Critical Traces

by D. L. Keur

A Jessica Anderson
K-9 Mystery

Book 10 of
The Jessica Anderson K-9 Mysteries

NO AI content, guaranteed. All original D. L. Keur.

Published by D. L. Keur, Sandpoint, ID 83864
© 2024 D. L. Keur

Copyright

Copyright © 2024 D. L. Keur (So there’s no confusion, D. L. Keur’s full legal name is Dawn Lisette Keur.)

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without written, notarized permission from D. L. Keur.

Critical Traces, A Jessica Anderson K-9 Mystery, (The Jessica Anderson K-9 Mysteries, Book 10) is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, products, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Orders, inquiries, and correspondence should be addressed to: D. L. Keur &/or F. W. Lineberry, P. O. Box 2419, Sandpoint, ID 83864

Authorship, design and formatting by D. L. Keur, www.DLKeur.com  Cover art by D. L. Keur, www.zentao.com, Landon Reid portrait by Juan Giraldo, copyright owned exclusively by D. L. Keur, image adjusted and manipulated by D. L. Keur.

First Edition      Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

To Bailey, my wonder mutt, and all the other dogs in my life,

To my dad,

To Laura Belgrave, who made me do it,

And to all the wonderful Jessica Anderson K-9 Mysteries fans.  Your enthusiasm keeps me on task and the series alive and growing because you love the dogs and other animals, and that’s huge for me. 
You bring me hope.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my editors.  Thanks to Ann Davis, Mitch’s ‘mom’.  Original Landon Reid portrait by Juan Giraldo, copyright owned in entirety by D. L. Keur, adjusted by D. L. Keur.  Photo credits go to: kuzmaphoto, shutterstock.com, Peter Robbins, unsplash.com, dog photo credits go to Quinton Coetzee, unsplash.com and Darius Murawski, shutterstock.com.

1 – Something’s Up

THE HORSES JERKED their heads up.  All eight dogs came alert, instantly on their feet, all of them looking southwest.

Giant Milo, Jessica Anderson’s white and brown Wonder Mutt on Stilts, maybe Dane and something else, rumbled a growl.  So did German Shepherd Acer, the sable-colored leader of the pack, and Mitch, the Marvelous, a tawny and black Malinois.  The rest of the GSDs (German Shepherd dogs)—Sumi and Britta—were silent and scanning, ears pricked hard.  Even Queenie, Jessie’s Irish-Golden cross, the little black yearling puppy, Duchess, and Oso, the Elkhound, all watched, noses working. 

The dog pack sensed something, and that made Jessie pause, eyes scanning, ears tuned too.  She saw nothing, heard nothing.  Watched as her husband, Landon Reid, palmed a bear bomb and pulled his big bore rifle onto his lap, his pockmarked face gone hard, eyes wary.  Jessie touched her own rifle, then one of her sidearms.  Something was up.

After a long moment, dogs and horses all relaxed, the horse’s going back to grazing on the early meadow grass.  The dogs lay back down to continue working their dog jerky chews. 

Jessie eased back onto her elbow and ate the last of her hardboiled egg sandwich, Landon putting the bear bomb back in his pocket and laying his rifle down.  He poured them both tea from a thermos. “Thought it was a grumpy grizzly, didn’t you?” Jessie teased.

“I didn’t know,” Landon answered, handing her a steaming cup.  “It could have been a wolf pack.  Spring is starvation season for a lot of critters—nothing much around to eat, especially for the carnivores, what with the winter die-offs, the fish runs not started, and no berries till summer.  Want another?” he asked, holding out a second sandwich container.  “And there are gooey rolls, remember?”

She didn’t really want another sandwich, or the baked goody, either—wasn’t hungry—but knew she should.  One sandwich wasn’t going to keep her gaining pounds …or more like ounces a week.  Her weight gain had slowed to a crawl with the warming weather and her increased outdoor activities, activities she loved, activities she lived for.  Smiled at a man who loved her and she, him.  Nodded.  “Yeah.  Why not?”  Took it.

Landon dug out two sweet rolls from their lunch pack, one for himself, one for her.  Handed over hers, then settled in with his own, leaning back next to her, that faintly-there, soft, gentle smile of his just touching the corners of his mouth.  “Want to climb to the next ridge over before we head down?” he asked, finishing his roll in a handful of bites, then licking his fingers. 

Jessie grinned.  Landon would never have dreamed of doing something like licking his fingers around her and, even now, it was something he only did in private, never around anybody but her.  Such was the nature of their relationship—both of them at ease with one another, which, after all the tension and even acrimony and discord that marked their early interactions, was, to Jessie, an amazing thing.

He poured water from his canteen and now rinsed those fingers.  Cleaned them off on a wipe he pulled from the saddlebag laying beside him.

Jessie grinned—Mr. Clean-Neat-and-Tidy.  Finished her second sandwich, then bit into the piece of baked goody she and her gram had made a pan-full of yesterday.  “Oh, yeah.  I definitely want to go farther.  Next ridge would be great.  I wish we had brought camping gear and could stay overnight.”

Landon nodded.  “We should have.  But there’s dinner tonight with the family, and I’m cooking, remember?”

And this was new, too.  “You call my family that now.  I love that,” she told him.

“They are my family,” Landon replied, his ever deep, soft, gravelly voice warming a little as his eyes went thoughtful.  Those eyes refocused on hers.  “But the term, of course, includes mine, too.  My dad and I are actually getting along, and that is absolutely weird.”

No, it wasn’t, Jessie wanted to say, but didn’t.  “I love your mom.  She’s so much fun.”

He shook his head, face going pensive.  “She never was, Jessie.  She was sullen.  Remote.  Silent, unless scolding.  I never knew it was because of a brain injury.  I wish Dad hadn’t hid it from me all these years.  She’s a different person now than ever I remember.”

Yeah.  Jessie knew there had come a change.  Landon didn’t know it, but his dad, Clyde, had confided in her that Celee was ‘coming back’, and Jessie knew Clyde credited it to moving back to Celee’s family home after their house fire.  “Yeah, I know,” Jessie answered.  “She’s getting better, and you’re not the only one who gained a family, remember?  Your family is my family, now, too, even if your dad is a bit of a bluff and bluster sometimes.  I’m glad they’re living with us.  I’ve got your dad on the run, now, not vice versa.”

She heard Landon chuckle.  He dipped his head as was his habit to hide his face beneath the brim of his signature white Stetson®—a shyness that Jessie had never really guessed at until getting to know the inner man a little better. 

Abruptly, Landon raised his head, his face going hard again, brows furrowing.  At the same time, the horses again jerked up their heads.  Jessie’s dogs also again alerted, all of them raising their heads.  They didn’t get to their feet, but Landon did.  “Did you hear that?” he asked, glancing down.

Jessie hadn’t heard anything, but, obviously, the animals had and so had he.  Landon took up his rifle, again.  Stood with it cradled in his arms.  Scanned surroundings, especially down-slope.  He nodded toward the dogs. “Wonder what’s going on?” he grumbled, his voice going dark—ominous.

Of course he’d ask her just as she took her last bite of sandwich.  She chewed and swallowed.  Took a sip of tea.  Swallowed that, too.  Said, “They probably hear those ATVs and motorcycles that went past us on the way up.  They’ve got a series of trails over on the west side of Sundowner Peak and the wind’s from the southwest today.  That’s probably what they’re hearing.”

“It didn’t sound like that.  It sounded to me like a scream—an animal scream—but you may be right.” 

“A cougar?” Jessie suggested.

Landon shook his head.  Sat back down.  Set the rifle aside—right beside—and leaned back.  His eyes watched, head on a slow swivel, left to right and back again.

Jessie wished he’d relax.  It was Memorial Day weekend and, instead of being on call for SAR (Search and Rescue), with Nelson Remmers’ blessing, Jessie had gotten the whole weekend off to be with Landon—rare.  How and why?  Because, due to the heavy winter they’d had, the snows were still deep at the mid-to-higher elevations.  Predictions were that rescue work was bound to be slow the first half of the summer because of it.  Only veteran outdoors lovers were in the mountains and running the rivers with their canoes, kayaks, and rafts.  Add to that, the fact that, pretty much everywhere, graduations were also late this year.  So, despite this holiday weekend being considered the launch of summer, it was expected to be calm.  It would probably be at least mid-June before things started getting busier.  Jessie figured that it wouldn’t get crazy till after the Fourth of July.  By then, the heavy winter snow would melt enough in the higher elevations for the serious climbers and hikers to venture up into the more remote reaches of the Bitterroots. 

The dogs again went back to their dog jerky and the horses went back to their grazing as Jessie finished eating.  Then, with a look and tip of head in silent ask that brought her another smile and a nod from Landon, she snuggled her head into Landon’s lap to take a short nap in the cold sunshine, the breeze off the mountain ridge above making delicious shivers.  He draped his arm over her.

Jessie had just fallen asleep when the horses started again, them snorting and whistling, but they didn’t run.  Milo howled, and Jessie sat up.  Saw that all the dogs were now on watch, and wary. 

“What in the world?” Landon said, frowning.  Urged Jessie up, and, on his feet, rifle back in his hands, he scanned the slope, up, down and sideways.

All the animals were looking southwest again.  Milo put his nose skyward and howled again, long and low.  Mitch whined.  Once more, all the dogs were still and watching, ears pricked and quivering, noses sifting scent.  Landon’s Britta glanced back at them, then looked southwest again.  So did Jessie’s Acer, his eyes ‘talking’. 

Jessie ‘heard’.  “Something’s really up,” Jessie said, getting to her feet.

“Let’s get the saddles tightened,” Landon said.

“Yeah.  I think so, too,” Jessie said, picking up their litter bag and stowing it and the empty sandwich containers into Landon’s oversized saddle bag as he folded and rolled the blanket and the tarp they’d been using to keep the damp off.  Both of them headed for the horses, toting gear.

The dogs gave warning yet again, and, done tightening Chesterton’s girth, Jessie went to them.  “Was ist los?  What is it?” she asked, squatting down amongst them. 

They crowded around and looked at her with worried eyes, eye feelers shifting as their foreheads crinkled.  Then they all turned their heads and looked down-slope.

Jessie shook her head, stood, and scanned where they did, a chill running down her arms.  Something’s up, and it’s not good.

*

BITTERROOT COUNTY Sheriff Landon Reid had never been out on a leisure trip in the Bitterroot wilderness with Jessie and her dogs until today, and today had been bliss.  Married just three-and-a-half months, this had been a spur of the moment day trip when life and jobs had given them a rare respite from the day-to-day crisis management of car accidents, drunken brawls, petty crime, and lost, often injured people, plus the occasional runaway, though this last was down with ongoing community efforts funded by Landon’s foundation.

Jessie was Bitterroot County’s canine search and rescue star, who, along with Deputy Captain Nelson Remmers, a Bitterroot wildland expert in his own right, ran their four-state, seventeen county rural rescue group.  With Jessie sworn as a special deputy working under his authority, Landon was still coming to grips with the fact that she’d said ‘yes’ to his utterly impulsive post-crisis marriage proposal.  He was still amazed that the woman loved him.  And he was truly happy for the first time in his life.  He was completely at peace inside, also a first.  He felt like he owned the world.  He grinned.  He did.  He was hers; she was his.  For life.  And, yes, that was the world for him …except for Duster still being gone. His return was now a full six weeks later than expected, and all because his horse had unexpectedly taken a grand championship in a big spring show.

Securing his rifle in its scabbard, he tightened the cinches on Brogan, checked Jessie’s seventeen-year-old brown gelding, Chesterton, then pulled the horse’s bridles off saddle horns and slipped them back on their faces.  Done, he turned to watch his Jessie squatting amongst her dogs and his.  She was talking to them.  With them, he amended.  The uncanny understanding she had interpreting their vocalizations and their body language still amazed him.  The pack was completely attuned to her and her to them.

His Britta came over to park herself beside him, and he reached down to put a hand on her.  This dog had been a part of Jessie’s pack of ‘wonder dogs’ …until she’d broken away to ‘choose’ him, as the Anderson’s called it.  Britta was his friend, always with him, now, and he was forever grateful that the dog had decided that ‘he was her human’, as Jessie put it.

“Landon?”—Jessie.  He heard the stress.  Put sight on her.  Waited.

Her eyes had turned lighter—what he thought of as ‘brighter’.  Her face had turned from happy to serious.  She ran a hand through her platinum blonde mop.  “I think there’s a problem somewhere,” she said.

Not what he wanted to hear, but he thought so, too.  The horses acted like it.  “All right.”

“I want to let the dogs run.  We’ll have to stick close to them, though.  Wrong collars.”

The ‘wrong’ she was talking about were the GPS collars the dogs all wore.  Jessie could find them because of those collars, using the tracking app on her phone.  So could Landon quite handily now that he’d finally wrapped his brain around the tech.  The problem was, dogs on search could range for miles running full out at up to thirty-miles-per-hour, and even horses, ATVs, motorcycles, or people on foot couldn’t keep up with them in wild country. 

Usually that wasn’t a problem because they wore special RF collars when on search, collars that had transceivers—transmitters and receivers—so Jessie could talk to them and they could ‘talk’ to her.  Additionally, now, those collars also had tiny cams sandwiched into them, a small, four inch antenna whip sticking out of them, that tough, flexible wire carrying an equally tiny bobble on its end.  Today, though, the dogs weren’t wearing their SAR collars.  The ones they wore today were just locators emitting a traceable signal.  They’d have to ride hard and fast to try to keep the dogs in shouting distance because of that.

Leading their horses over, Jessie took Chesterton’s reins.  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

“I have no idea.  There’s no traffic on the network—nothing from Nelson—and I do have reception here.”

Landon put his foot in the stirrup and stepped up.  Settled.  “Let’s go, then.”

She turned to her dogs, and, with a few words from her in both English and German—‘go ahead’ and ‘voran’—that were basically what Landon understood to be a release for the dogs to travel and seek at will—to ‘follow their noses’ and their inclinations—those dogs took off, including Landon’s Britta. 

Jessie swung up, her Chesterton taking off after the dogs with no urging as soon as she had barely settled her butt in the saddle, Landon’s Brogan right after.  And Landon prayed it was nothing, even though he pretty much knew better.  Jessie’s dogs didn’t alert for no reason—not ever.

***

2 – Target Unknown

JESSIE’S DOGS had their noses up, their tails down or level, all tails, that is, except for premier air scenter Oso’s perpetually tightly curled one.  Their ears were alert, their heads on swivels, noses sifting air.  They’d trot or lope a few yards, then stop and scan, every sense tuned and ‘listening’.  What that behavior told Jessie was that, while the dogs sensed something, they weren’t sure of its location.  They just knew someone was in trouble, because the only thing her dogs alerted to were human targets, especially human targets in jeopardy—usually dire jeopardy. And Jessie worried.  She didn’t have her big medical pack with her.  Just her day pack with its enhanced first aid kit.  She did have rudimentary rescue gear though, and both Landon and she had their mobiles and satphones with them.  If the dogs found something, they could call for help.

Her eyes on her dogs, it took her a bit to notice—Chesterton.  Her horse had his head up, ears hard-pricked forward, and, jogging and sometimes loping to keep up with the dogs, there was an urgency to him.  He knows what it is.  Jessie would bet on it.

Turning to Landon, she said it, and saw her husband nod.  “I know.  Brogan’s giving me the same signals.  I’m betting it’s a horse and rider in trouble.  It’s probably what I thought I heard earlier.”

Jessie called her dogs in, hollering to do it instead of using her phone …because she couldn’t use her phone.  Just stupid not to have their RF collars on them.  Not doing that again!  To her defense, this was supposed to have been a pure pleasure trip.  But what was it her dad had coached her on all her life?  Always be prepared.  Right.

Dogs coming back at a run, tongues lolling, they pooled around her.  Jumping off, she squatted down.  Grabbed up Duchess.  Loaded Duchess in her carrier, and slung it on her back, the yearling pup well used to this.  Signed and spoke.  Touched Chesterton and said, “One, ein.” Got on her horse and signed and said, “Two, one, zwei, eins’.  Dismounted and repeated the whole thing.  Hoped they remembered. They’d only ever done this once, her doing a crash training session in an emergency to locate a fallen horseback rider.

Queenie barked, eyes going sure, tail wagging like crazy.  She remembered.  Jessie’s red dog touched noses around.  Dogs leapt, some, especially Milo and Mitch, bounding upwards, each and all wagging now.  They remembered.  “Such.  Find it,” Jessie urged, and her dogs took off, Chesterton following, no urging needed.

Glanced back, and she saw Landon lift his reins to cue Brogan into a lope, him tall, relaxed, and quiet in the saddle.  “Rough riding ahead,” she called back over her shoulder.

“I have no doubt,” he answered.

Mind your Stetson®, she thought, but wouldn’t say it—nope.  At least he was wearing one of his older, cheaper ones.  Grinned and ducked as Chesterton cut close around a tree with a low branch. 

The dogs were heading into the timber.  No more time to worry about Landon.  She had tree limbs to dodge.

*

LANDON WATCHED Chesterton’s rump disappear into the tree shadows, Jessie’s white hair standing out like a beacon, showing him the ‘where’.  Not that he had to worry that.  Brogan was on it, him and Chesterton now good buds.  …Ducked and leaned hard as a branch almost caught him.  “Watch it, Brogan.  I’m up here, remember?” he grumbled at his old cow horse.

Far ahead, another flash of white—lower to the ground.  That would be Milo, not Jessie.  Landon reined toward it and Brogan headed that way, another big limb looming.  Landon slid down sideways, hanging onto the horn.  It just brushed his shoulder as they went under.  Pulled himself back upright.  “Ease it on down a bit, Brogan,” he said, and his horse slowed his lope.

“Thank you.”  Smiled a little.  Were Jessie to hear him, she’d give him grief about his ‘please’s and ‘thank you’s to his animal pals, but, for him, it worked.  …Or he told himself it did.  They put up with it, anyway.

Brush whipped his taps and hard leather chaps.  Shook his head as his gelding broke down to a long jog.  Eased more weight on his stirrups and leaned back to take the jolt out the ride as they headed down a steepening slope, heavier timber ahead, the brush thinning out as the light dimmed with the thickened overhead canopy.

Again a flash of white, even farther ahead than last time.  We’re losing ground.  Wouldn’t push his horse.  Would let the animal decide the right path and best speed.  He knew his horse.  His horse knew him.

Heard brush crashing to his right—Jessie on Chesterton, he bet.  Didn’t expect Brogan to suddenly stop, but kept his wits and his seat, thank you very much, the latter pure luck. 

In front of them, a chest-high deadfall—chest high on Brogan, just over hip high on Landon.  Got off.  Looked.  Asked his horse, “Well?  What do you want to do, Old Man?”

A horse sigh—big inhale, big exhale.

“Do we go around?”

Landon dodged a look both directions.  Going around would not be an easy thing.  Went back to Brogan and unclipped his reins.  Slung them over his shoulder.  Snapped the fenders over the saddle and slipped the saddle straps through them.  Stepped back, then swung a leg up on the nearly horizontal trunk and slipped over.  Checked the footing on the other side.  Went back to the giant deadfall.  “Your turn,” he said, gesturing to his gelding.

His horse backed.

Landon moved out of the way.

Brogan took a stride and bounced over.  Another bounce, then a squat, and his gelding stopped, wet duff shifting and humping up under his hooves—barefoot, no shoes. 

Landon grinned as Brogan turned his head a little, eye watching.  Walked up.  Pulled a slice of apple out of his pocket and offered it, the horse accepting, whiskers tickling, velvet lips soft on his hand.  Gave a stroke to Brogan’s neck and put his foot in the stirrup.  “Thank you.” Then off they went all over again.  Time to catch up to Jessie and the dogs.  Wondered where his Britta was.  Answered himself: With the miracle mutts.

*

JESSIE’S DOGS were way out ahead of her.  Meanwhile, she was picking herself up off the ground, cooing to Duchess who had tumbled down with her, the dog unhurt, tail wagging.  In fact, the pup looked like she was laughing, nose up, flop ears relaxed back, tongue sticking out at her. 

Rubbing her hip where she’d landed, Jessie brushed the wet duff off her jeans as best she could.  Checked her satphone—fine—then her mobile where it was anchored on her arm—also fine.  Checked the tracking app.  The dogs were stopped way far ahead.  Gathered her reins and got herself back up on her horse.  “Yeah, I missed that one.  Sorry, Chesterton.”

An overblow, then snort in response, the soft snort almost a chide to Jessie’s ear as, settling in, her gelding took off again, him following his own nose. 

Chesterton wasn’t trained to be a tracking horse, but, in this instance, he was obviously acting like one.  Jessie didn’t need to urge him.  He had this.  He’d been following her dogs for years, since she was a teen.  Obviously, he knew his stuff. 

From somewhere ahead, Jessie thought she heard—faintly—a horse whinny.  Heard a series of howls and barks in answer—also faint.  Wished her dogs had their big RF collars on so she could talk to them. 

Chesterton increased the length of his trot, then broke into a slow lope as he let out an answering whinny, the seven-beat pulse of his callback a strong throb under Jessie’s legs. Her dogs were directly ahead as the crow flew.  So was Landon now, his GPS signal on her phone app showing him angling in the same general direction to where her dogs were now stopped.

Jessie dodged another low-hanging branch, her left thigh clamped into the swell, one heel hooked under the lip of the cantle as she went over sideways, Chesterton angling away from a tree trunk on that side as they went under the low branch.  Leveraged herself, Duchess still riding secure in her pouch, as Jessie’s gelding cut back and forth between the trees. 

There was an urgency to Chesterton that Jessie could feel.  That, in turn, made her feel it, too.  This was unusual for Chesterton.  Whatever the mystery horse’s whinnies were telling him meant trouble.

*

THE WHINNIES of horses, one in front of him, close, one farther away to his left, behind and upslope….  The one behind would be Jessie’s Chesterton.  Before him was a thick, impenetrable-looking lattice of bramble and branches, bright light beyond—sign of the end of the big timber. 

Landon grabbed his hat and bent low as Brogan headed right for it, the big horse letting out another whinny as he broke through, branches cracking and breaking.  Landon felt a sting to his shoulder.  Felt something catch and rip. 

Daylight bright to almost blinding in his eyes after the deep shadow of the forest, and they were through.  And, there, a gray horse, head up and ready to take flight, stood watching them. 

Pulled up.  Brogan breathing heavy for a couple of seconds before settling….  “An Arab,” Landon whispered, eyeing the horse—a mare—the bridle reins broken and dangling, a deep-seated English saddle slightly askew on its back, the stirrups and their leathers missing.

The animal let out a scream, then took off at a trot.  Legs lifting high, it circled, head and tail up, that head casting side to side to look back at them with, first, one eye, then the other. 

It came around and stopped, facing them.  Whinnied again.  Dropped its head almost to the ground and pawed.

Brogan started toward it, and, again, Landon pulled him to a stop.  “Easy.”  Jammed his hat back on his head.  Felt cool on his shoulder and back.  That’s what had ripped—his shirt.  “Let her come to us,” he told Brogan, but his gelding had other ideas.  His horse started toward the animal, the horses again trading whinnies.

Then the gray Arab again did its circling trot, head up, tail up, and casting its head side to side, eyes alternately eyeing them as it turned.  Stopped again.  Dropped its head and pawed again.  Turned to look uphill—Jessie’s dogs sitting there, just watching—Landon hadn’t even known they were there.  Hadn’t heard them alert.  Saw they were sitting or downed and completely still, even his Britta who had her eyes on him.  He touched his hat to her acknowledging, and she went back to watching the horse.

“Where’s your rider?” Landon wondered out loud, eyes back on the mare.

In front of him, the mare started—hard—as a crash of brush announced the arrival of Chesterton and Jessie.

“We made it,” she said, white hair full of needles, leaves and twigs.  With a grin, she added, “You beat us!” as she combed the debris from her mop.

“Not by much.”

“Your shirt’s ripped.”

“Better it than my hide.”

She chuckled.

Landon nodded to the mare who had since settled.  “I think she wants us to follow.  She keeps circling, facing, pawing.”  And, in fact, the mare was pawing now, head tucked, front hoof digging insistently at the turf.  Then she’d stop, lift her head, and watch them.

“Then we follow,” Jessie said, and Jessie called the dogs.

***

3 – Chasing Tail

ON LANDON’S suggestion that they allow their horses to quietly approach the mare, Jessie let Chesterton initiate, Landon’s Brogan keeping apart and back.  The dogs also seemed to understand the delicate nature of the approach.  The Arab mare didn’t though.  Her head went down, ears pricked hard forward, eyes focused on them.  Then she nickered intensely, her nostrils flaring wide.  …And then she charged, straight at Jessie’s Chesterton!

Jessie caught her breath as Chesterton stopped.  The mare swung around right in front of his head, her quarters almost clipping his nose, her tail up and flagging, its length whipping across Chesterton’s neck and head.  Jessie felt the wind of it.

The gray trotted off, swinging her head side to side, eye watching with each head turn.  Nose aloft, she whinnied long and hard, then took off at a gallop.  Jessie grabbed leather as Chesterton took off too, him hard after the mare as she plunged downhill into more trees.

*

LANDON REID didn’t know dogs—not like Jessie did.  Not even close.  But Landon Reid did know horses.  He’d spent his youth learning from his maternal granddad.  He’d spent his adult life learning from horses themselves once he’d come home to the Bitterroot for good, having given up his own dreams of becoming a lawyer.  He’d come home to instead follow the desires of that grandfather—to take over the ranch—and then been forced at his dad’s insistence (demand) that he follow the tail male heritage of being a law enforcement officer. Now he did both.

Horses were Landon’s love, their nobility, gentility, and power, their sheer beauty, their love of freedom, and, most of all, their dedication to each other and, when a human was so blessed, to their human partner, something he admired beyond all else.  A horse’s loyalty and love was something that, to him, was a Gift of Grace from God Himself.  To earn the love of a horse—he smiled—and a dog—laid eyes on Jessie flying along ahead of him—to win the love of a woman was, to Landon, the epitome.  They were the greatest honors of all. 

He glanced down at Britta, his dog who now paced Brogan to the near (left) side as they flew down the mountain at a breakneck pace.  “You taught me about the love of a dog, Britta,” he called to her over the pounding thrum of hooves on mountain slope, them swerving around young timber like they were weaving through poles in a gymkhana pole race. 

At his words, his beautiful Britta gave him a quick up-glance, eyes happy as if understanding his meaning, and again he smiled, because, yes, he thought she did. 

Ahead, Jessie’s fastest dogs—Milo, Mitch, Acer, and Sumi—ran hard, scattered around her, the bolting mare was still casting her head from side to side to make sure they followed.  And, yes, Landon knew that was exactly the Arabian’s intent from the start.  That horse was leading them down, down, down through a now relatively young stand of trees—maybe forty years old—taking them to the human the mare called hers.  He knew that without any doubt.

*

BRAKE-LOPING down a steeper slope, Jessie’s Chesterton took an unexpected hard left, almost losing both her and Duchess, brush-busting to hit the unseen main trail a few strides later.  Hoof prints apparent, the gray mare and Jessie’s dogs, even Queenie and Oso, were nowhere in sight though.

Jessie pulled up.  “Give yourself a breather, Chesterton,” she told her gelding, patting her trusted friend on the neck, a neck that was hot and beginning to streak with sweat.  Then she scolded him a tease.  “And not even a turn of an ear to warn me you were hanging a hard left?  That wasn’t nice.  You forget how to use your turn signals?”

Her gelding blew a snort and jigged—unlike him.  “Just easy,” she ordered, and, finally, he settled down.

Landon’s Brogan came down to the side of them, also busting brush.  “That was quite a run,” Landon said, jamming his hat back on.

“Yeah.  By my app, we’ve come down overland about a mile-and-a-half.”

“Without a doubt.”  Her husband tipped his head down-trail.  “Let’s walk ‘em out.”

“Okay.”

Jessie let Landon take the lead, surprised that even his Brogan fussed at the bit, occasionally jigging with impatience.

Milo’s echoing howl sounded.  Jessie shook her head.  “I can’t talk to them,” she yelled at Landon’s back.

Landon didn’t respond, and his silence bothered Jessie. 

The mare’s whinny called from around the curve ahead.  Moments later, the animal came flying back, caught sight of them, whirled, and headed back down the trail.

Landon put Brogan into a long trot, and Jessie followed …pounded down and around, and, finally, there, ahead, the mare was stopped.  The dogs were nowhere to be seen, but, by Jessie’s phone app, they were close.

Another howl, plus Acer’s two bark alert.  From below.  And, yet again, Jessie vowed that, henceforth, RF collars were the rule, even on pleasure trips as she took in the narrow, torn up trail and broken ground.

“Jessie?”

“Yeah?”

Landon pointed.  “Down there, Jessie,” he said, his voice deep, solemn …grave.  “Dead or alive?”

The dogs were down next to a small body.  “My dogs say ‘alive’,” Jessie said, but her heart was in her throat.  The stillness of the body….

“Calling for Medivac,” Landon said, his tone, to Jessie’s ear, easing some as he pulled his phone out.

*

JESSIE GOT DOWN.  Put Duchess on the ground with a word and sign to ‘stay’.  Dug out and pulled on her seat harness, hardware jangling.  Unstrapped the small first aid pack from the back of Chesterton’s saddle. Got her 150’ rope. 

“I’ll take that,” Landon said, grabbing it out of her hands.  “Medivac is en route.  It will take them about thirty minutes.”

“That long?” she asked as she watched him fold a bight, then slip a hitch through the swell of Brogan’s saddle, running it up to hook over the saddle horn.  Then he tossed the coil down the side-slope, his hand flicking it just so as it flew.

As it landed, straight and trued, he gave her an odd look.  “That’s about the right amount of time for them to get here,” he said, eyes locking on, face serious.  “You know that.  Are you all right?”

She wasn’t.  “I don’t have my big med pack.”  Heard her voice break.  Felt tears threaten.  “…I’ve got nothing but simple first aid stuff.”

A nod to that, his eyes quiet.  “Jessie, we do what we can with the tools we’ve got,” he said, his voice going deeper and oh so soft and gentle. 

She wanted to hug him.  She wanted a hug from him.  “Yeah, I know.  I’m just kicking myself.  I know better.”

“No.  This was a pleasure ride, not—”

“Always prepared—Dad’s rule,” she barked out, anger instantly erupting.

He grabbed her and crushed her to him.  Held her till she felt herself ease.  Finally, she hugged him back, almost let loose tears, but didn’t, and when she let go her fierce grip on him, he kissed her.  Let her go. 

Her mad was gone.  So was her upset.  Landon did that to her.  He made things ‘okay’.

“It’s going to be all right.  Now, get going.  We’ve got you,” he said, one hand easy on his Brogan, the other her rope.

*

LANDON WATCHED as his Jessie lowered herself down over the side, dirt and rocks dislodging to tumble down the steep slope.  Watched his wife, struggle with the lack of good footing, the rope dislodging more soil and stones where it rubbed ground to rain down on her.  Wished she was wearing a helmet. 

His Brogan stood firm, the pull of Jessie’s relatively slight weight and movement easy to handle for the cow horse.  Landon kept glancing at the dogs waiting down by the victim, four of them downed beside the body—a very still body.  What had happened? Did her horse shy, and she toppled?  Not by the look of the ground, though their arrival had disturbed some traces.  And Landon swore he saw tire tracks.  So the horse shied at an off-road vehicle or mountain biker?

The rope jerked, Brogan shifting, working it, and Landon brought eyes back to see a whole chunk of slope giving way, Jessie’s feet losing their hold to flop her body against the mountainside.  His Brogan again shifted to compensate, Landon watching, but not interfering.  Brogan had this, and Jessie was back in control almost immediately, her mountain rescue training standing her.

By his feet, Duchess sat.  He reached down and gave her a stroke, then picked her up and stuck her on the broad seat of Brogan’s saddle so she wouldn’t get stepped on, and the dog stayed there.

Far below, Jessie’s dogs and Landon’s Britta kept their eyes on Jessie’s descent.  They were very still—no wags.  It was serious was Landon’s take on their attitude.  That meant the girl—and, yes, he guessed it was a young girl by the clothes, the slight frame, and the lack of development—was probably injured pretty badly.  Wondered how close Medivac was.  He wasn’t yet hearing the chop of its blades in the distance and thought he should be.  Sound carried in the Bitterroot.

*

THE SLOPE was treacherous, the whole thing still frost-laden beneath, the upper surface sloughing where Jessie disturbed it.  Landon had set up her descent line so that anything getting dislodged missed her dogs and the victim as Jessie worked her way down.  That didn’t stop the rub of the rope she was on from raining what it loosed down on her.

Pelted with sloggy dirt and small stones, she should be wearing a helmet.  Hadn’t brought one.  “Know better, know better, know better,” she scolded, the rhythm of her words keeping time with her foot placements. 

Lost footing again and slammed against the slope, the point of her hip hitting hard.  Mentally shook her head.  “Never again.  I will never, ever again go out unprepared for emergency rescues.”

Finally getting close, she called to her dogs.  Told them how good they were, Queenie, Oso, Sumi, and Mitch cuddling close to the girl, the rest staying right near them.  Got eyes going soft and the slightest of tail wags, but that was it. Things are not good.  Gave them more encouragement even as her own spirits sagged even more. 

Getting down near the young girl, Jessie asked Sumi and Mitch to move as she tied off, got her pack off, snapping it to her seat harness so it didn’t roll off downhill.  Dug out her stethoscope and some gloves.  Snapped the gloves on.  Slipped the stethoscope’s ear pieces into her ears, put the chest piece on the child and listened.  Her eyes took in the cuts to the body and face and an obvious compound fracture of the left arm, blood coagulated. 

Heart was good, but running a little slow to Jessie’s way of thinking, considering the injuries—78 bpm—respirations irregular, shallow, and also slow. 

Frowned.

Dug out her light and BP cuff, an oxygen monitor clipped to the latter.  Checked the eyes—non-responsive and mild hemorrhaging apparent.

Clipped the oxygen monitor on the small, fine-boned hand, its middle finger, and watched it blink then steady at 92 as she strapped on the BP cuff …which was way too big to get an accurate reading on the slight child, a kid of maybe ten or eleven and a whole eighty-to-ninety pounds.  Got the cuff fitted as well as she could, pumped it up, and took the reading—78 over 51.  Not accurate.  Where was the Medivac chopper?!

Checked her phone—maybe one bar and that intermittent down here.  Unstrapped her satphone and called in.

*

“BROGAN, YOU whoa right here and hold just like you have been, big boy.  I’ll be right back,” Landon said, giving his horse a neck stroke and a slice of apple from his stash of them in his pocket.  Going to Chesterton, he unbuckled the animal’s halter and lead rope, then approached the mare, talking quiet.  Chesterton followed him over, the gelding nickering. 

The mare let Landon approach.  She stood for him.  He slipped the halter on her.  Rewarded her with a sliver of apple, her head dropping for him, her big eyes going soft—grateful.  Gave one to Chesterton, too.  Snugged a loop of the lead up under his belt, then cut the broken reins from the mare’s bit, her chewing a second apple slice once he had, Chesterton getting another, too.  Then Landon loosened the fleece covered, folded leather girth around the Arab’s belly and straightened the fancy English saddle and its pad the mare wore. Retightened the girth and slid the ends of the buckling straps into their keepers, the horse standing solid.  Checked her for injury—a few scrapes and small cuts, probably from her cross-country charge up and then down the mountain.  The sweat on her hide was already drying to rime as he heard the chop of the Medivac helicopter’s blades in the distance. 

“All right.  You and Jessie’s Chesterton,” he said, leading the gray up next to Jessie’s brown on the gelding’s off side (right side).  Threw the double flip loop of a clove hitch with a quick-release over the saddle horn, then led Chesterton back over to Brogan, the mare following easy. 

The chopper was Landon’s next worry with the gray.  He needn’t have fretted, though.  The mare flinched and snorted, her eyes rolling, but she stood, feet planted, her body quivering.  “It’s all right,” he said, going around and stroking her neck.  “It’s just a big dragonfly.”  Wished he knew the mare’s name.  It would help.

That she stood, didn’t even offer to pull, didn’t shy, didn’t try to run off, that told him something.  The mare probably hadn’t caused the accident by starting or shying and tossing her rider.  Though only somewhere about eight to ten years old, he guessed, this horse was bomb-proofed—trained to be a beginner’s or a kid’s horse.  So, something else had happened to cause the rider to tumble down the slope.  Thought about the tire tracks he’d seen, now pretty much obliterated.  Wondered.

*

SATPHONE CONNECTING, on-duty was Dr. Bill Moynihan, an ex-Army field surgeon who’d worked on the front lines.  That was who answered Jessie’s call—surprise.  “Jessie Anderson, Doctor.”

“My favorite lady,” he said.  “What have you got for me?”

“Young, female tween, slight, maybe four-ten, maybe eighty to ninety pounds, suspect concussion, maybe TBI.  Also suspect significant body trauma.  Under her jacket and jersey, I see heavy bruising to the rib cage and a significant …dent.  She has an obvious compound fracture of the left radius and ulna, no longer bleeding.  Humerous may be compromised, as well.  Other arm and both legs look okay, but haven’t checked them.  BP inaccurate.  Don’t have a kid’s cuff.  Getting 72 over 51 and 76 over 55 on second try.  Pulse running 78 bpm, respirations shallow, erratic, and mostly very slow.  Oxygen steady at 92 to 94.  I’m suspicious, but I don’t know of what. I’m hesitant to palpate or shift the body.  Her erratic respirations bother me.”

“Eyes?”

“The eyes are unresponsive with significant subconjunctival hemorrhaging.  Beginning visual torso and limb examination now,” she said, cutting away the girl’s shirt, her eye taking in the girl’s jeans as she did, and what she guessed was the track of a broad wheel …two, black tread marks ground into the front of the pants, both legs.  Stripped the cloth away from the torso and saw the damage—heavy bruising and scrapes, including an actual dent at the base of the ribcage.  Described it.  Went on to cut the jeans and described the damage there, too.

