Michele Hauf - Witness In The Woods

“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.