Dane stopped the truck about sixty yards from the old cabin. The place belonged to a recluse named Tom Clifford, who had been living there since before there were roads or trails to get to it. Tom had become a fixture in the Blue Ridge foothills, and his home, a town landmark. Dane hadn’t run into him much during his time with the county. In fact, he only vaguely remembered meeting the old man once or twice as an up-and-comer. Clifford had been a friend of his father’s and Dane remembered his being old as dirt even back then. Dane imagined the geezer had been born old. Clifford was also one of the last of the old guard living up here, and like most of the old-timers, he didn’t care much for the company of other people. Dane couldn’t much blame him for it, either. He wasn’t a big fan of people himself, and from what Ellis had said when he called, the old man had been right to keep to himself. Because by the looks of things, one of those people Tom had gone out of his way to avoid had shot and killed him dead.
* * *
Sheriff Ellis was standing by the front porch of the solid cedar-framed cottage in a nicely pressed tan uniform. A second man wearing a matching outfit was hovering by the front door inspecting the doorjamb. Dane never remembered the former sheriff, Burroughs, wearing anything but a loose-fitting county-issued shirt with his silver star pinned to it, tucked into a pair of blue jeans, but this Ellis fella was all-in—pressed and starched from head to toe. Dane liked that. This mountain could use a few more just like him.
Four other men in Realtree camouflage jumpers and blaze-orange vests stood huddled by the left corner of the house spitting tobacco into Styrofoam cups. They were hunters—locals, Dane thought—and unfamiliar. All four of the men held rifles of different calibers. Dane chuckled as he held his balance on a sturdy yellow pine. Only in small counties like McFalls were civilian participants of an active crime scene allowed to keep their firearms on them. Dane had debated grabbing his Redhawk from the glove box in the truck, so he wouldn’t feel so naked in present company, but had decided against it. This weekend had been his first real stretch of time off since he took the job at the Bureau and he was supposed to be fishing. Fishing didn’t require a firearm and he had no intention of taking part in anything that did. This was Ellis’s show. Dane was simply an invited spectator.
The sheriff waved Dane over and whistled at him as if Dane hadn’t already seen him or wasn’t already on his way. Dane smirked and held a hand up in response. He knew he was a little slower these days, but it was teaching him patience, something the rest of the world didn’t seem to want to learn with him. He cleared away a clump of thorny brush and low-hanging birch branches as he carefully crept his way down through the woods. He stopped only once on his way down to the house to examine some ATV tracks that crisscrossed over the path. Some of the tracks were fresh, but most of them were old and crusted over in the clay. He wasn’t surprised to see them. Four-wheelers were the best and most common method of transportation this deep in the woods. The fire department even used them sometimes to rescue hikers who wandered a little too far out of their depth. The diamond pattern of off-road tread indentations most likely meant nothing in this case, but the investigator instinct in Dane made him take notice regardless. Old habits die hard. He took wide steps, careful not to disturb the rest of the tracks. This was, after all, a crime scene.
But it’s Ellis’s crime scene, Dane. You need to remember that. There’s no fire, and even if there was, you’re retired. You’re a desk jockey now, enjoying the weekend. You’re just looking to catch a few fat brookies in Bear Creek. That’s it. Now get over there and say hello.
“Down here,” Ellis shouted.
“I’m coming. Just hold up a minute.” As Dane got closer he could see a sheet draped over the front steps, and the closer he got to the sheet, the more the shape underneath it began to take the form of a body—old man Clifford’s body.
“Thanks for coming, sir.” Ellis held out a firm hand and Dane shook it. “I didn’t know if you could hear my message when I called or not. Reception is for shit out here.”
Dane knew that. He grew up here, too. He’d never heard a county sheriff call him sir before, either, but he figured Ellis was just playing up to his new role. Ellis seemed like a good fit for the sheriff’s seat in McFalls County. Dane could read people pretty well, and he could also see Ellis’s genuine love for the job. His neatly pressed uniform and regulation haircut were evidence of that. He was going to make a good sheriff—a great one, even, Dane thought as he turned and looked up the ravine at the main road—as soon as he learned what to drive, anyway.
Dane pushed his ball cap up on his forehead and leaned against the porch railing.
“Yeah, I got your message, Sheriff, but you don’t need to call me sir. You’re the one calling the shots out here. I didn’t even have jurisdiction over this area when I was sheriff in Fannin. This section of the mountain falls square in McFalls. That’s you, my friend.” Dane didn’t envy Darby’s job, especially because Bull Mountain also fell under McFalls County jurisdiction, and no one ever wanted to be involved with the kind of shit that happened up there. They both knew that. An awkward silence began to creep in, so the sheriff went back to playing the role.
“Well, regardless, the last time I checked, GBI had jurisdiction over county law enforcement, so that still makes you sir to me, whether you like it or not.”
Dane scratched at the three-day stubble on his face and looked past Darby at the other man in uniform. He was a deputy Dane had never seen before, who, as of yet, hadn’t paid Dane any mind, and seemed to be fascinated with the crumbling paint on the open front door. Dane kept scratching at his chin and didn’t bother to ask for an introduction. Instead, he stared down at the porch. “Fair enough, Sheriff. So tell me why I’m out here looking at this poor fella instead of casting flies in the river? I don’t see any signs of fire.”
Sheriff Ellis took a step up to the landing and squatted down by the covered body. “Well, you’re right. I know this is a little outside your wheelhouse, and to be honest, this—”
Dane cut him off. “Hold up a minute, Sheriff.” He was watching the young deputy again, who was now kneeling at the front door. He’d taken out a pair of latex gloves and a small black box and had begun feathering the doorknob with what looked like one of Dane’s wife’s makeup brushes. Dane had to know. “Who’s that?” he whispered.
Ellis whispered, too. “He’s my deputy, Woody. Woody Squire. His name’s Woodson, but we all call him Woody. He’s part-time and the county pays him next to nothing, but he’s a good kid, and between me and you, I don’t think he ever goes home. He heard this call go out and damn near beat me here.”
“He looks like he’s still in high school.”
“Graduated last year.”
“Right—and what’s he doing?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s dusting for fingerprints.”
Dane stared blankly at the sheriff. “Really? He does know he’s in the country, right?”
“I hope so.”
“Aren’t the forensic guys from Rabun on their way here with the coroner?”