Witness In The Woods

Chapter Four

The drive around the lake did not bring Joe to the spot where he’d determined the shooter might have been standing. Calling for backup, he got an answer from a state patrol. An officer could be around in twenty minutes. Joe predicted a hike through the woods to get to the position across from the lake to the Davis home, so he waited for the patrol officer to arrive. Otherwise, they’d never find each other in the thick pine and birch forest that offered only narrow trails here and there.

As a conservation officer, he spent 90 percent of his time roaming the woods and lakes in his territory. He knew this area. But he hadn’t spent much time on this lake. It was small and usually only boated by the residents living around it.

Antsy, and wishing he’d taken an hour in the gym this morning to work out, he bounced on his feet. His hiking boots were not the most comfortable for such movement, but he liked to stay limber. He snapped up his knee and kicked out in a Muay Thai move that could knock an opponent flat.

He’d developed an interest in martial arts from watching his mother practice her moves from the karate class she’d taken when her boys were younger. He’d started with karate, but after watching a few National Geographic specials and sports TV, he’d fallen in love with the ultrahigh kicks and swift elbow strikes Muay Thai offered. It was all about brute power. It worked his body in every way possible, and kept him limber and sharp. And a well-honed body only enhanced an ever-growing soul. He was constantly learning. His greatest teachers? Nature and the wildlife he had taken an oath to protect.

But honestly? It was a good means to get out his anger by kicking the sandbag now and then.

Pausing at the harsh, croaking call of a blue heron, Joe lifted his head and closed his eyes. He had to smile at that sound. Such utter peace here, away from the city and major highways. He opened his eyes, scanning the treetops in hopes of seeing the heron nest, but the canopy was thick. The last slivers of sunlight glinted like stars.

A car honked and Joe waved to the approaching patrol car. Brent Kofax was with the sheriff’s department. In cases where someone had been shot, or threatened, they usually joined the investigation. He stepped out of the car and gave Joe a thumbs-up. Joe had worked with Brent on a few occasions when backup was necessary. Usually when he knew he’d be approaching a boat full of drunk fishermen, or that one time Joe had needed someone to help him sort out steel traps from a burned-out Quonset building.

“What do you have tonight, Cash?”

Joe shook Brent’s hand and pointed over his shoulder toward the lake. “The Davis woman who lives across the lake was shot at earlier this evening. Judging by the trajectory of the hit, I’m guessing the shooter might have been in the woods about a quarter mile up. I need another set of eyes. You ready to do some hiking?”

“I always know you’ll give me a workout when I answer your calls. Already changed into hiking boots. Let’s do this!”

From his car Joe grabbed a backpack that contained evidence-collection supplies, water and snacks, as well as a compass and other survival equipment. He never ventured into the woods without it. At his hip, he wore his pistol, a Glock .40 caliber. Brent carried a 12-gauge pump shotgun, standard issue nowadays.

The two men picked carefully through the brush and grasses, dodging roots and ducking low-hanging pine tree branches. Brent was an avid hunter, unlike Joe, but he wouldn’t criticize the man’s need to kill innocent animals for food. The day he started doing that was the day he volunteered to have his life held under a microscope and examined for faults. He had many, but cruelty to animals was not one of them. His anti-hunting stance got him some razzing from his fellow conservation officers. They tended to think that COs with wildlife management training let their love for nature get in the way of their police work. The opposite was true. Joe protected the citizens as well as the animals.

They hiked half a mile through thick pine and aspen. The sun had set, and he and Brent were now using flashlights, but the moon was three-quarters full and there was still some ambient light glimmering off the calm lake water. Thanks to Joe’s sharp eye, they found a deer trail, as well as scat droppings under some fallen maple leaves. Their path kept them within a thirty-foot distance from the lake shore. The shooter would have gotten close enough to the edge of the forest for a good, clear shot, Joe decided. Thankful for the beaten-down brush, he tracked until he spotted shell casings. Ballistic evidence. Excellent.

They stood twenty feet in from the lakeshore, well camouflaged by tall brush and a frond of wild fern. With shell casings just behind him, and the grass trampled down around them, Joe figured this was where the shooter had been positioned. He studied the ground, which was folded-down marsh grass and moss. If it had been dirt, he might have found impressions from a tripod the shooter would have surely utilized to hold steady aim and sight in the Davis property nearly a mile across the lake, as well as shoe tracks.

