”

“Think?”

“That’s the word. You want to follow me on horseback, or ride with me?” It never once entered her head that he wouldn’t want to come along to help.

* * *

IT NEVER ENTERED his head, either. “I’m not armed,” he warned her as he slipped off the saddle.

“We can share.”

He loosely draped Scrappy’s reins around the porch railing in front of the cabin, knowing they wouldn’t hold him. He didn’t want them to. It was a signal to Scrappy to hang around, not remain frozen in place. A few seconds later, he climbed into the pickup with Blaire and they started up the less-than-ideal road. He was glad his teeth weren’t loose because Blaire wasted no time avoiding the ruts.

He spoke, raising his voice a bit to be heard over the roaring engine. “Have you thought yet about what you’re doing for Christmas and Thanksgiving?”

She didn’t answer for a moment as she shifted into a lower gear for the steepening road. “It’s July. What brought that on?”

“Danged if I know,” he admitted. “I was riding Scrappy in your direction because I’m restless tonight and it all started with a line from ‘Over the River’ popping into my head. Then as I was coming down the path I remembered how in the Middle Ages people put candles on tree branches on long winter nights so the pathways would be lit for travelers. Which led to...”

“Christmas,” she said. “Got it. Still weird.”

He laughed. “That’s what I thought, too. My head apparently plays by its own rules.”

It was her turn to laugh, a short mirthless sound. “No kidding. I don’t have to tell you about mine.”

No, she didn’t, and he was damned sorry that she carried those burdens, too. “So, holidays,” he repeated. No point in thinking about what lay ahead of them. If someone had been shot, they both knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. And both of them had seen it before.

“I’ll probably stay right here,” she answered. “I love it when the forest is buried in snow, and someone has to be around if the snowshoe hikers and the cross-country skiers get into trouble.”

“Always,” he agreed. “And doesn’t someone always get into trouble?”

“From what I understand, it hasn’t failed yet.”

He drummed his fingers on his thigh, then asked, “You called the sheriff?”

“Yeah, but discharge of a weapon is in my bailiwick. They have a couple of cars heading this way. If I find out someone has been shot, I’ll warn them. Otherwise I’ll tell them to stand down.”

Made sense. This wasn’t a war zone after all. Most likely someone had brought a gun along for protection and had fired it into the night for no good reason. Scared? A big shadow hovering in the trees?

And in the dead of night, wakened from a sound sleep by a gunshot, a camper could be forgiven for calling to say that someone had been shot even without seeing it. The more isolated a person felt, the more he or she was apt to expect the worst. Those guys up there at Twin Rocks were about as isolated as anyone could get without hiking off alone.

He hoped that was all it was. An accident that had been misinterpreted. His stomach, though, gave one huge twist, preparing him for the worst.

“You hanging around for the holidays?” she asked. Her voice bobbled as the road became rougher.

“Last year my assistant did,” he reminded her. “This year it’s me. What did you do last year?”

“Went to visit my mother in the nursing home. I told you she has Alzheimer’s.”

“Yeah. That’s sad.”

“Pointless to visit. She doesn’t even recognize my voice on the phone anymore. Regardless, I don’t think she feels lonely.”

“Why’s that?”

“She spends a lot of time talking to friends and relatives who died back when. Her own little party.”

“I hope it comforts her.”

“Me, too.” Swinging a hard left, she turned onto a narrower leg of road that led directly to a dirt and gravel parking lot of sorts. It was where the campers left their vehicles before hiking in.

“You ever been to this campground?” she asked as she set the brake and switched off the ignition.

“Not on purpose,” he admitted. “I may have. Scrappy and I sometimes wander a bit when we’re out for a day-off ride.”

“Everything has to be lugged in,” she replied, as if that would explain all he needed to know.

It actually did. Rustic was the popular word for it. “They have a phone, though?”

“Yeah, a direct line to me. The state splurged. I would guess lawyers had something to do with that.”