“I agree.  Do not palpate.  Start a slow drip IV, normal saline.”

“That’s all I’ve got, and only one bag, plus only one IV setup.  I have a first aid kit with me, not my big med pack.  Sorry, Doctor.  Day trip, pleasure.  Screwed up.”  Heard her voice break and felt tears threaten, again.

Silence on the other end….  Then, “It’s okay, Jessie.  Get the saline started.”

“Ten-four—  I mean, yes, Doctor.”

“And I repeat.  You’re doing fine, Jessie.  I’m thankful it’s you there.  I trust your assessments.”

And now the tears did start in earnest as she got the stick, first try, despite shaking hands, and plugged in the bag of saline.

“BP again, please,” came Bill’s ask.

“On it.”  Gave it—low.

“She’s doing well, Jessie.  That’s going to be the equivalent of about 90 over 76, I’m guessing.”

Jessie felt her insides relax a little.  “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Thank you.  Are the respirations still slow and erratic?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Oxygen numbers again, please?”

“Still 92 …now 93 …back to 92.”

“Eyes?”

“Still unresponsive.”  As she said it, faintly, in the distance, Jessie heard the welcomed sound of rotors flailing air.  “Medivac approaching.”

Her eyes looked.  Her CSI training spoke inside her head, and, working fast, she cut free the pants legs that carried evidence of tires and slipped them into the protective packaging that had held the saline bag, then stuffed it into her pack.  Took photos of the girl’s legs and torso with her phone.  That would have to do.

Told Moynihan, “I suspect hit and run, some sort of broad-tired off-road vehicle or bike.  Please document the injuries, including photos.  It might be important.”

Again a moment’s pause from Moynihan.  Then, “Will do.”

***

4 – Trail Nazi

GETTING THE INJURED girl immobilized and onto a backboard took well over an hour with all three of them working, Jessie and the two paramedics who had arrived via the Medivac chopper.  ER specialist Dr. Bill Moynihan was very precise and deliberate in the ‘what’, ‘how’, and sequential order that he wanted the injuries immobilized and the girl secured prior to attempting to get her onto a backboard, then into the basket.  The hospital had their neurosurgery team along with one internalist and an orthopedic surgeon standing by.

The chop of the Medivac helicopter returning….   Lines dropped, the machine hovering overhead to reel up the basket, the two paramedics ascending with it.

Once the trauma victim was on her way, Jessie looked to her wonder mutts, them skulking over to snuggle in for strokes and to offer her the support she desperately needed.  “My good, good dogs.  I love you,” she sobbed as, wrapping her arms around Acer and Milo, Jessie wept. 

Milo stuck his nose in her ear.  Mitch dropped into her lap upside down, paws tucking into ‘cute’, mouth open in ‘laughing dog’.  Her other dogs all crowded close, Queenie, her red setter dog, blowing cheek bubbles as her whole body arced back and forth in a body wag.  Both Sumi and Britta came close.  So did Oso, whose tail was wiggling furiously.  And, now, Jessie’s tears came on for real.  Her wonder dogs.  “You guys and gals did it again.”  And, of course, her phone had to ding!  Touched it.  “What Landon?” she asked, and she despised herself for crying.

“Ready when you are.”

“Not ready yet.”

“All right.”

*

JESSIE WAS suffering.  That was certain.  The longer Landon waited her out, the better. 

He knew the problem, her stress levels peaking, depending on how severely the trauma victim was injured.  Her ability to save lives, her ability to work effectively and efficiently under pressure, despite the conditions, despite the emotional strain, had gained her the highest regard with the ER doctors at their local hospital.  It was the aftermath, especially if she couldn’t save someone, that took high toll.  In those cases, she blamed herself, and no amount of post-incident talk therapy with their crisis expert seemed to diminish the self-criticism.  She had to come to it herself …and she did.  In time.  But, when she was deep in it, those around her with whom she felt safe suffered the full brunt of her distress, her lashing out, not at them, but because, deep down, she knew they understood.  They were ‘safe’.  Unconsciously, maybe even consciously, Jessie knew they’d still love her, no matter what …which was true.  It didn’t make it any easier on the people around her, but, used to her, everybody understood it.  

He knew he did it too, though not in the same way.  He turned his upset inward, which Tank Sherman, their crisis manager, said was more dangerous …and they were working on it.  “Unless you want to drop dead at forty,” Tank had told him. 

He didn’t.

Tank had told him that, to one extent or another, everybody did it.  Not everybody lashed out as a stress release, though.  Many, maybe even most, suppressed it like Landon did, which, in itself, caused them physical deterioration, often cardiac and vascular complications.  Worst, though, was that repression could lead to outcomes that included suicide and murder, sometimes both.

Jessie wasn’t at risk for the worst-case scenarios.  She shed her pain, usually immediately following, though she mostly waited till she was with others she trusted—her dogs. 

Her dogs were the most effective at defusing her.  She never lashed out at them.  The love of a dog and, with Jessie, many dogs, seemed to neutralize the crisis and recharge her, and the dogs loved being that safe harbor and solace.  They truly did.  Even Landon’s Britta. 

He smiled thinking about his beautiful GSD.  Right now, she was down with Jessie’s pack, having ‘helped’ in locating the injured. She’d now help in healing Jessie’s upset, just like she did Landon’s when he got all bent out of shape about something.

People tried to fix things; dogs didn’t.  Dogs just loved, and that’s all that somebody in pain needed, even him.  Chuckled.  “We’re a sad example of an intelligent species, yeah, we are.”

His phone dinged.  He touched it on.  Heard Jessie’s voice, and, yes, she felt better.  There was a softness to it.  “Ready,” she told him.  “Dogs clipped on.  Me, too.  We’re ready to start our ascent.”

“Ready for you here,” he said, hand reaching to feel what the rope telegraphed up to him.  His Brogan braced a little, haunches bunching.  …Reset a hind foot and stilled.  Again, the horse had this.

Voices….

Landon turned to see hikers coming down from above.  “Traffic,” he said to Jessie, and his hand felt her stop, though there was still movement—the dogs still coming up.  Closed the call, and, with a word to his horse, stepped around Brogan.

The hikers noticed him and stopped.  One of them—a wiry, fit older man—then started toward him again, eyes turning angry. 

The horses did not need this.  At all.  “Stay back,” he called and held up a warding hand.

The man stopped.  Glared at him.  “You’re in violation of the rules,” he barked, his voice grating.  Brogan’s ears swiveled, but the horse stood firm.

Landon blew breath.  Hand on Brogan again, he fished out his badge.  Held it up.  “Sheriff Landon Reid, sir.  Please stand back.  This is the culmination of a rescue op.  I’m sure you heard or even saw the rescue helicopter.”

“You’re blocking the trail!  Look what your horses have done!”

Was he deaf?  Or just ignoring what Landon had said?  Tried again, the shorter version, only this time he hardened his voice.  “Stand back, please.”

*

LANDON’S USE OF the word ‘traffic’ meant people approaching.  Jessie stopped climbing.  Held still.  Above her, the dogs, all of them clipped on the rope, were still climbing and Jessie didn’t stop their momentum.  The slope was treacherous with bad footing for them, rocks and dirt sloughing off from their upward scramble to rain down on her.

Waiting, Jessie watched the dogs and the rope.  Things seemed stable, so she again began to work her way up. 

Felt the rope jerk oddly.  Stopped again. 

Above her, the dogs were struggling to ascend even faster.  They were intent on ‘getting there’.  Trouble?  Jessie wondered, starting to climb again.

Heard voices.  Frowned.  Stopped.  Listened carefully, and heard Landon ask somebody to please back away.

The last of the dogs disappeared over the top.

Hurrying, pushing herself, she climbed mostly using the rope, depending on Brogan to handle her weight and movement.  Got near the top.  Felt him shift.  Stopped.  Waited.  Heard a voice she thought she recognized, and, feet slipping repeatedly, hauled herself up.  Got to the top. 

As soon as her head popped above ground level, the voices silenced …for a second.  A too familiar body and face—tall and skinny, salt-and-pepper hair, the hard blue eyes angry, the pointy face all sour attitude and outrage turned to stare down at her. “Oh.  Of course it’s you again!” the man said.

Jessie pulled herself up and over using the rope and belly flopped her way up onto the level.  Got to her feet, Landon unclipping dogs from the rope, then folding and fastening their leads into their keeper straps.  He slant-glanced Jessie’s way as he did it, eyebrows giving a specific kind of twitch and arch.  He was signaling a warning for her to ‘bide’ as he called it.  Well, that wasn’t going to happen.  Landon didn’t know this man.  This man did not back off.  At least he hadn’t the first two run-ins Jessie had had with him, and other SAR members had had similar experiences.  Jessie did touch on her phone to record, though.  Said, “Get away from the horses and the dogs, please,” as she unclipped and let her seat sling just drop, hardware jangling.  She unslung her pack.  Stepped toward, putting herself between the day hikers and Landon and the animals.  “You heard the Medivac chopper, Mr. Schuler.  This is a rescue.”

“We did hear it.  Saw it, too,” said the woman just behind Schuler who Jessie also recognized, this lady one of the regulars of the Bitterroot County Day Hiker’s Club.  “Is the person okay?” the woman, a Sherry Black, wife of Fireman Jack Black, asked.

“She’s alive, but injured.”—Jessie shouldn’t have shared that, but it would help gain her advocates among the group who could hopefully then get Mr. Peter Schuler to back off.  And it did.  Faces in the crowd of what had to be more than a dozen shifted to much more compassionate-seeming.

“You’ve torn up the trail, you went off-trail, your horses have scattered their poop everywhere, and your dogs are loose, which is against county regulations,” Peter started in again.

“Like I said, we were on a rescue, and you know very well they’re search and rescue dogs, and most of this damage to the trail was the result of the mishap that the injured girl suffered when she went over the side.”

“I suppose she was riding that horse, correct?” the man snapped, pointing to the gray mare.

“We don’t know that,” Jessie lied.  Caught Landon finish coiling and stowing the climb rope in her periphery, his face a mask of stillness.

“Well, I do,” Mr. Schuler said..  “I know that horse.  And that girl is always racing up and down the mountains.”

“What girl?  What’s her name?” Jessie asked, hoping to get an ID on the victim.

“I don’t know what her name is.  I just know that horse and that saddle,” Mr. Schuler said, again jabbing a finger toward the gray.

A growl by Jessie’s knee—Acer.  Jessie signaled, and he abruptly sat.

“Your dog just growled at me!”

“You’re threatening and aggressive,” Jessie returned matter-of-fact.

A body coming up behind her—Landon.  “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please back a few steps, we can get out of your way and all of us get on with our day.”

“I’ll be filing a complaint, Sheriff Reid,” Schuler said, stepping even closer.

Britta rumbled, moving in, hackles instantly up, and Jessie saw Landon put a hand on her.  Beside her, Acer also growled again.  Milo started too, his low rumble barely audible, but his rising hackles plain as day. 

People backed away …except for Mr. Schuler.  The man was getting angrier.  So was Landon, apparent by the hardening of his eyes, the tendons in his neck becoming pronounced.  The muscles of his jaw twitched and his thin-lipped mouth set.  Uh-oh.  Now Schuler’s done it! Jessie thought.

And, sure enough, Landon stepped up to and stared down at Peter Schuler, the brim of his hat almost touching the top of the brim of the man’s baseball hat.  The man finally stepped back, face changing to startled for a moment.

Landon smiled, and that smile looked, to anyone not familiar with her husband, oh so friendly.  “Please do,” he said, his voice gone soft and straight-lined—no inflection—his eyes hooded and slow-blinking.  And, yes, Jessie knew that now there were going to be consequences …to Mr. Peter Schuler.  Interfering with a rescue operation, even its conclusion and clean-up was a misdemeanor offense, and Jessie was pretty sure that Landon was somehow going to make that known to one and all, especially Peter Schuler.

But he didn’t.  Instead, Landon turned to her.  “Jessie, mount up, please?”—a command, not a request.

“You bet.  Dogs?” she called, grabbing her harness and pack.  Got Duchess down off Brogan’s saddle and, not bothering with the small dog’s sling, got up on Chesterton, slipping her leg under the gray’s lead tied to the saddle horn.  Duchess planted her butt and hind legs in the well made between Jessie’s thighs, front paws on Jessie’s right leg, the dog readying herself for Jessie’s hug when they took off.  Duchess knew this. 

Jessie felt the eyes of the hikers on her.  Raised her arm and snapped a picture with her phone as Landon mounted Brogan.  Peter Schuler stepped up too close, head raised, eyes glaring up at Landon.  “I’m going to file a complaint against you and your wife, Sheriff!”

And, as if in answer, Landon reined his horse hard back and around, the cow horse lifting over in a standing roll-back, then booted him into a ‘go’, Brogan leaping down the trail, kicking dirt Peter Schuler’s way.  Jessie’s Chesterton followed with a bound, the girl’s mare right with them, dogs bolting forward around them to lead the way.  The animals were glad to get away from hostility.

A glance sideways, just enough to see the faces of the hikers, showed Jessie that, yes, that move had startled them, especially Peter Schuler.  Again, she raised her arm and snapped a picture.

“You’re tearing up the trail!” came Peter Schuler’s yell.

And you’re a Trail Nazi, Jessie answered, but only in her head.  She kept her tongue still and lips sealed.

*

THE URGE to put the man in cuffs—Landon didn’t have any with him—had given way to reason.  He was in no position to escort him down and waiting for deputies to arrive would have taken hours.  He’d let it go, but the gall of the man burned at his sense of what was just and decent.  The man had no care about the safety or needs of others.  That seemed too clear. 

Landon knew of people like that—not many, thank you—but they were all for themselves and their own desires.  They seemed fixated on those wants, uncaring of how their ideas and actions affected others.  He didn’t understand it—never had, never would.

It irked him that Jessie somehow knew this guy.  It also irked him that a fireman’s wife who he recognized from get-togethers was with him in the group, that woman never stepping in or nay-saying the man Jessie had called Mr. Schuler.

He wanted to ask Jessie how she knew Mr. Schuler.  From the way Jessie had responded to the man, Landon had a good idea, though.  Mr. Schuler had interfered with some other rescue.

He frowned.  And there was something else, too.  The dogs, even his Britta, had actually growled and raised hackles, and that was definitely not normal.

That brought to mind one of Oli Anderson’s lessons.  “Always trust your dog’s judgment on people’s intentions,” Oli had repeatedly insisted.  “Always trust your dog in just about everything,” and, when Landon had shown a hesitation to trusting some things, Oli had set out to prove his axiom in a way that left Landon no doubt that Britta had his back. 

Blindfolded with earplugs inserted under ear protection, with Britta at his knee, Oli had forced Landon to walk a wooded path that included a plank bridge, no handrails, and a bad fall if he misstepped.  With a leashed Britta as his only guide to avoid falls and pitfalls or running face first into trees and boulders, she’d guided him unerringly with her just nudging him with her nose or with leans and pull-aways.

“Always trust your dog,” he muttered.  Glanced down at Britta trotting along beside him.  Looked down at Brogan’s rime-crusted neck.  Patted it.  “And your horse.”

A blow of breath through fluttering nostrils from his gelding answered him.

***

5 – Called Out

THEY TOOK THE downhill at a pretty good clip, the horses jogging along, Jessie sitting it, but only by leaning back hard.  Jessie knew her Landon—now she did.  Outwardly, he looked as quiet as stone as he followed the lead of the dogs.  She let him be, because, when he was in this space, he was all cold steam inside.  She didn’t chatter, as her dad called it, which was her tendency when she was upset.  That or bite somebody’s head off, she thought, giving herself the rebuke with a grin.  Now she just followed along behind and thought about the girl.  She hoped Moynihan would come through and get the photographic evidence of the kid’s injuries, because, the more Jessie thought about it, the more she knew this was felony hit-and-run, and, no, it didn’t matter that it had occurred on a trail instead of a roadway.

They rode all the way down in silence.  They didn’t meet anyone—no more hikers and no one on horseback or riding off-road vehicles of any sort.  Landon did stop once, turning Brogan sideways in the trail and just staring off into the distance.

“What?” Jessie asked as Chesterton eased up beside.

Landon turned to look at her as if he didn’t really see her.  Said, “I thought I heard a gunshot again.  Like earlier.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

He nodded, then let Brogan carry on, the gelding dropping into a long walk.  Chesterton matched that gait, and Jessie was relieved.  Jogging downhill was literally a pain in the butt.

Getting down to where Landon’s red-and-black ‘92 three-quarter ton super cab was parked, Jessie loaded the dogs into back of the cab, then went to help Landon load the mare in the slant-ride.  The gray was refusing.

After a couple of tries, Landon called a halt.  “She’s not going in that way, so let’s do the arms behind the butt thing.”

“Rope behind butt, you mean?”

“No.  Just braided arms, yours and mine, snugged up right under her butt.  She’ll go in.  It’s just a strange trailer, and it’s been a traumatic day for her.”

And Landon was right.  They locked arms, gave a small boost, and the mare stepped in calmly to join Chesterton in the trailer.  Landon swung the divider in place, clipped it, then whistled for Brogan, the big gelding climbing in to sidle himself into place.

“How’d you know she’d go in?” Jessie asked.

“I think it’s a trust and security thing.  She’s stressed.  She just needed to feel our confidence.”  He shrugged.  “Or something like that.  Maybe our arms snugged up on her is kind of like a hug.”

Jessie nodded.  Said, “Okay.”  Knew Landon was still upset.

“I know.  I sound nuts, and I know you don’t agree, and that’s okay.  It’s just an idea on why it works,” he said.

“Oh, I can accept it.  Remember me and dogs?”  She grinned.  Dropped her voice to ‘conspiratorial’, and said, “Just don’t go saying things like that around ‘normal’ people.  It makes them worry, especially with you being the sheriff.”

He gave her a ‘grumpy’ glance, then sort of smiled and sort of nodded, so, yep.  She’d get him over his mad.  Yes, she would.  It actually was easy now that she knew the inside secrets.  Grinned more.

“What are you grinning about?”

“You.”

And that got her a roll eye.  Yep, he was coming out of it.  Then she told him about the tire track marks on the girl’s pants and her suspicions of a hit-and-run, and he went sour all over again.  Said, “I thought I saw wheel tracks.”

“Yeah.”

*

“THOUGHT YOU GUYS were goin’ to play hooky on cookin’ dinner,” Landon’s dad, Clyde Reid, said as they unloaded the horses.  “An’ I see you got yourself a new horse, too, one with a kidney pad strapped to its back.”

“Belongs to a hurt girl.  Had to be Medivaced,” Landon told him, leading the mare into the barn and un-tacking her.

“I’m going to go do my report, then start dinner,” Jessie called out after unsaddling her horse.  “I’ll come back later to brush out Chesterton, so leave him in, please?”

“Will do, and I’ll be right in.  Let me throw the Arab mare some hay.  Don’t want to turn her out.  She might not know barbed wire.”

“Your mom’s already started things.  No worries on dinner,” Clyde said.  “What happened?” he pressed after Jessie vanished out the mandoor.

“We don’t know.  Only thing I’m pretty sure of is that it wasn’t the horse’s doing.”

“An Arab?” Clyde said dubiously, him pronouncing it as ‘AAY-rab’.  “They’re dingier than anything!”

“This horse is bomb-proofed.  Stood for the Medivac chopper coming down without trying to bolt, even though she was real scared of it.”

“An Arab?!” Landon’s dad repeated as Landon put the mare into a box stall and threw in hay.  “I don’t buy it.”

Landon didn’t take the bait.  Just gave his dad a quirk of eyebrow and let it go.  His dad was not a horse person.  Clyde’s thing was motorcycles and ATVs.  …And his hopped up, custom-painted truck, of course.

Headed for his unit, his dad at his shoulder.  Filed his report—short and to the point—then went on to the house.

“Somethin’ botherin’ you?” Clyde asked.

“Had a run-in with some hikers.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.  I was just getting Jessie back up on top when they shoved their noses into things.  Real hostile about the horses, the dogs, us, and, well, everything.”

“Must be outsiders.  Awful early, though.  Usually don’t hit till it warms up a batch.”

“One of them, maybe.  He had a kind of southeast accent, I think.  The others seemed local, though.”

“Well, they’ll get over it.”

He nodded.  Somehow, though, the whole thing just didn’t sit well—not at all.

*

“HEY CELEE,” Jessie said, trotting in, dogs milling around.  “Let me get a shower, then I’ll help.”

“Not to fret.  I love cooking real food.  It tastes so go-ood.”

Jessie smiled.  For a woman who had suffered the same kind of injury as Landon, but who hadn’t had the benefit of the most modern medical advances, Celee Reid was a large miracle, at least according to her new neurologist.

Both Landon and his dad claimed that Celee—short for Coraline—had, until the house fire that brought them to live at Landon’s house, been sullen and withdrawn.  That was Landon’s entire memory of his mom—a scold and sullen, somebody who hated any kind of noise, any kind of muss, and any kind of change.  Now, here she was just a happy person, someone Landon’s dad claimed was who she used to be before the car accident.

“I’ll be back in a jiff,” Jessie said, and Celee nodded, her humming to herself as she stirred a white sauce.

Upstairs in their bedroom, Jessie gave strokes and treats to the dogs as they settled into their beds.  All of them tired, happy dogs at the joy of an unanticipated but successful search and rescue, this was something that they adored doing when it wound up with a live find.  It was what they loved. 

Dogs settled, Jessie stripped and headed for the shower.  Heard Landon come in.  Moments later, he joined her, Jessie turning the pressure down to his level of acceptable.  Handed him the luffa sponge.  “Back, please?” she asked, turning it to him.  And, after giving her a kiss on the nape of the neck, he said, “With pleasure,” and obliged.

*

“THEY’RE HERE!” came Sol’s squashed, somewhat childlike voice calling out the back door.  Sol—Dr. Solomon Hercules Preston—was the S.O.’s spirited and very talented criminologist.  He was Landon’s (and now Jessie’s) permanent housemate.  He was also Jessie’s old college prof and her mentor who wound up being one of Jessie’s very best friends.  Blessed, as the man insisted, with achondroplasia, Sol Preston was brilliant, full of naughtiness, and had a wicked sense of humor.  He was also one of the best chess opponents Landon had ever played and a person Landon credited with keeping him somewhat grounded in a job that often as not challenged his belief in human goodness.

Britta warned him, her standing up and wagging as she looked behind them.  “Hey, Cowboy,” came Oli Anderson’s voice, the man, blond with sharp blue eyes, as tall as was Landon, but built like a wrestler. 

Slim-hipped with a rock-hard chest, neck, and shoulder development, the man had become Landon’s very best friend, an odd thing since he was now also Landon’s father-in-law.  Oli’s Prowlers and the Malinois, Numa, trailed up behind and around, their tails up and bobbing in ‘happy’, and Britta did the sniff and greet thing with the dogs as Oli did the slam on the shoulder thing to Landon.  “Looking good and smelling better.  Need some help?” Oli asked.

“Just company,” Landon lied.  He really wasn’t in the mood right now.

“I can do that.  Here,” he said, handing Landon one of the two iced tumblers of amber-colored liquid he carried.

Landon hadn’t planned on drinking.  Gave Oli a half-smile and almost shook his head.  Then took the whiskey anyway.  Sipped.

“How was the day ride?”

Of course.  That was an Anderson.  Hit the wound dead center, first time.  “First half was good.”

“Oh?  You two have a disagreement?”

Landon forced a chuckle.  Shook his head.  “No.  There was a calamity on the trail involving a horse and rider.”

Oli’s face went from happy to stoic.  He simply said, “Oh,” and took another sip of his whiskey.  “And you guys to the rescue, right?”

Landon nodded.  Thought.  Turned a questioning eye to the man standing beside him.  “You ever run into hostile hikers when you head up into the hills?”

“What do you mean ‘hostile’?”

“Aggressive, angry, critical….”

A chuckled, “Okay, okay.  I think I get it, and, no.”  The man paused, then added, “But, then, I don’t get out as much as Jessie and you do.”

“Not me.  This is the first time I’ve had a chance to do it for pleasure in a couple of years …since being elected.”

“You’ve got to fix that,” Oli said, then pointed.  “Not too well-done, please,” he said, eyeing the biggest steak.  “Rare, just like mine,” Landon said, poking it.  “Honest.  I remember.”

“I prefer bloody rare.”

“Uh-huh.  Knock the horns off, wipe its butt, and send it in.  I know.  So do I.  However, I prefer that your mom, my mom, and Jessie all stay calm and pleasant during dinner, not get on their high horses and deliver an interminable lecture, in triplicate, on the dangers of eating raw meat.”

“It’s not raw,” Oli objected with a sly grin.

Landon’s mood finally lightening up, he chuckled for real this time and said, “Tell that to them.”

“No, thanks.  I don’t try to convince reinforced cement walls of anything.  It’s futile.”

“Well, we ran into some walls, as you say, after getting the injured out, only this wasn’t about something as inconsequential as rare versus well-done steak.”  Told Oli the rest, the man frowning down hard. 

“Isn’t that a crime?  Interfering with a rescue op?” he asked.

“It is, but it would have been an ‘I said, he said’ situation, and no cam recording.  Didn’t think to turn my phone on to record the incident, though I guess Jessie did.  She said so, anyway.”

A nod from Oli.

“Steaks are done,” Landon said, shutting off the grill.

Oli picked up the steel serving platter prepped for them.  Put it down just as fast and wiped his hand on his jeans.  “Ow.  That’s hot.”

Landon rolled eye.  “Hot mitts?” he suggested, pointing.

“What do you have in there?”

“A hot stone.”

“O-ka-aay.”

And Landon laughed more.  The Anderson ‘okay’, which could mean anything from ‘yes’, ‘maybe’, ‘I hear you, but don’t agree’, or could just be sarcasm.

*

JESSIE GRINNED as she watched her dad get Landon out of his downer mood.  That her dad and Landon were best buds seemed so weird.  Landon, the athlete and brainiac, her dad the ex-Navy Seal and all he-man.  Not that Landon wasn’t all man, but he wasn’t in the least bit a ‘heavy’ like Jessie’s dad.

“Table’s set,” Jessie said, coming back into the kitchen.  Started when she saw Clyde instead of Celee.  “Where’s Celee?”

“She went up to change.”

“Oh.  Need me to take over?”

“I know how to do this,” he said, scowling at her.

“Okay.”

“Got a call yesterday,” Clyde said, never giving his eyes as he said it.  “They’re done with the house just about.”

“Oh?”

Now the man turned his face to her.  “Yep.”

“Um, you know, I don’t know if I like that,” Jessie said.

He rolled eye at her, a typical Clyde look of snide on his mug.  He didn’t respond, so she pursued.  “Who am I going to pick on if you go off and vacate?”

A small smirk.  “I’m sure Landon can pick up the slack.”

“Nah.  I’ve got him trained, now.”

And again the roll eye.

“What do you think?” Celee said, coming in.  She spun around, a pretty cream-colored dress with palm-sized blue splashes of what looked like abstract flowers all over it swirling around her as she did.

“That’s pretty,” Jessie said.

“I made it for me.  Got the material in town.  Had Clyde take me.”

This was news.  Celee didn’t go to town.  Not unless she absolutely had to.  She didn’t like riding in vehicles, though it was getting easier each time Clyde or Jessie took her in for a doctor’s appointment.  For her to shop the shops, though….

Clyde shot a warning look Jessie’s way, but she was way ahead of him.  “Which shop?  I might have to go check them out.”

“The little store that took over where the Sew n’ Vac used to be.  Called Sew n’ Notions, and it’s all sewing stuff, now, including material, thread, and sewing machines, plus they have some clutch purses and such.  Got some ribbon, too.  She turned her head and showed off the pretty blue ribbon she had tied in her auburn hair. 

“Really nice.”

“Grosgrain.  It won’t slip and untie itself,”  Celee said, then gave Jessie a grin and a scheming look.  “You should grow your hair out.  Men love long hair.”

“No way,” Jessie said, with a laugh.

“All right.  Just a suggestion, y’know.”

“Yeah.”

“All right, ladies,” Clyde said.  “Let’s get the show on the road, please.  Landon and Oli are comin’ in with the main course.”

“Yes, sir,” Jessie said smartly …which got her another ‘Clyde look’.

Jessie smirked at him and rolled the serving cart over, Celee pulling food from the warming oven as Clyde poured the white gravy he’d been working over a bowl hot veggies Celee set down on the cart.

“Dinner,” came Oli’s call, and they all converged on the dining room.

*

IF WHAT LANDON thought of as the bottom of his day was the injured child and subsequent run-in with the hikers, dinner with Jessie and his whole extended family—the Anderson clan along with Sol Preston and Landon’s dad and mom—was the pinnacle. 

Steaks done to perfection, scalloped potatoes au gratin, some mixed vegetable concoction that included everything from squash to green beans, lubricated with an oniony white sauce, and homemade dinner rolls with real Amish butter made the meal.  A piece of New York cheesecake dressed in homemade raspberry preserves came for dessert, the whole of it topped off with mint chocolate candies and drinks of choice, from tea to sipping whiskey for the takers.  It made for happy tummies and good cheer with conversation all good-hearted banter.  Then, right in the middle of a game of Texas Hold ‘Em, with Landon winning for once, Landon’s day bottomed out for real with a call from the S.O. for Jessie.  “We have lost ATVers,” she told him when she got off the phone.  “Same area we were today, but over on Sundowner.  They haven’t come home.  I’m heading out.  Remmers needs my dogs’ help on this one.  They’ve got those missing kids down on the south end of the county and they’re still out looking for them.  He and now most everybody are out on that.”

It was just turning evening twilight—not good—and his Jessie wasn’t going out without him.  No, she wasn’t.  And Oli was of the exact same sentiment.  “Heading home to load the ATV and get The Prowlers and Numa dressed,” the man told him as he and Jessie’s grandparents all piled in his Caddy SUV.  “Be back in a few.  Don’t leave without me.”

***

6 – Sundowner

GETTING THE TRAILERS hooked up to both Jessie’s XV and Landon’s unit took minutes with Clyde helping.  By the time Jessie got her dogs geared up, Landon’s dad had her quad up on the tilt bed and her dad was back with his 4500, his monster quad, as Jessie thought of it, loaded in the bed. Such was the life of those who dedicate themselves to SAR (Search and Rescue).  “And all for no pay!” her dad griped.

This was the standard complaint by family members of SAR volunteers.  “You don’t have to come, Dad.”

“Yes, I do.  I smell rats after what Landon said you two ran into today.”

Jessie leveled a look at her husband.  “You told him?”

Landon nodded.  “It came up,’ he said, and he didn’t look the least bit guilty, even though he knew Jessie never shared things with her dad that might make him get worried or testy.

“Hot thermoses of chicken broth, compliments of Celee,” Sol said, coming out.  “And two more, one with coffee, the other with hot tea.  I made those.”

“Thank you,” Jessie said, taking them.

“You got snacks?”

“My trail rations.”

“Okay.  Well, good luck and happy hunting.”

“Let’s hope it’s happy,” Landon grumbled.

“Jessie?”

“Dad?”

“You have your body armor on?”

“I do.”

“Landon?”

“Yes, Oli.”

“Good.  Let’s hit the road,” Oli said.  “I’m rear guard.”

*

CHATTER COMING ON AUDIO via the onboard computer indicated that Air Two, the S.O.’s fixed wing, was airborne and looking, using infrared.  Air One, their Huey, was down south helping to look for the still missing kids.  Landon led out, lights, no sirens, in The Rhino, his customized, heavily armored Hummer.

Behind him, sandwiched between him and Oli’s big truck, was Jessie in her armored Knight XV, a purchase for relatively next to nothing from Annie Blackthorne, the mom of Landon’s competitor for Jessie’s affections.  Landon had arranged that after Jessie had come close to being killed by a frenzied mob angry at her dogs having done what Jessie called a ‘grab and drag’ rescue from the edge of a quarry, the only way to save a child’s life.  But the mob hadn’t seen it that way.  All they saw was an attack by dogs on a child.  This was now the norm in both law enforcement and search and rescue.  There was danger to everyone while engaged, danger to everyone after the fact because of misperceptions by a public that mostly didn’t have a clue and looked for any excuse to criticize and condemn, all spread by social media. 

Got the word—‘Deputy Tom Hudson en route’.  Spoke to his phone and advised Jessie who never had her radio or her onboard turned on unless she had to file a report.  “Copy that,” she came back.

He chuckled—his Jessie, a lady who found trouble, but also a lady who could outrun, outride, out-shoot, and outflank just about anybody other than her hero dad, himself a Congressional Medal of Honor recipient who’d rescued embassy personnel nobody had thought stood a chance of survival.  But Oli had made it so …along with Landon’s own Tactical commander, Captain Howard West, this back when Howie worked under the man in the military.

“All stuff of legends,” he muttered, and he was blessed now to be considered part of the Anderson’s extended family, which included Howie West, he’d discovered once he’d been let in on the secret, a secret he had long suspected, though had had no proof.  And he loved the honor of being accepted as one of them.

Glanced at his dog riding shotgun, one of Oli’s heritage-bred, war trained animals.  Britta was now all his, and Landon was glad for it, though the way she’d done it had scared the dickens out of him, her laying him on the ground after she’d leapt to his chest, knocking him flat.

Chuckled more.  Yeah, that was the Andersons—dogs chose, dogs ruled, dogs were the epitome of honor, valor, and integrity according to them.  Thought on it.  Glanced at Britta again and nodded.  Maybe they were. 

Thinking about the many interactions he’d had with both people and dogs in his short time as sheriff, him only in his third year of that position, he’d almost agree, but not quite.  His personnel—dedicated and skilled—also exhibited those qualities, and, for that, he felt himself truly blessed.  They were the best, all of them.  The Bitterroot did that.  It demanded the best …and got it.

Coming up on the turn off to the road leading directly to the base of Sundowner Peak, he put it in four-wheel-drive.  The road got bad from here.  Mud season was still with them in places, but even the bad roads were getting better.  Most were at least now passable, at least in four-wheel drive if you had good tires and high clearance.  Got on the radio and asked for status from air search.

“Nothing yet.  No heat signatures of the human kind,” came back, not from one of the dispatchers on tonight, but from the duty sergeant.

Landon groaned.  “Ten-four.” Hung up the mic.

*

JESSIE’S DOGS were stoked. Hyped, with tails all high, they jostled and bumped each other, except for tall Milo, who was down in sphinx mode. Having mostly snoozed away the afternoon after their cross-country tromp up and down the mountains today, they were super-charged and super-eager, tails walloping the upholstery, the windows, and each other.  Jessie, however, was drooping.  She hadn’t had the benefit of a nice, comfy nap, just good food—way too much of it—and happy conversation with her gram, Celee, Sol, and, yes, even Clyde, Landon and her dad busy just eating.

Facing a romp in the cold and dark, she at least had happy, rested dogs.  Smiled.  Her good, good, good, good, great dogs!

Ahead, Landon pulled in and she followed, her dad taking a spot on the far side of the trailhead’s parking area.  Tom Hudson’s rig came in seconds later, him sporting a brand new ATV in the bed of his truck. 

Also in the lot was a pickup, a flatbed trailer on it.  “That belongs to the missing kid,” Landon said, coming over the radio.

Yeah.  Jessie knew that from Remmers’ text messaging.

She got out, the ground a bit squishy on top with all the traffic it had seen today.  She waved at Tom as her dogs piled out.  Got the trailer pin pulled, then her ATV backed off, the thump and jolt of the tilt bed landing on the ground unnerving her as usual. 

The grumble of her dad’s big Can-Am warned her.  He pulled up beside, teasing her by revving his engine.  “Show off,” she yelled.

“Race you to the top,” he hollered back. 

“Dogs would still beat you.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” he said, his four apprehension dogs, The Prowlers, ranged around him and watching her, mouths open, ears up, but relaxed, not hard pricked.  To Jessie, it looked as if they were laughing.  And Jessie swore they were. 

Numa, her dad’s retired bomb dog, rode in the basket in front.  Eyes on Jessie, that dog seemed to be laughing, too.  The dogs were much like her dads—all go-for-broke gung ho.

Landon rolled up on his Polaris, Britta trotting along with him.  Meep-meeped at them, then turned about to meet up with Deputy Hudson.  Her dad followed, his dogs bounding off, Jessie thankful as the noise of the machines dwindled.

Jessie shut down, and, getting off, she squatted down to talk with her troop.  “We’ve got this,” she said, and they bounded, wagged, and yipped.  Her eye took in each, all with happy faces and flagging tails.  They adored the search, just like she did.  This was the game, this was the fun—the finding.  Once found, that’s when the crisis could begin, and her dogs always knew when it was going to go tough on Jessie—when there were critically injured …or the dying and the dead.  The lost and those with minor injuries?  Piece of cake and happy times. 

They knew.  And so did she.  Got into the headlights of her machine.  Said, “Okay, Wonder Pups.  We are looking”—signed ‘search/find’—“for two, zwei”—signed ‘two’—“human”—signed ‘person’—and, last, said, “Any”—and signed that, as well, which opened up the field for them to locate any human they could detect with their noses …and, yes, Jessie’s dogs knew that didn’t mean the humans accompanying them.  Opened her arms.  Had them crowd into her, and she handed out hugs and strokes, then stood, strapped on her rifle, wiggled into her med pack, buckled in, and hollered, “Ready?” to the men.

Got thumbs up all around from them, all of whom now looked more like soldiers, rifles slung, packs on their backs, and, yes, helmets—night vision helmets that employed something called HADAR that created a hyper-colored day vision of the landscape.  It seemed almost, but not quite, like daylight.  Pulling on, then turning on her own, Jessie’s brain still balked at it, but, yes, it was almost dark, and, as yet, even with enhanced HDR, there was nothing better than HADAR.  Turned off her quad’s headlights.  Patched in her phone display to the helmet interface and started her dog tracking app, keying it to the dogs’ RF collars.  Landon, Jessie’s dad, and Tom all showed up on it, as well, just like she did.  “Okay.  Here we go, guys and gals.  Into the breach and all that stuff.  “Such!  Find it!” 