“You never cease to amaze me,” Brent commented as he bent to shine his flashlight on the shell casings. “What? Did you grow up in the woods like Mowgli, or something?”

“I think Mowgli lived in the jungle,” Joe commented. But there had been a time, in his family, when his brothers had referred to him as Mowgli, until they’d decided on the more annoying Nature Boy.

It wasn’t often a boy found himself lost in the woods for three days, and was finally led out and home by a pack of wolves. That experience had changed Joe’s life. First, his parents had hugged him and showered him with kisses. Then, they’d grounded him for wandering off by himself without taking a cell phone along, despite the fact that it wasn’t easy to call home in the middle of the Boundary Waters where cell towers were few and far between. But Joe had taken the punishment and had used it to study up on wolves, and from that day forward his direction had been clear. He wanted to work with wildlife and protect them from the hazards of living so close to humans.

“You got an evidence kit in that backpack?” Brent asked. “I left mine in the car.” He stood and flashed his beam around where they stood, hooking his rifle up on a shoulder.

“Always.” Taking a pair of black latex gloves out of the backpack, Joe collected the two metal shell casings and put them in a plastic bag he usually used for collecting marine specimens from boats docked on lake shores. He’d seen the two bullet holes in the hitching post by the fire pit.

That the first bullet had nicked Skylar’s ear told him someone did not want her dead. Whoever had pulled the trigger had skills similar to his brother Jason. To come so close without harming her? Such a shot required nerves of steel and perfect timing.

The second shot must have zinged within a foot of her body. Enough to scare the hell out of anyone. Any woman—or man—would have fainted or run screaming. He’d figured Skylar had taken it calmly, until he’d seen her falter beside the fire pit. He’d left her sipping brandy with Stella curled at her feet. She’d insisted she didn’t want protection overnight, but Joe considered sending out a patrol officer to park down the long drive that led to her property.

Or he might do that himself. He’d been up since five, had hit the lake at six and had spent a hot day out on the water. It was late now, and he was exhausted, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep if he left Skylar alone. He’d park at the end of the drive, and she’d never be the wiser. There were worse ways to spend a summer evening.

As he stood up from collecting the casings, his gaze caught something that was neither flora nor fauna. Brent took a step forward, his attention focused across the lake, and—

Joe swore and lunged into a kick that caught the officer on his hip, hitting none too gently and throwing him off course.

“What the hell, man?” Brent had dropped his flashlight and rifle, and splayed his hands in question before him.

The flashlight rolled and stopped with a clink. Both men looked to the spot where Brent had almost stepped. Joe cautiously approached the oak tree. His flashlight swept the ground, taking it all in, watching for a steel trap. But he knew he wouldn’t find it, because the set snare wasn’t usually used in tandem with such a trap.

The flashlight beam fell over the snare trap—a light wire cable anchored to the base of the oak. If any animal stepped on that, the loop would tighten about their leg. Or worse—if they sniffed the bait peeking out from under some wet aspen leaves, it would become a noose and string them up, likely breaking their neck. In a worst-case scenario, the noose would not snap and the animal would be suspended, alive, left to slowly suffocate until the poacher returned.

“Bastards,” Joe muttered.

“I almost stepped on that.” Brent eased a hand down his hip where Joe had kicked him. “You could have just called ‘stop.’”

“I owed you one for that upper cut in the gym a few weeks ago.”

Brent chuckled. “Yeah, that was a good one. Pretty rare I get the upper hand with you.”

Joe picked up a branch and used it to nudge the snare. The trap sprang and released the snare in a flutter of leaves. Joe would disassemble the entire thing and take it in to the county forensics lab for a thorough study. With any luck, they’d find fingerprints.

“You got wire snips in that backpack?” Brent asked as Joe sorted through his pack. When he proudly displayed just that, Brent shook his head. “Never mind. Mowgli knows what he’s doing.”

Yeah, he didn’t care for the moniker so much from people who weren’t family. Joe snipped the cable and, latex gloves still on, untangled it from around the tree trunk. Brent gathered it into a loop.