He gave a short laugh. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

Even though Blaire was clearly experienced at getting the side-by-side off the back of her truck, he helped. It was heavy, it needed to roll down a ramp, and it might decide to just keep going.

Once it was safely parked, he helped reload the ramp and close the tailgate. Then there was loading the first-aid supplies and guns. She knew where everything went, so he took directions.

With a pause as he saw the roll of crime scene tape and box of latex gloves. And shoe covers. God. A couple of flashlights that would turn night into day. He hoped they didn’t need any of it. Not any of it.

At least the state hadn’t stinted on the side-by-side. It had a roof for rainy weather, and a roll bar he could easily grab for stability. There were four-point harnesses as well, no guarantee against every danger but far better than being flung from the vehicle.

These side-by-side UTVs weren’t as stable as three-wheelers, either. It might be necessary for her job, but if he were out for joyriding, he’d vastly prefer a standard ATV.

She drove but tempered urgency with decent caution. The headlights were good enough, but this classified more as a migratory path than a road. Even knowing a ranger might have to get out here in an emergency, no one had wanted to make this campground easily accessible by vehicle. There were lots of places like that in his part of the forest. Places where he needed to drag teams on foot when someone got injured.

Soon, however, he saw the occasional glint of light through the trees. A lot of very-awake campers, he imagined. Frightened by the gunshot. He hoped they weren’t frightened by more.

The forest thinned out almost abruptly as they reached the campground. He could make out scattered tents, well separated in the trees. Impossible in the dark to tell how many there might be.

But a group of people, all of whom looked as if they’d dragged on jeans, shirts and boots in a hurry, huddled together, a couple of the women hugging themselves.

Blaire brought the ATV to a halt, parked it and jumped off. He followed more slowly, not wanting to reduce her authority in any way. She was the boss here. He was just a visitor. And he wasn’t so stupid that he hadn’t noticed how people tended to turn to the man who was present first.

He waited by the vehicle as Blaire covered the twenty or so feet to the huddle. Soon excited voices reached him, all of them talking at the same time about the single gunshot that had torn the silence of the night. From the gestures, he guessed they were pointing to where they thought the shot came from, and, of course, there were at least as many directions as people.

They’d been in tents, though, and that would muffle the sound. Plus there were enough rocks around her to cause confusing echoes.

But then one man silenced them all.

“Mark Jasper didn’t come out of his tent. His kid was crying just a few minutes ago, but then he quieted.”

He saw Blaire grow absolutely still. “His kid?”

“He brought his four-year-old with him. I guess the shot may have scared him. But... Why didn’t Mark come out?”

Good question, thought Gus. Excellent question.

“Maybe he didn’t want to take a chance and expose his boy. They might have gone back to sleep,” said one of the women. Her voice trembled. She didn’t believe that, Gus realized.

Blaire turned slowly toward the tent that the man had pointed out. She didn’t want to look. He didn’t, either. But as she took her first step toward the shelter, he stepped over and joined her. To hell with jurisdiction. His gorge was rising. A kid had been in that tent? No dad joining the others? By now this Jasper guy could have heard enough of the voices to know it was safe.

He glanced at Blaire and saw that her face had set into lines of stone. She knew, too. When they reached the door of the tent, she stopped and pointed. Leaning over, he saw it, too. The tent was unzipped by about six or seven inches.

“Gloves,” he said immediately.

“Yes.”

Protect the evidence. The opening might have been left by this Jasper guy, or it might have been created by someone else. Either way...

He brought her a pair of latex gloves, then snapped his own set on. Their eyes met, and hers reflected the trepidation he was feeling.

Then he heard a sound from behind him and swung around. The guy who had announced that Jasper hadn’t come out had followed them. “Back up, sir.” His tone was one of command, honed by years of military practice.

“Now,” Blaire added, the same steely note in her voice. “You might be trampling evidence.”

The guy’s eyes widened and he started to back up.