And, at that, giant Milo leapt high in the air, doing his happy, silly dog bound, then took off, all dogs right behind him …except little Duchess who Jessie scooped up and set into the basket, clipping the small dog’s harness break-away to it. 

Jessie took off after her dogs, the men falling in around her as they took the main trail up the slope.  Chatter on the helmet radios—back and forths as the men around her adjusted positions and talked over possible contingencies and counter-strategies—and Jessie figured that, were anyone within a mile of them, they would certainly know that something was coming. 

Jessie grinned.  They were running loud enough to wake the sleeping and the dead.  On foot or on horseback is so much quieter.

***

7 – Waking the Wilderness

THE DOGS trotting along easy, they got up the main trail, then climbed the branch that led to the south side of Sundowner, as locals called it, this trail working upward in broad swings.  Seeing nothing, the dogs likewise were not indicating anything human in the neighborhood.  That was expected.  When she got up to the broad third bench that led up the west side, they headed across just above The Sheer.  The Sheer was a cliff, all that remained of where the mountain had sloughed a long time in the past, exposing interesting rock formations that bled color in the snow during spring melt.  Once there, they went on to the Three Forks trailhead.  Riding up to the actual fork, they stopped to watch the dogs—nothing. 

“Well, we know they aren’t out in the open or air support would have spotted them,” came Landon’s voice through Jessie’s helmet.  “So let’s take to the trails that head up through the trees.  What do you think?”

“Agreed,” Jessie heard Deputy Tom Hudson come back. 

“I think Landon and I should take the north trail, and Jessie, you and Tom, can cover the south one.  What say you all?”—Oli. Then, “Jessie?  This is your command.  Give us the go or no go.”

“Sounds good,” Jessie replied.

“It’s a plan,” Tom said, his voice all ‘ready-to-roll’, and Jessie wanted to groan.  The guys were doing their man thing again.  She, on the other hand, just tended to trust her dogs to figure out where best to seek their targets.

“Jessie?”—Landon’s voice in her ear.

“Yeah?”

He rolled up next to her, him looking not quite himself with his Stetson® replaced by the HADAR helmet.  “You good with that plan?” he asked her.

She nodded, knowing he could see her now, even in the dark …and it was dark—no moon. “I am.”

“All right.  See you at the top.” 

His hand reached, touched her arm, and she nodded again.  Then, pulling off her helmet, she reached over, raised his visor, and smooched him quick on the lips …and the worry left his brow to be replaced with happy eyes and his subtly-there, gentle smile.  “See you at the top, Handsome,” she told him, saw him blink appreciation.  Then she smacked his visor back down with a snap, him shaking his head and chuckling.  “You are a brat, woman.”

“Back atcha!” she said, pulling her helmet back on.  “Dogs?  Such!  Find it!”

*

LANDON WATCHED his heart’s happiness bounce off on her machine.  Watched Deputy Tom Hudson pull in just behind and off to her right, glad the young, tough, Tactical officer was assigned to her.  With Tom there, he didn’t have to worry …but he did, anyway.

“Coming, Cowboy?”—Oli’s voice inside his helmet.

“Right with you,” he answered, and put it in gear, Landon’s blonde Britta trotting along to the left side of his machine as he followed Oli in the same general position—behind and off to the right—as Tom had taken up behind his Jessie.

*

THE DOGS had no scent.  They were hunting, but they weren’t catching anything that said human.  Occasionally they’d pause, sniff, especially Mitch, the Marvelous Malinois and Oso, the Elkhound.  Then they’d move on and catch up with the rest of the pack, Mitch making a mad dash to join Milo in front.  Positioned mid-pack, Acer’s head was lifted, nose high.  Premier ground tracker Queenie was occasionally sifting scent as she long-trotted, but, mostly she kept her head level.  All of that told Jessie that, no, there was no human scent—no fresh human scent, anyway—to be had.  Wonder if they took the north side trail? 

Up and up, winding back and forth, the trees shorter in height as they climbed elevation, and still her dogs trotted on.  An hour into it, heading higher and higher, bend after trail bend, they climbed.

“Doesn’t seem like there’s anything up this way,” Tom said, his voice bouncing around inside her helmet.  She turned the volume down.

“Yeah.  I see that, and we’re going to be getting to the snowline soon,” Jessie responded.

“What if they went somewhere else?” Tom came back.

“He wouldn’t have parked down where he did, is my thinking,” Jessie answered.

“True enough.”

Wind from the north tonight was a help and a hindrance.  If the off-roaders had stuck to the trail, the dogs wouldn’t catch much scent until they were closer to them.  If they’d gone off-trail to the north, the only sane way of traveling, then the dogs would catch air scent.

Jessie was about to call a halt when her dogs veered south—hard.  She stopped, Tom pulling up behind her, and watched her app. 

In the basket, Duchess whined. 

“It’s okay,” Jessie told her, her voice coming back to her ears through both the dog’s collar and the helmet, but the yearling pup did settle.

“What do you think?” Tom asked.

“They just veered south.”

“Yeah.  And they’re still going,” Tom said.

“South is a hard slope—not ATV terrain.”

“We run?”

“We might have to.”

“I’ll advise Sheriff Reid and your dad,” Tom said, using his radio.

“Yeah.”

*

TOM SPEAKING, HIS words breaking up, and Landon and Oli both pulled up where the trail broke out into the clear near a deck of logs.  Landon got on his phone, which thankfully had a couple of bars.  “Say again, please?” he requested, and got the scoop.  Told Oli. 

“South?  That’s not ATV terrain.”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s cut through,” Oli said.  “There’s bound to be some track along here somewhere.”

“Snowline is close.”

“I know.  I can feel the chill of it.”

“We’re going to hit that gully on the other side and it’s full of run-off.  I think we’ve got to go back the way we came.”

Oli nodded.  “You’re probably right.  Let’s get turned around.”

“I hope they didn’t crash.  Jessie doesn’t need dead bodies,” Landon muttered.

And Oli said the thing they both knew as truth—“She’ll handle it, like it or not.”

*

FINDING WHERE the dogs had split off from the trail, Jessie saw the reason.  There was a newly made track through the trees.  Started following it, thankful that her machine was relatively narrow at only forty-five inches wide, Tom’s only a little wider.  There would be no staggered riding here. 

“Jessie, let me take the lead,” Tom said.

“Why?”

A sigh in her ear.  “Okay,” she came back.  Tom got these ideas in his head, and, even though she had no sense of danger climbing her arms and neck, she knew he needed her to listen.  Coming to a spot where he could get by, she pulled over and stopped.  “You’re in front.”

“Thank you!”—said with strong exasperation.  Yep.  He was not liking the situation, not at all.  So, okay.  He was the tactical guy, she was just the dog girl.

He squeezed past her, and, following, she kept her attention split between her app and maneuvering her quad, Duchess hunkered down in the basket now. 

A few minutes, and, through her phone, the sound of dogs starting to yip and huff.  They had scent.  In front of her, Tom stopped.  She did, too—had to.  He got off his machine.  Disappeared, even to her hyper-colored sight.  A minute …more.  Then, “Jessie!”—hollered.

She shut down.  Got off and, telling Duchess to ‘stay’, she squeezed past a tree, then got around Tom’s ATV.  “Coming.”  And then she saw.

*

THE CRACKLE of bad reception….  “Say again?” Landon asked, him stopped as Oli got his machine turned around.

His phone pinged, and, seeing it set to private, he answered.  “Go ahead.”

“Found a quad, sir.  Matches the description of one of the pair Jim Temple’s boy had.  There’s a bullet through the engine and dried blood.  Not too old, Jessie says.  Figure that somebody shot it …and probably whoever was riding it.  We’re on foot now and following the dogs, because they’re hot on trail.  Will come back to do evidence collection.”

This was not good news.  “Copy, Tom.  I see you on my app.  We’re headed your way.”

“Copy and out.”

“And?” Oli asked, idling up and stopping beside Landon.

“They found a quad.  There’s blood on it, and the machine has a bullet through its engine.”

“Let’s go.”  And Oli’s voice had gone hard as he took off, his Prowlers leaping to follow, then lead as they pulled ahead of the slower speed their quads had to maintain in the bumpy terrain.

*

FAR AHEAD, Jessie’s dogs were heading off the track the ATV had cut through the brush.  Whoever was riding it was in a panic, Jessie thought.  She thought that because they’d not avoided obstacles like small trees and brush, but had gone right over or through it—punishing to both machine and rider—probably two riders now, since the footprint of its passing showed the tires leaving significantly deeper tracks than was usual for the wide tired machines.

On foot, now, Duchess following and keeping up, Jessie cut off the track to chase the direction the dogs were now taking.  Lost Tom and Duchess, too, and slowed to let them catch up.  Watched her app.  Her dogs were still flying downhill according the topographic map underlay.  Shook her head.  The targets couldn’t go much farther, not with an ATV.

Felt Duchess at her ankles.  “Good, good, Duchess.”  Heard Tom coming up behind her.  Glanced at her display, touched to see behind, saw him coming, him all weird colors.  Cut off the rear display to save battery and took off as he closed, dodging in and around rocks, trees, and the occasional dead leaner.  A waist-high deadfall ahead blocking her best path, and Jessie chose to go under rather than over—she still couldn’t vault like her dad, not to save her life.  Tom, of course, did vault it just that easy, catching up and actually going over her as she got hung up.

He stopped and, hand reaching, unhooked her where her pack had snagged.  She gave a ‘thank you’, and, on her feet again, she got back on it, Tom right with her, Duchess, too. 

On speaker, here came the alerts—dogs howling, barking, yipping.  Mitch’s distinctive whine-bark and Acer’s insistent double bark following hard on the heels of both Milo’s chilling long howl and Queenie’s steady five bark series.  ‘Target acquired’ that said, and ‘Hurry’.

***

8 – Found Targets Plus

ON HIS PHONE, Landon heard Jessie’s pack give their alerts.  Oli and his Prowlers heard it, too.  That was obvious, because The Prowlers took off, veering sideways through the brush off-track while Oli and Landon stuck to the trail.  To Landon’s surprise, Britta stayed with him.

“You can go,” he called down at her, but she just dog-trotted on, paralleling him, pacing his relatively slower travel.

Ahead, Oli cut a hard left and, after a moment’s hesitation, Landon followed, his machine—much lower to the ground than Oli’s—almost grounding out on a hump of rock and dirt.  Over the next rough spot, he angled over it instead of following Oli’s lead and almost took a nose-dive.

Britta leapt ahead, then turned sideways to him.  He stopped.  She took off angling farther to his left, then paused and turned, sighting him, his dog a brilliant, bright gold in his visor’s artificial view.  He aimed her way and, again, she took off.  So it went, her stopping, waiting, then leading on when he’d almost reached her.  “My very smart dog.”  And he wondered how she knew what she did—it certainly wasn’t instinct—but she seemed to know he needed a passable way through the rough, side-sloping ground he tried to travel to follow Oli’s lead.

And she got him there—him descending to find Oli waiting for him.  “How does Britta know to lead through?” he asked the man.

“War training,” Oli said back.  “Sometimes the only way to get a vehicle through is for someone or someone with a dog to find that way through.  It’s usually because of bomb hazards, but can be just a case of rough terrain, too.  Bonus is that the dogs can sense and scent out a hidden enemy.”

A chill touched Landon’s soul—war.  “…Right.”  And more than ever Landon was very glad his Britta hadn’t been sold to the military to go into a combat zone.

*

BRIGHT IN HER helmet’s peripherals, here came her dad’s Prowlers as Jessie came over a rise, and, had it not been for Tom grabbing her pack, she would have tripped face first over a crashed quad.  Hudson’s super-quick reactions saved her from nasty injury on broken plastic and hard metal components.  Gasping breath, she surveyed the wreckage.  Saw the white—glaring white in the HADAR helmet’s visual translation—of Milo’s big body about twenty-some yards ahead, and, Tom guiding now, Duchess picking her own way, they worked their way around the wreckage and through the rock outcropping that had brought it down.

“This way now, Jessie,” Tom huffed.  “Grab onto me.  It’s rough goin’.”

She did as told, then mimicked Tom’s step placements as he worked his way through what was another rocky tumble of boulders, brush growing out from between them. 

“Sure glad we have these night vision helmets.  This would be impossible without them,” Tom grumbled, and Jessie totally agreed.  Weird world colors or not, the HADAR made a huge difference.  Only her drones had better night vision.

Getting near to where her search pack waited, Jessie saw that her wonder mutts had not approached the two humans, one prone and still, the other sitting very near the prone one, her vigilant and looking very wary.  The Prowlers were standing off, watchful.  The woman held a large hunting knife, its blade bright in Jessie’s helmet’s interpretation.  The man’s body looked, in her display, like it was slightly cooler than the woman’s—mild hypothermia, Jessie guessed, because he was breathing, his breath and the woman’s making a faint fog with every exhale.

Getting down to the twelve hot bodies—two human and ten dog—dog tails wagged at her as Jessie stood looking down on a young woman who matched the description and picture ID of the twenty-something lost with young Jason Temple.  That woman—a Kelsey Westlake—was looking up at them with scared eyes.  She held the hunting knife awkwardly, but desperately, knuckles white.  Jessie raised her hands in surrender.  “It’s okay,” she said.  “I know we look scary with the helmets on.  Hang on.  Here’s ID.”  Pulled her ID and badge and, using the helmet’s spotlight, showed the girl.  Then she took the helmet off, Tom grabbing her in case she lost orientation in the sudden night blindness. 

“We’re deputies with the sheriff’s office and part of search and rescue,” Tom said.  “We’ve been looking for you.  Your families called you in late and lost.”

That melted the hostility away instantly.  “Thank, God!  Somebody shot at us and got Jason, but not me.  He’s in trouble,” the young woman said, relief flooding her voice and face. 

“She’s putting down the knife,” Tom whispered to Jessie, but, with Tom now shining a flashlight on the woman, Jessie could see that.  She watched tears spring loose from the girl’s eyes as she not only put the knife down, but put hands on the still body next to her.  “I think he’s dying.”

“May I?” Jessie asked.  “I’m a trained paramedic.”

The young woman tried to get to her feet.  Almost managed, but then not.  It took Tom’s helping hands to get her steady.  Jessie sidled in and squatted next to the prone figure—a young man who matched his ID, too, him a little younger than the woman—and, no, he wasn’t dying, but he was definitely unconscious, cold, and had lost a good amount of blood by the look of the blood-soaked pants’ leg.  A shoelace was tied around the young man’s leg just below the knee, and, cutting the jeans away, Jessie took in a bluish leg and what very much appeared to be a large caliber gunshot wound.  The bullet had gone all the way through, or what was, in the trade, called a ‘through and through’.

“I loosened it every twenty minutes or so,” the girl said, Tom wrapping a thermal blanket on her and handing her activated heat packs, telling her to stick them on her torso and where.  “But it wouldn’t stop pulsing out blood,” she said, “so I finally just left it on.”

Arterial hemorrhage, then.  Jessie got ready, then cut the shoestring, and, immediately, the blood started coursing hard.  Snapped a tourniquet around it.  Got a BP cuff on.  “Tom, get his boot and sock off on that leg, please.  Give me foot and toe color.”

Hit the quick dial number to the ER on her phone as she watched as Hudson cut laces, pulled the boot, then cut the sock off as she took a BP reading—100 over 70, pulse at 62.  He was doing well, actually.

No answer to her call.  Closed out.

“Pretty blue, but no black.  Cold, though,” Tom reported.

Jessie got an O2 reading—decent at 94.  Scooted down and started packing the wound both sides—hard—and called in again after rechecking her phone signal—still strong.  Called for Medivac, then got the ER doc on duty, a Doctor Sylvia Stromley. 

Reported everything known and done.

“What crystaloids do you have?” the doctor asked.

“Saline, dextrose, Ringers—”

“Ringers, please, on gravity flow only, no push.  Have you packed the wound?”

Jessie had already said she had.  Said it again.  “I have.  Gunshot, a through and through, looks like through the muscle, but may have clipped bone, too.  Definitely clipped or severed a major artery.”

“Release the tourniquet?” Stromley asked.

“Releasing.  …Wound pack holding …as far as I can tell.”

Watched Tom who had his eye on the other side better than her.  He nodded.  Said, “Holding.”

“Wound pack is holding both sides, but bleeding could be internal, now.”

“Watch for it.  If you see signs of pooling, advise immediately.”

“Affirmative, Doctor.”

Muttering in the background as the doctor spoke to someone.  Jessie took another BP reading—the same.  Said it.

“Can you take a picture with your phone and show me his leg?” the doctor asked, and, unstrapping her phone, Jessie did as bid as both Landon and her dad came on scene, them climbing down the rocky tumble.

Silence on the phone connection.  Then Dr. Stromley asked, “Can you feel a pulse at the ankle?”

Reaching, fingers going there, Jessie could, just barely.  Responded with that information.

“I’ve got a faint pulse between the first and second toes,” Tom provided.

“Excellent.  …Good.  Monitor, please.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Any other wounds?”

“No, Doctor.  Some abrasions, but nothing serious.”

“Let’s get some oxygen on him.  Possible?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“I want a delivery rate of just 2 liters per minute, alternating with removing that mask every other minute.”

“Yes, Doctor.”  And Jessie realized that this ER doctor who was new to Northridge Hospital was one of those to err on the conservative side.  The lady was almost the opposite of Dr. Bill Moynihan.  Idly wondered how the two of them would get along.  Bill, a personal friend of Jessie’s, was the man in charge, so obviously he’d had a hand in hiring her.

Tom already digging out her O2 concentrator, he set up and slipped the mask on the young man’s face, Jessie setting the rate of flow as Tom went back to his position of monitoring one side of the leg wound and the pulse in the foot and ankle.

Behind them, the girl started weeping, and Jessie heard her dad mutter something to her.

“If he begins to revive, advise me,” Dr. Stromley said.

“Yes, Doctor.”

And so it went, one conservative ER doc and Jessie so used to Bill who was very proactive, even aggressive in his approach. 

“We’re going to have to pack him up to more level and clear ground, Jessie,” Tom said.  “Medivac bird ain’t piloted by our Huey flyboy.”

“Right.”

“They can drop a basket, though,” Landon grumbled.

“They can, but will they?” Jessie replied.

“Yes, they will.”

Landon was so authoritative sometimes.  She frowned, dismissed it, and got busy picking litter as they awaited Medivac.  The men pitched in to help. 

“Okay.  Ready when you guys are,” Deputy Tom Hudson said at the sound of the Medivac chopper’s approach, him holding out hands for the litter bag Landon and Oli had half filled.  “Give that here.  We have to account for everything Jessie uses, including the wrappers.”

“All right.  Here you go.”

“Dogs?” Jessie called, swinging her big pack on and strapping it home.  And she smiled as the bunch moved into their traditional escort positions, Milo and Mitch at lead, Acer to the left of her, Sumi to the right, Queenie and Oso pulling rear guard.  Duchess put herself beside Sumi as the chopper came to hover.

Medivac dropped the basket, just as Landon had said, and, with four of them, the girl walking out with them, they got Jason to where the helicopter felt safe to touch down on the mountainside’s center slope. 

Medivac took the woman out, too, and Jessie finally was able to turn to her dogs.  “My good, good dogs?” she asked, and, as usual, they responded, all happy.  “You guys did awesome!” she said.  “Just awesome.”

Tails wagged more, bodies crowding in, and Jessie hugged them all, each in turn, her Milo sidling in to shove his big body into hers in a dog version of a person hug.  “Love you, big guy.  My wonder mutts, all!” she called, standing up.  And that got her a lick kiss to the mouth from Milo who reared up on his hind legs to do it, her laughing out her stress to Tom’s ‘e-eewwww’.  That ‘ew’ made her grin even more.

“What now?” her dad asked.

“Now we collect evidence,” Landon said.

Okay.  I guess I’ve been told.

*

WATCHING JESSIE and Tom as they had worked on the injured, Landon was more and more certain that, yes, keeping Jessie on as a Special SAR Deputy, Tac Team Deputy Tom Hudson with her, was imperative.  The two of them worked together impeccably, despite their rough start together, mostly because of Jessie’s indomitable drive.

There was a lot of talk going around the county about the fact that Landon and Jessie were now married, despite the county commissioners and even the governor weighing in with no concerns about it.  If the talk got too bad, the push too strong, Landon was resolved he’d fix the problem by resigning his office. He would not fight public sentiment to the contrary, but he was not breaking up a winning solution.  Too well he remembered his first year and the mess the SAR and the whole department had been, from morale to operational efficiency.  His dad, sheriff before him, was old school, and old school didn’t work anymore.  Gone were simpler days.  Law enforcement and rescue required tech—very high tech.

Getting back to the machine with a bullet through it, he responded to Oli’s whispered comment about the who and why—“Somebody doesn’t like ATVers, would be my guess,” the big man said. 

And, yeah, that’s what Landon thought, too.  But it made no sense.  Sundowner Peak’s trails on this side of the mountain were designated as motorized vehicle territory.  Sure hikers, mountain bikers, and horsemen could and did use them, too, but they were built for and designated as off-road vehicle trails, trails built by the local ATV club to accommodate that use without causing erosion issues.  And the club had done a wonderful job of it, too. 

“We need to extract that bullet from the engine,” Oli said. 

“We’re going to have to transport and do that down at the S.O.’s yard,” Landon replied.

“Why?”

“Because it’s embedded somewhere in the engine?” Landon said, sarcasm plain.

“Engines come apart.”

“We’ll do it forensically, though, and that’s Sol and his team’s department.”

“Okay.  So who’s going to guard it all night to protect the evidence?”

“Deputies will, but it’s really not necessary up here.  The trail is now shut down until after we’re done.”

“You trust people will respect that?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Even the shooter?”

“I doubt the shooter is going to come back up here to the scene and try to extract the bullet, Oli.”

“I would if it were mine.”

“And somebody would see you, and that would be that—gotcha.”

“You mean the pikas might see me?  I didn’t know the courts accepted testimony from whistling rock rabbits.”

Landon laughed at the reference to the local lagomorphs that made the mountain slopes their home.  “Duty sergeant is sending a couple of deputies to keep watch overnight.”

“Good.”

“You’re welcome.”  And that little bit of snark got Landon a cuff on the upper arm from the big man, a man who, though the same height, out-stripped Landon’s not insubstantial build by a good forty pounds of hard, tried muscle.  Tank Sherman was the only one who even came close to Oli Anderson in chest, shoulder width, and muscling.

“Got what we could that was useful,” Tom said, coming up, Jessie, dogs with her, trailing.  “Swabs, measurements, and photos.  The rest will be up to Deputy Dr. Preston.”

“Tomorrow,” Landon said.

“Tomorrow is already today,” Oli said.  “Let’s pack up and move out.”

And Landon chuckled to himself.  Oli Anderson was used to being the guy in charge, and he was a natural at it, unlike Landon who’d had it foistered on him since he was a kid by his teachers, his coaches, his dad.  He was still learning, though.  Mostly he was learning when to step in and when not to, letting his teams alone to do their jobs.  Most of the time, anyway.

*

JESSIE AND TOM had just finished securing the evidence they’d collected onto their quads when she noticed Milo missing.  She turned around and scanned.  Mitch was gone, too. 

Calling out, neither came running in.  Saw her dad look around, then look back at her, eyes serious.

Scared, she checked her app.  Saw their dots.  Turned on her audio and heard the Milo howl.  Heard Mitch give his very specific whine-bark.  Turned on their cams—too dark.  Shut them off. 

By her app, they were way on the other side of Sundowner, and way below her position in altitude. 

Turned her face.  Felt the wind. 

They’d followed the wind.  Why?  What did they know? 

Got very scared.  Mitch and Milo were dual purpose SAR dogs.  They found the living and the dead.  What she did know was that there was another victim, dead or alive, and she had no idea which.

Said something to Tom, then got on her ATV and took off, the rest of her dogs with her.  Heard her dad yell.  Landon, too.  Heard quads start.  Didn’t wait.

*

CHASING AFTER a quad downhill when you had no idea where its rider was headed was unnerving, even with HADAR.  Oli pulled away on his big Can-Am, The Prowlers with him.  Tom followed Oli. 

Only belatedly did Landon think of the app on his phone, which he’d turned off.  By the time he did think of it, by the time he stopped to turn it back on and merge its display into his helmet’s, all of them were gone.  Only the sound of their machines told him basic direction.

Seeing their icons, then spying, way off in the corner, Milo’s and Mitch’s dots, Landon headed toward the dogs his way.  He knew this mountain pretty well.  He thought he knew a shortcut.  And he did, he discovered.  He managed to get down close to where Milo and Mitch were, but a fallen tree blocked his progress.  Stopping, he pondered.  Shook his head.  There was no other way to go, because of the drop off.  This was the only way through.

Frowned.  Shut down, got off, and looked closer at the tree.  Walked his way to the base of the trunk.  Expected to see exposed roots torn from the ground.  Saw something else.

The tree had not uprooted itself and fallen.  It had been cut. 

Turned.  Looked out toward where the drop-off had to be.  Heard the other quads getting close.  And then, the night breeze kicking up a little stiffer, he smelled it—the unmistakable stink of a rotting body.  “Oh, Lord.”  Hit his com and yelled rapidfire, “JESSIE, OLI, TOM, STOP!  THAT’S THE CLIFF!”

*

BODY RETRIEVAL took Landon’s people the rest of night.  Ultimately, Jessie and Tom, who climbed down, plus Milo, Mitch, the body, and the crashed ATV had to be lifted out by Air One, the S.O.’s Huey. 

The body was that of Sy Waterton, 67, one of the Bitterroot’s local legends and a nicer guy you’d never find.  Come daylight, it was determined that somebody had purposely blocked the trail, then made another that led straight off the cliff, turning the trail direction indicator so it pointed to disaster.  No prank, this.  No.  This was murder.

***

9 – Thwarted Goal

IT WAS WELL after 3AM when they finally got home.  With 4AM as her usual rising time now, Jessie didn’t see the point of going to bed.  Though she’d been exhausted prior to the rescue, now she was wide awake and felt like she was in hyper drive.  Her ears were buzzing.

Her dad and Landon both weren’t interested in hearing it.  “I, for one,” Oli said, heading out the door, “am hitting my bunk.  You’re on your own if you’re going out on a training run, Jessie.”

As the door closed, Landon grabbed a hold of her hand.  “We’re going to sleep, and we’re going to sleep until our bodies wake us up.  Come on,” he said, pulling her along up the stairs.  And Jessie went along, dogs bounding by them to lead the way, Milo in front as usual, Mitch right with him. Her dogs, her heroes.  Despite the discovery of the dead man, Jessie couldn’t help but feel a huge sense of pride—her wonder dogs.

Taking a hot shower with Landon and, even though she felt even wider awake, Jessie fell asleep all but instantly, and it was 10:30 in the morning before her eyelids reopened.

Landon, Britta, his cats, and her dogs were nowhere around.  Still feeling bleary, Jessie headed downstairs to find Landon and Sol sitting and talking at the table in the front room, dogs lounging around.  Those dogs rose as she came down. 

The two men looked at her and nodded, then put their heads back together.  Jessie let the dogs out, then went to find coffee. 

“Your breakfast is in the nuke machine,” Sol called.

“Thanks.”

Settling in next to Landon with a hot plate of eggs, biscuits and gravy, link sausage, with a side of raspberry swirl pound cake, Jessie tuned in to a conversation about absolutism and aggression.

“How did this come up?” Jessie asked during a break in the back and forth.  “And what’s the connection between the two things?”

“Somebody changed the ATV trail, which wound up killing Sy Waterton,” Landon said.

She knew that.

“It was intentional—that’s murder.”

She knew that, too.

“Plus Mr. Peter Schuler’s overt hostility to us is very unusual in my opinion,” Landon went on.  “He exhibited a determination to push points of his dissatisfaction with our presence as rules, when they’re not rules and regulations at all, but are mostly trail etiquette, and he did it regardless of the needs of an injured party and rescuers.  The man exhibited an aggressiveness in pushing those concerns that seems out of the ordinary to me, so I’m asking Sol for his take on all of it.”

Jessie’s turn.  “I have no idea about the trail being changed.  As to Schuler, I wouldn’t call his behavior anything but pure hate,” Jessie said.  “He’s a Trail Nazi.  He’s anti-everyone using the wilderness except hikers, including everybody.  Even trail runners and hunters.”  And her anger at Peter Schuler crested in that moment.

“How do you know so much about him?” Landon asked, sitting back, him studying her.

Mr. Analyze Everything!  “Because we’ve all have had run-ins with him in the last couple of months.  My first was on that April Fool’s Day rescue.”

“Who is we?” Sol asked.

“Remmers, Evans, Sawyer, Robinson—”

“So SAR people in general,” Landon put in.

“Oh, yeah,” Jessie said.  “It’s like he homes in on us.”

Landon gave her a curious look.  “So he’s monitoring radio traffic?”

Jessie shook her head.  “I don’t know.  I just know that he’s always around and always grousing.”

“I’m betting he’s monitoring via a BearTracker® or something,” Landon said.  Looked at Sol.  “Time to move to cell phones and satphones only.”

“He could have a pal with connections to 9-1-1,” Sol replied.

“Then the 9-1-1 personnel would be in violation of their sworn duty,” Landon said, his voice going hard.

“Is that enforced?” Jessie’s old prof said.

“Of course it is.  It hasn’t come up that I know of before, but it’s something we’ll look into.”

And Jessie thought.  Said, “I’ll call Remmers and advise him, then we’ll get on the horn to everybody else, so, if somebody is monitoring, nobody tips off the guilty.”

Landon nodded.  “Good.”

He got up, picked up his plate, and Sol getting up, too, he said, “I’m going out to check the cattle.”

“Okay.”

Jessie watched as Sol got up, too, and tagged along, her small-statured friend dressed in jeans and boots.  “Are you going out with him, Sol?”

He turned bright eyes and a big grin on her.  “Yep.  I get to ride Bayard.”

…Without even asking if she’d like to come.  “Okay.  Have fun.”

“You can come, too, you know,” Landon said.  “We can wait.”

Too late, Landon.  “No.  You guys have fun.  I’ve got to catch up with Dad.”

“You going over there?”

“Yeah.”

“All right,” he answered, but Jessie heard the tinge of ‘hurt’. 

“I’m a phone call away,” she said, mollifying.

He gave her a smile and nod, his hurt dissolving.  “Don’t worry, I’ll call.”

And she laughed, knowing he would, but probably not on the phone.  What he would do was follow her over once he was done with his cows.

*

OUT IN THE barn, Landon checked the Arab mare in her stall, then let her out in the front pasture—all board fence and wire mesh, no barbed wire cow fence.  Watching her move, he was pleased to see her showing herself stiff, but no lameness from yesterday’s trauma.  Her owners would be by later this afternoon to pick her up, their identity discovered by the freeze brand the mare carried on her neck, which, in turn, IDed the girl, a Kendra Marston.

Landon was still deeply troubled by the tail end of that rescue.  It was, in his opinion, very unusual behavior for hikers to be that unsympathetic and aggressive.  They were usually doing everything they could to help, even if they might not have the necessary skills.  That Jessie, Remmers, and other members of the SAR group had all had run-ins with the Schuler man niggled hard.  How was it he kept showing up on rescues?  “We’ve got a leak.”

“You okay?” Sol asked, him standing by, holding his saddle.

“Thanks for bringing that,” Landon said, looking down as he finished brushing down Bayard.

“Thanks for letting me ride him.”

“I didn’t cut down those fenders on that saddle for it not to be used.  And next will be roping lessons so you can help out.”

The man grinned, but the brows weren’t quite matching it.  “Right.  ‘The dwarf who ropes’—good slogan.”

Landon chuckled at the dubious note in the man’s tone.  “The horse does the heavy pulling.  You just have to catch the critter.”

“And not get tangled up in the line while doing it.  Kind of like fishing, huh?”

“…Or lose a thumb.  And it’s called a lariat or rope, not a line.”

“Oooo.”  Now Sol’s brows really crinkled.  “That thumb thing sounds painful.”

“I don’t know.  I’ve never done it since the first time just catching it enough to keep the reminder in permanent place.  I’ll teach you right, just like my granddad did me.”

“If you say so.  I’m just glad to be learning to ride.  It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, but my mom was totally against it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m short, and it’s a long way to the ground?” Sol said as if that should be obvious.

“There are ponies and POAs—small horses that are more your size.”

“Yeah, but that’s no fun when everybody else is riding a real horse.”  And the man actually winked saying that.

Again Landon had to chuckle.  Like height made one real versus not real.  The irony of that sentiment coming from the dwarfed-sized man….  And Landon had no doubt that Sol had said it with just that irony in mind.  It was one of the reasons why he and Sol were friends.  The man had this perpetual ‘happy’ drollery, which matched Landon’s sometimes dour version of the same.  They got along—well—plus Sol was highly intelligent, a very good chess player, and decent at the game of Go, too—all things that made for firsts in Landon’s life.  And Sol liked animals, especially Landon’s cats—another bonus.

Took the saddle from the dwarf and put it up on the blanket he’d smoothed on his gelding’s back.  Cinched it up.  Connected the crupper, britchen, and breastplate that would keep the saddle firmly in place on Bayard’s back without Sol having to worry that.  The gelding was as bombproof as was Landon’s Brogan.  He was safe for Sol to ride.  Bridling the animal, he then handed Sol the lead.  “There you go.”

“Thank you.”

“Thanks for coming along.”

“My pleasure.  So what are you going to do about the possible leak from 9-1-1?”

“Terri is my ace-in-the-hole.  She’ll be able to track it down, I think.  And if someone is leaking, they’re history and will never work even close to emergency services, dispatch, and law enforcement again.”

“I wonder if this leak is just these folks paying attention to Nixle?”

Landon had considered that.  Nodded.  “It’s possible.  We do broadcast general vicinity, but not specific trails or trailheads.”

“Yeah.  That’s a point,” the doctor said.  “But it’s not too hard to pinpoint location with the marked vehicles, I would think.”

And, again, that was true. 

Leading Brogan out behind Sol leading Bayard, Landon watched as Sol got aboard using the mounting block he’d built.  Sol got on with no problem whatsoever. 

Happy with the results of his earlier carpentry efforts and tutoring, Landon stepped up on Brogan and headed for the gate.  Glanced back to check on Sol, his eye catching at Duster’s run.  He missed the horse.  Badly.

*

JESSIE WATCHED as Landon headed out on Brogan, her friend Sol with him.  Smiled as Britta trotted along beside, her now perfectly at home among Landon’s cows and the mules, mules that trailed along, her Chesterton and Snake with them, as Sol and Landon moseyed off. 

Wished she was going, too, but she had more urgent things to do.  This was a meet-up with her dad to beg his help with planning contingencies in case she ran into Schuler again.  Of course her dad didn’t know that yet.  Schuler was a problem, and Jessie needed some tools to be able to deal with him.

Heading over, she climbed the hill leading up to the dog ranch entry and turned in through the big stone dog statues to either side of the pentagon-shaped arch. This, her dad and granddad told her, would be hers to ramrod when they no longer could.  That it wouldn’t be her brother Erik had surprised her, and, despite her differences with her dad and granddad about war and a dogs part in it, she was bound that she would continue the traditions of breeding excellence and training.  It would be hers to take and maintain for the future of the breeds, and it was the dogs that were important, the heritage-bred German Shepherds especially, along with select bloodlines of Malinois, the former the family goal through several generations, the latter her grandfather’s introduction and, honestly, his favorites.

Beside her, riding shotgun, Acer was all ears at attention as she drove up the mile-and-a-half of driveway to the big bunker of a house her dad had built.  Waved at Twilla, one of their trainers who was out working with her new pup, Jessie’s pup out of Britta, in fact.  A male who was an oddball throwback and an extremely dominant and loner of an animal, that the two had nicked had thrown Jessie’s plans for the pup into the trash heap.  The pup just wasn’t interested in being part of a bigger pack, but that pup had shown a real interest and affection for Twilla, a black woman who’d been in a canine unit in the military.  And Twilla had immediately had a thing for Trigger as Jessie had nicknamed the pup because of his hyper-vigilance.

Her dad came out of the house as she pulled in, his dogs—Numa and the four Prowlers—with him.  He raised a hand in greeting.  She honked as dog tails thumped behind her and Acer stood, tail happy.  Everybody in the car was ‘happy dog’ with coming ‘home’—Jessie’s forever home in her heart.  She missed living here, even though she was only ten miles down the road.  Still, she would have preferred Landon move here, rather than her moving to his place.  She’d never brought it up to him, because it just wasn’t practical, not with his herd of Akaushi cattle to tend.  Though sheriff, her husband was, in his heart, a cowboy—yes, he was—and the one thing that was more important now than anything else was him being happy …and he was, for the most part, except for missing his stud horse, Duster.  And so was she.  She’d never been so constantly content in her entire life, but she did miss home.

“Jessie,” her dad said as she popped the XV’s doors, dogs boiling out. 

“Hi,” she said, giving him a hug. 

“Saved you a plateful of breakfast.”

She grinned.  Everybody was working with her on trying to get and keep her weight up.  And, of course, her dad scooped up little Duchess, a dog he seemed to have a great fondness for. 

Going inside, Jessie microwaved the plate of food, then settled in at the table, her dad sipping coffee and tucking into a big piece of coffee cake.  “I take it Gram and Granddad went to church?” she asked.

“They did.”

“How come they didn’t get kicked out like me and you?”

“Because the pastor wouldn’t dare, that’s why,” Oli said.  “He can get away with it with you and me, but not Dad and Mom, not if he wants the church to survive.  They’re too well respected as members of the congregation, never mind their tithes.”

“We tithed as much, didn’t we?”

“I think so, but, since the changes, we haven’t been very active except for that.  Mom and Dad have.”

“Okay.”  And while it stung, Jessie was glad for her gram and granddad’s sake.

“So let’s talk about you and Landon having to deal with this trail nazi, as you call him.”

