19
Sitting in a camp chair on the shores of Solitary Lake, looking out over the mirrorlike water to Derby Peak and its glittering snowfields, Deputy Maureen Clausen was pissed. Even though the sheriff had assured her he had picked her name out of a hat, she wondered if maybe she’d done something to pull this shit assignment guarding the crime scene. She was bored out of her mind, there was no cell service, and she’d forgotten to bring a book.
As if that were not enough, the sky was now growing dark. The usual summer afternoon thunderhead buildup had started. It looked like she would be hiking down in the rain, on a slippery trail. She glanced at her watch. Two o’clock. Two more hours up here and she was done for the week. Tomorrow, some other poor slob that the sheriff had supposedly drawn from a hat would take the rotation, and she would be back to her normal routine.
There was a distant rumble of thunder, and the air seemed to get thicker in a way that presaged a storm. As the creeping shadow of bad weather fell across the lake, the surface turned the color of dull steel. A rising wind set the fir trees swaying and creaking. This whole place gave her the creeps—not just from the bizarre murder that had taken place there but also from the general atmosphere of loneliness, solitude, and abandonment. Those crazy sculptures didn’t help, especially the oversized one that looked like a human skeleton. As if the threat of Neanders wasn’t enough, that guy Grooms had to make the woods even creepier with his weird art.
Something about the wind moaning in the trees, the advancingdarkness, and the thunder started to make her uneasy. She dismissed the feeling as silliness—who would possibly come up to the cabin? Surely the killers had no reason to return. There was hardly any point to her being there—she hadn’t seen anyone all day. No curious hikers, no rubberneckers, and certainly no threatening people. The rumors added to her unease, even if most of them were absurd—that a coven of devil worshipers had established a camp in the wilderness and were murdering people as part of some satanic ritual, or it was a Manson-like gang of preppers stockpiling weapons in the area.
Another rumble of thunder, this time closer. Son of a bitch, she would definitely be hiking down in the rain. She picked up the chair and turned to carry it up to the cabin before the sky opened up, when she thought she saw a movement in the fir trees. Elk? She’d seen a small herd near the lake, beyond where the canoes were pulled up. She put down the chair and squinted into the dim forest.
She saw it again—a movement—and it was no elk. It was a person.Insidethe crime scene perimeter. She swore under her breath.
Whoever it was appeared to be a man and had evidently not seen her. She quickly ducked behind a tree, removed her sidearm, and took a few deep breaths. Who the hell could it be, coming up here, ignoring the police cordon, and sneaking around like that? A dumb kid? Or worse, the murderer revisiting the scene? Peering from behind the tree, she could see his dark shape moving through the tree trunks, then stopping and bending over one of the junk sculptures. He began to pull it apart, giving it a few blows with a hammer, searching it—and then toppling it over and scouring the ground underneath.
The figure moved on to another sculpture and did the same thing, probing through the pile of junk, prying off pieces, whacking it with a hammer, making a lot of noise, and then shoving it over in what looked like frustration.
Clausen wondered if he was armed. He seemed erratic and maybe dangerous.
Looking around, she quickly came up with a plan. Taking a deep breath, she crouched and scurried from the tree to behind the cabin. The man didn’t see her—he was too engrossed with searching the junk sculptures, looking for something and pissed off because he wasn’t finding it.
She snuck around the back of the cabin and peered around the corner, gun drawn.
He was gone.
She clutched her gun tightly with sudden alarm. Where had he gone? Had he seen her?
Then she heard heavy footfalls on the wooden porch at the front of the cabin and heard the door creak open.
He’d gone in the house. Crouching low, she backed up and took a position below a window. She could hear him banging around inside, moving furniture, tossing things. There was the sound of breaking glass. Fuck, he was really doing a number on the crime scene—her boss would have her ass if she didn’t stop this right away. She slowly raised up to peer over the sill. She was confronted with the silhouette of a tall man, searching the place and really trashing it. She watched as he knocked over a pile of books, sorted through them, opening each one and holding it by the spine, shaking it out and tossing it aside. That done, he lurched across the room and pulled the cot away from the wall, exposing some tin boxes. He reached down and opened one, rummaged around—and then tossed it aside. It was empty. What the hell was he looking for? She tried to determine if he was armed. He didn’t appear to have a gun, but you never knew what people had tucked out of sight somewhere.
Clausen was scared, but she had no choice. She ducked back down from the window and ran at a crouch along the rear of the house, rounded the corner, came up the side and around, and set foot on the creaky porch.
The wood groaned loudly, as she’d feared. There was a sudden silence from inside; the man must have heard it too. She waited next to the door, gun drawn—it was now or never. She took a deep breath and said, loudly, “Deputy Clausen, Eagle County Sheriff’s Office. You are under arrest for trespassing and vandalizing a crime scene! Come out with your hands up!”
Silence.
Still crouching by the door, she said, “I’m armed! Don’t do anything stupid! Come out with your hands raised.”
More silence.
What to do now? Suddenly, she heard a massive crash of glass.
Clausen raced around to the back of the house, just in time to see thefigure making a mad dash toward the forest. The maniac had jumped through the fuckingwindow.
“Stop!” she called out.
He kept going, fast.
She raised her weapon. “Stop and raise your hands!” she screamed. He continued running. She lowered the gun, furious and frustrated, as the rules of engagement did not allow her to shoot a fleeing man in the back.
Suddenly, the man tripped, careening face-first into the mud with a yell of pain. She ran up to him with her gun pointed at the ground, ready for anything. To her relief, he raised himself to a seated position and thrust his hands in the air.
“Stand up!”
The man complied, struggling to his feet and panting.
She walked toward him, keeping the Glock aimed at the middle of his back. Coming up behind, she hooked her foot behind his, as she’d learned in the academy, and with her Glock in her right hand, used her left to pat him down. What the hell was this on his lower leg? “What’s that? A knife?”