Now Blaire turned her head. “Carefully,” she said sharply. “Don’t scuff. You might bury something.”

The view of the guy raising his legs carefully with each step might have been amusing under other circumstances. There was no amusement now.

“Ready?” Blaire asked.

“Yup.”

She leaned toward the tent and called, “Mr. Jasper? I’m the ranger. We’re coming in. We need to check on you.” No sound answered her.

“Like anyone can be ready for this,” she muttered under her breath as she reached up for the zipper tab. The metal teeth seemed loud as the world held its breath.

When she had the zipper halfway down, she parted the canvas and shone her flashlight inside.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed.

Chapter Two

Blaire had seen a lot of truly horrible things during her time in Afghanistan. There had even been times when she’d been nearly frozen by a desire not to do what she needed to do. She’d survived, she’d acted and on a couple of occasions, she’d even saved lives.

This was different. In the glare of the flashlight she saw a man in a sleeping bag, his head near the front opening. Or rather what was left of his head. Worse, she saw a small child clinging desperately to the man’s waist, eyes wide with shock and terror. That kid couldn’t possibly understand this horror but had still entered the icy pit of not being able to move, of hanging on to his daddy for comfort and finding no response.

She squeezed her eyes shut for just a moment, then said quietly to Gus, “The father’s been shot in the head. Dead. The kid is clinging to him and terrified out of his mind. I need the boy’s name.”

Gus slipped away, and soon she heard him murmuring to the gathered campers.

Not knowing if she would ever get the boy’s name, she said quietly, “Wanna come outside? I’m sort of like police, you know. You probably saw me working when you were on your way up here.”

No response.

Then Gus’s voice in her ear. “Jimmy. He’s Jimmy.”

“Okay.” She lowered the zipper more. When Gus squatted, she let him continue pulling it down so she didn’t have to take eyes off the frightened and confused little boy. “Jimmy? Would you like to go home to Mommy? We can get Mommy to come for you.”

His eyes flickered a bit. He’d heard her.

“My friend Gus here has a horse, too. You want to ride a horse? His name is Scrappy and he’s neat. All different colors.”

She had his attention now and stepped carefully through the flap, totally avoiding the father. She wondered how much evidence she was destroying but didn’t much care. The priority was getting that child out of there.

The floor of the tent was small and not easy to cross. A small sleeping bag lay bunched up, a trap for the unwary foot. Toys were scattered about, too, plastic horses, some metal and plastic cars and a huge metal tractor. She bet Jimmy had had fun making roads in the pine needles and duff outside.

As soon as she got near, she squatted. His gaze was focusing on her more and more, coming out of the shock and into the moment. “I think we need to go find your mommy, don’t you?”

“Daddy?”

“We’ll take care of Daddy for you, okay? Mommy is going to need you, Jimmy. She probably misses you so bad right now. Let’s go and I’ll put you on my ATV. You like ATVs?”

“Zoom.” The smallest of smiles cracked his frozen face.

“Well, this is a big one, and it definitely zooms. It’s also a little like riding a roller coaster. Come on, let’s go check it out.”

At last Jimmy uncoiled and stood. But there was no way Blaire was going to let him see any more of his father. She scooped him up in her arms and turned so that he’d have to look through her.

“Gus?”

“Yo.”

“Could you hold the flap open, please?”

Who knew a skinny four-year-old could feel at once so heavy and light? The flashlight she carried wasn’t helping, either. She wished she had a third arm.

“Are you cold, Jimmy?” she asked as she moved toward the opening and bent a little to ease them through.

“A little bit,” he admitted.

“Well, I’ve got a nice warm blanket on my ATV. You can curl up with it while I call your mommy, okay?” Lying. How was she going to call this kid’s mother? Not immediately, for sure. She couldn’t touch the corpse or look for ID until after the crime techs were done.

“Gus? The sheriff?”

“I radioed. There’s a lot more than two cars on the way. Crime scene people, too.”