“I need strategies—good ones—and Landon’s answer is to charge him with a misdemeanor, which won’t do a thing to stop him.  I looked up his record in Virginia, and he managed to get the county, state, and federal government to limit a huge number of trails there to hikers only, no horses, dogs, or any kind of vehicle, even bicycles and motorized wheelchairs allowed.  We can’t have that happen here, so I want to intimidate him …scare the stuffing out of him.”  Then she added, “Idaho style.”

A long pause, her father studying her face.  Then he asked, “Have you spoken with Landon about this?”

Yep, she knew that had been coming.  Leveled honest eyes on her dad.  “Nope, and I won’t, because he’s a letter-of-the-law kind of guy.  I want to hit Schuler hard at the gut level so he decides to move on to do his dirty work someplace else, or, better, to cease and desist completely.”

“I think you need to speak with Landon before going further with this idea, because, honestly, you’d probably be breaking some law or another with what you suggest.”

“And I don’t think I should speak with Landon.  As to breaking the law?  Schuler is breaking the law.”

That brought silence, her dad’s eyes moving to his coffee cup.

“So are you going to help me?”

A sigh.  Then a shake of head. “No, Jessie.  You need to talk to Landon.”

And nothing she could and did argue would change her dad’s mind.  A bit miffed with him, Jessie left for home with her goals thwarted. 

Her marriage had brought a change with her dad.  He was always insisting that, other than when it came to Anderson Working Dogs, that she clear things with Landon.  Well, she didn’t have to and wouldn’t.  She was married, yes, but that didn’t make her subject to patriarchal authority.  Her dad was too old school, way too old school, in his ideas when it came to marriage and its obligations.  “Especially when it comes to me and Landon.”

***

10 – Red Poppy Day

EXPECTING A QUIET Monday, both Jessie and Landon attended Memorial Day activities honoring the men and women who died serving their country.  The day dawned sunny and beautiful, if brisk with a chill wind—just 42°F, rising to 55°F by noon—and, after the parade, which started at nine in the morning, services at the local cemetery were well-attended, silk poppies gracing coat collars and breast pockets. 

The World War I poem, “In Flanders Fields” by John McCrae, was recited by Congressional Medal of Honor recipient Oli Anderson, Jessie practically bursting with pride as her dad, his bomb dog, Numa, at his side, spoke it out in his deep, resonant voice:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

At the culmination of the somber ceremony came the playing by a bugler of Taps and a three-volley gun salute, everyone standing, hands and hats to heart or holding a salute in the case of active and retired military.  Afterwards, there was a luncheon at The Hereford, members of the VFW presiding in the big conference room. 

Due to the number of veterans and active military, the civilians attending were served in the main restaurant, the toasts and extemporaneous speeches and veterans’ stories piped through via the restaurant’s PA system. 

Jessie and Landon had a good time, this despite Landon still being upset about the death of Sy Waterton and the behavior of Peter Schuler.

Home by two in the afternoon, the smell of the prime rib roast Landon had prepped and Jessie had put in the oven before leaving filled the house as Jessie changed into ‘play’ clothes.  Then after stuffing the two casseroles in to bake, it was dog relief and recreation, plus a nap until it was time for the roast to come out.  Then she, Celee, Sol, and Landon finished preparing the rest of the dinner for the whole extended family, plus guests.

Tackling the washing up afterwards, Jessie, Landon, and Sol talked over the day—a day of grieving and remembrance, but, for Jessie, a day filled with pride in her dad, too, this despite being still miffed at him for not helping her with Schuler.  And then, at just after seven, her phone went off, and Jessie scrambled.

*

“ANOTHER NIGHT search,” Landon groaned as he checked in at the S.O. by phone to get more details than what Jessie or the computer gave him as Jessie flew up the stairs.  And he prayed out loud: “No more dead, please, God.” 

Seven people—a family, including three kids, plus friends—hadn’t made it home from a day trip and picnic planned at a scenic overlook on Northridge Crest. 

Didn’t sound too bad. 

He called Deputy Tom Hudson, who was already en route.  “Drones and ATVs again,” Tom told him.  “Grant Evans and two other dog teams are heading out there.  Make sure Jessie takes her drones.  Deputy Dave Kins will rendezvous.”

“I’ll advise her.”

“Thanks.”

“Advise me what?” Jessie said, coming up beside him. 

“Deputy Dave Kins will meet us out there to run your drones.”

“Oh, good.  And you’re coming?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.  Put Britta’s RF collar on, please.”

“I’ve got it with, and it’s all charged up.”

“Good.”

*

THAT LANDON was a regular tag-along when she had a SAR assignment if something worse wasn’t going down wasn’t unusual.  Landon was what his personnel called ‘a hands-on sheriff’.  If there was something happening, he was there, and that meant a lot to the people who worked under him.  It meant a lot to Jessie, too—had since she’d started working with and for him way back during the very first case that had thrown them under each other’s feet more than a year ago.

Was it only just over a year?  She thought back.  Yeah.  About fourteen months, and a lot had happened in that time—a lot of good things, a lot of crises, too.  Now here they were, a team.  And she smiled—a team for life, and that life was good.  Perfect, in fact.  Or almost. She had it all—her dogs, her family, SAR, a place in Anderson Working Dogs which had expanded to include training SAR dogs, and Landon.  Good all around.

The forty-some minute drive to Northridge Crest had Jessie on the phone with Tom Hudson who had met up with the relatives of the missing, a family with three kids and the two friends they didn’t know much about.  “Got scent of the family of five—good stuff—and the lowdown on what their plans had been.  It’s the Morrisons again, and I can’t figure it out, Jessie.  That’s a park, as in ‘parked out’, no rough country.  It should be an easy find, but our guys have driven through it repeatedly.  There is nobody they can find with their spotlights—nobody.  No sign.”

And that was weird.  Northridge Crest, a scenic vista, was the only ‘maintained’ park in Bitterroot County that existed outside various town and city limits.  It was a park primarily designed for tourists and ‘townies’.  A county park, it was kept almost manicured by Bitterroot standards—still wildland, but tidied, though it required no heavy upkeep because there was no grass or plantings, just the natural duff.  Still, it was pretty free of heavy obstacles, the tree branches trimmed up, brush kept under control.  Throughout, the trails were broad and well-maintained for all manner of traffic—foot, hoofed, and wheeled. 

The park covered the whole southern slope of Northridge Crest, a long ridge escarpment below which, this time of year, the Tanner River was a roaring fury, heavy with winter runoff as it went through ‘The Narrows’.  Northridge, the town, lay just east of those Narrows on the south side of the river.

Down Northridge Crest’s slopes right now were rivulets, streams, and creeks, the crest itself still carrying remnants of winter snow, some of it deep, especially over the top on the crest’s north side.  “What are you thinking, Tom?” Jessie asked, as she followed The Rhino, her phone on speaker.

“Talked to Grant, and he thinks that maybe they somehow left the park, got into the rough, and, from there, got themselves lost.”

“Well, we’ll see, won’t we?”

“Yes, we will.  And, yes, I have on my running shoes.”

“Boots, you mean, I hope.”

“You got it, Lady.”

Jessie’s phone dinged, and, answering that call, she filled in Deputy Dave Kins.  Communicated that Kins and she had connected to Tom Hudson, then called Landon to advise him.  And, of course, he was already in the know.  Shook her head—her husband, master at coordination and organization.  Sometimes it irked her that he was always ahead of her in these things.

Him in The Rhino leading the way, his taillights did the double-blink thing that was his way of flirting when they were in separate rigs—and, yes, Landon was a flirt—who could have known.  She smiled and flashed her running lights back in answer.  Muttered, “Back atcha, Handsome.”

*

CLIMBING THE SOUTH slope of the Crest, its winding switchbacks, Landon watched his mirrors from his new heads up display on the windshield that had just been installed.  It allowed him the luxury to keep his eyes on the road.  Technology had its benefits, much as he felt like he was scrambling to keep up with the speed of the advances being introduced.  But the greater the tech, the safer their jobs, and the less hours needed to get a satisfactory outcome …usually.  The investments in advanced tech, regardless of the price tag, actually saved them money.  Of course, all bets were off when the power grid went down, but then their generators kicked in.  That didn’t help the general populace, but emergency services could still do their jobs in getting people help.

Overwhelmed when he’d first stepped into the responsibilities of sheriff, he now had at least a tentative grip on maintaining the public safety when disaster struck.  But he always felt like he was just on the brink of losing that grip and falling over the edge into chaos and catastrophe.  Having good people working for and with him meant the difference between insane levels of stress and alarm and a functional brinksmanship.  Right now, he felt like he was always riding the fine edge of disaster, and maybe he was.  His tactical captain, Howard West, insisted that this was always so for law enforcement.  “Get used to it, sir,” West had taunted him.  And, maybe, just maybe, Landon was finally getting comfortable there—finally …maybe.  But, then again, maybe not.

*

PULLING IN to the parking area located at the midway point of the ridge, there were already three SAR rigs and two S.O. units present.  Two vehicles, both marked by deputies as belonging to the missing, were also there. 

Jessie unloaded her ATV, then waited as Landon got his off-loaded.  He came with as she joined up with Grant Evans, wildland rescue expert and now EMT certified, Millie Stineburg, SAR with advanced first aid plus, George Rutford, SAR and an RN, Deputy Kins, and Deputy Hudson. 

While the dogs did their meet and greet routine, the humans put their heads together.  Grant and Jessie worked out the search plan while Tom Hudson and Dave Kins got out the drones, Dave setting up as Tom helped.  Landon was speaking with the deputies who had just finished their last drive-through. “Are you coming with us?” Jessie asked, trotting over.

“Thank you, Deputies,” he said to the men, then turned to her.  “I think I’m going to stick to the main trail if I can convince Britta to hang with me,” Landon answered.

Jessie smiled down at the dog.  “Oh, she will.  She’s not going to pack up unless she knows you’re coming along.”

“Maybe.”

“No maybe about it.  Kiss and hug?”

“Not while on duty,” he said with a shake of head.

“Pooper.”  I’m on duty, not you, she thought, though that wasn’t really true.  Both Landon’s job and hers meant they were on 24/7 just about every day of the year, unless they specifically begged time off. 

Grant Evans came over.  “I want Kins to scout the rough to the west,” he said, eyes asking Jessie.

Jessie shrugged.  “That’s fine with me.”

“If they went over there, it could be nasty,” Grant added.

“Yeah.  Park boundaries are pretty plainly marked, though.”

“Yeah, and how many locals obey that?”

“They don’t have to.  It’s all county public land,” Landon reminded, and Jessie nodded.  Landon was right.

“Yeah, but it’s going to make for an all-nighter, if they’re out there somewhere,” Grant came back.

“Let’s hope not, but the dogs are ready,” Jessie said, nodding to hers and to Grant’s five, too.

Grant glanced down at his pack, including his veteran called Sockmo, a Beagle that acted as the pack leader of the new group of varied breed trackers.  “They are.”

“They’re running good?” Jessie asked, though she knew the answer.

“They are.  I am totally sold on pack searches now.”

“Finally,” she jibed.

“Yeah, yeah.  I know.  I am a hard sell, I admit.”

“Nobody twisted your arm.”

“The dogs did.”  Grant’s eyes locked on hers.  “…And trying to keep up with you.”

“We’re not in competition, Grant.”

“I am, and I do admit it, Dog Girl.”

“More power to ya.”

Grant grinned.  “Glad you’re a good sport.”

“Hope so,” and Jessie grinned more.  Nobody could beat her dogs at their jobs because nobody trusted their dogs like she did.  Most handlers had to ‘control’, including Grant, and that kind of ‘training’, that kind of guided ‘control’, stymied natural talent and ability in dogs, even trained it out of them.  What dogs were asked to do in SAR they did naturally.  They didn’t need to be trained to do it.  They just needed to know what humans were trying to ask them to look for, so the ‘training’ had to be a case of human learning to communicate to dog and human learning to read and understand ‘dog-lish’.

It was a hard thing to convince most SAR people of that, so Jessie had come to the conclusion that demonstrating the principle through success would be way more effective than arguing, and, glancing down at her dogs, she had the perfect pack to do just that.  Her dogs succeeded in finding the lost fast.  Her dogs saved lives, and, yes, people—mostly not the SAR experts—had noticed.  Her dogs were nationally celebrated hero-dogs, now, their fame bringing support to her charitable foundation. Public support through donations and sales of their merchandise from and to a mostly adoring public in turn helped to establish and support no-kill shelters nationwide. Jessie was extremely proud of her dogs for what they had accomplished.  Yes, she was.

Grant clapped his hands, jarring Jessie out of her musings.  “Gather round, People.”

*

LANDON WATCHED and listened as Grant laid out his plan.  Didn’t interfere.

“First leg, we stick to the main trail branches.  Jessie and I will take the topside of the park from here on up.  Jessie, can your dogs handle the whole eastern and southeastern side while me and my pack handle the other side?”

“You bet.”

“I’m thinking a fast sweep on the way up, then a more careful, thorough search—no stone unturned—on the way back down …unless, of course our …or maybe I should say your dogs alert on the way up.”

Landon saw Jessie grin at that.  Her ‘wonder dogs’ had a ‘reputation’.  They ‘found’, succeeding where other dogs didn’t, and everybody knew it.  They were the unbeatable in SAR, and mostly because they worked as a self-directed team, Jessie letting them free to search at will, not directing them on the where and how.  He recognized the difference now.  He also recognized that it worked.  It worked, indeed.  Her dogs found the missing quickly, sometimes in scarce minutes.  “Sounds good to me,” he heard his Jessie say.  He dropped his face and smiled.  He was so proud of her, so lucky she’d said ‘yes’ to marrying him.  Smiled more and shook his head at his good luck.  Brought his eyes back up as Grant turned to Millie and George.  “Same is true for you if you agree—each takes one side from the main trail.  Do a fast sweep down—air—then slow and thorough on the way back up.”

“That’s easier on me, for sure,” Millie said.  “I’ll take that.”

“Me, too,” said George, chuckling.  “I don’t want my dogs down by the cliffs, though.”

“My dogs, either,” Millie agreed.

“I don’t want anybody going down that close to The Narrows,” Grant said firmly.  “That rock is slick with melt-seep this time of year.  If these people—the Morrisons—went there, chances are they slipped and went into the Tanner.”

Silence at that, because everybody knew that nobody could survive the fall or that rushing flood of ice cold, raging water this time of year.

Finally, Millie brought them back to ‘better’.  “I’m voting they weren’t that stupid and just got themselves lost and are practicing hug-a-tree.  We’ve had to rescue these folks before, remember?  I’m betting we find them hunkered down.”

“I vote for that, too” George said.  “Heck, we might even get a full night’s shuteye tonight once the dogs roust them out of the bushes.”

That would be nice, was Landon’s thought.  But, somehow, he didn’t think it was going to be that easy.  His deputies hadn’t found any sign …which probably meant the Morrisons had ventured out into the northwestern ‘adventure zone’ of the big ridge.  The family was known for preferring to stray beyond where trails ended now that the youngest of their three kids was out of diapers.  As Millie had mentioned, it wasn’t the first time in the last couple of years that they’d needed help from Rescue. He hoped that wasn’t the case, though.  He really did.  What irked him a little, and probably Deputy Kins, too, was that both of them were pretty much ignored by ‘the dog people’.  “I guess we’re released on our own recognizance,” he said as the SAR team walked away, dogs bounding along around them.

Kins grinned.  “He gave me my assignment, hazy as it is.”

“Guess I’ll just follow my nose,” Landon said, and saw Kins give a look to his dog. 

“Or hers?” Kins asked.

“Or hers,” Landon amended.

“Good hunting, sir.”

“Good hunting.”

And Landon did hope it would be short and quick, though, in his gut, he somehow doubted that would be the night’s outcome.  He didn’t know why he felt that.  He just did.  Please, God.  No dead.

*

GEARED UP and having given her dogs the scent, Jessie was, again, using the HADAR helmet her dad had given her.  So was Tom.  The rest of their group now also had them, thanks to Landon approving the extra monies to be released.  Tac had them, too.  Of course.  Tac got everything!  But Jessie didn’t complain.  Their SAR group was one of the most well-equipped and well-funded in the Pacific Northwest.

With Tom Hudson immediately beside her on the broad trail that took off from the parking lot, they headed up, planned destination being the topmost viewpoint of the river valley below.  There were three southeastern viewing decks of the Tanner and the valley where Northridge nestled, one at the top, one in the middle, and one just above the cliffs that formed the roaring Tanner Narrows.  Jessie and Tom would do a fast rolling search on the way up, then, getting on top, head back down, sending the dogs to range the entire breadth and scope of the area. 

“It just makes no sense, Tom,” Jessie said.  “They should be visible under IR easy with the parked out tree cover.  Air Two should have spotted them somewhere.”

“I don’t think they’re here.”

“Their cars are in the parking lot.”

“Somebody picked them up.”

“They’re not answering their mobiles. Go straight to voicemail and that’s full.”

“A lot of people shut their phones off when they don’t want to be interrupted, and a lot of them don’t answer their calls even if they don’t shut them off.”

That was true.  Jessie herself did that.  Nodded.  Said, “…Anyway, here we go.”  Got aboard her quad, turned the key, put it in gear, and rolled.

***

11 – Over the Edge

DUCHESS RODE STANDING in the basket, head forward, eyes squinted down, ears back as she kept her nose to the wind.  Ahead, in staggered formations, were Evans with his five dog pack, along with Stineburg and Rutford, each with two dogs, one HRD and one Live Target, trotting beside.  Around and ahead of Jessie and Tom, Jessie’s dogs trotted along with ease, Oso, the Elkhound, occasionally bounding out onto a high spot to stop and air sniff, then bounding back down to rejoin the pack.

As planned, Rutford and Stineburg went down and Grant and she went up, him splitting off to toward what locally was called the Midridge Table, a relatively flat scoop out of the terrain that some speculated had been a landslip that had formed a saddle in the ridge some long time in the past.  It was a favorite spot to look north at a spectacular view of the Idaho Selway-Bitterroots.

And now she, Tom, and her dogs were alone, heading up to the most northeastward point of the ridge where it fell away in a stair-step of rock and sparsely treed slopes that graduated down to the upside, north banks of the Tanner River where rock cliffs formed The Narrows.

A drone buzzed her and Tom, and she gave a thumbs up with her left hand as Kins waggled the little bird, then buzzed away, tiny lights blinking to disappear in between the tree cover.  He was using IR to try to spot human heat signatures, not including theirs, of course.  On her app, she saw Landon far behind them, him dawdling along.  Touching on her mic, she singled him out as recipient and asked him what he was up to.

“Just snooping,” he said, his deep voice warm in almost a chuckle.  “Just like you’re doing to me.”

“Am not,” she snarked.

“Are too,” he came back.

“Later, Handsome.”

“Sooner, Beautiful.”

“Am not!”  And she cut the connection so he couldn’t have the last word.  “Beat ya!” she muttered, grinning.

*

LANDON CHUCKLED, the woman he loved bringing a bit of joy to the moment.  Yeah, he’d been right those oh, so many years ago when he first remembered setting eyes on her in high school, her brother Erik warning him off in no uncertain terms.  She had been then, in his mind, the girl for him.  That perspective had changed when he’d become reacquainted with her last year.  Jessica Anderson was a changed woman, no longer quiet and demure like she had been as a high school frosh and sophomore.  Instead, she was a dynamo powerhouse who was more cut from the cloth of a CEO than the nice homebody girl she’d seemed back then.  …But then he wasn’t the same person, now, either, was he?

Again he chuckled, and, turning down one of the little offshoot trails that crisscrossed through the huge park, he poked along, one eye on the progress of the teams on his app, one eye on his surroundings.

Cutting back once reaching the end, he took the next branch …and the next …and the next after that.  Working his way through the lower southeastern side of the main trail, taking every one of the narrower park paths that lay marked on his map of the place and then even some that weren’t marked, but were obvious due to use, he putted along.  Saw some bikes, audibly made a note of them, then dismissed them.  The Morrisons weren’t bicyclists.  Moved on.

The nice thing about southern slopes was that the snow abandoned them first and, likewise, the mud dried up faster.  His tires barely made tracks.

Beside him, his Britta stopped.  He did, too.  Waited.  She had her head high, her nose working.  He turned on his direct connect to her collar.  “Was ist?” he asked in the dog’s preferred lingo—‘Dog German’ Jessie called it, and she told him his pronunciation was only ‘passable’.  Probably.  He was, after all, all American, through and through.  All Idaho American, his brain came back, and he chuckled at that, too.

And then, with a look in his direction—a pointed look—Britta barked once, turned, and, with one glance back, took off.

*

ALMOST TO the top, on her app, Jessie watched Britta’s and Landon’s markers accelerate, Landon’s yellow diamond following Britta’s yellow dot in a pretty straight trajectory with only occasional deviations.  “Landon?” she asked, touching open her helmet mic.

Got nothing back.

“Tom?”

“I’m watching it.”

“What do we do?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Your dogs aren’t catching anything?”

“Not yet.”

“I say we go.”

Jessie recalled the wonder mutts, turned, and headed down again, Tom running behind, coming beside, then pulling ahead of her.

*

LANDON was now used to mad chases through both urban landscapes and wildland terrain while following Jessie and her dogs.  What he was not used to was him being the guy at point.  He had no idea what to do.  He had no idea where they were going or what his Britta sensed, except that, by the topo map super-ed on his helmet display and, more, by his memory, where his dog was headed was right over a pretty steep, stair-stepped slope once they broke out of the official park boundaries. 

Everything sane in him screamed ‘stop’.  Every nerve said ‘danger’.  He kept going.  Oli’s words, ‘Trust your dog’ were strong in his memory, and, now, he spoke those words aloud, kept repeating them as his speed crept up and down to maintain visual of his dog, bright yellow-gold-colored in the HADAR, that dog running full out, tail high like a flag.

His helmet again flashed an insistent communication beacon, but he could not let go his steering for even a moment, him chasing Britta’s tail around tree trunks and even over rocks surrounding fire pits, his machine hitting hard and sometimes going airborne as the world around him flew by in surreal hyper-color.

*

“LET’S MOVE, JESSIE,” came Tom’s command, him turning a hard U.  “Sheriff’s running hot and headed for trouble.”

She knew that.  She also knew Britta.  Britta would never jeopardize her person.  Britta had a line on something, though, and that something was important.

Reached and clipped Duchess down.

Chatter and a demand from Grant….  She touched her mike open.  Told them all the what she knew, which wasn’t much as she flew downhill following Tom, her dogs catching up, then pacing them.

*

HIS BRITTA DOVE over the edge.  He saw her do it.  He heard her bark through the helmet mic, the line open to her RF collar.  Desperately wanted to touch the icon on the face display that turned her cam on.  Didn’t dare let go his steering.  Made an instant’s decision and plunged over the edge right where she had.

***

12 – Into Thine Hands

JESSIE SAW Landon’s icon head right over the topo map’s indication of the eastern brink of Northridge Crest.  Fear coursed her body, flushing from her face and shoulders all the way down through her gut, her thighs, calves, and feet all tingling.

Ahead, Tom gunned it and blew down the main trail’s hill at a reckless speed, and, mindless of the danger, she pressed the throttle wide open and followed, dogs bounding off to dive through the trees, taking their own way, as if they already knew destination. 

Jessie stuck to the track.  Followed Tom.  Kept glancing at Landon’s diamond, which was hurtling down an insanely steep hillside.  Was he on his quad or was he crashed and tumbling?  Images of his broken body filled her mind-sight, worry because of his previous TBI rising to caustic levels inside her.

Again, she touched her helmet’s com.  “Landon?  Please tell me you’re all right.”

*

REPEATEDLY AIRBORNE, Landon followed his dog, his broad-based quad holding its own as it kept landing and launching down the cascading slopes, sometimes landing on one front or rear wheel, sometimes on all four, sometimes on the two fronts or two rears, and there was no slowing and braking. 

Fingers off and on the throttle, feeling it, he rode it out, thighs and knees gripped to the sides of the seat saddle as if riding a bronc, something he hadn’t done since he was a teen.  Then his dog disappeared into the brush to the right, a turn he couldn’t possibly navigate.  He did the next best thing, and coming down on a relatively levelish but short slope of only maybe 20% and forty feet, he eased on a touch of rear brakes when his machine finally got enough traction under it to chance it. Slithered sideways, two same-side wheels coming off the ground….

*

ON JESSIE’S TRACKING APP, Landon’s diamond dot had stopped.  He wasn’t moving….  Desperately, Jessie touched her com icon again.  “LANDON?!”  And, yes, she screamed it.

Ahead of her, Tom disappeared over the brink of the southeastern end of the fall of the ridge, and, Duchess hunkered down, head flat on the basket’s bottom, eyes closed, Jessie went for it, following right behind him, her too aware that her dogs were cutting right across their path slantwise toward Landon’s location.  Don’t hit then, Tom, she prayed.

*

LANDON’S MACHINE came down with a bone-jarring jolt, but it had stayed upright—lucky him, else he’d have been crushed meat beneath it.  Shut it down.  Got off.  Grabbed the pack strapped to the back which had made the rough ride with nary a hit or rip and, following the helmet’s display indicator toward the yellow dot on his tracking app that was Britta’s marker, he took the time to touch on his mic, broadcasting to one and all.  “Sheriff Reid, here.  Britta dog has found something.  Heading toward her on foot, now.  Don’t hit my quad.  It’s red in case you forgot—easy to see.  Out.”

*

JESSIE ABOUT lost it when Landon finally answered.  Managed to maintain control on the full tilt plunge she was flying down behind Tom.  “Slow it on down, Jessie,” came Hudson’s calm voice.  And, directly ahead of her, she saw him do something that made her wince …but it worked.  He stood and physically jerked his machine, the ATV coming nose up to land on its hind wheels, then fall forward to a slewing, grinding stop. 

She was midair when he said that and couldn’t stop.  Was going to crash right into him.  …But he was way ahead of her, because, somehow he turned his quad and blew sideways, just getting out of her way as she came down almost right where he’d been.  Two more bounces, Duchess jolted hard, but her tethers holding, and Jessie found enough guts to try to stop …and did.

Tom, his quad idling, ground down beside her.  “I am real glad I got this machine for myself.”

“My legs are quaking noodles,” Jessie said, and she heard herself as breathless as she put a hand on Duchess.  The pup, now watching her, gave her a lick.

“You did good!” Tom chortled.  “We’ll take it down easy now that Sheriff has finally reported in.”

“Right.  On foot, though, okay?” and her voice shook.

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“Because we’d just have to climb back up to get our quads.  As it is, we’re going to have to negotiate our way down to the bottom come daylight.  There’s no way we’re getting back up that slope,” he said, pointing.  “Can’t get up the steeps.  Quads ain’t horses, and horses probably couldn’t even do it.”

A glance showed Jessie the truth of it. “Great!”

*

LANDON’S BRITTA was laying beside the still body of a boy who looked about the size of the missing nine-year-old.  He checked for pulse—got one.  Saw the blood and odd-looking tissue around the head, the bad bruising and ripped clothing, one boot missing, the foot turned awkwardly, the other limbs, all four, obviously broken, too.  ‘Oh, Lord.  Bring me angels.  Bring me help.”  And, as if on cue, here came Milo, Mitch, Acer, Sumi, Queenie, and Oso, and where Jessie’s dogs were, Jessie wasn’t far behind.  The dogs lay down beside and around him and Britta, all of them quiet.  Their presence gave Landon strength and calm.  Jessie was coming, and Jessie knew what to do.

*

TOM STILL LEADING, Jessie followed his every turn, matching speed for speed—slow and careful.  Kept glancing at her helmet display and saw the dots of her wonder dogs converge on Landon’s and Britta’s markers.  Breathed relief for all of them, humans and dogs.  Wanted to tear into Landon and Britta both for being so rash.  Swallowed it as she remembered her own rashness in similar situations.  She knew the drive, she knew what it felt like, oh, yeah.  She also knew the worry of those watching.  “Oh, yeah, too,” she muttered.  Breathed out her anger, talking herself through it to reasonable.  Followed Tom.  Finally got down to where Landon’s quad was stopped.

*

GETTING ON HIS PHONE, which, thankfully had also made the whacky trip unscathed, Landon begged for help.  Got an ER doctor coming on the line.  Got asked questions he had no answers for.  Took pictures and transmitted.  Got instructed to take a temp—something he could do.  Got instructed to use a penlight to the eyes, then to cover with a thermal blanket—dug out the only one he carried.  Told the ER doctor that there had to be at least six more victims, including two more children, one seven, one four.

“Do you know their locations?”

“No.”

“Stick with the known subject, please.”

The squawk of Jessie patching in his ear.  “Paramedic on scene.  Sending dogs out on search reconnaissance.”

“Jessie?”

“Yes, Dr. Moynihan, and, yes, I’ve got my gear.”

“Find the other subjects, please.”

Silence.  Then, “Yes, Doctor.”

And that, to Landon, meant the boy beneath his hands was terminal.  He felt his heart lurch in his chest.  He closed his eyes, sorrow welling up.  Felt Britta push her nose into him.  …Jessie’s hand on his shoulder.  That hand squeezed.  Withdrew. 

She left him, her dogs going with her, and he reached for the only thing else he knew to do.  Our Father, into Thine hands….

*

URGING THE DOGS, Jessie asked them to seek and find, seek and find, and, over and over, her dogs came through, the howls, the barks, the yips of their alerts resounding in Jessie’s helmet as her wonder mutts came through—four deceased and a woman, barely alive.  She died moments after Jessie and Tom reached her. 

Then, finally, hope—a young man, bruised, bleeding, and broken, his hands oddly abraded, one finger completely severed and missing, but, with Moynihan guiding her, they managed to stabilize him.  Then came the repeated double barks of Jessie’s Acer—repeated and insistent.  Harried….

Jessie ran, her dogs with her, her feet sliding, her grabbing handholds on what brush she could …a tree, small, but big enough to stop her pell-mell plunge as her feet lost traction on the slope.  She landed on her butt, hard, but stopped.  Got up and ran on, and, there, finally, was her Acer in sight, the other pack members waiting with him.

Getting there, Jessie’s dogs sat and lay beside what appeared to be a child’s car seat jammed into a small tree and some bushes …was a car seat.  On its side.  Oh, my God.

Approached.  Knelt.  Touched her body cam back on.  Carefully turned the carrier upright and found… eyes opening to her, then a wail.  “She’s alive!” And pinched in between the body of the child’s carrier and its handle was a finger.

*

EVALUATING AN infant is a very careful thing.  After doing the basics—a check of temperature, heart, respirations, chest and gut sounds, eye response—Dr. Moynihan got a pediatrician on the line, Jessie patching the man into her helmet viewer and cam, both.  Then they began the examination in situ—“Leave the child in the carrier.”—of the head—cuts and scratches, but the eyes were fully responsive, the infant attentive, if fussy and very upset.  She wanted food.  Got one suck of a nutrient liquid Jessie mixed up—happier.  Examination of the front and sides of the torso—no injuries—then, last, her limbs—a few scratches, cuts and punctures where brush had penetrated her covering, and the doctor was pleased.  The man told her, “I want immediate transport.”

“Yes, Doctor.  Will have to hand transport to the landing zone.”

“Whatever you have to do, but do it gently, and do not jostle that child in her carrier.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“And put that finger on ice!” he snapped.

“Already done.”

*

THE BOY under Landon’s shaking hands died, never waking, as he spoke the last lines of his prayer, his voice choking on the words: “Receive him into the arms of Your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.  …Amen.”

*

JESSIE WAS TOLD that the Medivac chopper had landed in the parking lot.  “They got an ambulance and the coroner’s van sitting there, too,” Tom reported. 

The injured got transported in one trip—one adult male, one infant, everybody, including Landon, pitching in to make the hard climb with the man, Millie carrying the infant in the baby’s car seat.  Then it was back down for the dead. 

*

RELIEVED OF HIS vigil for the dead boy, Landon had helped carry the live male victim up the slope.  Got to the side-by-side that Mountain Special Rescue, a part of their SAR group, had brought in, lifting and holding as they got the basket secured in the mounts.  Watched them cradle the baby carrier in an inflatable billowed cushion and secure it too.  Continued to watch until the side-by-side disappeared from view. Felt like he was drowning in sorrow.

A cold, wet touch on his hand.  He dropped his head to see Britta watching him.  Touched her with his fingertips, then, with no one much around, dropped to his knee and hugged her close.

And, in the privacy of his helmet’s shield, he wept.

*

THE BODIES of the dead, their bodies in black bags, were also transported up in baskets, those baskets carried by the SAR personnel along with deputies and their mountain rescue experts who showed up to help.  And, of course, the wind did its usual early morning shift of direction as they walked those bodies out, three of them children. 

As Jessie climbed, her handling the basket with the now deceased boy Landon and Britta had found, Jessie’s dogs again alerted.  So did Grant’s, Millie’s, and George’s.  And Jessie, her heart hammering, her spirits gloomy, handed off her station and followed them, as did Millie, Grant, and George.

*

HIS DOG letting him hold her for long breaths of time, Landon found himself completely alone when he finally opened his eyes.  Stood and turned.  Got his bearings and headed back down.  Passed Martin Doyle, his undersheriff, Deputies Cramer and Sinclair, plus Dr. Sol Preston, working on what had caused the calamity.  Floodlights now showed the collapsed mid-escarpment viewing deck from which the victims had fallen.

Helmet off and shut down in the bright floodlights, Landon stepped in to lend a hand to Sinclair as the man meticulously took pictures, measurements, and more pictures. Landon logged the man’s observations, typing them into a tablet Sinclair handed him. 

In his periphery, Landon caught the dogs all fly past, Jessie and Tom, Grant, George, and, lastly Millie in pursuit.  Turned to silent prayer again: Dear God, please no more dead.

Sol Preston came up.  “This wasn’t an accident, sir.”

He looked down.  Waited.

“It was structural failure due to criminal tampering,” his criminology expert said, holding up his phone with what was obviously a picture of a mostly sawn through structural support pillar and another of a support girder.”

“Chainsaw?”

“I’m guessing that would be the tool of choice by the roughness of the cuts.”  Sol pointed to an image.  “And it’s recent—the cut edges are fresh, sawdust still in them and no weathering.”

Landon’s rage reared up, bright red.  Six dead, including children….  “Murder.”

“Yes.  Definitely premeditated,” Sol said, “therefore first degree.”

***

13 – No Nonsense Stromley

HER HADAR HELMET was down to 29% battery life, Jessie had no backup batteries with her—another mistake in preparedness to rectify.

Running downhill in steep terrain after her dogs that were travelling hard and fast, Jessie had Tom at her side.  He had anchored himself next to her, hand ready to grab, the muzzle of the rifle slung butt up across his back bumping her every stride.  A few yards to the north, George, Millie, and Grant were, likewise, chasing their dogs’ tails, and their presence was hugely welcomed.  Went through their assets again: George was an RN, and Grant, an ex-fireman and wildland rescue expert, the latter moved to Idaho from Northern California.  Grant held EMT certification.  Millie had advanced first aid plus in her credits.

They were getting back down to the level where the first bodies had come to rest.  And then they went even farther down-slope, the thunder of the Tanner’s Narrows loud. 

Dogs howled.  Dogs barked.  And finally catching up where the slope began to ease before its final plunge to the edge of the cliffs, there they found five more downed victims, four of whom were still breathing.  All of them wore bicyclist’s helmets.  These were probably the owners of the bikes racked up that Landon had reported having seen earlier, and the helmets they wore had probably helped save their lives.

Jessie went to work.  So did George, Grant, and Millie.

The worst was the one Queenie, Oso, and Sumi were downed by—a male, maybe late teens to early twenties.  Legs broken—compound fractures—jaw also broken in at least one place, too, he was severely bruised and had some significant cuts and deep abrasions, blood stopped now.  Luckily, his padded coat had provided some protection for his torso. Carefully palpating, Jessie discovered what she thought was his hip broken, too.  Sucked breath at the extent of his injuries.  His vitals were pretty darned good, considering.  His hard body conditioning and his youth had made the difference.

Calling in, Dr. Moynihan sounded breathless.  “Go ahead, Jessie.”

“Another five victims, four viable, one deceased.  The boy I’m working on is the most critical upon verbal triage with other SAR personnel.  He has compound fractures to the legs and one arm.  One arm seems whole with the possibility of maybe a broken wrist and some fingers.  No cranial injuries due to biking helmet, but definitely a fractured jaw.  I’m suspicious of a fractured hip.  Pupils responsive, but there is some hemorrhaging evident in the sclera.  Bleeding has stopped on all wounds.  Heavy bruising and significant cuts on the legs, arms, and face.  Kid is unconscious with a slightly lowered internal temp of 96.1°.  BP comes in at 110 over 78.  Pulse at 72.  Respirations even at about 20.  O2 showing steady at 96.”

“Immobilize the limbs.  He’s not to be moved until we get him on a board.  No IV, no oxygen.  Save it just in case.  Transport when possible.  Next?”

Jessie signaled to George and Grant who had the next most critical, and Jessie went to work immobilizing the legs—the worst fractures—Tom helping.  Millie came down and scooted in.  “I’ve got this,” she said.  “I think you need to look at the girl.”  And Millie’s eyes ‘spoke’.

Jessie handed off her charge and left Millie to it.  Went to attend victim number four.  The girl, who was seated, was somewhat cognizant.

Scooting in next to her, another well-conditioned-looking athlete in their late teens to early twenties, Jessie told her who she was and her certifications.  Acer, Milo, and Mitch were cuddled into her, the girl turned to them, one arm over Jessie’s Acer, fingers gripped into his plush coat.

“I hurt all over,” the girl said, her voice strangely halting, breathy, and barely over a whisper in volume.  “I thought you’d never come.  I couldn’t call.  Phone’s shattered.  I can’t holler.  I heard you guys, but I couldn’t yell.  Something’s wrong with doing that.”

Jessie heard the telltale signs.  There was something stopping the girl from drawing breath deeper than shallow.  Her diaphragm was working though.  And she didn’t have a punctured lung.  Collapsed then?  Negated that.  It didn’t sound or act that way.  “Okay,” she said.  “I’m going to put a BP cuff on you, use a stethoscope, and put an oxygen monitor on your finger,” Jessie told her. 

