Castillo Linda - Outsider

“The woods along the creek probably,” I say.

“Hunters?” She can’t seem to stop looking toward the window. “Sounded close.”

I get to my feet. “Deer season ended two weeks ago.”

I take in her agitation and it occurs to me she doesn’t realize that shooting in the woods isn’t all that unusual in rural areas. She’s a city girl, after all. Not a nervous Nellie—and she’s sure as hell not afraid of guns—but in light of the circumstances and her having recently sustained a gunshot wound, a certain level of jumpiness is understandable. That someone would be out shooting in such extreme weather gives me pause.

Gina strides to the window, parts the curtains, and peers outside. Unbeknownst to her, the window doesn’t face Painters Creek. “Maybe we ought to check it out.”

I’m aware that the children have stopped eating, forks suspended in midair, and they’re watching their English visitor with a mix of curiosity and uneasy amusement. I understand the source of Gina’s fear; she’s afraid someone from Columbus has come looking for her. The thought puts a prickly sensation on the back of my neck.

“Mr. Swisherking got a big ten-point buck last month.” Sammy spreads apple butter on his toast and takes a bite, then chews as he speaks. “He brought us over some jerky, and I got to keep the antlers. Do you want to see them?”

I look at the boy and smile. “Where’s your datt ?”

“He took Leroy to the barn,” he says, referring to the calf.

“I’m going to take a stroll down to the creek to make sure no one’s hunting down there out of season,” I say easily.

“Can I go, too?” The boy rises quickly, stuffing the toast into his mouth and looking a little too excited by the prospect of a trip to the creek to nab a poacher.

“No.” I soften the word with a smile and look at Annie and Lizzie. “Stay here with your sisters and finish your breakfast.”

I start toward the mudroom. Someone has already mucked after the calf, but the small room reeks of manure and milk replacer.

Gina follows me, watching her step, hovering as I open the cabinet and grab my .38 and holster from a high shelf. “I’m going with you,” she says.

“That’s not necessary.” At home, I always keep my sidearm handy. Since I’m a guest in someone else’s home—someone with young children—I’ve kept the .38 and speed loader with extra rounds out of sight and out of reach. Most Amish kids are well versed on gun safety. Many Amish men hunt; rifles or muzzle-loaders are common in just about every household. Not so with a handgun, so I’ve done my part to quell any curiosity.

I turn to see that Gina’s already struggling into her coat, one sleeve draped over the sling and her injured arm. “I need my gun,” she says.

I laugh as I reach into my pocket, grab the loose cartridges lying next to the speed loader, and drop them one by one into the cylinder. “I don’t have to remind you there’s a warrant for your arrest, do I?”

“I’m a cop,” she snaps.

“Look, it’s not all that uncommon for people to go shooting in the woods.” I shrug into the holster, buckle it.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like it.”

“Are you expecting anyone in particular?”

“Maybe someone decided their life would be a hell of a lot simpler if I wasn’t around to point a finger.”

Snagging my parka off a hook, I work it on, stomp my feet into boots, and quickly lace them. “And now they’re in the woods, shooting trees?” I scoff. “Does anyone know where you are?”

“No, but how hard would it be for someone to remember you and I used to be friends?”

Considering, I pull out my cell and I hit the number for Dispatch.

Mona answers on the first ring. “You’re up early—”

“Who’s on duty this morning?” I ask.

“Glock,” she replies, all business now that she’s realized I didn’t call to chat. “He’s the only one who could get out of his driveway.”

“I’m at the Lengacher place. Someone’s shooting in the woods by Painters Creek. I’m going to check it out. Can you send him down to the bridge?”

“Ten-four.”

I drop the phone into my pocket; then I’m through the mudroom and out the door. It’s not yet fully light as I take the steps two at a time and start toward the yard facing the woods. I glance left toward the barn. The door stands open. Adam’s nowhere in sight. Gina tracks me, moving at a steady clip, staying close. For an instant I’m reminded of all the times we did this very thing, back when we were rookies.

The wind cuts through my coat and sneaks down my collar as I jog across the side yard, muscle through a drift that reaches to midthigh. I hear Gina behind me, cursing, her injured shoulder hampering her. I don’t look back, keep going.

I’m familiar with the area. Painters Creek is two hundred yards away. A greenbelt runs along both sides of the waterway, old-growth trees tangled with the winter skeletons of wild blackberry, saplings, and brush. The deer congregate along the creek, using the trees for cover, grazing the twigs and undergrowth, and feeding on the hickory nuts that have broken open. It’s a long greenbelt and a favorite place for hunters looking to bag a buck. Of course, they’re only allowed to hunt during the season and must get the express permission of the landowner.

I reach the rail fence at the side yard, climb over it, and stumble through another drift. Then I’m in the pasture, where the snow is only a foot or so deep, jogging toward the tree line ahead.

Gina has fallen behind. I hear her struggling over the fence as I cross the pasture. Several cattle look up from their round bale of hay as I pass. The trees ahead are a wall of charcoal and white rising sixty feet into the sky. Three more shots echo off the treetops, and I pick up the pace. The meager light falls away as I enter the forest. It’s hushed within the shroud of trees, as if the woods are holding their breath. I stop a few yards in, listening, trying to get my bearings and figure out where the shots came from. I can hear the tinkle of water where it runs swift over rock and hasn’t yet frozen. I glance over my shoulder to see Gina approach, breathless and on alert.

“Where did it come from?” she whispers.

Another shot rings out, the sound echoing among the treetops. “North.” I point ahead and slightly to my left.

We veer that way, our coats rustling, snow squeaking beneath our feet. I stick to the thickest part of the forest, using the underbrush for cover. I don’t know who’s out here or what they’re shooting at. Chances are it’s some guy with cabin fever who just wanted to get outside, away from the wife and kids, and give the rifle he got for Christmas a go. Or a farmer who caught a coyote trying to get at his chickens and tracked it here. Or maybe some unscrupulous hunter is out looking to poach a deer. The problem with those theories is that the deep snow and near-zero temperature are tremendous hardships even for the most hardy individual.

I work my way east and north until I reach the creek. It’s frozen solid. Some of the ice has been scoured by wind. To my left I hear water trickling over rock where the stream narrows. I don’t have my lapel mike clipped in, so I pull it out of my pocket, fumble with it before speaking.

“Ten-forty-three-B,” I say quietly, using the code for shots fired, likely by hunters. “Glock, what’s your twenty?”

“TR 36 and the bridge. Nothing here, Chief. No vehicle. No tracks.”

I glance toward the south, but the bridge is too far, the trees too thick for me to get a visual. “I’m half a mile to your north on the west side of the creek.”

“Any sign of a vehicle?”

“Negative, but there’s a pullover by the bridge farther north.” I address Dispatch. “Mona, notify County. Ten-forty-three-B.”