“We’ve got to get this cordoned off.”

“I’ll ask Mr. Curious to help me. He’ll love it. The kid?”

“Jimmy is going to get my favorite blanket and a place to curl up in the back of the ATV, right, Jimmy?”

Jimmy gave a small nod. His fingers dug into her, crumpling cloth and maybe even bruising a bit. She didn’t care.

Walking carefully and slowly with the boy, almost unconsciously she began to hum a tune from her early childhood, “All Through the Night.”

To her surprise, Jimmy knew the words and began to sing them with her. His voice was thin, frail from the shock, but he was clinging desperately to something familiar. After a moment, she began to sing softly with him. Before she reached the ATV, Jimmy’s head was resting against her shoulder.

When the song ended, he said, “Mommy sings that.” Then he started to sing it again.

And Blaire blinked hard, fighting back the first tears she’d felt in years.

* * *

GUS WATCHED BLAIRE carry the small child to the ATV. He’d already recovered the crime scene tape and there were plenty of trees to wind it around, but he hesitated for a moment, watching woman and child. He could imagine how hard this was for her, dealing with a freshly fatherless child. War did that too often. Now here, in a peaceful forest. Or one that should have been peaceful.

His radio crackled, and he answered it. “Maddox.”

“We’re about a mile out from the parking area,” came the familiar voice of the sheriff, Gage Dalton. “Anything else we need to know?”

“I’m about to rope the scene right now. The vic has a small child. We’re going to need some help with that and with finding a way to get in touch with family as soon as possible.”

“We’ll do what we can as fast as we can. The witnesses?”

“Some are trying to pack up. I’m going to stop that.”

He was as good as his word, too. When he clicked off the radio, he turned toward the people who had dispersed from the remaining knot and started to fold up tents.

“You all can stop right there. The sheriff will be here soon and you might be material witnesses. None of you can leave the scene until he tells you.”

Some grumbles answered him, but poles and other items clattered to the ground. One woman, with her arms wrapped around herself, said, “I feel like a sitting duck.”

“If you were,” Gus said, “you’d already know it.” That at least took some of the tension out of the small crowd. Then he signaled to the guy who’d tried to follow them to the tent and said, “You get to help me rope off the area.”

The guy nodded. “I can do that. Sorry I got too close. Instinct.”

“Instinct?”

“Yeah. Iraq. Know all the parameters of the situation.”

Gus was familiar with that. He decided the guy wasn’t a ghoul after all. He also proved to be very useful. In less than ten minutes, they had a large area around the victim’s tent cordoned off. Part of him was disturbed that a gunshot had been heard but no one had approached the tent of the one person who hadn’t joined them, not even the veteran. The tent in which a child had apparently been crying.

But it was the middle of the night, people had probably been wakened from a sound sleep and were experiencing some difficulty in putting the pieces together in any useful way. Camping was supposed to be a peaceful experience unless you ran into a bear. And, of course, the sound of the child crying might have persuaded them everything was okay in that tent. After all, it looked untouched from the outside.

Scared as some of these people were that there might be additional gunfire, they all might reasonably have assumed that Jasper and his son were staying cautiously out of sight.

Once he and Wes, the veteran, had roped off the area, there wasn’t another thing they could do before the cops arrived. Preserve the scene, then stand back. And keep witnesses from leaving before they were dismissed by proper authority. He could understand, though, why some of them just wanted to get the hell out of here.

The fact remained, any one of that group of twelve to fourteen people could be the shooter. He wondered if any one of them had even considered that possibility.

Blaire settled Jimmy in the back of the ATV after moving a few items to the side. She had a thick wool blanket she carried in case she got stranded outside overnight without warning, and she did her best to turn it into a nest.

Then she pulled out a shiny survival blanket and Jimmy’s world seemed to settle once again. “Space blanket!” The excitement was clear in his voice.

“You bet,” she said, summoning a smile. “Now just stay here while we try to get your mommy. If you do that for me, you can keep the space blanket.”