A cautious nod.  “Yeah.”—very breathy.

Did it.  Got the numbers she needed.  Checked the girl’s eyes.  Chattered to her, asking name, age, any allergies, medications, or long-term medical conditions. 

Got the ID info and ‘no’s on all the rest. “Good,” Jessie said.  “Now for the hard part.  I have to check you over, and you do have bad bruising and broken bones.  I’m going to do my very best not to hurt.”

Another cautious nod.

A glance showed George and Grant still talking to the ER.  Jessie called in on the third line and got, to her surprise, Doctor Stromley.  Caught her breath, then got on with it.  Gave the doctor the run-down. 

“The breathing, the voice,” Stromley said.  “Can you gently palpate the rib cage for me, then, ever so lightly, place your hands on the torso, chest piece cradled with support between your fingers, and listen carefully?  Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, Doctor.  But better would be for you to listen.  Let me dig out my Littman®.”

Silence.  Then, “You have one of those?”

“Yes, Doctor.  I don’t know how long my helmet batteries are going to last, but I’ll give you visual as well for as long as I can.  Once my batteries die, though, we’ll be down to a headlamp, and flashlight for visibility, my phone for audio.”

“Understand.”

“Sheriff Reid, here.  Will be down with helmet batteries.”

As that info flitted through Jessie’s brain—Landon prepared—she said, “Thank you, Sheriff.”

“Is everyone listening in?”—Stromley demanded, and Jessie heard the upset in her voice.

“In SAR ops like these with multiple injured, we have to keep in contact with one another, so, right now, yes,” came Dr. Moynihan’s voice, breaking in.

“Advised,” Stromley said, her voice instantly back to professional.

“Everybody who is listening is a credentialed professional and/or a sworn law enforcement officer, Doctor,” Jessie said gently, and she heard Moynihan grunt approval to her assurances to Stromley.

“Understood,” the M.D. returned.

“Littman® coming online.  Watch your hearing,” Jessie warned, lifting her helmet enough to don the special stethoscope, then lowering the visor again and switching on Bluetooth.

Connection achieved, Jessie warned the girl whose name was Pam Parnell and began the exam, the doctor asking to listen to the heart, front and back, then high to middle on each lung in turn, front and back.  The verdict?  Good, good, and good.

Now Jessie began again at the base of the left lung, the sounds of the gut and breathing mingling in a squishy symphony.  It wasn’t normal.

“Ask the patient to pause her breathing, please.”

Jessie did, and the girl complied.

“We need to visually examine as we palpate the abdomen,” Stomley snapped, her voice going clipped and hard.  “Do not move the patient.  Do not let her lay down.  In situ.”  This was barked, like the woman was used to commanding her subjects. 

Some M.D.s—a lot of them, really—were like that, even Jessie’s grandmother, and, yes, especially Moynihan when things were at critical edge.  “Yes, Doctor.”

Jessie following each and every meticulous order Stromley gave her, the girl holding her shirt open, Landon showed up to drape a thermal blanket over the young woman’s shoulders, then squat down beside her.

Jessie moved careful, gentle fingers exactly as Stromley dictated.  The bulge that Jessie had originally felt was now the focus.  Stromley asked and got two taps, delivered with two fingers held together and tapping in quick, modest strikes.  “Like striking a fragile drum,” Stromley explained.  Jessie knew the technique and performed it twice as instructed, a second apart.

A long pause, then, “We need transport.  Immediately.  And she has to be immobilized without changing her position.  Do you understand me?”—barked again.

“I do, Doctor.”

Convincing the Medivac pilot to hover and retrieve a chair basket was going to be the nasty part, though.  Surprisingly, though, Stromley busted through any argument and everybody heard her do it.  The pilot said an almost cowering ‘Yes, Ma’am-Doctor.”

“Medivac outgoing again now,” someone else’s voice came through.  “Triage priority.  We’ll take the two worst.  Come back for the rest.”

Two onboard.  That would stress out the crew.  Jessie shrugged.  You did what you had to, and, in a flying second, she realized she was calm, quiet, and completely in control inside, no emotional upset, despite the situation.  She was getting better.  Reached eyes to the silhouette of her husband.  This was her dad’s and Landon’s doing—her healing from the horrors of Blaine County.  Yeah.  This was them.  She tipped acknowledgement with her head.  Then thought of Tank Sherman, the big lieutenant a sneak when it came to his therapy techniques.  “All of them,” she muttered.

“All of them what, Jessie?” Landon asked, coming next to her.

“Just thinking of everybody in my life.  They make me weller and weller, better and better, especially you, Dad, and Tank.”

And in the glow of the helmet light, all weird and warped, she saw him nod and quirk her a half-smile.  His eyes stayed sad, though, and Jessie knew he was hurting—badly. 

There was nothing she could do to help.  Not right now.  Maybe not at all.  Landon wasn’t an ordinary man.  He cared, sometimes way too much, just like she did, but it wasn’t something he easily shook off, not like Jessie had learned to do.  Been taught to do, in fact.  Part of the training was to give it up …and, for Jessie, it was to give it up to the Will of God and take refuge in her dogs.  Landon took it personally, giving it up to no one, not even God, and he was more Christian than anyone else she knew, certainly a lot more than she was.  It was a major handicap for him, though.  He should have never become a cop.  Neither should have she.  Jessie knew that now, but would she give it up?  The law enforcement, yes.  SAR?  Never.  For Jessie, what her dogs did mattered way too much to ever quit, and she’d needed the law enforcement badge to be qualified for SAR—not here in Idaho, a state that ran by its own rules, but everywhere else pretty much, and, with Landon creating their SAR group, Jessie now did interstate searches that were not just limited to within Idaho borders.  The rule pretty much everywhere other than Idaho was first responders only, and law enforcement was the quickest way to get that qualification. 

“Incoming,” Landon said, his voice startling her out of her reverie. 

The chop of blades spinning up in the distance sounded as the machine lifted off from the hospital roof just over a mile upriver on the other side.  “Okay.  Here comes the fun part,” Jessie told the young woman.  “You’re going to get a cozy, safe ride out of here.”

“My bike?” the girl asked, her voice getting more breathy by the minute.

“We’ll take care of it till you can come get it,” Jessie assured as Medivac approached, its spotlight coming on.

***

14 – Going Dark

“YOU’RE GOING TO go dark while I change out your helmet batteries,” Landon said, the feel of his fingertips picking at the latch of the battery compartment lid making little jars and jolts.

“Need me to take it off for you?” Jessie offered as he kept failing to get it open, her giving strokes to her wonder dogs as they took advantage of one of the few moments tonight when they all weren’t going full tilt.

“No.  I just need you to hold still a minute.”  When she finally did, fingers nimble on the tiny hatch catch, Landon swapped out the rechargeables.  “Done,” he said, snapping the hatch home, her leaning into him to give a quick, one-armed hug.

“We’ve got to take the quads down.  Tom says we can’t get safely back up on top,” she informed him.

He nodded.  “I’ll have to, too.”

And now she turned on him.  Flipped up her faceplate.  “Landon, you ever pull a stunt like that, driving over a ledge again, and I promise you’ll sleep in the wood shed for the rest of your natural life!”

Knew everybody heard her.  Knew she’d done it on purpose. 

He didn’t respond for a moment, which surprised her.  Finally, he said, “Says the woman who followed me.”

“Tom followed you.”

“And you followed Tom.”

“Of course I did!  You’re mine!”

And again she’d done it on purpose, knowing everybody heard, and again he didn’t respond for a moment.  Then, in the quiet of everybody having gone silent, he said, “Jessie?”

“Yeah?”

“This is murder in the first degree.  If you find anything, anything at all, please process it as evidence.”

Jessie felt the world stop at his words.  With a jolt, she realized that she wasn’t the only one.  Everyone around her, everyone connected to her via radio-transceiver had gone completely still at Landon’s words.  It lasted….  One long moment.  Two.  Too long. 

Stillness in everyone at the same moment was something that had an eerie effect.  It was like everybody was a single unit, a single body.  Jessie broke it with, “Okay.”  Then, still like a single unit, when she said that, everybody recovered and started doing their jobs again, the chatter coming ‘normal’, and relief flushed through her.  Don’t ruin morale, Landon.  It’s hard enough!  She wanted to scream it at him.  Minded her brain and her mouth.

“You got any more of those batteries?” Tom said, walking up.

Jessie could have hugged the man.  Here was ‘normal’, something they all needed.

“I do,” Landon said.

“Me, too, if you have enough,”—Grant’s voice.

Jessie watched Landon hand them over.  Watched Grant and Tom change them out, then get their helmets back on.  “Better.  Let’s get to finding and processing evidence, then,” Tom said.  “Jessie, with me.  Leave Sheriff to do his ramrodding.”

And, again, she could have hugged the young soldier/cop, which is how she thought of him.  “Let’s do it,” she said and called her dogs.

*

STANDING BY as the search for evidence proceeded, the search dogs now requested to use their talents for that task, Landon kept seeing the broken body of the boy, kept asking his God why, kept getting no answers, kept swallowing bile.

Martin came up to stand beside him.  “We are so lucky that we have these people and their dogs helping us now.”  He turned to and, looking at Landon, said, “That’s all you.”

“You pushed for it, Martin.  I didn’t.  You and Compton.”

“I pushed for her to come on because of her CSI credentials.  You chose to sign her on to run this SAR operation, and it’s making a real difference.  To everybody.”

Not to the dead, Landon wanted to say …but didn’t.

*

MILO WAS the one who found the paint.  It took Kins bringing in one of Jessie’s drones to get meaning of the mess, though.

“Somebody went to a lot of effort to do this,” Jessie said to Kins, who was running the little quadcopter, Jessie’s big laptop on the ground in front of him.  She pointed.  Realized he didn’t have her HADAR sight.  Said, “They actually swept the rock free of dirt.”

“I kinda see that in the drone feeds.”  Then he pointed down to the open laptop screen.  “This thing covers this whole terrace.”  Added, “And their penmanship needs work.”

Jessie almost laughed out loud.  Asked, “When are you going to teach me how to fly my drones like you do?” and she pretended an upset she absolutely didn’t feel, then winked when he glanced guiltily her way.

A grin split Kins’ face as he caught that she was joshing him.  Shook his head.  “Never.  I have way too much fun with them, plus the rule is, never train your replacement if you want to keep your job with the company.  Learned that in my first job flipping burgers.”

“You worked at a fast-food joint?”

“I did.  I wanted to go to the Junior Prom in style wearing a tux, and that meant getting a job.  Kept that job through May of the following year.  Then they asked me to train another guy.  Said management wanted to move me to a position more suitable to my talents.  I didn’t know that meant ‘show me the door’.”

“That’s nasty.”

“They did me a favor.  I would have never set my sights on a badge, the way I was going.  That forced me to really take a look at what I wanted to be when I grew up, and, more to the real problem, what I could achieve, which wasn’t much.  No money to go to college at all.  But, until then, it was all video games and playing with two-bit drones—nothing like these—but I realized that I didn’t have a whole lot of options.  So I started looking at what I could do, and came up with the only thing I could stomach the idea of—being a cop.”

“Well, I’m glad it led you to the right choice,” Jessie said.

Again the grin.  “So am I.”  Then, “Look at this, Jessie!  …I mean Deputy Anderson.”

“It’s Jessie for you,” she said.

“Thanks.  Sarge wouldn’t like it if she heard it, though.”

“Too bad, so sad.”

He laughed.  Showed her what the drone had captured: ‘Nature is not your playground.’  And, by the samples Jessie had collected, the paint was still ‘young’—less than twenty-four hours since it had been laid down. 

“Sunday night, I’m guessing,” Sol said when shown the samples, Landon standing there with him.  “So, about the same time as the viewing decks were sabotaged.”

“Decks?” Jessie repeated, startled because this was the first she’d heard of this development.

“All three have been compromised.  Only this one came down, though,” Sol said.

Jessie turned to stare at Landon.  “So this is a protest or something?”

“Looks that way.”

“Of what?”

Landon shook his head and unhelpfully said, “That nature isn’t their playground?”.

“That’s what the rock memo says, right?” Sol put in.

“Nobody thinks that, Sol,” Jessie said, turning back to him.  Then her dogs alerted again, and she had to leave.

*

LANDON WATCHED Jessie run off.  Looked down at Sol.  “I’m curious about your answer to Jessie’s observation.”

“About nobody thinking that?”

He nodded.

“Oh, I think most people do, actually,” Sol came back.  “They don’t respect that Nature has any rights at all, except as a resource for humans.  It’s the whole ‘dominion over’ and ‘subdue’ the land thing that’s blatantly put forth in all the Abrahamic religious texts, whether that’s the holy book of the Christians, the Jews, or the Moslems, and, in fact, that mindset is historically prevalent in all modern human societies of and from every continent, too.  It’s an integral part of the whole human ethos, from primitive times through today.  Now, today, mostly among the youth who get to try to fix this mess, but a whole lot of older gens too, people are starting to object, which doesn’t please the capitalists.”

Startled, Landon said, “Those words sound bitter and cynical, Sol.”

“Do they?  Good, because I am.  The time for doing something was before the Industrial Revolution.  We could have gone a lot of ways.  We chose the most destructive to our world and therefore ourselves, because, without the planet, pfft, no humans …or anything else.”

Disquieted by that, especially since he himself was condemned by those words because of his belief in God’s word, he asked the one thing he needed answered: “How do you stay so upbeat with such pessimistic thoughts, Sol?”  And Landon really wanted to know, because, right now, right here, he shared Sol’s pessimism.  Not all, or even most of the man’s reasoning, but, with the boy’s death, then looking at the larger issue—conflicts between factions of people—he did not see a happy future.  Conflicts were bound to become more and more prevalent with a population that had now crested to eight billion and was still climbing.  Landon felt like humankind was swiftly heading toward a dystopian future he didn’t want to share, one where nothing he loved, nothing he cherished—especially the wildlands of the Bitterroot Mountains he loved—could or would survive.

“I just don’t think about it,” Sol said.

And that was not helpful.

***

15 – Briefing

TUESDAYS AFTER a long weekend and holiday Monday were always fraught and punishing.  After the tragic weekend Landon had just experienced, it went way beyond that.  Sorrow and a strange-feeling rage filled him.

With no sleep, just food and a shower, he pulled in to the S.O. just after 6AM and his first order of business was to track down any leaks in the emergency system.  Sergeant Terri MacLeod was already in her big tech cave, and, closing the door, he sat down beside the very tall, very thin redhead.

“I heard it through the com chatter, so I sent the last shift home to get a jump on things in private,” she said, her eyes never leaving her monitors, her fingers flying across her keyboard.  “And this is what the system tells us, sir.” 

As usual, Terri was ahead of things.  The big monitor immediately in front of Landon blinked on, strange, garbled letters, numbers, and symbols resolving themselves into words, numbers, and bridging lines of connectivity to more numbers, these last recognizable as case numbers to Landon’s eye.

“And the verdict is…” Terri said, “no leaks.”  She sat back and turned to him.  “Nobody has done the dirty, sir.”

Relief flushed through him.  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

Blue eyes sparkling, she grinned.  “You’re welcome, sir.  I’m running a check of the CB, SSB, and HAM traffic, too.  Near incident traffic so far shows a couple of possibles, but nothing definite.”

“We record that?”

“We do.”  She pointed to the racks upon racks of boxes that lined the back walls.  “It gets archived with everything else, all time/date stamped, but my scripts check it as it writes, and, so far, for this last weekend, there are some potentials who could be our snoops.”

“Names?”

“Not yet, but that’s the easy part once we isolate the sources we want to check.”

He nodded.  Stood.  “You’re a star.  Thank you.”

“I’ll advise if and when I have anything.”

“Briefing at seven?” he asked. 

“I’ll be there remotely as usual, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Like Terri, Sol had also come in early, straight from the scene.  The man was in his lab working on his computer, too.  “You weren’t at breakfast,” Landon said.

“Nope.  Got too much work to do.”  The short man turned in his chair with mischievous eyes and a grin.  “Those structural supports?” he prompted.

Landon nodded acknowledgment.

“They were cut not even twenty-four hours before the structure collapsed under the weight of the victims.”

“You know this how?”

“You want me to finish preparing this for morning briefing or stop and give you a rundown?”

“I’ll wait for briefing.”

“Good.  Now, shoo.  I’ve got more work to do.”  A pause, another grin, then a, “…sir.”

Landon chuckled.  “Yes, Doctor.”

“It’s Sol,”

“Doctor Sol.”

And that got him a friendly scowl.  “Shoo, please, sir.  I’m cutting things real close here.”

“Shooing.”

“By the way, sir?”

Landon stopped his leave-taking and turned to the feisty PhD.  “Yes?”

“This is my dream job.  It’s why I got my PhD.  To do something worthwhile, right on the front lines.  I’m glad I came to work for you.”

“I’m glad you came to work for me, too, Doctor.”

“It’s Sol,” the impudent dwarf said, eyes sparkling, finger upraised.

And that made Landon smile despite his misery and anger.

*

BOTH CAPTAIN Pete “Red” Wheeler, Landon’s chief administrator, and Undersheriff Martin Doyle, the latter obviously flagging, were waiting as Landon, Britta with him, got to his office. 

Landon didn’t even bother to hang his hat, just walked in and stood waiting for whatever they had for him.

Red was first with affidavits to check over and either okay or fix …which Landon sat down and did …both.  Done with amending those that needed it—minor adjustments—he signed them.  His deputies were learning the legal tweaks needed and getting better at executing them.  Turned to Doyle.  “Your turn.”

“All the viewpoints on the Northridge Crest Park have been sabotaged.  I ordered all the most vulnerable scenic viewpoints in the county shut down.  It’s in progress.  The state is handling theirs.  the county’s Roads and Bridges is scrambling, though.  Deputies and reservists are stationed at the most publically accessible.  Everything else is still wide open.  We got word out via Nixle and the media.  That’s where we’re at.”

Further than Landon had hoped.  “Good.”

“I initiated the old phone tree and called in the off-duty dispatchers along with some savvy volunteers.  They’re working as we speak.  Have been since around 4AM.  We’re getting this out countywide so people know the danger and to stay away.”

“Excellent.”  And it was.  Landon breathed a little easier.

“Have you seen the evidence?”

“Just what Sol shared in pictures on-scene.”

“Somebody or, more likely, a team of somebodies, knew what they were doing.  They had to understand stress something-or-others, according to Sol, and don’t ask me exactly what he said.  I don’t remember.”

Landon nodded.  “Stress tolerances?” he supplied.  “And, yeah, Martin.  This was …is premeditated and either executed by or contributed to by somebody with solid knowledge of structural engineering.”

“There you go.  Stress tolerances.  That’s what Sol said.”

“Would you please sit down, Martin?  Before you fall down?”

The man did, but it was obvious that he was keyed up.  “I was just up there with my wife and daughter, along with one of my grandkids Saturday afternoon,” Martin said.  “That could have been us who died.”

And, again, Landon nodded.  Northridge Crest was one of the most visited of the easily accessible county’s parks, popular among those with limited time, desire, or ability to head up to the higher, more remote areas.  “Well, I’m glad you weren’t.”

“The infant belongs to the male survivor who had the strange abrasions, odd body bruising, and missing finger Deputy Anderson logged,” Martin said, referring to Jessie in the formal.  “And I think Anderson is right in her additional comments that she added after her dog found the infant, an adult finger jammed between the handle and the carrier body.  He got them because he rode the platform down, that infant’s carrier clutched against him, holding on until the very last minute, then rolling with the carrier still clutched to his body.  That’s why that baby not just survived, but did so with so little injury.  The pediatrician was amazed there was absolutely no trauma to the infant’s neck …or anywhere else.”

Landon swallowed hard.  Took air.  Asked, “You’ve been over to the hospital?”

“I have.  Paramedics onboard the Medivac indicated the man was coming round, so I beat it over there.”

Nodded.  “And?”

“And the guy said it was quiet with a beautiful sunset when there was a single crack, then, after a moment, another.  Then the whole thing went down, ‘nose first’, to quote him.  And they all went with it, he said.  Said there was no chance to run for safety it went over and down so fast.”

“That he’s lucid is a good sign, right?”

“Let’s hope so.  I got his statement on cam, though.  Nobody has told him that his wife is dead, yet.  Doctors want to get him stabilized first.  They did bring his infant by, and the guy, well, he wept.”

Again, Landon nodded.  Felt like an earthquake hit him in his gut.  Said, “All right,” to that, too.  Thought.  Looked at the time—five of.  Got up, Britta right with him, and, Martin at his shoulder, headed for morning briefing. 

*

AS CO-LEADER OF their SAR group, Jessie stood in on the briefing, Captain Remmers attending remotely.  Remmers gave the account of his lost mountain bike kids—“Spiked board.”  Then, Jessie gave hers, first of the girl fallen down the slope, then of finding the ATVers on Sundowner.  Then, finally, on her dogs discovery of Sy Waterton’s body.  Finally, Grant Evans gave the report summary on the Northridge Crest search. 

Around the big room, Jessie watched deputies’ faces go from solemn, but stoic to stern and hard-eyed at each escalation in violence, and with good reason.  Saturday afternoon’s search for two missing kids at the southern end of the county had netted knowledge that somebody had purposely booby-trapped the trail they’d taken. 

Both kids survived, one with minor injuries, the other hospitalized in serious condition with several puncture wounds to the legs and one to the torso.  “Somebody laid down boards with spikes in such a way that the kids came around a curve and hit ‘em,” Remmers said.  “Strung wire, too.”

Pictures of the devices came up on the wallscreen—a one-by-six with nails driven through it, and barbed wire.

“We’ve checked for fingerprints,” Martin said.  “We have found some partials, but not nearly enough points to ID much less convict anybody.  We also swabbed to try to ID by DNA.  That’s been sent off to Meridian.  Deputy Dr. Preston doubts we’ll get a match, though.”

“What are those?  Sixty-penny nails?” someone asked.

“You are correct, sir,” Sol piped up.  “Good eye.”

“How did they do that without splitting the board?”

“Power nailer?” somebody else answered.

“Didn’t know they had them that could shoot that big a nail.”

They did.  Jessie’s dad used one.

Muttering around the room as Jessie’s run-in with similar traps came to mind.  Only Tom Hudson’s lightning reactions had saved her from stepping right on one.  She shuddered, remembering.  And those had only been twenty-penny nails driven through strips of old conveyor belt.  These wouldn’t just maim, they would kill.

Bullet extraction from the ATV was, Sol informed them, not yet underway.  “That will be a tomorrow project, since we haven’t even recovered the machines yet,” he reported.  “But now for what we do know about Sy Waterton’s demise.  Somebody cut a tree to block the trail, changed the trail indicator, and they did it on purpose.  We’re still investigating, but it’s going to be hard to track down the culprit.”

“Killer,” somebody said, and Jessie swore it was Deputy Dave Kins, though she couldn’t be sure.

“Murderer,” Sol agreed.  “Now, onto last night’s incident.”

Sol put up a series of pictures.  “Here, here, and here,” he said, moving the curser to each.  “This shows the distinctive evidence that multiple cuts were made to each pillar.  That shows a very deliberate attempt to weaken the viewing deck, but not collapse it.  The stress tolerances had to be meticulously calculated which suggests that the individual involved had a good grasp of structural engineering.  All three viewing decks were compromised in the exact same way, and the tool utilized was probably a chainsaw because of the size of timbers, the width of the bite, and the rough quality of the cuts.  Further, under microscopic examination, we discovered fibers which indicate that the same individuals were involved in sabotaging all three platforms.”

“More than one person?”

“Definitely.”

More pictures appeared.  “Partial footprints near the bases of those supports show two different treads and two different sized feet.  Unfortunately, those treads are very common.”

Sol’s eyes went to Martin who tied it all up with the call that this was to be considered malicious destruction of public property leading to homicide.  “That, of course, makes it premeditated murder in the first degree,” the man said.  “Unless, of course, some other mitigating circumstances turn up, doubtful because of this find Jessie and her dogs made just before daylight.”

One last slide came up on the wallscreen, the spray painted message that said, ‘Nature is not your playground’.

Everything went quiet in the room.  Then rustling, and “What possible mitigating circumstances could there be?” somebody whispered.

There were none.

*

SHOVING HIMSELF away from the wall where, head down and listening, Landon had parked himself, he stepped up and in.  “Deputies all,” he said, and eyes met his.  “What we have is a purposeful, malicious set of seemingly unconnected, but eerily similar incidents, all of them involving wildland and parkland users.  I, for one, don’t think it is coincidence that they all happened on the Memorial Day weekend, the official start of summer in the Bitterroot …in the U.S.  Last month….  Excuse me, the month before last …in April, specifically April 22nd, Earth Day, we had signs appear at popular, accessible trailheads and parks, supposedly denying access to all but foot traffic.  After discovery …and complaints to both our office, the county commissioners, and to Parks and Recreation, those unauthorized signs were removed.  We thought, probably erroneously, that it was Earth-Day-related, since no further signs did or have appeared.  Are this weekend’s critical and deadly assaults related?  I don’t know, but it bears scrutiny.  I do think, with this weekend’s incidents, that an unknown somebody or several somebodies has or have an agenda.”

Looking at Lieutenant Hamilton, he said, “I want you to set up a task force to pursue investigating who might have reason to perpetrate such actions and the resulting atrocities that occurred this weekend last.  Especially check social media traffic.  Pursue any and all possible affiliations as required.  If you find something even remotely suspicious, we’ll pursue investigation and secure search warrants as needed.”

“Yes, sir.”

He raised his head to those in the room and knew those attending remotely understood themselves included.  “All eyes and ears open.  Any hint of a covert operation being undertaken by a disgruntled party or parties is to be investigated to the full.  Am I understood?”

Nods of assent and corresponding, ‘Yes, sir’s.

“In your patrols, check every road leading to a trailhead and ensure that they are clearly marked as closed until further notice by order of the sheriff.  We need the community to abide those closures until we get to the bottom of this.  Also understood?”

And again the nods and voices in assent.

“I’m scheduled to hit the local television and radio to explain what’s going on.  The newspapers will also receive—” 

He looked Martin’s way.  Saw a nod.  “Have received notice.  Notices have also gone out via Nixle, social media, and Undersheriff Doyle has engaged the old phone tree, which is being worked as we speak.”

“If we catch the perps, will the prosecutor follow through?” somebody asked.

Landon rolled eyes to the speaker.  Nodded to the woman.  “I guarantee it.”

Raised his chin, eyes again taking in the gathered, Landon spoke one more time.  “A young boy, only nine years old, died under my hands last night, his head split open.  His whole family—his father, his mother, his sister, and his brother—they all died.  I want whoever is responsible for his …for all of the victims’ deaths and injuries….”  His voice failed him.  He swallowed.  Took a breath.  “I want them found, arrested, and prosecuted.  Highest priority.”

And his deputies responded, their voices now resounding in strong, resolved ‘Yes, sir’s around him.

“Thank you.  May God be with you in your quest.  Dismissed.”

***

16 – Bill Arndt’s Kid

DONE WITH the briefing and reeling with exhaustion, Jessie made her way over to the hospital to restock her med pack.  Past the point of worn, her dogs asleep in the XV, Jessie wasn’t expecting Moynihan to still be on duty, but he was, and he looked as exhausted as she was.

“The girl you rescued Saturday afternoon?” he said, personally dispensing what she needed.

Jessie felt her face go stark.

“No.  She made it through surgery just fine.  I wanted you to know that your instincts were right not to palpate.  Had you, she would have died.  A broken rib shard lay within millimeters of the pulmonary artery.”

She swallowed.  “Is she going to be okay?”—whispered.

“It’s going to take time and more surgeries, but the prognosis is promising. She’s presently in an induced coma because the surgical team had to fixate almost her entire rib cage.  She’s got osteopenia, bordering on osteoporosis, which makes her susceptible to fractures, and, at her young age, that’s got to be explored.  She’s got some underlying condition that needs diagnosis and, hopefully, successful intervention.”

“Her legs?  Will she ride again?”

“Orthopedist thinks she’ll walk again.  I don’t know anything more.  With her condition, any kind of sports activity is very dangerous.”

“Oh.”

“The TBI is mild.  Did you see a helmet?”

“No.  But it was a very steep slope, so it could have rolled down the hill.”

Moynihan nodded.  Signed off on her paperwork, then ordered her to get home and to bed.  “You’ve had a very, very rough weekend.”

“So have you.”

“What do you think of Dr. Stromley?” he asked after a moment’s pause, his eyes showing genuine interest in her answer.

Jessie said it as she saw it:  “She seemed very conservative my first time working with her.  Then there was the girl last night, and she stepped up.”

He nodded.  “She was with Doctors Without Borders in some war zones.  She’s very used to having to conserve every resource.  I took a chance suggesting her, but I think she’ll be a good fit for our team, Jessie.”

“I think you may be right.”  She grinned then.  “But there’s nobody on staff better than you or anybody I trust more.”

He shook his head, eyes shifting away for a moment, but took it.

On her way home, Jessie called her dad.  “I’m just getting in.  Sorry I’m late for work today.”

“I heard.  ‘Stay off all public lands and trails until further notice.  More at ten.’  What’s going on, Jessie?”

Did she share?  She wasn’t supposed to. 

This was her dad.  Told him, “Seven people murdered.”

Sudden silence.  Not even breath.  Waited.  …Silence.

She frowned.  “Dad?  Are you there?”

“More of the same?” he asked, his voice gone gruff.

Started breathing again.  No, somebody hadn’t cut their connection.  Realized she was being paranoid, that she was crediting the powers that be with too much capability.  Said, “Different.  …Worse.”

A grunt, then more silence.  She waited.  He said, “Go home and get some sleep, Jessie.”

“Thanks, Dad.  I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

*

DESPITE HIS fatigue, despite his upset, Landon was forcing himself to go through a double pile of paperwork and logs that Mondays on Tuesdays after a long holiday weekend brought him.  Doing it brought him a sense of returning normalcy that eased his distress, or at least pushed it into the background noise of his brain.

He used to hate holidays, especially ones that included Mondays.  Now, though, because of Jessie, he loved them and didn’t begrudge the extra labor.  It was the only time they really got to do something they wanted to do together, like ride horseback.  Except for this last three-day weekend.  This one, which was supposed to have been pure leisure and happiness, ranked right up there with one of the worst, except for maybe the massive highway pile-up on the 95 on Christmas Eve night two year’s back that killed thirty-nine people.

Done with the logs, he double-checked court appearances.  Happily saw that everybody already was, or was scheduled to be, where they were supposed to be when they were supposed to be there.  He was just starting to work through email responses he’d put off Friday when Red came in.  “Bossman?”

Landon eyed his admin chief.  Something in Red’s manner warned.  “What’s up?” he asked cautiously.

“We got a touchy one.  Dad and his boy.  Think it’s your trail hit and run.”

Rage reared.  “Where are they?”

“Lieutenant put them in Number Two Interview Room.”  Red handed over two files.

Landon took them.  Hit save on his email composition.  Nodded as he flipped through those files, one on the father—sparse—one on the son—sparser …in fact nothing but the kid’s pedigree—name, address, date of birth—and some school records.  Frowned.  The kid had never been in trouble.  Got good grades.  Neither did the father have a record, except for one parking ticket, dismissed. 

Switched one of his monitors to the appropriate room, watched the two individuals in there for a moment, then, rage receding, got up and followed Red out, Britta at his side as ever.

Knocked before entering as a courtesy.  Formally introducing himself for the record after Lieutenant Hamilton announced his arrival and the start of recording, Landon sat down across from the father, one Bill Arndt.  “As you know, this is being recorded,” he warned them, “so I’m going mention your rights.”  Did so.  “Do you want a lawyer present?”

“Do we really need one?” Bill Arndt asked.

Landon nodded.  Took a breath and said, “I think so.”

“I don’t know any,” Bill Arndt replied, eyes concerned.  “And how much do they cost?”

“Let me call someone,” Landon said, and the man nodded.

A half an hour later, the interview resumed after Landon convinced Pearson, one of Bitterroot County’s best criminal defense lawyers—one that Jessie had used against him and his office, in fact—to take the case pro bono.  The man came immediately, then consulted with the Arndts in private for a few minutes.

According to the Arndts, the kid had been fleeing down the mountain after having been shot at by somebody.  He came around a curve where some girl—Kendra—was on foot walking her horse up—the gray Arab mare.  “Horse went one way.  The girl went the other.  I think I caught her with my handle bar, but I stopped.  The horse and the girl were both gone, and then another shot hit the tree right across from me.  I lit out again.”

“Why didn’t you come in?” Landon growled, again feeling his rage stir.

“Dad and Mom were gone.  I didn’t know what to do.”

“He told us last night when we got back from visiting family down south.  Oldest daughter just had a baby,” Bill Arndt said.

Landon sighed.  Shook his head.  Raised it and looked the kid in the face.  “I need you to take me up to the exact place where you were shot at, both the first and the second time,” Landon said, and even he didn’t like the tone he used.  Tried to quiet himself.  Managed a bit.

The kid, whose name was Stan, nodded, his eyes scared.

“His quad’s on my truck,” the father said.  “The first bullet went through the fender and clipped the tread it looks like.  There’s a big divot out of the tire tread in one spot, and those are brand new tires.  I’ve got the receipt for them still.  Honda place should have records, too.  They sold them to me and mounted them.”

Again, Landon nodded.  Felt more in control.  “I’ll have my forensic expert go over it,” he said.  Looked at the time.  Said, “I have to give a news conference, then we’ll head up to the site.”

The dad gave him a startled look.  “You’re going to come?”

“I am,” Landon said.  “Your son’s future is at stake here, because what you’ve told me provides extenuating circumstances that will stand in your Stan’s favor.”  And Pearson’s eyes touched his, the man giving him a slow blink of approval.

“He’s facing charges?”—Bill Arndt.

“Possibly.  Felony hit-and-run.  But, with what you’ve told me, I think the prosecutor and, in fact, a judge, will dismiss any culpability if he is charged.”

“I did hit her then?” the kid asked, voice choking, and Pearson leaned in to stop the kid speaking more.

Landon answered the question.  “We won’t be sure of that until forensics goes over your quad, but, yes, I believe so, unless there was another off-road vehicle behind you.”

“Never heard nor saw one nearby,” the kid said before, once again, Pearson shut him down.

“There’s no blood on the machine,” Bill said, frowning.  “Not that I saw anyway.”

“I’ve got a news conference out in front.  It will take about ten minutes.  We’ll go up to the scene right afterwards.”

Nods.

Landon looked at the lawyer.  “Will you be coming along, Mr. Pearson?”

The man nodded.  “I certainly will.”

“Thank you.”

Setting Sol on examining the Arndt boy’s quad, Pearson hanging close, Landon went out to the front and stepped to the microphones.  Cameras rolling, he delivered the bad news to the citizens of Bitterroot County.  “Until we get to the bottom of this, stay out of danger.  Stay out of the parks and the wild country.  Stay off all trails.  This goes for everybody.” 

He kept it short and to the point, and, once done with the no-nonsense press conference, Landon headed up, one side-by-side and one off-road four-seater loaded on a trailer, Britta riding behind him, Sol riding shotgun. The Arndts drove themselves up to the trailhead, Pearson riding with them.  Then they all climbed aboard the S.O.’s off-road vehicles.

*

JESSIE WOKE at eleven to her phone giving text and call alerts, both, and it wasn’t rings from known numbers.  She shut off all but calls from starred contacts—the S.O., Remmers, any SAR member, her dad, the rest of her family, and, of course, Landon—then rolled over and went back to sleep. 

*

BACK AT THE S.O., the boy’s story proving out and then some—Sol found the bullet in the tree, though not the one that had clipped the ATVs fender and tire—Landon was just coming in when he heard the man’s voice. 

Visions of the child who had died under his hands came bright.  Had last night not happened, he would have been more inclined to have a sit-down with the man, explaining the laws of the land to him and why those laws existed—to protect the public, including Mr. Schuler.  Instead, he stepped to the front.  Looked Peter Schuler in the eye and said, “You are under arrest, sir.”  Motioned to the nearest two deputies and informed them of the charges and to make the arrest on the misdemeanor charges of interfering with rescue personnel and disobeying a peace officer’s lawful order.

“I’m not here at your behest,” the man snapped.  “I’m here to file a complaint against you and that wife of yours!”

“You can do that from a jail cell,” Landon replied, his voice a politeness that he didn’t feel as his deputies moved in.

Watched them read Mr. Schuler his rights as they cuffed him, then led him away for processing.  Turned to Red and asked if there was anything pressing or could he go to his office.

“Nothing pressing, sir,” the man said.

Red’s voice was tight, his face odd, eyes all compassion, something Landon didn’t want to see.  “Thank you.” 

Back in privacy, Landon called his home phone.  His dad picked up.  “Did Jessie make it home?”

“Yeah, she did.  Fell asleep at the table without eating.  Your mom woke her up and herded her upstairs.”

“All right.  Thanks.”  Paused, then asked,  …Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re part of the ATV club, right?”

“Am.  Ain’t been out with ‘em this year, but have been at the meetings.”

“Anybody said anything about problems on the trails?”

“I knew you were goin’ to ask that after seein’ that presser on the TV, yes, I did, and, no, I ain’t heard no talk on troubles this year.  I think the club did get a request for a map of trails they built from the day hiker’s club …one of ‘em, anyway.”

“Which one?”

“Don’t rightly remember.  There’s a couple of ‘em now, y’know.”

No, he didn’t.  “All right.  Thank you.”

“You comin’ home?  You need sleep, too.”

“After work.”

“All right.”

Ended the call and contemplated his dad saying ‘home’.  Nodded.  Smiled.  Got busy on his inbox.  Woke up with his head on the desk twenty minutes later.  Shook it off and took up where he’d been.  Thought about Peter Schuler.  Made a couple of calls.  Called the jail.

Got a warning that all three county commissioners were incoming.  Groaned.  Wanted coffee.  Headed to the break room and caught Hamilton in there.  “Anything yet?”