The disturbance uncovered a few bits of bait meat. The smell was rancid, but Joe bagged it as well. The forensic lab could determine a lot from testing bait meat, such as the animal it had come from, and possibly even pick up some fingerprints. Briefly, he wondered if the meat was poisoned. It was an important detail that he wouldn’t have proof of until tests had been run.

Stuffing the evidence bags into his backpack, Joe stood and looked out over the chrome-and-hematite-sheened lake. His investigation into the poaching hadn’t taken him quite this far south. Now he’d expand that range. First, he needed to check whose land this was. He’d thought it was state owned, but he couldn’t be sure until he checked a map.

The poachers weren’t even sneaky; they seemed to be growing bolder every month, leaving traps everywhere. And the thing that had tipped Joe off initially had been an ad on Craigslist. Selling deer antlers and bear claws online? Blatant.

Yet he hadn’t run into the poison that had been found in Max’s system, even with the samples he’d sent in to the lab. He could be way off course in trying to connect the man’s death with the local poachers, but Joe sensed he was on the right track. Every bone in his body pushed him to continue with the search for Max’s killer. The man had not been accidentally poisoned. No one handled strychnine without taking precautions.

And now there was a new twist to the investigation. Could the one who had set this snare have been the one who’d shot at Skylar? It couldn’t be coincidence that the shooting site was so close to a trap.

Joe narrowed his gaze across the calm dark waters. A small light showed from what was probably Skylar’s living room. He hoped she would sleep well, with the wolf keeping guard outside. But he didn’t guess Stella would provide protection, and he wouldn’t expect it. The animal seemed skittish and hesitant to approach strangers, and that wasn’t a bad thing. But that meant Skylar was not safe.

And yet, why would a poacher shoot at her? It had to have been some kind of warning. Did she know something that someone wanted her to keep silent about? And if it had been a warning, whoever had fired would have known his target would take it as a warning.

Which meant Skylar might know more than she was letting on.

“Lieutenant Brock said something about finding illegal guns in an Ely residence.” Brent looped the coiled cable over his forearm.

“I found a cache of guns with the serial numbers filed off last week,” Joe offered. “They were in a shed with a dozen illegal deer racks.”

Brent shook his head. “You need help with any of it?”

Joe nodded. “Always. You can take this in to the county forensics van, for a start.”

“I’m heading toward Ely. I think Elaine Hester is on shift tonight. Smart chick. What are you up to now?”

“Headed back across the lake.”

He needn’t tell Brent he had decided to stand vigil outside the target’s home because he feared losing her more than his heart could stand.

STEPPING OUT OF the shower, Skylar dried off, then reached for the brandy goblet on the vanity. She downed the last two swallows. Whew! That burned. But she instantly felt the calming effects ease through her muscles, and the need to close her eyes and drop into a heavy sleep.

“Come on, Stella.”

She padded naked down the hallway to her bedroom, followed by the three-legged wolf. Stella generally slept outside, but she would never ignore an invite to stay indoors. The security panel for the entire house was positioned at eye level in the bedroom, by the door. She turned on all the door locks and the perimeter alarm, which was set only for the weight of a vehicle since she had so many animals wandering around at any given time.

Stella jumped onto the end of her bed. Her spot. And let no man try to prove otherwise.

Pulling on a long T-shirt that hung past her thighs, Skylar crawled onto the bed and lay on top of the sheets across the middle of the mattress, so she could smooth her palm over Stella’s fur.

She hadn’t seen Joseph Cash in…must be a year. He got more handsome every time she saw him. He had the “tall, dark stranger” thing going on full force. Except he wasn’t a stranger, and…she wanted to see him again.

Under better circumstances than getting shot at.

“It was a warning,” she whispered, tracing the top of her ear, which felt tender from the bruise. She caught a swallow at the back of her throat, followed by a single teardrop slipping down the side of her face.

She’d walked into a warehouse on Davis Trucking land, and before calling out for her uncle, she’d glanced around. There were crates everywhere, marked with company names. Standard inventory for a trucking outfit, she figured. But the freezers, six of them, had stood out. They were the large white chest kind, probably close to twenty cubic feet in volume.

What had been in them? With a trucking business, it could be anything. And while she’d always assumed they didn’t store goods on-site, she didn’t know enough about the operation.