That seemed to make him utterly happy. He snuggled into the gray wool blanket and hugged the silvery Mylar to his chin. “I’ll sleep,” he announced.

“Great idea,” she said. She couldn’t resist brushing his hair gently back from his forehead. “Pleasant dreams, Jimmy.”

He was already falling asleep, though. Exhausted from his fear and his crying, the tyke was nodding off. “Mommy says that, too,” he murmured. And then his thumb found its way into his mouth and his eyes stayed closed.

Blaire waited for a minute, hoping the child could sleep for a while but imagining the sheriff’s arrival with all the people and the work they needed to do would probably wake him. She could hope not.

* * *

HE HADN’T KNOWN the kid was there. God in heaven, he hadn’t known. Jeff scrambled as quietly as he could over rough ground, putting as much distance between him and the vic as he could.

He’d been shocked by the sight of the kid. He almost couldn’t bring himself to do it. If he hadn’t, though, he’d be the next one The Hunt Club would take out. They’d warned him.

His damn fault for getting too curious. Now he was on the hook with them for a murder he didn’t want to commit, and he was never going to forget that little boy. Those eyes, those cries, would haunt him forever.

Cussing viciously under his breath, he grabbed rocks and slipped on scree. He couldn’t even turn on his flashlight yet, he was still too close. But the moon had nose-dived behind the mountain and he didn’t even have its thin, watery light to help him in his escape.

His heart was hammering and not just because of his efforts at climbing. He’d just killed a man and probably traumatized a kid for life. That kid wasn’t supposed to be there. He’d been watching the guy for the last two weeks and he’d been camping solo. What had he done? Brought his son up for the weekend? Must have.

Giving Jeff the shock of his life. He should have backed off, should have told the others he couldn’t do it because the target wasn’t alone. Off-season. No tag. Whatever. Surely he could have come up with an excuse so they’d have given him another chance.

Maybe. Now that he knew what the others had been up to, he couldn’t even rely on their friendship anymore. Look what they’d put him up to, even when he’d sworn he’d never rat them out.

And he wouldn’t have. Man alive, he was in it up to his neck even if he hadn’t known they were acting out some of the plans they’d made. An accomplice. He’d aided them. The noose would have tightened around his throat, too.

God, why hadn’t he been able to make them see that? He wasn’t an innocent who could just walk into a police station and say, “You know what my friends have been doing the last few years?”

Yeah. Right.

He swore again as a sharp rock bit right through his jeans and made him want to cry out from the unexpected pain. He shouldn’t be struggling up the side of a mountain in the dark. He shouldn’t be doing this at all.

He had believed it was all a game. A fun thing to talk about when they gathered at the lodge in the fall for their usual hunting trip. Planning early summer get-togethers to eyeball various campgrounds, looking for the places a shooter could escape without being seen.

The victim didn’t much matter. Whoever was convenient and easy. The important thing was not to leave anything behind. To know the habits of the prey the same way they would know the habits of a deer.

Did the vic go hiking? If so, along what trails and how often and for how long? Was he or she alone very often or at all? Then Will had gotten the idea that they should get them in their tents. When there were other people in the campground, making it so much more challenging. Yeah.

He had believed it was just talk. He’d accompanied the others on the scouting expeditions, enjoying being in the woods while there were still patches of snow under the trees. He liked scoping out the campgrounds as the first hardy outdoorsy types began to arrive. And that, he had believed, was where it ended.

Planning. Scouting. A game.

But he’d been so wrong he could hardly believe his own delusion. He’d known these guys all his life. How was it possible he’d never noticed the psychopathy in either of them? Because that’s what he now believed it was. They didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything except their own pleasure.

He paused to catch his breath and looked back over his shoulder. Far away, glimpsed through the thick forest, he caught sight of flashing red, blue and white lights. The police were there.

He’d known it wouldn’t be long. That was part of the plan. Once he fired his gun, he had to clear out before the other campers emerged, and not long after them the cops.