“How about a couple of rifts in the Bitterroot County Day Hiker’s Club last winter?  They split into two groups and lost a chunk of their membership, too.  We put in a request for information, and notes about their meetings up to and after that point, plus copies of the official minutes for all last year as well as this one.”

“How did you find out about it?”

“Letters to the editor in the local papers, plus one of our deputies dropped a mention after briefing this morning.”

“Excellent.  Pursue.”

“Yes, sir.  Ah, sir?”

“Yes?”

“Deputy Cassidy said there were some threats made, he remembers, last year up on Sundowner when a group of individuals blocked the trail with what he called ‘a lay-down’.  They sat and laid down on the trail on a day when the ATV club was having a fun day.”

“I don’t remember this.”

“You were in the hospital with your head all bandaged, sir.”

“Oh.”  Then, “Thank you.  I’ll look up the reference.”

Hamilton pulled out his phone.  Shared a file, Landon’s phone dinging.  “Thank you,” he said again.  Got his coffee just in time for the commissioners’ arrival.  And what did they want?  Assurances.

“I can’t give you those.  Not yet.  When we find the culprits responsible, ask me then.”

“This is going to put a crimp in the economy.  Bitterroot Better Business is going to be on our tails.  Already are.”

Landon dropped eyes to his desk.  Tapped a finger.  “Can’t be helped.”

“How bad was the accident?” the newest commissioner, a Lacey Palmer, asked.  She was an unknown to Landon.  She’d been appointed, not elected to the position upon the conviction and subsequent incarceration of the man whose seat she’d assumed.

Landon studied her a moment, then said, “Incidents—plural—not accidents.”  Hit his keyboard.  Found the cam recording snips he hadn’t used for the television broadcast—too graphic—and put them up on his wallscreen.  They didn’t question his shut-down decision any further.

***

17 – Hot Range

COMING THREE in the afternoon, Jessie got woken by the house security system.  Dogs on their feet, they looked Jessie’s way before returning their attention to a new sound of storming steps on the stairs, then Clyde’s bellow of, “Celee, bide!” 

The footsteps paused, then came back up.  Stopped.  Probably at the top of the stairs, Jessie guessed, already pulling on jeans.  She slipped into her socks and boots, jerked the laces tight, snapped on her SIGs, grabbed her badge, wallet, and keys, and, dogs all waiting at the door, their mien serious to ominous, opened it to see Celee looking down the stairs, a shotgun in her hand.  Passed her, giving a touch and a smile, then beat feet downstairs.  “What’s up, Clyde?”  And she knew something was because Clyde had his shotgun broken over his arm and was on the phone. 

He jabbed a finger toward the window, then turned away to continue talking to whomever was listening on the other end of the landline.

She went to the security monitors and saw.  Oh, no.

*

PETER SCHULER’S lawyer arrived—he had one on retainer, it seemed—and deputies brought the man over from the jail, now dressed in a jumpsuit and shackles.  Red having delivered Landon a file on their preliminaries on Peter Schuler, Landon had them remove the shackles.  Told Schuler to sit. 

The man—closed-mouthed for once—did. 

Told his deputies to go take a break.  Once the door closed, Landon said, “You are seventy-two years old, Mr. Schuler.  You should know better than to interfere with law enforcement and not obey an officer’s order.  It’s usually in your best interests. …At least here in Bitterroot County it is.”

The lawyer kept his eyes averted, which Landon thought odd.  Mr. Schuler didn’t, but he also didn’t respond.

Landon continued.  “I’m inclined to let you go.”

The lawyer looked up, eyes cautious.

“But not until I see and hear some comprehension in you that tells me you’re getting a grasp of things.”

The lawyer’s eyes dropped to his tablet. 

“Are you?” Landon asked.

And those, he realized, were the wrong words to speak, because the man’s demeanor instantly changed to hostile.  Schuler’s next words confirmed that: “That you’re a fascist tyrant?!”

The lawyer, a Mr. Leston, shot a warning look at his client.  Tapped the man’s arm, bent in and whispered something to him.

Landon dropped his face to his desk.  Thought.  Thought ‘yes’.  Took a breath.  Raised his eyes and locked on to Mr. Schuler’s.  “Investigating an incident at the Northridge Crest Park, once it was daylight, we found a message spray-painted on the rocks.  It said, “‘Nature is not your playground’.  Does that phrase sound familiar, Mr. Schuler?”

The man’s face remained impassive, but, once more, Landon saw a change in the eyes.  He pursued.  “It came from your book, vanity published through Peg Publishing in 2006.  That phrase has now been co-opted by everyone from eco-warriors to travel guides and tour promoters.”

The eyes flashed. Schuler conferred with the lawyer, then, turning back to him, said, “I would personally never harm someone or do anything intended to harm someone.”

It sounded rehearsed—memorized.  And how did Mr. Schuler know anybody had been harmed?  He’d just admitted culpability, and Landon was glad his surveillance was recording.  Didn’t address it, but pursued his original tack.  “You did exactly that on Saturday when you ignored my order to stay back.  You jeopardized the life of a rescuer I was responsible for helping up the slope from where she’d performed first aid on a victim of a fall.”

“Your wife wasn’t in any danger!”

Landon could not believe the man had said that.  “That ground still has frost in it.  That surface layer will slip.  And if my horse, her anchor to safety, hadn’t been as well-trained and conditioned as he is, your persistent hostility and abject refusal to obey my request that you stand down could have spooked him, thus causing her harm.”

Defiance was now writ large on Mr. Schuler’s face.  “Well, he didn’t, and so I didn’t, and that horse shouldn’t have even been on that trail.  Any trail.  They’re dangerous, unpredictable, and filthy.  As to your wife, that’s what she’s paid the big money for on the taxpayer’s dime, just like you are.”

Again, the lawyer whispered.  Again Landon looked down at his desk.  Took a long breath, and, in the face of the man’s resistance to even giving his words consideration, made his decision.  Touched his intercom and re-summoned his deputies.

While he waited, he told Mr. Schuler to either call someone to care for his pets—the man had a cat, a hamster, and some fish, it seemed—or Landon would send personnel to retrieve them and house them at the county shelter.

“Another of you and your wife’s empires?”

Anger really beginning to bubble inside him, Landon hissed out, “No.  A charity organization that helps animals that need it, paid for half by this county and half by my wife’s national foundation.  It’s kindness exemplified, not an empire, sir.  Now, are you going to call or not?”

Schuler glanced at the man sitting beside him.  Turned his attention back to Landon.  “My lawyer is handling it, thank you.”

And, at that, the lawyer said, “I have engaged someone to check on and care for my client’s pets, Sheriff.  No need to call in the shelter’s services, but we appreciate the gesture.”

“I don’t!” Schuler snapped, and the lawyer visibly grimaced, eyes sliding away from Mr. Schuler.

Schuler didn’t notice, but Landon did.  He nodded to Schuler.  “Very well, Mr. Schuler.”

A tap on the door.  “Enter.”

His deputies stood there.  “Sir.”

“Return Mr. Schuler to the jail, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

*

OUT ON THE county road, a string of vans were parked, the too obvious communication masts and call signs emblazoned on their sides identifying them as pests. At the gates, the four guard GSDs were on full alert, hackles raised as they prowled back and forth.

Jessie turned to Clyde.  “They can’t get in.”

“Not without gettin’ bit and shot they can’t,” he said, phone still held to his ear.  “On hold, so I can talk,” he told her. 

Eyes on the scene outside, he said, “Problem is that, with today’s tech, they can do enough snoopin’ to violate our privacy, and that’s illegal.  Ain’t happenin’.”

She nodded.  What Clyde said was true.  Decided.  Warned Clyde and headed out the door, him yelling after her to, “GET BACK HERE!”

Nope.  Not happening.

Dogs hopping in to bundle over the console and into the back, she got in her XV and headed for the gate, those gates opening at her say so on the controller.

Bodies started exiting the parked vans as she drove through, the gates swinging shut behind her.  She pulled up beside the middle vehicle, and, opening her window, waited as they gathered, then started taking questions as the cameras began to roll.

*

MR. SCHULER escorted out, his lawyer with him, Red informed him that there was something going down outside his property.

“What?”

“Deputy Anderson is engaging with the media.”

“WHAT?!”

Got back to his office and, typing into his keyboard, Landon connected to his home security monitors, glad for the enhanced security put in by Howie West.  Saw the vans and Jessie’s XV from the gate cams, then picked up his phone and quick-dialed his wife. 

The call came live—she’d answered …but did not answer him when he said, “Jessie?!”  Instead, he heard her fielding questions, her voice not sounding like his Jessie, but now using what he thought of as her CEO speak.  He was about to bark at her when a phrase she said in answer to some idiot’s poking question stalled his tongue.  …And he listened. 

“I’m not authorized to speak on that, and, to your other question, that information cannot be shared due to privacy laws, but, as one of the regional SAR leaders responsible for our multi-state wildland rescues and a participant of three of this last weekend’s rescue ops, I can tell you that the threat to public safety is extremely serious.” 

“What kind of threats?” came the question.

“Again, I’m not authorized to divulge that information, but the criminal incidents that contributed have led to not only critical injuries, but dismemberment, and death.”

And, remarkably, those words brought an unexpected pause in the rapid-fire questioning.  Only for a moment, but that was something in itself.  By the time the reporters recovered from digesting those words, Jessie had it in gear, her window closing, and Landon, feeling completely enervated, but also very proud of Jessie, dropped back in his desk chair with a long blow of pent breath as he waited for her to acknowledge him …which she did moments later with a, “Hi, Handsome.  Got your hands full, do you?”

That took him a second to process.  Then he quirked a smile.  “Not full enough.  You’re not in my arms.”

“Awwww.  I love you, too.  Now, tell me I did great.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Thank you.  See you at the range.”

“At the range.”

Landon made it to the shooting range to meet Oli and Jessie as usual, but, at Oli’s urging, sat the session out. He wound up falling asleep in one of the overstuffed chairs in the observation room, Britta next to him and Jessie’s dogs surrounding.

*

“LANDON WAS pretty upset,” Jessie told her dad as they set up, “but there was no saving that boy, and doing any sort of emergency treatment on him would have been not only futile, but cruel.  It was a good call by Bill.”

“I think Landon knows that.”

“Yeah.  I think so, but Landon has this ‘right and wrong’ thing, and some things jar him so badly, he just can’t accept them.”

“That sounds like you about Blaine.”

“Blaine was different.  I froze, deer in the headlights, then ducked and covered instead of acting.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah.  I was completely disarmed by what I saw—couldn’t take it in.”

“You rallied.”

“Only when the windshield cracked and Captain Dennison had blood on his chest.  Only then.  That finally woke me up to do something.”

“You think you would have been able to stop any of it?”

Jessie shrugged.  “I don’t know.”  Then, “Probably not.”

“Some things happen as they have to.  I know that from my own experiences in combat, Jessie.  It’s the hand of God, and you can’t second guess or question.  You just have to accept.”

“You say that, but you weren’t there.”

“No, I wasn’t.  You were, and you’re my daughter, and I know my daughter.”  And with that, Oli Anderson called out, “HOT RANGE,” and Jessie took her first shot.

***

18 – You Can’t Have Her

LANDON HAD BAD dreams, his thrashing waking Jessie, the two cats, Pine Tree and Owl, plus all the dogs three different times during the night.  He’d never woken, just cried out, feet kicking, arms flailing, those cries subsiding when she’d cuddled close to him, wrapping an arm across his body. 

Coming awake before her alarm, Jessie shut his off.  Looked out.  Checked the temp.  It was going to be sunny and cold, the temperatures having dipped into the twenties overnight, neither usual nor unusual for early June.  Went to her dad’s and did her morning run, Oli at her side.  She stuck to jogging the two miles of his and Landon’s training run instead of doing her usual five with long sprints.

And they talked.  Mostly about Landon, some about dogs and the next shipment they were readying for the DoD.  Then it was weigh-in time, and that reported that she’d lost three pounds since last week.  Fuming, she complained with cause.  “I gain ounces, only to lose pounds.  Why can’t it be the other way around?!” 

Her dad laughed and said, “That’s what people trying to lose weight ask, too—why do they gain fast and lose slow?  You know why.”

Groaned.  Headed home with a promise to be back at seven for work.

*

JESSIE GOING for their morning run without him really irritated Landon when he woke at five-thirty instead of four.  Got up and showered.  Pulled on jeans, boots, and a shirt, and headed downstairs.

Nobody was up …except Jessie and her dogs, who were gone.  He headed out to the barn to do chores.  Ducked around that barn when he heard Jessie’s XV.  Stayed there until it passed.

Stared at Duster’s stall.  The horse was supposed to have been back mid-April.  Then Jim, the man responsible for taking him all the way to two reserve grand national championships, one in reining, one in cutting, just had to take him to yet another big show.  Finally, though, his Duster was coming home.  And Landon was scared.  Would the horse remember him?  Was his Duster even the same horse?  Mostly, would the horse forgive him for sending him away to win trophies?  Could Landon forgive himself?

Shook his head.  Started morning chores.

*

JESSIE WAS HELPING Celee and Sol make breakfast when Landon came in from doing chores, his dad trailing.  He grabbed coffee, then headed upstairs.  He’d said not a word, not to her, not to anyone.  Landon had too obviously woken up in a funk. 

“He’s in a mood,” Clyde said, getting his own cuppa.  “He was all but done by the time I went out there.”  Clyde leaned his backside up against the counter—like son, like father, Jessie thought.  The man, nose up, audibly sniffed.  “Smells real good.”

Jessie grinned.  Was she worried about Landon’s mood?  No, she wasn’t.  Obviously, it was bothering Clyde some.  “A boy died last night,” she told him.  “Landon stayed with him to the end.”

“Oh.”  And, predictably, Clyde ducked his head and left.  The TV came on moments later.

Sol glanced her way.  Nodded once, then went back to buttering toast, Celee stirring eggs.  Bacon done, Jessie herded it onto a platter, then stuck the platter in the keep-warm on the serving cart.  This was Landon’s ‘dark side’.  Jessie hoped he’d come down to breakfast in a better mood.

But he didn’t.  At the breakfast table, Clyde poked a light jibe at him—nothing bad, just Clyde—and Jessie was completely startled when Landon, still having said not a word to her or anybody, got up, hauled his plate into the kitchen, and dumped it, plate, flatware, and all, into the garbage. 

Sol’s face went all startled.  Silent, he stared after Landon as he went upstairs.  So did Jessie.

Landon came back down minutes later, having changed, and, calling Britta, he left without even a backwards glance or a goodbye.

“Leave him alone,” Clyde said, grabbing Jessie’s arm when she tried to follow him out.  “Best leave him alone, Missy,” he repeated, eyes ‘speaking’.

And Jessie took the advice, but it was hard.  Went and retrieved the plate and flatware from the garbage, put it in the sink, then called her dogs, and, begging off helping clean up, Sol still looking as startled as she felt, she headed to her dad’s. 

“What’s happening, Jessie,” Oli asked, bringing coffee. 

Shook her head, but tears threatened. 

He sat down, and, pulling it out of her in the way he had of doing that, then, with both words of comfort and some advice, he gave her what she needed most, a big, huge, body-crushing hug.  Feeling a little better, Jessie headed for Kennel Barn 1 with him and went to work.

*

MR. SCHULER’S ARRAIGNMENT hearing, set for first thing in the morning, didn’t go the way Mr. Schuler expected.  That much was keenly obvious to Landon. 

Though not in the mood, the assistant prosecutor asked Landon to sit in.  When the judge refused to dismiss or even reduce the charges, something that, predictably, Schuler’s lawyer requested, the judge denied the motion, and that’s when Mr. Schuler let his colors show, thus validating, live time, live action, Landon’s statement entered into record. 

His lawyer doing his best to intercede, instead of just listening and accepting the magistrate’s determination and waiting to fight it out at trial, Mr. Schuler proceeded to dress the judge down, calling him everything from inept to corrupt, actually naming the people living in the state of Idaho as “perverted cave-dwellers and ignorant morons.” 

Landon was more than amazed at the stupidity.  This is a court of law, not a bully pulpit, and you’re the defendant, not the prosecution.  What’s wrong with you?!

When Schuler finally shut his mouth, he found himself in contempt of court for his outburst.  His bail was approved, but he was now sentenced to two weeks in jail for contempt before being released, and that did not brighten Landon’s mood.  Schuler would now be Landon’s problem for another two weeks, or so Landon thought.  Mr. Schuler changed that to worse as the judge completed his contempt ruling.  Back on his feet, his lawyer trying to stop him, Mr. Schuler started yelling obscenities and defiantly shaking his fist at the judge, threatening violence.

Landon stood ready to move in to help the bailiff who was one of his older deputies, but he was startled by what was too obviously the man’s fit of rage.  The judge then added six months to the two weeks with the admonition that, if it happened again, he’d sentence Mr. Schuler to the maximum two years in prison for criminal contempt.  Landon wished he’d do it right now.  That would get the man shipped to someone else’s facility.  Landon didn’t get his wish.

When he got back to the S.O., he requested a full background check on Mr. Peter Schuler.  Discovered that the man had a history of this sort of behavior stemming back to his teens, and, wealthy from inventing some innovation he’d sold to one of the big tech companies for millions, Schuler had managed to beat almost every rap, save one, that he’d ever been arrested for.  Those charges included multiple counts of assault and battery, malicious destruction of property, both public and private, criminal trespass, and inciting a riot.  The one crime for which he’d been convicted—the malicious destruction of property—had resulted in a fine and community service, no jail time.  That had been in New York State.  Then he’d moved to Virginia and begun his agitating all over again.

“I guess he doesn’t know better,” Landon said to no one.  Thought about his own sullen insolence to his family, wife, and good friend, Sol.  Called home.  Got his dad.  Apologized.  Tried calling Jessie, but her phone went straight to voicemail.  Left a message.  Headed to the lab to find Sol.

*

“I NEED YOU, Jessie,” Sol said, when, at his ring, she’d gone ahead an answered.

“I’m working,” she told him.  Watched as her dad tipped his head toward her in an ask. 

She held up a finger, him talking to the yearling pup he was about to send at her.

“Because I trained you.  Because you’re the best, besides me, at evidence handling, and because I want your insights, that’s why,” Sol came back, his voice no argument, a rarity from the man.

It was 9:30 in the morning, and Jessie was busy working with the some of the yearlings, teaching them the finer points of ‘reading’ a violent fugitive, this work critical to keeping dogs safe in extremely dangerous situations that could result in, not only the death of their handler, but in the death of the dog itself.

She considered Sol’s request, covered the phone mic, and whispered the request to her dad, telling him how she wanted to handle it.  Got a nod.  Took her hand off the mic.  “Okay, Sol.  I’ll leave here by 10:15.  That’s the earliest I can break away from my job here.  I can turn the new pups’ training over to Twilla.”

“Works for me.  We’ve got that mountain shut down, deputies posted and nothing I’m looking for is going to go anywhere …I don’t think.  How long can scent last that a dog can catch, again, did you say?”

“About two weeks.”

“Oh, good.  See you when you and the wonder mutts get here.”

*

LANDON LISTENED from outside the lab door, his eye wandering over the plaque next to the bronze of his fist hitting the wall beside that door.  Read it again and was beginning to feel a twinge of pride seeping into his embarrassment over it.

‘Be It Known: The damage preserved here is credible evidence, the result of Sheriff Landon Reid being informed of criminal motive for malevolence, whereupon he loosed the full weight and authority of his office to capture the offenders who are, at the time of this installation, now awaiting trial.  Therefore, To Whom It May Concern—that would be you, the criminally inclined—Do NOT tick off Sheriff Landon, or this may result.’

Pulled breath.  The man responsible for that plaque, its wording, and getting Jessie complicit with him in obtaining the mold for the sculpt that went with it was now Landon’s second closest friend, Sol Preston.  Stepped in when he heard Sol end the call.  Saw the man turn slightly startled eyes to him.  Gave Sol a half-smirk.  “You know, Sol, that Jessie’s not a paid deputy.  She volunteers her services.  It’s a SAR thing, I’m told.”

The short man gave him a nod.  “And you know, Sheriff, sir, that I have repeatedly told you that I need her working with me.  She’s beyond excellent at evidence collection and her insights are priceless.  She analyzes things in a completely different way than do I …or the rest of us.  …Well, with the exception of you, of course, who analyzes things even weirder than Jessie.  Having all of you on this is going to be a huge help.”

“And she claims she doesn’t, and so do I.”

“I think that’s because it’s unconscious—what is sometimes called subliminal processing.  But she and you both do it, and the insights are usually very pertinent.  Jessie strings the beads differently and the way they’re strung often leads to bringing pieces of the evidence together in a way as to shine light on previously obscure possibilities.  And in fact both of you do it, you because you don’t think like a criminal, but like a strategist.”

Landon wanted to roll eyes.  He’d heard this all before and so had Jessie, and Jessie’s response was always the same. So was his—to either shake his head or outright deny it.  But yet he knew it was true of Jessie.  Still, Jessie’s value was not in helping to ‘catch the bad guy’.  Jessie’s value was that she and her dogs found and saved the living.  He repeated that now, and, as usual, Sol agreed, then said, “But she can do both.”

“No.  She doesn’t want to keep up the certification requirements, and she’s got an obligation to Anderson Working Dogs and her dad.”

“And that’s more important than catching the bad guys, too?” Sol pressed, his sarcasm clear.

Landon thought of Oli.  Landon thought of the dogs.  Said, “Yes.  Find someone else.”

“There is no one else I trust as much as Jessie.  I didn’t mentor her myself with no reason, you know.”

And Landon repeated himself.  “Find someone else.”

“And not to sound like an echo, Mr. Echo, Sheriff, sir, but, like I said, there is no one else like Jessie that I know of.”

“I didn’t come here to argue.  I came here to apologize.  I was a ghoul this morning, and I’m sorry.”

And that stopped the dwarfed man cold.  Sol looked up at him, eyes blinking and brows all question.  Landon chuckled and gave his four-foot-tall, impudent criminologist a clap on the shoulder. 

That seemed to shake something loose.  Sol grinned.  “Accepted,” he said.  Then he raised a finger.  “Does that mean I get my Jessie?”

“No.”

“But—”

Landon’s phone went off, and it was his turn to raise a finger.  It was Red.  Answered.  Found out the hospital had called.  They had a shooting victim.  Did Landon want to accompany Martin?

Yes, he did.  Said, “Later, Sol.”

“I need Jessie,” the dwarf hollered after him as he took the door, Britta right at his knee.

He turned back.  Watched Sol who stood there grinning at him.  Said, “You can’t have her.”

“Can I have her today?”

Impudent and indomitable.  “Yes.”

***

19 – First Find

JESSIE GOT PERMISSION, not from Landon who, she was informed, was busy, but from Captain Red Wheeler, to take one of the S.O.’s side-by-sides.  Armed and armored up as usual, Tom Hudson came along, bringing his new ATV. 

Sol riding along in the passenger seat, gear loaded behind, Jessie headed up the main trail, her dogs trotting beside …except for Duchess who rode in her lap.  It was 12:10 when they finally got up to where Jason Temple’s ATV had been found. 

Turning to her dogs, Jessie asked them for ‘human, any trace’, specifically reinforcing that with ‘any’ and ‘human thing’—an evidence/object search, something Sumi was especially good at because of her training for police work, but, in fact, all her dogs knew evidence search.  It was something she worked all of them on …except Duchess, of course, who was her ongoing experiment on whether dogs learned from each other with no human interference.  Now, asking the dogs to search at will, those dogs spread out and went to it.  She kept her app on her phone live, volume way up.  If and when her dogs found something, she’d hear them alert.  Until and unless they did, Jessie would stay with Sol, Tom tagging along with her. 

“By the math,” Sol said.  “Temple would have about been here”—he pointed—“when the bullet hit him and his machine.  Then it rolled to where we recovered it.”  Sol pointed to the taped off spot.  Stepped there.  “…In this angled position before stopping.” 

“I’ll handle the metal detector,” Tom said as Jessie grabbed a hand-held, the big evidence kit, and a shovel.  

Taking the device, Hudson asked, “Right here?  Tapped his foot.

Sol stepped up.  Pointed again.  “When they interviewed her, the girl told Martin that she was behind her boyfriend when his ATV was hit and rolled to a stop,” Sol said.  “So, I’m guessing, again by the math, but only by estimate, that she’d have been about here.  They were going up when it happened, so figure that, as accurate a shot as the one had been on the front machine, if they shot at the girl’s machine, a bullet that missed would have hit ground or rock somewhere around—”  He pointed, sweeping his arm left to right.  “…in about a hundred yard spread, about fifty-feet or less in breadth from here to here.”  Sol had stepped to his guess of where, then pointed.

“On it,” Tom said, turning on the metal detector.  He glanced at Jessie.  “Don’t go running off.”

She grinned.  “Not unless the dogs call.”

*

HEADING OVER to the hospital with Martin, Landon got the details straight from the victim, one Holly Fromm, a woman in her early thirties who, though shaped a bit like a pear, had a healthy, rigorous appearance.

“I was on the corner of my property replacing a fence brace that somebody had cut.  The sound of a gun and something like a bunch of pebbles hitting the tree head high where I’d just been working made me crouch down and cover my head.  I yelled.  That’s when I got sprayed with shot.”

“What did you yell?”

“Just ‘hey’.  I thought maybe they didn’t see that I was there or something.  Then they shot again and I got hit.  I kept quiet after that and just hoped they’d leave.  I was bleeding, but not bad.  Mostly it just stung.”

The woman’s brown eyes shone wet and she blinked hard twice.  “I hate to say this, because he’s a really nice guy, but I think it was my neighbor.  It came from the direction of where his barn is.”

“Did you call 9-1-1?”

“No.  I could tell it was pellets from like a BB gun or something, and I thought I’d get to the hospital faster all by myself, so I got down to the house, got my keys, and drove myself in.”

And the woman was right.  She’d been shot by what appeared to be an air gun or BB gun from quite a distance away.  The wounds peppering her were spread over her torso and legs, but were only skin deep.  One pellet had embedded itself in her scalp. 

Landon shook his head.  If one had hit her in the eye….  But, luckily, none of the strikes were life threatening or maiming.  Unfortunately, the 0.18” pebble-sized pellets were also untraceable.

“Why do you think it was your neighbor?” Landon asked.

“Like I said, it came from his direction, and he’s the only neighbor I have that’s within a couple of miles.”

“Have you had problems with your neighbor before?”

“No, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Your neighbor is Nathan Fair?” Martin asked, looking up from his phone.

“Yes.”

Landon knew of Nathan Fair.  He was an old-timer horseman who had a team of Percherons he took to the fair every year, plus he kept some chickens, a few cows, and some pigs.  The man was a retired millwright who mostly grew oats and hay on his land, harvesting it with his Percheron team in the old way with antique farm implements.

“Want to head out there with me?” Martin asked as they left after getting the woman to sign a statement.

“Let’s go get Deputy Doctor Preston,” Landon suggested.

Martin rolled eyes sideways at him.  “You’re not keeping up.  He’s up on Sundowner with your wife and Deputy Hudson,” Martin said.  “I think you’re tired, Reid.”

Landon ignored the ‘tired’.  Had known Jessie had gone up with Sol, Hudson with them.  I am tired, he admitted, but only to himself.  “Let’s go,” he said, getting in the passenger side of Martin’s unit.

“Aye-aye, sir,” Martin said, chuckling and getting in behind the wheel.  It was a twenty-minute drive to Fair’s place. 

*

A HALF-AN-HOUR of digging and scraping where, after repeated false positives, the metal detector insisted something was there, some fifteen inches below the surface of the ground was a bullet, and it did look newer than the others they’d found in shallower ground.

“Let me see that, please,” Sol said once Jessie got it bagged. 

“Yeah, I’d say that’s very close to what we extracted from the aluminum block.  Now to find out where it originated and maybe we can get a little closer to who it came from,” the dwarfed man said.

Jessie set up.  She’d just started running string from both of the ATV’s estimated positions when shot and the bullet they’d just found.  Using Sol’s calculations of from how far away that shot had been fired by the depth of penetration into the engine and the depth of the bullet in the ground when Queenie’s repeated barks took her attention to her app.  So did Sumi’s moment’s later, the GSD farther up—much farther up—than Queenie.

Calling praises to both of them through her phone, Jessie asked Sumi to ‘bleib’ and pointed to the position of her redheaded ground tracking wonder.  “That looks like the very target our calculations are indicating.”

“It does,” Sol said. 

Jessie looked down.  Asked him, “Want to come?”

“I’m going to continue on here,” Sol said, taking up the metal detector, the unit unwieldy for the man until he, with Tom’s help, disassembled the handle then reassembled it to his size. 

“Let’s go ahead and string line,” Tom suggested, and Jessie agreed.  Set the anchor, then took off at a trot, line taut, as Tom kept a beacon honed on the trajectory ahead of her.

“Watch your feet here,” Hudson called, and Jessie slowed to traverse the tricky footing through some rocks and broken bramble, little Duchess trailing.

Getting up into some trees, there sat Queenie, all wags at their approach, tail brushing dirt.  “What did you find?” Jessie asked, all happy-voiced encouragement, and what her red dog had found was mashed down dried weeds and scuffs. 

“Do we try to salvage a cast of this mess?” Tom asked.

“Nothing is usable that I can see,” Jessie said.

“Yeah.  My thinking, too.  I don’t see any casings,” he said, looking around.  “Too bad.”

Jessie nodded as her red dog bounded up, touched her nose to Jessie’s leg, then raced down the hill about twenty yards.  Jessie followed, Tom and little Duchess with her.

A shimmer of goldish color, and, getting down on her knees, Jessie spied a spent cartridge that had lodged itself into a crevice of a rock.

“I bet it rolled downhill and the shooter couldn’t find it,” Tom said, taking pictures and GPS positioning before Jessie fished it out with some tongs, and she guessed that was exactly what had happened.

“Sloppy shooter,” Tom scolded, bagging and labeling it.  “Hope there’s some prints on it.”

So did Jessie.  “Such a good, good girl,” Jessie told Queenie, giving her red dog lots and lots of rubs and strokes.  “My good, good Queenie, queen of the ground game.  Want to go again?” Jessie asked, and Queenie took off again, nose to the ground, this time uphill. 

Jessie purposely set the app to record the dog’s movements and let her go.  Queenie was moving with purpose in a northeasterly direction, toward what Jessie knew by her app was where Sumi was downed on alert.

Duchess barked and Jessie glanced.  The young dog sitting back where they suspected the shooter had stood.  The pup was staring up at one of the trees.

Getting back to Duchess who sat watching them come, her little feathered tail wagging and wagging, Jessie asked, “What is it?  What did you find?  Vas ist?

The small dog turned her nose to point up at the tree again.  She had her ears folded back and now closed her eyes.  Her nose held absolutely steady, nostrils twitching as she pulled scent of what she indicated, that nose pointed at the trunk at about a 50° angle. 

Squatting down, her eyes following the trajectory that Duchess’s nose pointed, Jessie shot a picture, then, rising, stepped close to the trunk, and, comparing the picture on zoom to the trunk, carefully looked.  Finally saw what Duchess pointed to.  A thrill went through her—Duchess’s first find!

***

20 – Icing on the Case

THE FIRST THING that struck both Landon and Martin as odd was the graffiti spray-painted on Nathan Fair’s barn: BLOCK NOT THE WAY LEST YE BE BURNT TO ASH.  A crude rendering of a lit matchstick was painted alongside what Landon guessed was supposed to be a pile of rubble, smoking skeletal feet sticking out of it.  Whoever painted it was no Rembrandt.

“That’s a threat if I ever saw one, but put in biblical phrasing?” Martin commented dryly, getting out.

“Poor excuse for it,” Landon said.  What he thought was, This is hate, as he led off to find the owner of the place when the man didn’t open his door at their knock, though both his car and his pickup were in the drive.

They found Nathan Fair out unhooking his team from a drill.  “What can I do you for?” the old man asked, the horses standing, champing, then settling, and Landon grinned at the ‘local speak’ he even used …when he wasn’t under public scrutiny of course.

“What’s with the graffiti on the barn?” Martin asked.

“Somebody don’t like that Miss Holly put up a fence, a fence they’re blamin’ on me.  I’ll get to fixin that paint gone one of these days when I got time.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“Ain’t got no clue.  Is that what you’re here for?  Somebody paintin’ a mug-ugly sign on my barn?  It offend somebody…?”  The old man took off his cap.  Scratched his head.  Put his cap back on with a snap.  Looked slantwise at them, his scorn clear.  “Asides me, anyway?”

“When did it happen?”

“Couple nights back, I guess.”  Thought for a minute, then said, “Sunday night last, I’d make a guess.  Saw it Monday morn.”

“Holly Fromm was shot today with a BB gun or an air rifle.  It came from the direction of your place, she says.”

The man gave them a long stare.  “Shot!  Is she all right?”

“Yes.”

The man continued to stare at them.  Finally said, “So that’s why you’re here.  You think I did it?  Well, I di’n’t and I ain’t even got a BB gun.  Worthless.  I got me a .410, a 12 gauge, a .30-06, a .22 revolver, and a .44.  Need to see?”

“We’ll take your word on it,” Landon said, Martin throwing him a frown. 

“I’ll show ya anyway,” Fair said, leading over to his side door.  They let him show them, though nothing was to say the man hadn’t hidden the weapon in question somewhere, but neither Landon nor Martin bought that.  Not with Fair.  He was an old-timer with a record cleaner than a four-year-old’s. “Did you hear or see anything today …like a BB gun or air rifle going off?” Martin asked.

The man shook his head.  “I’ve been out planting my last field since daybreak.  Sorry.”

“Mind if we look around?”

“Be my guest.”

But looking around got them nothing useful, except pictures of Holly Fromm’s cut fence and sawed through bracing, plus photos of the tree that had been peppered with shot and, right next to it, blood on the ground, presumably Fromm’s. 

Martin put in a call to Sinclair to get out there and bring Cramer with him.  Then they went back to find Nathan who was standing, staring at his barn.  He turned his head as they approached.  “Been thinkin’,” he said.

“Oh?” Martin prompted.

“Guy came by here couple o’ weeks back askin’ ‘bout a walkin’ trail.  Told him there was no walkin’ trail.  It were a deer trail through them woods as is right there.”  The man jabbed his finger toward the shared, heavily treed boundary between Holly Fromm’s place and his.  “He talked funny.”

“‘Funny’ like how?” Landon asked.

“Funny like a preacher, all ‘thy’s and ‘thou’s.  Had a beard an’ all, but di’n’t look like no Mennonite, Amish, nor Hutterite to me.”

Fair was talking about Anabaptists—Swiss and German Protestant sects dating back to the 16th Century that came out of what was called the ‘Radical Reformation’.

“How so?” Martin asked.

“Dressed all wrong—fancy duds like them…” and the man spit, “realtors and pretty boy sales clerks wear.”

Landon guessed Fair meant what was called ‘business casual’.

“So I’m a lookin’ at my barn and wonderin’ if’n he had a hand in it,” Nathan Fair said.  “Had a kinda accent furrin’ to our parts, too.”

Landon’s brain immediately went to Schuler who had a distinctive Eastern accent, though no beard, not that that couldn’t be faked.  Schuler didn’t speak in ‘thy’s and ‘thou’s, though, either.  “Foreign in what way?”

“Like ya hear in movies when they’re tryin’ to mimic folks doin’ tent revivals from down in those southern states.  Georgia or Alabami and the like.”

That wouldn’t be Schuler then.

“Young or old?” Landon asked.

“Middlin’.  Not as old as you, Mr. Doyle, but not no young punk like the sheriff, neither.”

Landon didn’t take offense.  He wanted to laugh out loud, but didn’t do that, either.

Martin turned and stood staring at the graffiti.  Went over to his unit.  Got cameras and shot pictures, backing up so he could get all of it.  Came back.  “Would you not remove the graffiti until we get a forensic team to come out and search for fingerprints, fiber, and hair?” Martin asked.  “A forensic unit is on the way.”

Fair nodded.  “Sure thing.  Hadn’t planned on it till I get all my farmin’ done.  Hayin’ be coming up in a few weeks, so it be after that till I can get to cleaning it off.”

“Thank you.”

“Miss Holly goin’ to be okay for sure?” the old man asked again.  He truly looked concerned.

“I think so, but she thought it was you who shot at her.”

Fair shook his head.  “I di’n’t.”

Landon nodded.  “I know.  We’ll make that known and plain.  Thank you.”

“Be welcome.”

“That is just plain weird,” Martin said as they got back in his unit.

Landon agreed, and both of them also agreed that the shooting and the graffiti had to be connected.

“Has to be somebody close by, too, I’d think,” Martin said.  “They’d be the only ones to know about the ‘deer trail’, right?”

“Except it sounds more like they were asking about a walking trail and, the way Fair said it, they didn’t sound like they really knew its location.”

“Thing is, Fair’s got fences all over.  Why object to the one Holly Fromm put in around her place?”

“Next stop, Fromm’s,” Landon said.  Then asked, “Martin?”

“Yeah?”

“Do I really look like a young punk?”

The man laughed.  “To somebody like Fair?  Probably.”

Pulling in next door proved eye-opening.  Fromm had only mentioned that her fence nearest to Fair’s had been damaged.  When Martin pulled in, her entire perimeter fence had been toppled.

Fromm herself pulled in as they were taking pictures and awaiting the arrival of Sinclair and Cramer, and the look on her face said it all.  Told them that the fences, all but the one adjacent to Fair’s property, had been standing when she’d driven herself to Emergency.  “I’ll sue him!” she screamed.

“Ma’am,” Landon broke in.  “It wasn’t Nathan Fair.  This was somebody else.”

The woman wasn’t hearing it.  “How do you know that?!” she demanded, already pulling out her mobile phone.  “He’s the only one around here who could do something like this!”

Not true.

And then Martin and Landon showed her the pictures they already had taken of the fresh tire tracks.  “Nathan Fair doesn’t own a tractor, Ma’am,” Landon said.  “And horses don’t have wheels with tires that leave R-1W tracks.”