A man standing over one of the opened freezers hadn’t noticed her, so she’d cleared her throat. He’d lifted his head and swung a look over his shoulder, focusing his gaze on her. She hadn’t recognized him, and he’d immediately slammed down the freezer cover and grabbed a rifle. The feeling of utter dread had overcome her. Skylar had turned and run. As she had, he’d called after her, “Don’t tell, bitch! This is none of your concern.”

She’d run straight to her truck, past a few truckers who had called out to her and whistled. The stranger hadn’t followed her. Forget talking to her uncle. She’d been creeped out, and had put her truck in gear and gotten the hell out of there.

She hadn’t told anyone. Because she wasn’t sure what she had seen. But it had been something. Because tonight they had warned her.

And yet, she’d dared to call the police. Because she would not be scared off by some idiot assholes who thought they had a right to threaten a woman. Hell, the shooter could have killed her.

Now, dare she ask Joseph Cash to protect her?

Chapter Five

Joe woke and winced. He was sitting at an angle—ah, hell. He’d fallen asleep in the truck parked at the end of Skylar’s driveway.

The rapping noise that had woken him thumped again on his window. Sliding upright in the driver’s seat, he moaned at the tug to his aching back muscles, then managed a blinking glance to his left. And then he opened his eyes wide and took in the view.

Could a woman look more beautiful in a cowboy hat, no makeup and plain denim shirt unbuttoned to just there? He voted no. She was like sunshine and all those pretty things guys liked to look at but were always afraid to touch for fear of smearing them with dirt or breaking something delicate.

Skylar Davis was not a delicate woman. She’d made that clear to him over the years he’d known her. And he expected some stern words to follow the admonishing look she was giving him now.

Turning the keys in the ignition, Joe pushed the window button, which slid down slowly. “Mornin’, Skylar.”

“Really, Joe? Did you sleep out here all night?”

“Most of the time? Nope. Wasn’t sleeping. I was on watch. Must have fallen asleep a few hours ago.” He wasn’t sure what time it was and glanced at the dashboard. Seven o’clock. He may have gotten two hours’ sleep at most. The night had been spent with the radio turned low to the ’90s top hits, his eyes half-closed, as he’d kept an eye toward the Davis house.

“I told you I didn’t need looking after.”

“Just doing my job, Skylar. You were in danger last night. It’s not clear that danger has passed. I wouldn’t be a very good law enforcement officer if I’d walked away and left you vulnerable. How’d you sleep? Where’s Stella?”

“She’s playing with Becky. And I’m headed into town on errands.”

“Right. Pink yarn, wasn’t it?”

“Red. That, and groceries. Will you move your truck so I can drive through? Or are you now a permanent fixture that I have to learn to live with like some kind of skin growth?”

Someone was not a morning person. Still, her pretty eyes made up for that touch of rancor. “Listen, Skylar, I know you don’t care for me—”

“My feelings for you have nothing to do with what’s going on right now, so don’t bring that into the situation.”

She had feelings for him? Joe raked his fingers through his hair and sat up a little straighter.

“I appreciate you investigating the shooting,” she said. “And I understand you’ll have further questions for me. I’ll cooperate as much as I can. But I already gave you my statement.”

“As much as you can?” Joe opened the car door and stepped out. Another tug at his back muscles reminded him how little time he spent sitting all night in a car keeping a vigilant watch for intruders. “What’s going on, Skylar? I feel like you know something you’re not willing to tell me. Or are you afraid? Is that it? Is someone threatening you?”

“Of course I was threatened!”

“Yes, but why? If it was a threat, then generally the person being threatened has an idea about why.”

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, paced to the front of his truck and then swung out her arms in surrender. “It’s not what you think, Joe. I just… Did you find the place where the shooter may have been positioned?”

“I did. As predicted, I found a couple shell casings. Sent them in to forensics for analysis.”

Now she gave him her full attention. Sunlight flashed through the tree canopy, gleaming on her smooth skin. That someone had wanted to hurt her, or at the very least threaten her, tightened Joe’s resolve to find the culprit. No woman, especially Skylar, should ever be put in such a position of fear.

“I found a snare, set and waiting to spring.”