Well, he’d accomplished that part of his task. He was well away by the time the campers dared to start coming out. But the little kid’s wails had followed him into the night.

Damn it!

So he’d managed to back out of the place without scuffing up the ground in a way that would mark his trail. No one would be able to follow him. But now he was mostly on rocky terrain and that gave him added invisibility.

The damn duff down there had been hard to clear without leaving a visible trail. It had helped that so many campers had been messing it around this summer, but still, if he’d dragged his foot or... Well, it didn’t matter. He hadn’t.

But then there had been the farther distances. Like where he had kept watch. His movements. Too far out for anyone to notice, of course. He’d made sure of that.

So he’d done everything right. They’d never catch him and the guys would leave him alone. That’s all he wanted.

But he hated himself, too, and wished he’d been made of sterner stuff, the kind that would have gone to the cops rather than knuckle under to threats and the fear that he would be counted an accomplice to acts he hadn’t committed.

Now there was no hope of escape for him or his soul. He’d done it. He’d killed a man. He was one of them, owned by them completely. Sold to the devil because of a threat to his life.

He feared, too, that if they were identified they would succeed in convincing the police that he was the killer in the other cases, that they were just his friends and he was pointing the finger at them to save his own hide.

Yeah, he had no trouble imagining them doing that, and doing it successfully. They’d plotted and planned so well that there was nothing to link them to the murders except him.

At last he made it over the ridge that would hide him from anyone below, not that the campground wasn’t now concealed from view by thick woods.

But even if they decided to look around, they’d never find him now. All he had to do was crawl into the small cave below and await daylight. Then he would have a clear run to his car to get out of the forest.

All carefully planned. He’d be gone before any searcher could get up here.

Damn, he wanted a cigarette. But that had been part of their planning, too. No smoking. The tobacco smell would be distinctive, so they avoided it unless campfires were burning.

Who had come up with that idea?

He couldn’t remember. He was past caring. He slid into the dark embrace of the cave at last, with only a short time before dawn.

Past caring. That was a good place to be. He envied the others. Instead he kept company with the remembered cries of a young boy.

* * *

BLAIRE WISHED SHE could do more. She was the kind of person who always wanted to take action, to be useful, but right now the police were in charge, using skills she didn’t have to look for evidence, so she kept an eye on the little boy in the bed of her ATV and on the scene where some officers were busy questioning other campers and the rest were busy photographing the scene and hunting for evidence. Pacing back and forth between the two locations, she imagined she was creating a rut.

At least Jimmy slept. She hoped he slept right through when they removed his father in a body bag. She hated the thought that such a scene might be stamped in his mind forever.

She knew all about indelible images. She wished sometimes for a version of brain bleach. Just rinse your head in it and the dark, ugly stuff would be washed away.

Nice wish. She was old enough, however, to realize how unrealistic such a wish was. Life was the accumulation of experiences, and you could only hope that you’d learn from all of them, good or bad.

Gus stayed close to the line, attentive as the officers questioned the witnesses. Dropping by from time to time, she heard the same story repeated by everyone. They’d been asleep. Awakened suddenly by the loud, sharp clap. At first they hadn’t even been sure they’d heard it.

Some had sat up, waiting to see if it came again. Others considered rolling over and going back to sleep.

Then came the sound of Jimmy’s crying. Yes, he sounded scared but that might be a reaction to the sudden, loud noise. He was with his father, so he’d be okay.

Only slowly had some come to the realization that perhaps they’d better look outside to see what had happened. By then there was nothing to see, and the night had been silent except for the little boy’s sobbing.

Which again they ignored because he was with his father. Except for Wes.

“I was in Iraq. I’ll never mistake a gunshot for anything else. When the boy kept crying, I knew. I just knew someone had been shot. Maybe suicide, I thought. I was the first one out of my tent. The others took another couple of minutes. Regardless, I’m the one who ran to the emergency phone and called the ranger. No, I didn’t touch a thing.”