She paused, then frowned.  Took the phone away from her ear.  “He doesn’t,” she said.  “He’s farms with horses,” she said softly as if that fact had just dawned on her.

“Correct.”

“R-what tracks?” Martin asked, once they were back on the road.

“V-lugged, standard tractor tires, and casts of them should get us a solid lead on who’s responsible.”

On a whim, Landon asked Martin to drive north when they hit the next through road, and, taking it, Landon found what he suspected—the ‘deer trail’ had been marked by an unofficial sign that said ‘Walking Trail’. 

Landon called in.  Asked Red where Sinclair and Cramer were.

“On their way.  Wreck on the secondary.”

Asked his admin captain to set somebody to finding out anything about a planned walking trail the county was putting in along Fry Creek Canyon Road.  Then, getting out, Landon began to walk it, Martin running to catch up and grousing. 

They walked it all the way down to Holly Fromm’s downed fenceline.  Turning around and retracing his steps, Martin no longer grousing, they followed it the other way—north—which took them to the vicinity of a convergence of trails that went to Menlow’s Mountain, Sundowner Peak, and Far Creek Canyon trail.

Now Landon had Martin drive back to Fromm’s place, and, poking around across the road, he found where the trail started again, this time traveling south. 

Martin complaining of sore feet and blisters, Landon got on the radio and called out a couple of deputies to explore where it went.  “Report back directly to me or the undersheriff,” he told them. 

And they did, but not until late next day, because the trail wound through private property, fences there cut and patched and cut again.  It wound all the way through to the Tanner River, running up and over Northridge Crest.

“I think we have motive,” Landon said to Martin.

“I think we do.”

*

“WHAT YOU got?” Tom asked, stepping up as Jessie pulled her phone off its wrist mount and started taking pictures.

“I think it’s a pill,” Jessie answered.

“A what?”

She grinned.  “You know.  The little balls that sweaters and, well, clothes get from use and washing?”

“Oh.”  He grimaced.  “Those are a pain.”

“Get a pill rake.”

At his look, she said, “I’ll send you a link.”

Amazed at Duchess, amazed at her scenting out something that high up and that small a sample, Jessie squatted down and gave Duchess a squeeze.  Told her what a ‘good, good dog’ she was and popped her a meat nibble.  Duchess was beginning to demonstrate that, yes, she had learned from her time with the pack, Jessie never formally training her.  And that, to Jessie’s mind, proved her theory that dogs learned from one another.  Not only that, the dog had a nose!  “Such a good, good girl,” she cooed. 

After taking photo documentation, including measurements, Jessie got busy with a magnifier and tweezers.  As she teased the tiny gray-green ball from where it was snagged on the tree bark, her eye caught more of them, plus two strands of hair, and she went to work harvesting everything she found.

Done finally, Tom bagging, labeling, and stowing, Jessie followed, Tom with her, Duchess, too, to where Queenie was now on a down with Sumi.  They were up near the snowline farther up-slope.

Breaking out into open ground, this still covered in spots with melting remnant winter snow, Jessie could see the dogs, Queenie next to Sumi.  Sumi was ‘platzed’ at the edge of one of those remnant snow patches.  Walking up and praising the GSD and the setter, both, Jessie saw what the dogs had located—the remnant of someone’s boot print which Jessie and Tom prepped to photograph, then, when that was done, cast with ‘snow stone’—dental stone.  Then there was a weird, slotted hole in the wet, heavy white stuff to deal with, and, after deliberating with Sol, Jessie traced it down, layer by layer, Tom recording video, until she got to something.  Upon extraction, it was discovered to be a chainsaw wrench and a double-ended bit.  “What in the world?” Jessie said.

“I wonder if this is the same perp who murdered Sy Waterton,” Tom said.

Jessie was thinking the same.  “And the double-ended bit?”

“I think it’s from a multi-tool like I carry,” Tom said, pulling his.  Held the sheath up, twelve double-ended bits held in loops on the outside. 

“Sure enough,” she said, bagging and tagging it.

Getting back down to where Sol had laid down the metal detector and was digging with a trowel, they showed him their finds.  Taking a magnifying glass to the wrench, the casing, and the bit, Sol studied them, then looked up.  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said, grinning. “I think we might have some matching partials.”

“Not until we find the person who owns them,” Tom said.

“We’ve got the evidence we need, though,” Sol said.  “It puts them here and ties them to the scene, so once we do have a suspect, we can pretty much nail them as the culprit if, as they say, the shoe and the partials fit.”

“The fibers, the tools, and the bullets?” Tom asked.

“Icing on the case.”

Jessie rolled eyes.

***

21 – Compounding Crimes

“COMPOUNDING CRIMES, Martin?” Landon asked as they waited for 7AM briefing to start.  “Is anything beginning to suggest to you that this and the incidents on Memorial weekend are all related?”

His undersheriff was quick to answer, “No.”

“They’re all trail-related and in the same vicinity.”

Martin cast him a doubtful glance.  “Including the one with the spiked boards that nailed those kids down on the south end of the county?”

“Nailed?  Pun intended, Martin?”

“No.  Tongue slippage.”

“I wasn’t thinking about that one, but could be.  That was on public land too, plus trail-related.”

“I’m not going to say you’re wrong,” Martin said, “because you’ve been right about these things before, but, well …you’re wrong.  Wait till briefing.  Listen to what we’ve got.”

“We’ll see if I’m wrong.”

“We’re going to need a lot more than we have to get the cases to connect.”

“That’s yours and Sol’s jobs.”

And the man groaned.  “You’re reaching, Reid.”  Then, after a moment, added, “But, knowing your track record, I’ll bear it in mind.”

*

ATTENDING THE 7AM BRIEFING remotely, Jessie wanted to hear this one because Sol was going to go through in detail what they had and didn’t have, which, in Jessie’s opinion, was not much considering the weirdness and violence of the incidents, the number of victims, and the consequences to those victims.

The Temple case was, to Jessie, the weirdest—someone shooting out the engine of the ATV.  To her it was obvious that they hadn’t intended to kill Jason or the girl.  Just the quad.  Does the shooter know them or their families?  Is there a connection there, maybe?

Then her mind returned to Duchess’s pointing to something Jessie would have missed—the pills and hair located far above the dog, stuck to the bark of a tree.  Duchess, a dog with no formal training, had learned and they only way she could have learned how to communicate with humans to point to evidence was from the pack.  Plus, the dog had a very good nose!

Looked down at the black pup where she was laying with the rest of the pack, them all pulling at dog jerky.  Another rising star.

Put her attention back on the screen as Sol stepped to the front and, turning on the wall screen, started going through the evidence.

*

EVIDENCE PROCESSING finally completed, Landon listened and looked at what his deputies had gathered, Deputy Dr. Sol Preston presenting the results as a succinct but detailed series of facts:

“In the case of the two boys, the sixty-penny wire nails were purchased locally at the Hester’s Farm Store out in Garner.  So were the boards.”

“Boards, as in plural?” Landon asked.

“Yes, sir.  Deputies found another five boards spiked in the same way placed along curves at various branches and points on that trail.  None showed that they’d been disturbed, except for the one the boys encountered.  They also found barbed wire strung at a height that would catch someone riding a motorbike, MTB, or ATV about neck high.”

“MTB?” Landon asked.

“Mountain bike, sir.”

Grumbles around those present in the room.

“And how do we know the nails and boards came from Hester’s store?” Deputy Rodriquez asked.

“It’s a guess, sir.  Hester’s records show two boxes of the 60D Timber Tie nails designed for a power nailer and six one-by-sixes purchased simultaneously on May 6th at his store.  The nails were special ordered by one Cornel Blasken, a general contractor, RCE number 98764.  When interviewing both Mr. Hester and Mr. Blasken, however, Hester says he doesn’t recall Blasken ordering them, and Blasken says he doesn’t have an account with Hester’s except for livestock feed deliveries.  He says he buys all of his construction materials from Alvener’s Building Supply, and both Blasken and Alverner’s were happy to let us go through their receipts and compare them to their company financial records …all without a search warrant, mind you.  Both companies say they have nothing to hide.  Those receipts proved out.  Blasken buys everything from Alvener’s or else orders it shipped in from outside companies.  So, unless he paid from his own private account or with cash, Blasken is in the clear.  Further, Mr. Blasken is not a hiker or an outdoorsman.  He says, and I quote, he ‘gets plenty enough weather working the job’.”

Laughs greeted that.  Even Landon smiled.

“A check of the farm store’s records showed several regular customers whose online communications and organizational affiliations suggest misanthropic tendencies,” Sol continued.

“English please, Doctor?” Landon said dryly. 

The man gave him a startled look like he was kidding.

“For the benefit of those of us more familiar with common English,” Landon added, including himself in that for the sake of fellowship with his deputies.

Sol dodged a glance around the room, then said, “…Oh.  Sorry.”  Looked around again and said, “Misanthropy is how we designate people who have a dislike and/or distrust of other people, and I would add that it is often a hostile dislike and distrust.”

“How hostile?” asked Deputy Kins, who, though one of Landon’s youngest deputies, was proving himself, not only bright, but a go-getter and star.  Someday, Kins would make a very good sheriff.

“What do you mean?” Sol asked.

“Hostile enough to shoot strangers?  Hostile enough to kill?”

The criminologist nodded.  “Sometimes.”  Then, “Yes.”

Muttering now around the gathered.

“Moving on,” Sol said, “the incident with the horseback rider who the sheriff and Deputy Anderson found was, in fact, a hit-and-run.  The boy, Stan Arndt, who hit her, turned himself in, and the tire track on the girl’s pants and the pictures of the impact injuries on the girl’s body show that it was his small ATV.  That ATV had been shot by what we suspect is the same gun that fired the shot that hit Jason Temple and his ATV that same day.  The incident with the boy who hit the horseback rider was not that much earlier than the shot that hit Jason Temple and his machine.”

More muttering.

“We went back up to the scene of Temple’s shooting and found two more grounded bullets.  Those bullets and the one I pulled from the tree that the Arndt boy said he was near and heard crack the second time he was shot at absolutely match.  Further, the caliber matches the mangled one we pulled from Temple’s ATV’s engine.  Mangled is the word, though, so whether it’s enough to positively connect it to the rest of them in the mind of a jury is iffy.

“We also found the suspected location of the shooter that fired at Jason Temple and Kelsey Westlake by some fabric fiber and a couple of hairs—human, brown, with cat, gray, woven into the pills.”

“Cat?”

“Correct.”

This was news.  Peter Schuler had salt-and-pepper hair, but brown had been the color of hair with which he’d been born, the ‘pepper’ part of his graying hair. He also had a gray cat.  Landon frowned.

“One casing was also recovered nearby,” Sol continued, then switched slides.  “The dogs then tracked that shooter’s travel up to near the snowline where we discovered one partial boot print and some dropped tools.  The casing and the tools have partial fingerprints that match, but we don’t have enough matching points to positively ID the perp.”

“What about the bullets, though?  Do they match anything on record?” Deputy Cassidy asked.

“There is nothing in the ballistic database to match the recovered bullets thereby connecting them to a specific gun, no.  Further, the hair follicles aren’t enough to process for DNA, though Meridian is trying.  We’re stuck without finding the gun and the suspect, preferably together, then get everything to line up and match.”

“Snowball’s chance,” somebody said, voice hard.  “And what about Sy Waterton’s murder?”

Landon looked to the deputy who had asked that—Cassidy again.  Nodded to the man.  Sy Waterton was well liked, and Cassidy shared Landon’s outrage at manifest evil.

“There’s some good news there,” Sol said.  “The hair follicles found on that downed tree match what was found on the tree we suspect Temple’s shooter leaned or braced against.”

And that meant the shooter and Sy’s murderer were one and the same person.  And Landon asked the question that came foremost.  “Have you checked the partials against Peter Schuler’s prints that we collected upon arrest and detention?”

Sol looked up at him, eyes odd, almost smiling, mouth an ‘O’.  It took the good doctor a moment.  Then he said, “No.  I’m guessing that hasn’t hit the federal database yet, and, honestly, I never thought of doing it.  I didn’t consider him a suspect.  He’s elderly and not a gun owner, at least according to everything we have on him.”

“Can it be done?”

A nod.  “It can and will be.  Immediately, sir.”

“If we get a sample from Mr. Shuler’s cat—”

“He has one?”

“Yes.  Can that also be compared to the sample cat hair you found?”

And, again, Sol stared at him.  “Yes, it can, sir.”

“Good.”

“We’ll need a search warrant, sir, for the cat.”

“You’ll get it.”  Plus, Landon thought.  He wanted everything possibly incriminating confiscated from Peter Schuler’s residence.

“Moving on,” Sol said, and began to cover everything yielded from the Northridge Crest catastrophe. 

Landon dropped his head and tried to tune out.  Decided to leave.  He did not want his raw memories of that night brought back front and center.  Shrugged himself away from the wall as the FBI’s regional director sidled in next to him.  Andy Newsome handed him a file—a thick file—and Landon started reading things he didn’t want to.  Bitterroot County, Idaho, was not the only county in the nation where incidents like these had happened over the Memorial Day weekend.  In the summary, there was reported over a thousand similar cases recorded by law enforcement throughout the U.S.A., and, unbidden and unwanted, the vision of the dead boy came bright to forefront in his mind.

Landon shifted his focus to Andy for a moment, then turned eyes to the deputies in the room.  Heard someone ask, “Are chainsaw cuts unique to a saw like rifling does to bullets?”

“No.”

Grumbling responded to that, and Landon stepped forward.  “We do our best.  We keep our ears to the ground and eyes open, people.  Be safe out there.  This briefing is over.  Dismissed.”

“Why’d you do that?” Sol demanded, once everyone had filed out and the feed had been cut.  “I wasn’t done.  I don’t think Undersheriff Doyle was either.”

Martin nodded.  “We have a lot more to share on all the cases.  That was just—”

“Because something has come to light,” Landon interrupted.  “My office, please, both of you.”  Turned and motioned to Red and Howie. 

*

JESSIE KNEW something was up the minute Landon abruptly ended the session.  “Now what?!”

But she knew she probably wouldn’t find out until Landon decided to share …if he decided to share.  She’d have to ask Sol.

Got up, left her office, and headed out to K-Barn 1.  Went to work.

***

22 – We Got Off Light

SEQUESTERING EVERYONE in his office, Landon officially approved cooperation and coordination between his office and the FBI, formality signing the agreement for Andy under notary.  Got up and gave Andy the floor, the man sharing what he had.

Taking over Landon’s computer, Newsome picked certain things out of the e-version of the file he’d brought to Landon at the briefing and put them up on Landon’s wallscreen.  “Over a thousand incidents similar to those which happened here, including viewing platforms sabotaged and people killed and hurt.  The phrase spray-painted on the rock terrace above the Tanner River Narrows—“Nature is not your playground,” and variations on that, replacing ‘your’ with ‘mankind’s’, ‘people’s’, or ‘a human’ was found in over three-hundred instances.”

Andy’s eyes moved around the room.  “What I’m saying is that you’re not alone and, actually, you got off pretty light.”

“Seven dead in a county of just over sixteen thousand citizens over the course of one weekend is not light,” Martin said, voice terse.

Leaned against the wall again, Britta sitting beside him, Landon lifted his head and then did what he rarely did—raised a hand that signaled ‘stop’.

Eyes looked, mouths shut.

He opened his and said, “I read the summary, Undersheriff Doyle.  We got off light.”

And his words hung in the silence of the room.

Andy broke the moment with, “Since Memorial Day, there have been no more incidents of either violence or vandalism.  We’re all holding our collective breaths, hoping it’s over.  We’re hoping that it was a coordinated action to make a point,” Andy said.  “And, yes, it’s a very high priority investigation nationwide.  These are domestic terrorists—ecoterrists.”

“Has anybody claimed responsibility?” Sol asked.

A shake of head to that.  “No.”

“Isn’t that strange?”

Andy didn’t respond, but Sol had a point.  In things like this, someone or group always claimed responsibility.

“What are you doing about it?”—Martin.

“We have agents infiltrating groups we think might be responsible….”

Andy turned his eyes to Landon.  “Including here.  Both of the Day Hiker’s Club and the Wilderness Walker’s, the original and the splinter group.  A couple of others….”

Landon dropped his eyes back to his boots.  Raised them again.  “I requested minutes and meeting notes from both,” he asked.  “Have we gotten them, does anybody know?”

“Let me check.  Give me five,” Red said, and left the room.

They waited.

And the answer was, “Yes and no.”

Landon filled out affidavits necessary to secure a comprehensive search of Peter Schuler’s residence, provided the probable cause, scope, and limitations, then started on one for the missing information from the club—Bitterroot Wilderness Walkers—that hadn’t responded.  He himself took them to a judge that very morning.  His deputies executed the warrants immediately upon securing them. 

Landon also conferred with the assistant prosecutor, Larry Johnson, the prosecutor being ‘gone on vacation’ as was Lenny Dutfeld’s norm since Landon had demonstrated that he had the goods on the man. 

Dutfeld had, for all intents and purposes, abandoned his elected office, but nobody was pursuing it.  With elections a year and a half away and the assistant prosecutor doing what people considered a very thorough job, leaving things at status quo was the predictable course in a county populated by people who worked for a living.  The citizens of Bitterroot County didn’t have the time or inclination to be agitators, at least most of them didn’t.  Now, though, that was obviously changed for some of their number, and not for the better. 

Landon got the full and earnest cooperation of the county prosecutor’s office.

*

TRAINING WAS busier than ever for Jessie with her SAR trained dogs that were now coming out of the K-Barn 4 side of the operation selling like gold—there was a waiting list.  This morning, right after the briefing as she hit KB1 to get into her bite suit, her dad suggested they try to find two more trainer candidates.  “You’re to pick them, this time.”

“Um …no.  I do not want that responsibility.”

Her dad gave her that look that she knew meant she’d lose if she didn’t come up with some way to deflect his decision with reasoned argument.  And, sure enough, he started in with, “You need to learn how to manage the operation.”

“Okay.  Here’s managing, as in leaders delegate responsibility,” and before he could say that’s what he was doing electing her, she said: “Let John.  He’s the training manager.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” her Granddad Darby said, walking up, and her father gave him a glaring hairy eyeball.

“Well, I do,” her granddad insisted, giving Oli the eyeball right back and then some.  “Jessica Marie can do it, all right.  To my mind, there’s no doubt about that, but John?  He’s the one who needs the learnin’ of it.  Just my opinion, hear.”

And, with that, Jessie had the best endorsement and the most powerful champion to her cause she could have ever hoped for. 

Over lunch, Darby brought it up, and it went over well with everybody …except her dad, of course.  Everybody in this case meant Jessie’s gram, Ana-Mari, and, of course, her granddad, plus the manager himself, John, who was all grins.  Even the other trainers thought John would do a good job.  “He works with us real nice,” Twilla said.  And heads nodded all around the table.

Huge relief for Jessie.  And she was learning how to get her way with her indomitable dad.  This win also took away a huge potential for her to struggle and fail …at least in her opinion.  Even Landon thought it was a good idea.  “I like John,” he said over dinner that evening, him in a good mood for once.  Duster was coming home this next weekend.  Landon was all happiness and excitement.

“Of course you like John,” Jessie teased him.  “He uses ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ with the dogs just like you do.”  And John did.  Luckily, Landon considered her ribbing as a compliment, though she actually said it tongue-in-cheek.  Why?  Because Jessie thought the practice totally ridiculous.  But, considering how Landon had argued with her about it to the point of sternness when she’d given him grief about it the first and second time she’d mentioned it, she planned on never addressing it for real again.  It was just easier not to fight over things about which Landon felt strongly, but about which he really didn’t have a clue …even though he thought he did.  It was a ‘man thing’, just like with her dad.  And it’s a woman thing to head them off at the pass with smarts!  I’m learning.

*

“CAT HAIR is not a match,” Sol said, him and Martin sitting in Landon’s office first thing.  “And Peter Schuler’s prints are not a match, either.”

Landon scowled.  He knew the man was somehow connected.  Another roadblock.

***

23 – Bigger than the Bitterroot

WITH THE FBI now helping with the Northridge Crest case, a huge relief to Landon, he had his people concentrate their efforts on the rest of the open ones, which included the Fromm/Fair incidents. 

Contacting the property owners whose fences had been compromised got them confirmation that, except for a couple of them who thought it was vandalism, most of the property owners hadn’t known about the damage to their fences.  None of them—not one—had authorized anyone to trespass on their land, much less create a ‘walking trail’ through their properties.

The tractor tire casts brought a direct lead to the man responsible for the destruction of Fromm’s perimeter fence, but not to who was responsible for shooting her or for the graffiti-ed threat on Nathan Fair’s barn.  The suspect, one John Yeld, was a forty-eight-year-old x-ray tech who worked at the hospital.  He did not own any guns, nor were any recovered from his property.

Also no, he didn’t have a beard, no he didn’t speak in ‘thee’s, ‘thou’s, and ‘thy’s, and no paint was found similar to that on the barn.  Nor did the prints and fibers match that Sinclair and Cramer had collected from where it had stuck in the graffiti’s paint.  They also didn’t match what had been found on the Arndt shooting case, the connected Temple shooting, or the Sy Waterton murder case.

Did John Yeld know who shot Fromm?  According to him, no.  Did he know who graffiti-ed the barn?  Again no.  He wouldn’t have even admitted to the fence destruction, but receipts for a tractor he’d rented using a credit card the day that fence went down brought a match on the tire tracks.  Yeld’s fingerprints were even still on the machine.

Then John Yeld did admit to getting mad at both Fair and Fromm for fencing him out of what he claimed was ‘his’ walking trail. Inquiries around the county finally pointed them in the direction of Mr. Thy-Thou, and Thee, though.  He was a Mr. Ken Baramont.  “Where do I know that name from?” Martin asked as they headed out there, deputies with them.

Mr. Ken Baramont was home, and ‘home’ was a house made into a church—an odd church—satyrs, centaurs, and things Landon knew no name for installed around the perimeter of what, he guessed, had once been a living room.  That room now had an altar with a brazier up on a dais, crude benches made of boards facing it.

They didn’t arrest Mr. Baramont until the results came back from Sol a few hours later.  Yes, Mr. Baramont’s fingerprints matched those found in the paint.  So did a hair sample. 

No BB gun or air gun was found to be in Mr. Baramont’s possession. 

Mr. Baramont was read his rights and placed under arrest, joining Mr. Yeld in jail, which immediately proved that, yes, the two of them knew each other.  Jail surveillance captured that.  And that seemed to be the end of the line.

After their arrest, no more trail-related incidents occurred and peace again descended Bitterroot County the entire week following.  That stretched into two, and Landon started breathing easier.  Still no breaks on who was responsible for the injuries to the kids on bikes, the deaths, injuries, and vandalism on Northridge Crest, or the culprits who’d shot at the Arndt boy, Jason Temple and his girlfriend (now fiancée), or, connected, was responsible for the death of Sy Waterman.  Those cases were still a work in progress, as was the Fromm shooting, but Landon was still breathing easier, if only during daylight.  He kept the trails closed.

*

JESSIE GOT TO catch up on her sleep.  There weren’t a lot of SAR calls.  She even gained back her three pounds lost, plus two more, but only by eating like a horse headed for foundering itself.

Landon was still having nightmares, Jessie, the dogs, and the cats just riding it out.  When finally she dared quiz him about it, he admitted that the death of the boy was haunting his dreams. 

“Duster, too?” she asked, knowing that was bothering him as well.  She’d catch him standing at the horse’s stall, staring in at it during chores, morning and night.

“That, but not really.  That bothers me, but there’s nothing for it.  The boy?  That’s my responsibility, Jessie, and, even with the FBI working on it, we’re no closer to finding the people who caused his death …all those injuries and deaths.  I want those perps caught.  I want them prosecuted and in jail.”

“I know.”

“And, now, the commissioners want me to pull the shutdown order.  Honestly, I have no reason not to.  There have been no more incidents.  At all.”

Yeah, Jessie knew that, too.  She was thankful.  She gave him a kiss.  “Later, Handsome.  Heading out to Dad’s.”

“Sooner, Beautiful.”

Grinned at him and left.

*

“THE RAFT RACERS are coming,” Commissioner Lacey Palmer said, the other two sitting commissioners’ eyes watching anywhere but on the conversers.  The other member of the meeting, was Del Poindexter.  He was the current mayor of the City of Northridge, newly installed because the elected major had just dropped dead of a heart attack.  He was nodding to her words, his face all stern attention.  “We need to get at least the lowermost viewing platform opened up.  It’s fixed.  We just need you to open up the park.  The other two viewing platforms …which are also fixed don’t really matter.”

“Yes, they do,” said Commissioner MacDowell.  “People love using that park.  They love the views from those decks.  We need to open them all.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it, Ed.  It’s just that the bottom one is important for the wild water races.  That event, which, in case you forgot, is weekend after next, is one of our biggest money-makers other than the fourth.  It kicks off our tourist season with a bang.  TV crews from all the major sports channels, both cable and streaming services, come to broadcast it, and the event participants and their support crews, along with spectators spend a lot of money on food and lodging and give a big boost to local businesses.  We need the park opened up.”

Landon had known this was coming.  Northridge Chief of Police Harvey Mueller had rung him when first he’d set the order closing everything down county-wide.  Landon had his arguments ready …and, of course, the commissioners didn’t listen, so, rather than argue, he compromised.  “I’ve assigned deputies to guard the platforms.  That’s meant to prevent further sabotage.  As to the potential for danger from some other method of criminal assault, from bombs to bullets, we’ll do our best.  I’ll get bomb dogs in to patrol and set up tactical personnel to take out any shooters that might surface during the event, but I don’t have a crystal ball.  I cannot guarantee anyone’s safety if you go full forward, opening up this event like usual instead of using my alternate plan.  I not only want that understood, I want you, Mayor, and you, Commissioners, to sign, under notary, to that understanding.”

He took out the document he’d had, not County Legal, but his favorite canny lawyer prepare.  He set it on their side of his desk.

Eyes read.  A frown from Commissioner Palmer.  “That puts the onus on us,” she said as Landon asked the S.O.’s notary to come in.

Yes, it did.  She and the rest signed anyway.

***

24 – Forever Come Home

DUSTER WAS finally coming home.  That made Landon both excited and worried.  He lay awake, watching the time, minute change by minute change.

On Landon’s chest slept his little white fluff ball of a cat, Owl, his other cat, Pine Tree, nestled into the crook of his arm.  Beside his legs, Britta was snuggled up close.  To the inside, between Jessie and him, lay Milo, the dog softly snoring. 

He smiled.  It never started out that way.  Milo was supposed to take the outside.  But, sometime in the night, the big dog would insinuate himself between the two of them, Mitch hemming Jessie in on the other side.  No matter how Jessie and Landon tried to convince Milo not to do that, it always wound up exactly just that way, and he managed it without waking either of them.

It wasn’t quite true that Milo always split them up.  Sometimes when Landon woke, Jessie would have her arms wrapped around him, Milo having somehow been moved next to Mitch.  But, mostly, yeah, it was like sleeping in an alternating human-dog sandwich, and the only safe place for the cats, of course, was on top of or snuggled close to Landon.

The clock switched to the next number.  It was now coming 2AM.  Landon closed his eyes.  Told himself to get back to sleep, then lay there, eyes closed, wide awake.  Opened his eyes again and watched the clock change the minute.

*

“DON’T YOU think you’ve fussed enough?” Jessie asked, tipping Landon’s hat over his eyes as he lifted yet another forkful of straw/shavings mix to shift it and, yes, fluff it.

She’d just finished taking Snake over to her dad’s, Landon not arguing the point that a mare being here might not be a good idea for Duster his first day back.  She’d returned to find Landon back in a funk. 

He set his hat back on straight and gave her a sideways glance.  Tried on a smile that wasn’t real and said, “Almost done.”

Jessie pretended to study the job, then, turning around, she stepped back and let herself flop down into the bedding, then wriggled in.  “Yep.  I’d say it’s comfy.”

A crinkle-brow frown.  “Jess-ie!”

She grinned.  “What?”

A sigh.  A roll-eye.  A quirk of a half-smile, half-grimace.  “Get up.  I need to finish.”

“I think it is finished.” She extended her arm, hand reaching, fingers wiggling.  “You come down here.”

He gave her a scowl.  “It’s for Duster.”

She patted the bedding beside her.  “Try it yourself and see if you think it’s soft enough.”

He shook his head, then, putting the apple-picker, another name for a manure rake, aside, leaned in, and stretching an arm out to catch himself, lowered himself down next to her to brace his head on an elbow and stare out the open stall door.  The eyes were worried.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said.

Silence.

“What are you so stressed about?!”

A shake of head.  “I should have never—”

She’d heard this over and over.  Broke in.  “Landon, it’s going to be fine.  He’s coming home.”

He turned eyes to hers.  “What if he doesn’t remember me?”  And his voice broke saying it.

She rolled eyes.  Shook her head.  “Not going to happen.”

“What if he won’t forgive me for sending him away?”—so softly said, his deep voice gone so gravelly it sounded like it almost hurt him to speak.

Again, Jessie shook her head.  Pushed up on an arm and looked him square on.  “He’s going to remember you.  He’s going to recognize his home.  He’s going to be thrilled to be back.”

Anger in his voice then—just a tinge.  “You don’t know that.  I don’t know that.”  Then, “He’ll be a changed horse.”

And now she was getting ticked.  He could work himself up into such a dither!  “I went away for years.  Chesterton remembered me.  Chesterton was all over me when I came back, he was so happy to see me, and I was the one who was changed—stressed, unhappy …damaged.  I wasn’t the same person.” 

Landon was watching her.  He was listening.  Finally. 

Heartened, she repeated herself, “It will be fine, Landon.  Honest.”

The head dropped, eyes and face disappearing, as he did ‘the Landon thing’, hiding his face, hiding himself with the broad brim of his hat.  Sitting up, she reached out and, hooking his neck, pulled him down to be with her in the softness.  Kissed him, and he let her.  He even responded.  Then again he broke away.  Sat up.  Crossed his arms over his knees and sighed. 

She sat up, too, and kissed him again.  Stroked his cheek with her finger knuckle. 

Finally, he softened a little.  “All right,” he said.  “Let’s just hope.”  He did not sound hopeful.

Jessie refused to enable him in his despair.  Absolutely refused.  Again toppled his hat, this time completely off his head and grinned doing it.  That got her a slight half-smirk as he picked it up, dusted it off, and put it back on.  “There’s no hope about it, Landon,” she told him.  “It will be fine.” 

And it was.

An-hour-and-a-half later when Jim Henderson’s trailer pulled in, the whinny that rang out from that trailer said it all.  Duster was home and knew it.  And Brogan, Bayard, and the mules, plus Chesterton, came galloping up to all sing out their welcomes.

The horse pulling hard, Big Jim let him go when he cleared the end of the trailer, and the horse practically bowled Landon over with his head.  Jessie watched the animal plant that head square in the middle of Landon’s chest, Landon laughing like a little kid as the horse nickered and nickered and nickered, shoving, pushing, shoving. 

Landon’s hand offering apple slices over and over, Jessie saw tears crowd the corners of her husband’s eyes as the animal rubbed on him.  She saw Landon swallow his joy over and over, his face broken out in the biggest grin she’d seen since after he’d ask her to marry him …well more like demanded she marry him, and she’d said yes.  Then, startling her, he threw himself up on the horse, no bridle, no nothing except the halter and lead. 

Scared for him …then, giving it up, not scared, she realized what was what and ran to the pasture gate to open it, and Landon and Duster took off as Brogan, Bayard, plus all the mules chased after.  They all, even her Chesterton, lit out to tear across the pasture and, ultimately, disappear through the trees that separated field from field.

“I guess he’s glad to get the horse back,” Jim said dryly.

Jessie turned to the famous Texas showman.  “You have no idea,” she said, shaking her head.  And, looking back to where Landon had vanished, she smiled.  Again turned to the man standing beside her.  “So, let’s get you settled in.  You’ve had a long drive.  Lunch is in the making.”

“Do I have time for a shower?”

“You do.”

*

HIS HORSE remembered him.  All but a year gone, and Duster remembered.  And forgave him.

The horse was pulling grass like there was no tomorrow.  “What?  They didn’t have grass where you were?” 

He knew they did. 

“I know.  It’s not the same as Idaho grass, is it?”  Bitterroot grass.”  And Landon smiled.  His horse was back; his horse remembered him.  “Oh, and, by the way, Jessie now lives here too, and, yes, you have my permission to taste her hair.  I promise.  It is real sugar.”

The head bumped him, then shoved, and Landon laughed, rubbing the stallion’s forehead and mussing his forelock like he used to do.  Got a soft blow in answer and an eye blink, that eye watching him …just like it used to.  Duster was back.  Duster was still his Duster.

His eye running over the horse from muzzle to tail on down to the heels, he shook his head.  Not a whisker, not a feather, not a stray hair sticking out anywhere.  He got up and touched a fetlock.  Said, “Foot,” and, just like he taught the colt, the hoof came up.  “Rim shoes, not Sliders,” he muttered, looking.  Good traction.  Noted that even Duster’s chestnuts had been sanded, the hair around them clipped close.  That would stop.  Hair and whiskers were feelers and protected skin—important. 

Put the foot down.  Ran a hand from the neck to the withers, along the back to the loin.  Patted rump, then ran his hand on down to the buttocks and gaskin—hard, heavy muscle, harder than when the stallion had left.  Felt the cannon, fetlock, and pastern—sound, no bulges, no heat, no fluid pockets.

Stepped back up to the head that still pulled grass and squatted beside.  Again the horse pushed into him with his head, muzzle touching chest, the horse nickering, and, almost toppled, Landon laughed again.  Steadied himself with a hand on the ground as the eye watched him.  Reached in his pocket and handed out a slice of apple.  Handed out more to the other heads that came near—Brogan, Bayard, Chesterton, and all three mules.  Gave another to Duster as the horse pressed in to beg more.  “You know, don’t you?” he told him.  “No more primping and pampering.  You’re back home in Idaho now.  Prissy life is over.  You’re back in the wilds where we’re a little less polished, a whole lot more mannerly, and we work for a living.  You’re gonna hafta get used to workin’ real cows, again.” he said, slipping into ‘local’.  “No more bein’ a prince, no more spa treatments.  No more pretend.”  And Landon grinned, again.  Sighed pleasure.  His horse was back.  Forever come home.

***

25 – Decisions

JESSIE WAVED, her dogs surrounding her, watching and wagging as Jim Henderson got in his truck and, with a word to Landon that “the offer stands.  You know my number,” he drove out the gate with an empty trailer.  He’d gone without getting what he wanted—to get Landon to either sell Duster to him--“One million dollars.  Cashier’s check,” the man had offered, bringing out the check and laying in on the table in front of Landon—“or syndicate him.”  That offer was for five times that amount in yearly payments over the life of the horse—but Landon would only retain majority ownership of fifty-one percent.  The horse would stay at Jim’s to continue his show career and stand at stud. 

Those offers brought another round of self-doubt and misery to Landon, and Jessie sat up with him all Saturday night into Sunday morning as Landon fretted.  “I’d be stupid not to take it.”

“We don’t need the money,” Jessie said.

“Not right now, no.  But we could someday.”

And, finally, though Jessie liked the idea of having the security of that kind of cash in hand, she chose Landon instead.  She said, “Landon, you were so happy.  The light in your eyes, the grin on your face—I say ‘no’.”

He’d turned to her, gulped a hard swallow, and hugged her.  And, in time, he whispered out a croaked, “Thank you.”

And that ticked her off.  “You don’t need my permission!  He’s your horse!”

“I need your surety,” he said.

“Well, you’ve got it.”

And he hugged her tight to him again.

It was the first real proof she had that, no, Landon was not as self-assured as he’d always seemed to her with his arrogance, with the assertive way he came across, especially when he got on his high horse to lecture about duty or the Constitution during briefings or press conferences.  She mentioned that to her dad when her family came over that evening for Sunday dinner.

“You didn’t know that?” Oli asked, a quizzical look on his face.

“I didn’t.  I now know the arrogance just hides a kind of shyness, but he’s always seemed stalwart when he makes a decision.”

“I don’t think any of us charged with making critical decisions, man or woman, are ever sure, Jessie, my Jessie.  We just come up with the best plan we can, do it, and hope.”

“Could have fooled me,” she said, grinning and leaning into him, and she got what she wanted, his one-armed bear hug.

*

“YOU DIDN’T take it?!” Clyde said, voice accusing.

“No, I didn’t, Dad.”

“What does Jessie think about that?!”

“She’s not only fine with it, she encouraged me not to.”

His dad’s face changed from accusing to approving.  “Oh.”

They were doing a walk-through of his dad’s house, the GC—general contractor—waiting outside on Landon’s ask.  The place smelled of fresh paint, the walls and ceiling pristine, the floor refinished, too.  Landon was waiting for the right time, and that time wasn’t quite yet. 

He blew a quiet breath.  Wished Jessie was with to do this.  Asked the next pertinent question, eyes watching his dad’s face as he did.  “What do you think of the job they did?”

His dad nodded.  Looked around the room.  Up at the ceiling.  Down at the floor.  “They did a good job.” 

The voice was quiet, not the usual, and Landon heard both the resignation and a slight, very uncharacteristic hesitancy.  Knew what his dad worried.  Decided to say it straight out.  Fell into ‘local’ to say it.  On purpose. 

“I know what you’re worried on, Dad, and, just so you know, Jessie and I don’t want you and Mom to leave.  We want you to stay on at the house.  It’s Mom’s house, too, and you know Jessie likes family round her—lots of family.  Considers you part of her family.  You know all that.  She’s said it a time or two.”

Nothing.  Just the head remaining dropped, eyes watching the floor. 

Continued.  “Already spoke to Fogarty about taking the bedrooms at the other end and making ‘em into another suite like you guys made for Jessie an’ me, including your own washroom.  You’ll have the best view of the Bitterroots in the house, save down in the great room.  Even better than the great room, maybe.  What say?”