Skylar nodded subtly, taking it in. She didn’t seem surprised. And for as rampant as poaching was in the Superior Forest, it wasn’t as if most people ever encountered such a situation unless they went looking for it, as a conservation officer would.

“You ever catch poachers on your land, Skylar?”

“Catch them? No. I’d be a fool to go after an idiot with a gun and the mentality that animals are there for the taking, no matter the pain they cause the poor creatures.”

Joe nodded. They were of the same mind regarding treatment of animals. All animals. Not just the ones society had designated as pets.

“Most of the land owners around here carry a gun,” he said. “And while the majority are law-abiding and only hunt with a license, there are those idiots, as you call them, who think they can do as they please. I’ve been investigating a poaching ring close to this area for months.”

“Is that so?”

He nodded. She was interested, but she was also holding back on the conversation. She knew something. He sensed it. Could she have information that might lead him to whoever had poisoned Max?

“You know it’s your duty to report poaching activity, Skylar.”

“I know that.”

“Don’t approach the culprit, just get a name or description, location of the trap or snare, and call it in.”

“I can do that. And I will. If I ever happen upon something like that.”

“You gotta be careful trekking through these woods.”

“This is my property.”

“Is it clearly marked? Fenced?”

“No.” She hooked a hand at her hip and lifted her chin. “My father had a good relationship with all the area families. We all respect boundaries and will often allow one another to hunt on our land, with permission. I’ve never had a problem…”

Joe waited as her words seemed to hang. She wasn’t saying something, and he really wanted to wrench it out of her, but he didn’t want to play hardball and force their relationship into something uncomfortable for her.

Not that they had a relationship. Well, beyond that he’d considered her a friend up until a year ago.

“What about your uncle?” he prompted. He knew Malcolm Davis’s land hugged Merlin Davis’s—now Skylar’s—land in some manner. It had all originally been owned by their father, Skylar’s grandfather.

“What about him?” Skylar now studied the ground intently.

Joe shrugged. “I see Davis Trucking driving the highways all the time. In Duluth, too.”

“They are the third biggest trucking company in northern Minnesota. I’m sure they have a loading dock on Superior.”

“Been around forever, too. You have a good relationship with them?”

“Davis Trucking? I can’t say it’s good, bad or ugly.”

“I mean your uncle Malcolm. Didn’t I hear something about him and your dad having a feud of some sort? I think you mentioned that to me once.”

“My dad has been gone for two years, Joe. Leave the past in the past.”

“Sorry.” He shoved his hands into his back pockets.

That had been a cruel means to try to get more about Malcolm Davis out of her. The patriarch of Davis Trucking was on Joe’s suspect list. But he’d yet to get hard evidence on him, save a few random deer pelts and a couple bald eagle talons found in one of his truckers’ glove compartments.

“I have to get to the store,” Skylar said, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s still early, and I have some mowing to do, plus I need to move the chicken house. I like to do that before the hot afternoon sun beats down. You going to move your truck?”

“I will. But I do have more questions. They can wait until after I’ve had a better look at the evidence. I’m not going to stand back and let you face alone whatever the hell is going on, Skylar. Just a warning. I’m here for you. Like it or not.”

She nodded and looked aside. “Sure thing, Joe. Thanks,” she said on a tight whisper. “Talk to you soon.”

She turned and strode off toward the cabin. Her long legs moved her swiftly, as did her swinging arms. No-nonsense wrapped in a tease of femininity. Had Cole Pruitt really married her? Last Joe had heard, the date had been set. And that wedding dress. So many questions he’d like to have answered.

“She’s hiding something,” Joe muttered.

And that hurt him almost as much as losing his chance at dating her had. Was she involved with the poachers his investigations were centered around? It was a quick and harsh judgment, but it was something he’d have to consider. She was a member of the Davis family, after all.

“Don’t do this to me, Skylar,” he said as he slid back behind the wheel of his truck. “I have too much respect for you.”

SKYLAR PAID FOR the two bags of groceries—pleased the small market offered sundries such as the red yarn—then grabbed the bags and headed out to her truck parked in the grassy lot in front of the store. The old Ford she drove had once been red, but the paint job had faded over the years to a rust-mottled pink. Cole had been good with the small fixes it had needed. That was about the only thing she missed about not having him around.