Wes paused, looking down, saying quietly, “It was hell listening to that kid and not acting. But his dad might have been okay. My appearance might have just scared the boy more.” His mouth twisted. “They don’t make rules of engagement for this.”

“I hear you,” Gus said. Several deputies who were also vets murmured agreement.

The sheriff spoke. “You did the best thing.”

Except, thought Blaire, she’d moved in, opened the tent, stepped inside and took the boy out. She’d interfered with the scene. Next would be her turn to be grilled.

By the time they came to her, however, they were allowing the others to pack up as long as they were willing to leave contact information with the deputies. The early morning sun cast enough light on the world that details had emerged from the night, giving everything more depth. Making the trees look aged and old and maybe even weary. But that might be her own state of mind. Usually the forest gave her a sense of peace, and the trees offered her a stately temple.

The sheriff, Gage Dalton, and one of his deputies, Cadell Marcus, she thought, joined her just outside the roped area.

“Yes,” she said before they even asked, “I touched the front of the tent. I was wearing gloves. I pulled the zipper down partway, poked my flashlight in and saw the scene. I had to get the little boy out of there.”

Dalton nodded. “Of course you did. So what did you first see as you approached?”

“The zipper was pulled down from the top. I don’t know how familiar you are with camping gear, but these days you can get tents with zippers that open both ways. A top opening allows in air while keeping protection down low from small critters. Anyway, it was open six or seven inches. Then I opened it more.”

She paused, closing her eyes, remembering. “I didn’t think about it at the time, but the inner screen wasn’t closed. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything because we don’t have much of a flying insect problem up here.”

Gage nodded. “Okay.”

Cadell was making notes.

“Anyway, almost as soon as I poked the flashlight in, I saw the victim and I saw his son clinging to him. My only thought at that point was to get the child out of there as fast as I could. I asked Gus to pull the zipper down the rest of the way. I entered, trying not to disturb anything, and picked the boy up. I carried him to my ATV, where he’s sleeping now.”

“Did you notice anything else?”

She shook her head and opened her eyes. “Frankly, once I saw that man’s head, I was aware of nothing else but the little boy. I seem to recall some toys being scattered around, the boy was out of his sleeping bag which, if I remember correctly, was pretty balled up, and that’s it. I was completely focused on removing the child while trying not to step on anything.” She paused. “Oh. I turned so Jimmy wouldn’t be able to see his father.”

Gage surprised her by reaching out to pat her upper arm. “You did the right things. We just needed to know where any contamination might have come from.”

“What about Jimmy?” she asked. Concern for the child, kept on simmer for the last couple of hours, now bubbled up like a pot boiling over.

“Sarah Ironheart has called child services. They’re contacting the mother.” He paused. “Do you think Jimmy trusts you?”

“Insofar as he can. He let me put him in my ATV to sleep.” She smiled without humor. “I think the space blanket did it.”

“Probably. I’m wondering, if I put you and him in the back of my car, we can take him to town to the social worker. His mom should be on the way.”

She hesitated, hating to walk away from what was clearly her job. This campground was her responsibility, and once the cops left...

“Go ahead,” said Gus. “I’ll meet your staff when they arrive in the next hour and explain. I’m sure they can fill in for you.”

The sheriff spoke. “And after the techs are done I’m leaving a couple of deputies up here so the scene won’t be disturbed. You’re covered.”

He gave her a half smile as he said it.

“Yeah, CYA,” she responded. “Okay.” She couldn’t bear the thought of waking Jimmy only to turn him over to a stranger without explanation. The car ride to town would give her plenty of opportunity to reassure him, and maybe by the time they reached Conard City his mom will have arrived.

She looked at Gus. “I promised him a horse ride.”

“We might be able to work in a couple of minutes when we get to your HQ. If that’s okay with Gage.”

“Fine by me. That little boy needs everything good he can get right now.”

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