Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(2)

Although Sheridan stopped by often—not often enough for her mother—April and Lucy had been to the new place infrequently, and separately, depending on their schedules. This wasn’t really their home—it was the place where their parents now lived.

With Lucy bringing a friend along and the added presence of Liv Romanowski and her baby daughter, Kestrel, Marybeth was organizing a fairly large Thanksgiving meal and weekend. No doubt, she’d already determined who got which room to avoid conflict and how the seating at the table would be assigned. Joe’s job, he knew, was simply to be available.

He was good at that.

Joe hoped Liv would have news about Nate Romanowski, her husband and Joe’s longtime friend. Nate was away, following the trail of an outlaw falconer named Axel Soledad, who had beaten up Liv, threatened baby Kestrel, and stolen Nate’s falcons. Nate had left in a black rage and Joe hoped he could recover his Air Force without leaving a body count. But Joe knew Nate all too well, and he feared for what could happen.



* * *



—

With so much on his mind that morning, he was grateful for the distraction when Lorne shambled out of his old house and waved hello. Joe pulled into the overgrown ranch yard and parked next to a muddy ATV bristling with irrigation shovels strapped down by bungee cords. The butt end of a lever-action carbine poked out of a leather saddle scabbard.

“Hey, Joe,” Lorne said.

“Hey, Lorne.”

Trumley looked like a piece of jerky that happened to be wearing an oversized flannel shirt, a Carhartt vest, and baggy jeans cinched by a belt with a rodeo buckle so ancient and smoothed off, the engraving had vanished. His short-brimmed cowboy hat was stained and battered and it gave his appearance a comical framing.

He raised his arm and pointed vaguely over Joe’s shoulder. “That way,” he said. “Just look for the birds.”

“When did you find the moose?” Joe asked.

“This morning. I was looking for a couple of missing heifers and I seen it across the swamp. It isn’t very far from the edge of my property.” He pronounced it prop-ity.

“Did you hear any shots?”

“I don’t hear much of nothin’ these days.”

“Is it a bull or a cow? Could you tell?”

“I don’t know. I just know it was black like a moose. Too dark for an elk and not one of my cows.”

Joe asked, “Can I get there in my truck?”

“If you try, you’ll get stuck again, would be my guess.”

“Can I borrow your Ranger?” Joe asked, chinning toward the ATV. He had one back at his game warden station, but it would take a few hours to drive there, load it on a trailer, and return.

“Be careful with it,” Trumley cautioned. “My other one’s broke down.”

Joe nodded.

“Just follow my tracks through the meadow and you should be okay.”



* * *



—

    Just look for the birds, Trumley had said. Joe understood. Predatory birds like ravens and crows were always the first on the scene of a carcass. Birds of prey, like eagles and falcons, would show up next. Larger predators would follow their lead, and scuttling armies of insects would later mop up.

Daisy loped alongside the ATV as he drove in Trumley’s tracks across the meadow, through ditches, and via openings in the hedgerow brush. Several of the openings would have been too narrow for his pickup, and on either side of the high ground where Trumley had traveled was soft mud and hidden swamp. Daisy liked to splash through it, and she gave chase—for half a minute—to a pair of mallards she’d flushed.

Before leaving the ranch, Joe had secured his necropsy kit in the bed of the Ranger, plus his twelve-gauge Remington Wingmaster shotgun, which was primarily for safety if the poachers were still about. He’d also thrown in a heavy chain and nylon towrope.

After photographing the scene and looking for evidence like spent brass casings or boot prints, he would likely have to drag the carcass out behind the ATV to perform the necropsy and find out how it had been killed. If the animal had been shot, he’d attempt to locate the bullet. More often than not, the projectile would be located beneath the skin of the hide on the opposite side of the entry wound.

Moose season had closed. It was a special permit area, so he knew from experience that it was unlikely a moose hunter with a legitimate license had been involved in the poaching incident. The violator—if there was one—was probably an elk hunter who’d chosen the wrong species, or an out-and-out outlaw who wanted to kill a moose out of season. Which made his blood boil.



* * *



—

Even before he saw the birds gathering near a stand of thick willows up ahead, he caught the whiff of what smelled like burned pork. Daisy noticed it, too, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her stop and raise her snout in the air.

Joe rounded a knot of brush and saw a high-grass swamp between him and the birds. It was as far as Trumley had traveled that morning—the ATV tracks stopped short before attempting to cross the bog.

As Trumley had described, a dark and heavy form was on the ground beneath an overhang of thick brush on the other side of the swamp beyond the clearing. Parts of it appeared to be smoldering and wisps of steam or smoke rose from the upper part. Despite that, ravens covered it and fought off newcomers to the scene. Several let out shrill cries.