She set the paper bags on the passenger seat and closed the door to walk around to the back, where she paused and leaned against the tailgate to watch passing cars. She was no longer in an irritated mood caused by thoughts of Joseph Cash and his soulful green eyes. Because, mercy, that man had cornered the market on sexy.

Why had she never hooked up with him?

They almost had that one night. And then…

And then. The big rejection from him. That still hurt a little. Even though she could understand where he’d been coming from—she being drunker than a skunk. And he had been toasted, as well. That he’d had the mental fortitude to refuse her suggestion of sex was either because he was a strange beast or because he hadn’t been as interested in her as she’d thought.

Either way, at the time, his refusal had humiliated her. After that, she’d thought pushing him away was the smart thing to do. Really, the idea of being happy and in love with any man had only driven her mad after losing her father. He’d been torn apart when her mom had left. Skylar had been twelve that morning she’d found a note from her mother placed directly on top of her bowl of shredded wheat. She’d missed the school bus after reading the two sentences: I can’t do this anymore. I love you, Skylar. Mom.

And she hadn’t seen or heard from her since. No check-in calls. No Christmas cards. Not even a “hey, I’m still alive, don’t worry about me” message on the phone. Her teenage years had been depressing. Skylar had once been confident and self-assured in her schoolwork, but middle school had been merely going through the motions. By her sophomore year, Skylar had decided to put her anger into her schoolwork and had graduated a year early. As if that would show her mom.

It hadn’t, but it was how she’d coped with the situation. If her mom didn’t need her, then she certainly didn’t need her, either.

But her father had not been the same after his wife left. He’d refused to even date after that, telling Skylar Dorothy had been his soul mate. On his deathbed he had smiled and whispered Dorothy’s name before drifting away.

The woman had not deserved such reverence. Had she ever appreciated her husband’s love for her? That was a question Skylar wanted an answer to, but she knew it would never come. So she’d moved forward, and was doing as well as she could now that her dad was gone. Life had felt empty for a while after his death, but her focus on the animals she rehabilitated had worked like a jolt of life infused into her system. She didn’t need anyone to make her happy. Nor did she want to risk falling for someone and having them walk out of her life.

Yet now Joe was back in her life, bedroom eyes peering at her suspiciously. The man was investigating a poaching ring? Skylar had to think only one second to guess who might be on his suspect list.

“Damn it.” She closed her eyes. “With Joe involved, this is not going to be easy.”

She hadn’t been surprised to learn Joe had found a live snare close to the shooter’s position. She’d seen snares and traps while walking her property. If she’d confessed that to Joe, he would have battered her with questions, all of which would lead to her uncle.

“I don’t need this craziness,” she said. “I just want a peaceful, simple life. Is that too much to ask?”

Just her and her animals. The three-legged wolf and the naked chicken whose saving grace was a single white tail feather she preened scrupulously. The trio of piglets who had been born underweight were currently thriving. Add to that the occasional dancing goat or family of orphaned baby opossums, and her life had been going smoothly. All she wanted was to build the shelter barn for her menagerie and set up an office for her veterinary supplies, plus a small operating room, and help those animals that she could.

Her cell phone rang, and Skylar answered.

“Miss Davis? I was given your name as someone who might be able to help.”

She got calls that began like this often. With no vet in Checker Hills proper, the DNR knew she was the one who took in animals in need of rehabilitation. The alternative was to transport the animal to Duluth, more than an hour away.

“What’s up?”

“I’ve got a baby boa constrictor on my front stoop.”

That wasn’t exactly her area of expertise. And it wasn’t a reptile native to Minnesota. Which meant it had to be some pet that had gotten loose or been abandoned after the owner realized how difficult it was to care for an exotic animal.

“Did you call Animal Control? They’re the ones who can wrangle it and remove it from your property.”

“Yes, and they’re on their way. It’s something else I thought you could help me with.”

“And what is that?”

“The snake gave one of my old farm cats a good squeeze, and she’s in a bad way. Broken ribs for sure. I’m not sentimental about animals. Generally might be inclined to put the poor thing out of her misery. But this one, well, she was my beloved wife’s favorite. Olivia died two months ago, bless her heart. And I can’t bear to see the cat go now.”