Let it stand right there—no more.

More nothing, the head still dropped.  Landon waited.  Watched the thin lips finally purse just a little.  Knew he’d won.  Heard it next, the eyes coming up:  “You’re sure,” his dad asked in that way that wasn’t quite a question, wasn’t quite an ask, but still was.

“We’ve both been sure since afore we got married.  We spoke about it.”

More silence.  More looking down at the floor.  His dad walked away, head down.  Disappeared around the door to the kitchen.

Landon waited the right amount of time, then followed.  Stepped under the door lintel.  Stood and waited more.

The head came up.  His father turned.  Looked him in the eye.  “All right,”—voice still quiet.  Then, bolder with a decisive nod, “Accepted.”

His dad looked around the room.  “What are we goin’ to do with this place?”—almost sighed out.

Landon grinned.  He had that answer.  “Rent it to your brother.  He lives in a hovel.  His wife deserves better.”

A frown.  “He can’t afford no rent,” Clyde scoffed.

“Nobody is saying what you have to ask for it,” Landon said, staying ‘local’.  “It’s got to be something, Dad, but it don’t need to be the goin’ rate on the market.”

A nod.  His dad knew that.  Said, “That’s true, but—” 

Clyde broke off.  Nodded again.  Gave eyes again, the chin coming up.  “You don’t even like him.”

“I don’t, but you put up with him, even if I don’t.”

“You ain’t gonna fuss, come later?”

“No.”

A nod.  Another look around, then the eyes came back.  And with a decisive nod, his dad said, “I’ll talk to Celee about it, and, if she’s okay with it, then I think I will, thankee.”

Landon crushed a smile that begged.  “Come on, then,” he said, extending an arm to the front door.  “Home’s calling.  Almost dinnertime.”

And, with the spring back in his step, his dad led out.  Said, “We’re havin’ turkey, an’ all the fixin’s, ‘cept no pumpkin pie.  An’ it ain’t e’en Thanksgivin’!”

And Landon grinned.  Yeah, they were.  It had been his job to stuff the bird.

“By the way,” his dad said, giving him a stern look as they got in his dad’s hopped up, custom painted truck. “It’s about time you started talkin’ to me like a real person, not all that up-dee-up.”

“Yes, Dad.  Whatever you say.”  And, saying it, he dropped the inflections and manner of phrasing of a dialect he’d grown up with, purposely reverting back to his ‘uppity speak’, as Jessie called it.  Grinned more at the look of temper he got from his old man as he did.  Chuckled.  Got a fist popping him on the top of his arm for it and chuckled more.

***

26 – To Catch a Bad Guy

“TOMORROW’S THE big day,” Martin said, and Landon groaned.  Sighed.  Thankfully, there’d been no more incidents.

The weekend would prove a test of his fortitude, though.  Everybody who could had to be on call just in case of trouble.  And the motels were booked solid, even the flea traps, and especially the AIRBNB®s. There were a lot of outsiders in town.  Of course, it wasn’t the outsiders who were causing Landon problems, right now.  It was all locals, admittedly mostly transplants from elsewhere, but still Bitterroot citizens now.  Please no more injury and death, God.  Bring us peace, joy, laughter, and good will to all.

Martin stood.  Stretched.  “Best get home and get some shuteye, Reid.  Might not get another chance if something breaks loose.”

Dropped his face, darkness crowding into his thoughts.  Said, “Something better not.”

“I think I remember you saying something like that just before the last big hoo-ha we had.”

He remembered.  Bid Martin goodnight.  Went on home.

*

LANDON FUMBLED for his phone, his fingers finding it only to have it elude his grasp.  A thump told him it had landed on the rug.  Groaned.  Rolled over, the cats shifting, Britta and Milo, the latter who had wedged himself between Jessie and him grumbling at being disturbed.  Grabbed the phone from the floor. 

The ring stopped.  Saw the number he expected—the S.O.  It lit up just as he was about to call in.

Jessie’s bedside lamp came on as he answered.  Listened.  Got up.

“What’s up?”

“We’ve got what Howie calls a ‘bingo,’” he said, reaching for his cast-off jeans and shirt.

“Coming with.”

The dogs got up—all the dogs in the room, Milo and Mitch, Britta too, jumping down from the bed.  The cats just watched.  “It’ll be all over with by the time I get there.  Don’t bother, Jessie.”

“I’m coming with.”—said with a no-argument terseness.

They all went in The Rhino, though Jessie took her gear—always prepared.

*

LANDON WAS right.  It was all over by the time they got there just after midnight.  Jessie watched Howie, him all hyped up and stalking around as his Tac people along with the regular deputies who’d participated in the apprehension worked through completing their reports.

The man, a Dan Evans who worked for Gates Architectural and Structural Engineering, Inc., sat cuffed in the back seat of a unit, him covered in dirt and mud, a bruise on his face and blood on his chin.  The tools they’d found with him were bagged up in the trunk. 

Jessie eyed those—a chain saw and a great big reciprocating saw.  Looked at the man—maybe 5’8” and weighing 180—and shook her head.  This guy was no heavyweight in the strength department.  “There’s got to be somebody else,” she whispered to Landon.

Howie heard her.  Glanced her way.  “There was nobody with him.”

“Mind if I send my dogs?” she asked.  She asked Howie, not Landon.

“Whatever floats your boat,” he snapped and stalked off.

She quelled an urge to roll eyes.  Said, “Thanks,” to his retreating back and went to get the dogs.

Landon trotted over to The Rhino as she reached it.  “You really think somebody else is out here?”

“Maybe not anymore, but, if we can find sign, maybe we can find tracks to cast.  It’s worth a look, I think.”

He nodded.  “Good point.”

Jessie wanted to lean back into him, feel his solid warmth.  She was cold.  Stopped herself.  “I need to let the dogs sniff the arrestee and those tools collected as evidence.  I’m betting there’s scent of somebody who’s not the arrestee.”

“I’m not sure about that, but you may,” he said.

“Thank you, Sheriff, sir,” she said, smiling up at him as he gave her a quirky frown. 

She let the dogs out, switching on their RF collars as they passed under her hands, each one.  As they pooled around her, she squatted down among them, happy in their company.  Grinned at dog faces grinning back at her.  “Okay.  Everybody ready?”

Tails wagged, eyes gleamed, and, getting up, she led over, first to the detainee, giving her dogs signals of ‘not this human’, then leading them to the unit that had the evidence stashed in its backend. 

Grabbed evidence bags one at a time and hefted them out, one of them carrying a saw in it that was an almost evil-looking thing.  Evidence bags on the ground, she got on gloves and a mask, then pulled them open.

Not one dog touched nose to the evidence.  They just sucked scent, then, satisfied, sat and waited as Jessie re-secured the bags and hefted them back into the unit.  “Okay.”  She signed and spoke: “Such.  Find it.  Trace.  One human/ein Mensch.”  Then, “human things/Menschliche Dinge.  Verfolgen.”

Her dogs took off, Jessie not following, but, instead, just watching them go, switching focus to her app.  This was a search for traces of passing and, maybe, an evidence search, not a quest for a live somebody.

“What if there’s two or more?” Howie grumbled, coming over.

“Then they’ll find them or evidence of their passing, but, honestly, I don’t think so, Captain.  And I’ll be happy with just one track that says there was another one.”  Then she gave him his due—“But you could be right.  There could be more.  Or none.  The dogs will tell us.”

“Why do you think we missed somebody?”

And Jessie heard the challenge.  Realized she had stepped on toes.  Answered anyway.  “Because that guy you’ve got in cuffs is not tough enough to handle packing in both that chain saw and that reciprocating saw over this kind of slope, and I doubt he would make two trips.”

A curt nod.  “If they find something, I’ll be coming along in Hudson’s place,” he said.

“Where is Deputy Hudson?” Jessie asked, surprised Tom wasn’t already here.  She had texted him.

“Family emergency.  His mom got rushed to the ER around nine.”

“Is she going to be okay?” Jessie asked.

“Haven’t heard.”

“Well, anyway, I don’t think there’s any danger, Captain.  Chances are the ‘someone’ I suspect was here is long gone, but I’m hoping the dogs will find where he was, where he came from, and where he went.  Maybe we can get lucky and he left some good footprints or dropped a glove or something.”

“We’ll wait together,” Landon said, walking up.  “Captain, did you speak with the detained man?  Did he say anything?”

“I got here a few minutes before you pulled in, so, no.  My lieutenant says they read him his rights, and he hasn’t said a word, not even his name when they requested him to identify himself.  Didn’t have a wallet on him, but quite a few of us know him by sight.”

“Has he asked for a lawyer?”

“Not that I know of.”

*

JESSIE WATCHED HER dogs on her app.  They’d scattered, but now, Oso and Mitch in front, Milo right with them, they seemed to be converging on a single line, probably Oso’s pick.  Raised the volume, listening for an alert as they started moving faster—none so far.  Then, at once, Acer and Sumi’s markers almost became one, Queenie and Oso falling back as four of the six dogs converged toward a location.

A shot popped, coming through from all her dogs’ collars.  It jolted her into action, her scrambling up the slope toward their position.  Boots sliding on loose footing, she went down hard, hands catching her fall to boost herself back on her feet and scramble on. 

Heard yells behind her.  Heard pounding feet.  Specifically heard Landon bellow out her name.  Ran on, no HADAR helmet to help her, not even a headlamp, just the faint light of a waning gibbous moon to guide her way.  Had no med kit, either.  Had nothing …except her SIGs strapped to her hips.

*

HOWIE HADN’T hesitated.  He’d taken off after Jessie as soon as she’d moved.  It took Landon a couple of seconds to realize what was happening. 

Beside him, Britta stood, ears riveted.  He heard her whine, and that spurred his feet.  Took off in pursuit of both of them, Howie already falling behind.  His burly captain was no match whatsoever for Jessie’s speed. 

Landon caught up and blew past Howie, fell to his knees a few yards farther on when his boots hit grit on rock. 

Howie caught up.  “Rifle,” he said, tossing his, as Landon got himself back up on his feet again.  Caught the weapon, slung it.  Took off after Jessie again, Howie with him, but losing ground, then falling farther behind.

Other boots closing, but not catching up.  It’s why Deputy Tom Hudson was assigned to Jessie, and even Hudson, who was almost as fast as Landon, couldn’t keep up with her.  “JESSIE!” Landon bellowed.  “WAIT UP!”

…But she didn’t and, moment’s later, her white head disappeared from his view. 

He’d lost her.  …But Britta hadn’t.  The dog surged ahead, and Landon followed.  Tripped over something, his shoulder and hip taking the hit.  Scrambled back to his feet, adjusted the rifle as he ran.  And kept running.  Followed his dog.  Felt no fear, felt nothing except the will to get there.

*

“GET THERE.  GET THERE.  GET THERE.”  Jessie kept telling herself that with every footfall, even as her brain registered the sounds of growls and yells coming through her phone from her dogs’ collar mics.  They had their quarry. 

Another shot, but, thankfully, no yelps.  Then a scream—human.  They got him!  She ran on.  Closed….

*

THREE TIMES, he went down on the rock.  Three times, he got himself up and ran on, sometimes in shadow, trees crowding out light.  The slope was stair-stepped, and the line his dog showed him kept mostly to ground that was humanly passable …until it wasn’t and he had to climb hand over hand, toehold by foothold up steep to vertical inclines. 

Knuckles bleeding, his clothing ripped and body battered, he kept on.  Didn’t check the tracking app—no time to stop and sort it out—just kept following his Britta.  And, then, clambering up yet another steep incline, his dog waiting for him at the top, he thought he heard his Jessie’s voice.

*

“ON YOUR FACE, Mister,” Jessie snarled, weapon trained.

Huffing breath, heart pounding hard, she concentrated on her target, aim trued, her dad’s words whispering in her ear on letting the weapon in her hands float independently of her stressed body’s motion …and it worked her very first time doing it for real in a critical situation.  Her aim was steady even as her body recovered.

Milo had one of the guy’s legs—his left—in his giant jaws and was back-leaning, toes spread, claws on all paws extruded.  Acer had the big guy’s right arm gripped, blood dripping off his flews.  A gun—a revolver, maybe a .22—was skittered off about ten, twelve feet.  Sumi had the man’s left arm gripped hard, and the dog was growling, occasionally wrenching …which she’d only do if he was flexing against her.  And the man was a giant, bigger than Jessie’s dad, and that was big.

Stationed next to the guy’s face, the man on his back and whimpering, stood a Mitch Jessie hadn’t seen before, and the guy’s eyes were locked on the two-year-old Malinois, because it was too obvious that Mitch meant business.  Jessie had never heard Mitch rumble like he was, and she’d never seen the dog expose his teeth the way he had them bared, lips retracted to show every gleaming tooth where it was rooted in pink gums.  That told her.  This guy is dangerous.  But, then, she knew that.  It had too obviously been a real fight by the way the dogs were coordinating their hold on the man.  Jessie realized that it was probably the man’s strength that had pushed things to this point, because, yeah, he was built like a football player, and none of his bulk looked like fat.

Held her weapon and repeated her command for him to turn and lay on his stomach …which, again, he ignored.

“If you don’t obey, I will shoot you, Mister.”

And, finally, he answered.  “Can’t.  Dogs….”

Jessie had to make a decision.  Thought through it.  Backed a step, eyes on the man, and called Queenie and Oso to her.  Squatted down, and, switching to a one-handed grip on her SIG, by feel she pulled the lashed leashes loose from both their harnesses, got back to her feet and approached the perp.  “Don’t move, don’t struggle, or you’re a dead man.  Do you understand me?”

“Yeah,”—huffed.  “Just get these dogs off me.”

And Jessie did, the guy cooperating as the dogs stood by on guard, all hackles raised, even Oso’s and Queenie’s.

*

BRITTA LED LANDON unerringly to Jessie, who, guns holstered, was throwing hitches on the captive’s legs as her big sable GSD, Acer, held hard on another line that led to a big guy’s bound hands that were tied behind his back, him face down on the rocky ground.  Mitch, Sumi, and Milo, all of them, were standing guard at the guy’s head, teeth bared and growling.  Relief rushed through him.

Queenie and Oso turned to sight him as he pounded up, tails starting to go.  Jessie turned her face to him and grinned.  “Hiya.  Fancy a rendezvous in the moonlight?”

Squatting down next to her, he shook his head.  Wanted to dress her down good.  Instead just growled out, “Next time I holler at you to ‘wait up’, would you, please?”

A shake of head.  “Not when my dogs are in danger.  No way.”

Angrier at that answer, he jerked his cuffs off his belt and, getting up, went to where Acer was back-pulling on the line—a leash—attached to the guy’s bound arms.  Asked the needed.  “Have you Miranda-ed him, Jessie?”

“Nope.  Not yet.  Sorry.”

So Landon did the job, the guy moaning the whole while.  But he spoke the answer Landon needed—he understood his rights—Landon recording it all with his phone, which was thankfully working even after all the falls. 

Slapping the bracelets on the guy’s wrists, he unlashed Jessie’s knots, Acer relaxing his hold.  Called using his phone.  “Suspect in custody.”

“I was going to Miranda him next,” Jessie said, her boots coming up beside him.

He glanced up.  Stood.  “Cuffs?  Zip ties?  …Always prepared?” he asked, trying to keep it nice, voice soft, but his fear for her safety was still live in his gut and so was his temper. 

He failed on keeping it civil, but she did acknowledge him with a nod.  “Yeah.  I really flunked that this time.”

Gave a curt nod.  “You did.”

Then he poked her in the ribs in a place where it mattered and felt what he wanted to.  “At least you’re armored up.”

“Yep.  Promised both you and Dad, remember?”

That was true.  “I do.”  He didn’t say the rest—that she’d also promised him other things, just as he had promised her. 

He watched her, her all light and bright, eyes gone dark with calm and happy, and then he grabbed her and hugged her to him hard.  Rethought his idea to resign his badge and leave Jessie with the S.O. because of some folks grumbling about the two of them working there, and dismissed it.  He was not going to put her safety in anybody else’s hands, not ever.  And, when he let loose, she grabbed his face in both hands and, pulling his head down, kissed him, him glad for it, even as the dogs gave notice, and, a minute or so later, the sound of running feet came pounding up the slope.

***

27 – Searching the Banks

CAPTAIN HOWARD West was not happy.  He made that super clear on the hike back down, two of his people escorting …or maybe a better description would be herding the limping mountain of a man Jessie’s dogs had ‘captured’.  Jessie had to smile as her dogs did lead and flanking around the arrestee and his guards, their tails up and happy.  They were claiming the apprehension as theirs, and rightfully so. 

“Both of you should be fired,” Jessie heard West say, though he said it, not to Jessie, but to Landon. 

She watched Landon tip his head toward West, then say, “You’d have to talk to the governor about that, Captain.”  She turned her head to hide a smirk as Howie mumbled something back that she didn’t catch.

“You have a point, though,” Landon then said, and Jessie wanted to kick him.  Didn’t, of course.

Down at The Rhino, Jessie handed out treats to her crew.  Waited on Landon, and, finally, he came.  Got in and headed them toward town.  “Aren’t we going home?” Jessie asked.

“Food,” he said, then drove them over to The Pleasant View, a twenty-four hour restaurant.  He pulled in, parked, and shut down.  Got out and came around, opening her door.

“Why, thank you, sir,” she quipped, getting out.

He closed the door, then stepped close, pushing up against her till she was pinned against The Rhino, his eyes drilling down on hers, his face stern, though his eyes weren’t.  The eyes were soft.  “When I ask you to wait up, please do so?” he said.

Her temper rearing, Jessie squinted up at him.  “Are you using your height advantage against me, sir?” she demanded, half-teasing, half-serious.

“I am using my height and weight advantage to get you to listen,” he said, pressing in.  And now the mouth had that secret, oh so subtle smile.  “You promised, and so did I, before we ever spoke our vows.  Remember?  We would not jeopardize ourselves unnecessarily.  Not ever.”

She realized he thought he was just making a point.  And she did remember, yes, she did.  She hadn’t thought that it applied to their jobs, though.  Just their domestic life.  Now she realized that he did, though.  She dropped her eyes away.  Thought about it.

And now his voice got sad and serious.  “I can’t lose you, Jessie.  Not to some ne’er do well.  And I give no quarter on this.  You promised me.  I promised you.”

Silence stretched, and she knew he was waiting.  She took a breath.  Raised her eyes to his.  “Okay.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t think it meant on the job, too.”

The look on his face changed to genuine shock, and Jessie wasn’t sure what next would happen. “What?!”—demanded.

She shook her head.  “I didn’t,” she answered honestly.  “And what about you going over that cliff on your ATV?”

“It wasn’t a cliff.  It was a steep slope.  Trust your dog, remember?  I trusted my dog that she wouldn’t endanger me, and she didn’t.”

And that was true, too.  “Okay, Landon.  But I can’t and won’t let my dogs be endangered.”

“You could have recalled them.”

She could have.  But they wouldn’t have gotten the bad guy.  And it hit her, then.  This was her competitive side having its way, and she wasn’t sure she could or wanted to control it.  It’s what drove her, always had—one on one, against all odds.  And she’d won, every time, with the dice loaded against her—with her dad, with SAR, with criminals …with the world.

“Jessie?”

Just agree.  There’s no moving him on this.  “You’re right.  I didn’t think about doing that, though.  I just wanted to get to them.”

“I realize that.  But when asked to….  Especially when I ask you to, would you please honor our promises to one another?”

Jessie studied his face.  Said, “Okay.”

Landon wasn’t buying it, though.  His jaw hardened.  “Is that a yes or a no?” he demanded.

She paused, and he immediately came back on her with, “Will you or won’t you?”

Not when it came to the lives of her dogs.  She didn’t tell him that, though.  Just said, “I will.”

*

“HE’S LAWYERED UP and not talking,” Martin said when Landon got in, Jessie and the dogs following in the XV, at six, an hour earlier because of the situation.  Today was the start of the nationally broadcast races through The Narrows, and everybody who could had to be there.

“Dan Evans or Mike Hart?” Landon asked.

“Evans.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.  What about Hart?”

“He’s just being transported from the hospital.”

“So you haven’t interviewed him yet?”

“No.  He had to have stitches, and the idiot passed out at the sight of a needle when they were going to administer a local.  Had to knock him out for real with anesthesia to get what needed to be done done.”

“Hypodermic needles have that effect on quite a few people, Martin,” Landon said.

A tap at the door—Captain Howard West.  “Yeah, including you, Mr. Undersheriff,” Howie said, coming in.  “Door was open,” he added when Martin gave him a frown, “and I did knock.”  Eyes reaching to Landon’s, Howie held up a file.  “A report on what my team found near where Anderson’s dogs waylaid Hart.  It’s …interesting.”

“Oh?  Elaborate?” Landon urged, taking the file and opening it, eyes scanning, and, in fact, it was interesting.

“Rock anchors, heavy duty clamps and towing carabiners, a line-throw gun, and, get this, razor wire,” Howie answered.

Landon frowned.  Razor wire?  “What in the world is this?” he asked, pointing to what looked like a cylinder with a tank attached.

“That’s the line-thrower.  Uses compressed air to shoot a line across rifts, crevasses, gorges, and canyons,” Howie said.  “…I think they were planning to try to booby trap The Narrows.”

Landon turned to his undersheriff.  Martin was staring at Howie with a look of shock and realization.  “That means there had to be someone …or several people on this side to catch, retrieve line, and attach whatever the line-thrower fired, doesn’t it?”

Landon looked back at the list and the pictures in the file.  Razor wire.  Looked at both men in turn and said, “I think you’re right, Martin.”  Pulled out his phone and texted, ‘Jessie, where are you?’

‘Working in the lab with Sol,’ she came back.

“I think we need another search.  Fast.”

*

TOM HUDSON now at her side, two other deputies, including Captain West right behind them, then two behind them, Jessie had her dogs loose-leashed to a single line clipped to her belt, a heavy harness and safety line hooked on her that Tom held, him and everybody else geared up the same way. 

Heading along the water’s edge on the Northridge side where the two-lane bridge crossed the river, they were starting a mile north of The Narrows on a mud-slick and treacherous cement strip that was all that the crested river left them to traverse of the man-made river overflow.

Milo leading as usual, it was Sumi and Queenie who Jessie especially kept her eyes on.  These dogs, along with Acer, were best at live groundwork and evidence searches, Queenie the very best.  Acer was out of the picture, though, because Landon was worried.  “They could still be out there.” 

“That’s why Tom is coming along,” she’d argued.  “I need noses at work, Landon.”

“Keep him next to you.”

Saw her husband’s jaw harden, and said, “Yes, sir.”  Saw him glance back as he walked away. 

His high-handedness made her mad.  I’m not your lackey, Landon.

But Jessie did as she’d promised—kept her Acer at her side for personal protection.  And then she’d found out that more deputies, including Captain West himself, were coming along, all of them big and burly, but still she kept her Acer by her side.  A promise was a promise, and Jessie kept hers as much as she could—always—except when she couldn’t and wouldn’t.  But this was not that kind of situation.

The problem with going along the bank of the Tanner River this time of year was that the water, heavy with run-off, had crested and even overflowed the high water banks.  And it roared.  Jessie had to yell to be heard over it for Tom to even realize she was talking to him, and he was right beside her.  They resorted to the hand signs Hudson and her dad had taught her.  Luckily, it was already light enough to see.

Setting the dogs on a slow search, something she’d trained them to by need when caution due to the possibility of the presence of criminal elements had demanded it, Jessie had the pack start right at that point.  She kept their speed to a human’s walking pace, her not only armed and fitted with Kevlar, but wearing a life vest over that as well.  No armor, though, because then, should she fall in, and, yes, the footing was dicey, she’d sink for sure.  Dogs were likewise wearing flotation vests.  Problem: with the water ice cold and at coming close to flood stage, should any of them fall in and their tethers break, the chances of survival were slim for humans or dogs.  Even if their tethers didn’t break, their chances were slim because it was doubtful she or the dogs could keep their heads above water to avoid drowning.

Was Jessie scared?  You bet she was.  Did she let on?  No way.

***

28 – Fried Fish

EVANS WOULDN’T talk, but Mike Hart did …as soon as the assistant prosecutor informed him that, should he turn state’s evidence, his sentence would be years instead decades or the death penalty as an accessory to murder.  So Hart, arms and legs bandaged and now dressed in a jail jumpsuit, squawked, and squawked big time, Landon watching and listening from the Observation Room.

No, Hart was not a member of the Bitterroot County Day Hikers Club, Bitterroot Wilderness Walkers, or Off-Road Warriors—none of them.  He was a member of the Northridge Gym and a bowling league. 

Yes, he had been paid to help Evans tote gear and materials to cut through the newly rebuilt viewing platform and to tote in the razor wire and other tools and supplies.  He worked as an employee for the same firm Evans did.  Had been with the firm over ten years.  Had been told Evans would have him fired if he didn’t help and keep his mouth shut.

The pictures of the gear found nearby were put in front of Hart’s face, and, quizzed, he answered without hesitation. 

The rock anchors were to attach the wire just above the waterline on the canyon walls of The Narrows, two guys meeting them to do that part of the job.  No, he didn’t know more than their first names.  He hadn’t seen them before, but could probably pick them out on sight.

“Or out of a lineup?” Martin asked.

A nod, then, on prompting to speak his answer, Hart said, “Probably.”

“Were the climbers also paid?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you know what you were to do?”

“Evans didn’t say, but it was pretty obvious.”

“Anyone else involved that you know of?”

Hart shook his head.  “Nope.  It was just the same as the first time we went out.  Just be the pack mule, don’t ask any questions, do what I was told, and let Dan get on with what decided needed doing.”

“Did you handle any of the equipment?”

“Both the saws.

“Saws, as in plural?” Martin asked.

“A chain saw and a big reciprocating saw we use to cut through steel, because he figured that the new one would be steel, but, change the blade and you can cut through wood easy.”

Asked how it was done, Hart said, “On the first job, Evans told me where to cut and how deep.  Kept stopping me.  Taking measurements, then having me cut a little more, then a little more on each support.  Said it would be the same on this one.”

The man stopped.  Rolled eyes upward as if looking at something unseen, then, bringing his eyes back, said, “It was real scary.  We were right underneath.”

“How much were you paid?”

“I got paid two grand to do the first job.  This one, it was going to be five.”

“So, you weren’t prepaid?”

“No.  When the job was done, I got paid in cash.”

“How many other viewpoints did you help sabotage?”

Hart looked at them weirdly.  “The three on the east/southeast drop-off on Northridge Crest Park Complex were it.  Don’t know about any others.”  He blinked and frowned.  “…Are there others?”

Sitting in the Observation Room, Landon shook his head.  That was what they didn’t know and needed to.

*

IT WAS A QUEENIE, Mitch, and Milo moment, the red setter-cross pulling hard and then, when she couldn’t stretch the line, barking over and over.  Mitch whine-barked and kept at it.  Wouldn’t stop.  Milo just sat down and, raising his muzzle to the sky, gave a long, mournful howl.

“I hate that,” Tom yelled, coming close.

Calling the halt, Jessie unclipped and handed the long leash to Tom.  Her dogs, now ahead of her, but sitting, repeatedly glanced back, their impatience palpable under Jessie’s hand as vibrations through the long lead.  Making her way forward, Tom letting out her safety line, she got to Queenie, Mitch, and Milo.  Asked Mitch and Milo to stay and unclipped Queenie’s leash from the long lead.  Then with a word for Queenie to go easy, let the dog lead her to what she scented, the tug on the safety line attached to Jessie’s back distracting.

Nose almost making a trough through the wet, slippery silt that coated the cement floodway, Queenie tracked along a path so close to the water that Jessie’s feet could feel the water’s pounding through the soles of her boots.

A tug on the line—Tom. 

Jessie stopped.  Planted her feet and carefully turned to look back.  Caught Tom’s sign to take it slower, and did.

Another maybe twenty yards and Queenie stopped.  Sat.  Gave Jessie a certain look, then pointed her nose straight at the edge of the water.

And that’s when Jessie saw what Queenie knew …what all the dogs seemed to know, because, when Jessie looked back at them, they were all sitting up very straight, eyes watching her expectantly. 

Touching her phone in its anchor on her arm, she texted Tom, knowing he would pass it on.  She texted: ‘line to water, pos 1 dead’.

*

RETRIEVING THE bodies—there were two—from the Tanner River before the start of the races took everyone cooperating and everybody on the sidelines behaving.

With camera crews arriving, it proved a nasty spectacle.  The mayor did his best to keep the lid on, and Landon had to admit the man did a good job.  He’d make Northridge a good mayor.

The two bodies?  People nobody had ever seen before.  It wasn’t until they found their rental vehicles, then got the name of their motel and room numbers that they got IDs, and that’s when Agent Andy Newsome, FBI, showed up.  “They were wanted as domestic terrorists.  They’re murderers.”

“Terrorists,” Landon repeated, eyes squinting at the label.  It was a label he didn’t like used on U.S. citizens, because it usually was more of a political label than anything else.  The feds had a history, from McCarthyism on to modern day, and maybe especially today, of identifying people as a ‘terrorist’ simply because they went against the administration’s approved ‘party line’, and that included, not just violent protestors, but the peaceful ones, too.  It also included anyone who knew them—friends, family, co-workers, and affiliated members of organizations they belonged to …including churches.

“Don’t start on me, Reid.  This wasn’t a peaceful protest.  They blew up a lab, thirty people injured, twelve dead, never mind the number of valuable lab animals killed.  That’s murder.”

It was.  But it was also dissent—unlawful dissent, but even ‘unlawful dissent’ had a precedent in the forming of the United States, expressly mentioned in The Declaration of Independence, July 4th, 1776. Landon didn’t pursue the argument with Andy.  There was no point, because, in this case, it did not apply.

“They managed to deploy one roll of razor wire, by the looks of it,” Howie said, coming up to stand beside Landon, the big sheet of 24’ foot high black plastic strung behind them flapping in the wind. 

The sound irritated Landon.  “Are county engineers going to be able to get it out of there?” he asked.  He had to ask it twice because of the snaps of the big 6mil sheet.

“No, but Skeeter is.  Skeeter has managed to grab it with some sort of grappling hook and is reeling it in now.  We’re all hoping he can get it all out without it breaking.”

Skeeter—the logging guy who was a whiz at solving hard snarls.  He was the man responsible for getting Brian Ingalls freed from a logjam in the river without Ingalls losing his leg.

They waited, tense and hoping, and, after another hour, a cheer went up.  Skeeter had done it—gotten the whole length of it out without it breaking.

The deceased already gone to the morgue, Andy Newsome’s people with them as Dr. Lorenson, their M.E., did the autopsies, Landon had the plastic barrier dropped, the big lifts that had held it moving off toward the flatbed trailers that had brought them to the river bank, those compliments of Blasken Construction.  All vestiges of death and the near-miss of calamity had been removed.  What couldn’t be obliterated in time, though crews were working on it, was the message spray-painted on The Narrows canyon’s north wall that said ‘The River is Not Your Sports Arena’.

With drones and air power monitoring for trouble, the races got started, though they started two hours later than scheduled.  Best, there were no further incidents the whole weekend. The races came off without incident.

And, again, things went quiet. 

Landon left the trails and parks open, but deputies and police, both—Northridge P.D., the ISP (Idaho State Police), and the S.O. —were on high alert for any sign of trouble.  None came, and everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief.  Maybe someone had turned down the heat.  Maybe folks were tired of the hate. 

The 4th of July was coming, and, maybe, just maybe, everyone could just have a good time and celebrate the birth the republic.  That was Landon’s hope, anyway.

Over the 4th of July weekend, Landon and Jessie again got to spend time alone together—an overnight camping trip the day after the parade and fireworks.  They rode up to and camped out at a small mountain lake where trout flourished the dogs having a great time splashing in the water and racing around chasing each other.  Landon took Duster—his first trip out with the horse around Jessie’s mare, Snake—and the stallion behaved after only a couple of warnings.  Landon came away rested and happy.  Jessie came away with a sunburn.  “I told you not to overdo it,” Landon teased, dabbing on vinegar, his grandmother’s remedy. 

“It felt so good, though,” Jessie came back.

“Doesn’t now, though, does it?”

“Is that my salad dressing you’re using?”

“Only the balsamic vinegar, not the lemon juice.”

She tipped his hat off in the dirt as punishment for that, and he chuckled, then kissed her. Then, over the campfire, he panned fried their fish for dinner.

***

29 – Please Wait

THE CALL CAME in as Jessie was finishing up a bite-and-hold training session with the nine-to-ten-month-old pups.  Beside her, John, their manager, took the helmet and gloves she stripped off to get at her phone.  It was Nelson Remmers. 

“A call from a hiker up on Far Creek trail.  Can’t tell you much, but, by what I could hear, it sounds like somebody’s hurt.  The line was breaking up bad.”

Of course it would be.  The Far Creek trail went up the canyon between Far Mountain and Steep Peak, splitting off to either climb the Far’s southwestern slope or the Steep’s southeastern one.  On the Far Mountain side, it was a real tough climb in the upper reaches, only accessible in late summer.  Lower down, though, even though steep, it was a favorite to catch a glimpse of wildlife, plus there were some very dramatic waterfalls this time of year. 

“Wind sheer in there is really bad.  Got a call out for our Mountain Special Rescue unit to join up with you.”

“GPS coordinates?” Jessie asked, stepping out of her bite suit and hanging it up.

“Don’t got none.”

That paused her brain.  It took her a moment.  “What?”

“We’re trying to get something off the phone.”

“Did they miss our trailhead signs and dispensers?  We didn’t miss restocking them, did we?”

“Nope.”

And that’s all Remmers said, a long silence on the other end following that revelation.  And, in the background, Jessie heard Dispatch name the caller as Jan Neskey. 

Jessie knew of Jan.  The woman knew better.  So did any- and everyone in that group.  Memory tugged.  She flipped through her pictures.  Found them.  Jan Neskey had been part of the Trail Nazi incident after the rescue of the Kendra Marston girl.

“Jessie?”

“Yeah.  Do we have a ping on the phone?”

“We do.  Finally.  Got those coming in as I speak.  I’m on my way.  Grant is headed out, too.  So is George and Marilyn.  We think this one is going to be a rough track.”

“Okay.  See you there.”

“Thanks, Jessie.”

“You bet.”

*

LANDON WAS JUST getting out of court after testifying in an elder abuse case when he got wind that something was going down in his county.  Turning on his phone, he checked on it.  Frowned.  Saw that Deputy Tom Hudson had been dispatched to meet Jessie.  Groaned out loud.  “Here we go again.” 

Got in The Rhino and beat it for the S.O.  Got there just as Tom Hudson was lighting out.  Hailed him down.  “Where are you meeting Jessie?”

“Far Creek Canyon trailhead.  Taking horses.  She doesn’t want to do ATVs, even though most of it’s passable using them.”

Landon nodded.  Understood why in that area—very steep terrain.  One misjudgment could mean disaster on an ATV.  Horses had a good sense for self-preservation, machines didn’t.  Clapped the open window frame with his hand, wished Tom a safe journey, and let him go. 

Climbed back in The Rhino and headed for home, then rethought it.  Called Oli Anderson and got the man’s help.

“You’re sure?” Oli pressed.

“In that steep country, yes.”

*

JESSIE TOOK her young thoroughbred, Snake.  Dogs all wags and ‘go’ around her, she was just unloading the mare at the trailhead when Grant Evans and George Rutford pulled in with their rigs.  Both of them were hauling trailers with ATVs.  Neither of them owned or even rode horses.

“Looks like we’ve got all angles covered,” Jessie quipped.

“Looks like it,” Grant agreed.  “How do you want to handle this?”

“Nelson’s supposed to be coming.  Let’s let him call the shots,” Jessie suggested, and both George and Grant agreed.

“Speak of the king,” Grant said, and Jessie turned to see Captain Nelson Remmers’ blue RAM turn in, stop, ease forward, then pull in on the other side of Jessie’s rig.

Remmers’ two Malinois jumping out and making a dash for them, all dogs did the meet and greets, Milo and Mitch both doing silly dog as Nelson pulled open his tailgate and set-up his command post.  Jessie went over to help, but Grant beat her there.  “We think they’re up around in this area by the ping on Neskey’s phone,” Nelson said, putting up a satellite map, topography lines overlaid on it. 

“That’s way up,” Grant said, frowning.  “Why do you think they’re way up there.  That’s halfway up the mountain.

“Yeah.  And it’s got some nasty spots,” Nelson agreed, pulling out one of his famed notebooks.  Jessie still hadn’t gotten Nelson to use the scans they’d made of all that data he kept in his binders.  Nelson liked hardcopy, just like did the undersheriff.  “We’ve got flags here, here, and here …and then here, too—killin’ country.”

The crunch of gravel.  Mountain Special Rescue, also hauling ATVs, had arrived, a three-person team.  “I wonder where Marilyn is?” Jessie muttered.  “And Deputy Hudson?”

“So, here’s what I think,” Nelson said.  “Jessie, you’re on horseback, so you take the steep trail …which, I’m sorry to say, has probably got some heavy washouts, but I’m guessing hikers like these like the more remote ways up.  Views from there are somethin’, an’ it’s chocked full of critters.  That leaves these two main trails to cover for you guys usin’ your quads.  Let your dogs do the spread to try to cover ground quick.”

Nods all around.

Jerry from Mountain Special Rescue stepped up.  “What about the side trails?”

“Dogs runnin’ like they do should be able to scent out any side trips these folks took is what I think,” Nelson said, and, again, Jessie agreed.

“Luck be with us in that the wind seems right.  Night be comin’ though, so do take your HADAR helmets.”

And, with that, they were given the ‘go’.  …And still no Deputy Hudson.

Jessie got Tom on the phone. 

“I’m about fifteen minutes out.  There was a wreck on the 95, and I had to take the back way.”

And that’s what Jessie figured was holding up Marilyn, too.  “We’re heading out,” Jessie told him. 

“Jessie, wait for me to get there.”

“We’re fighting daylight, Tom.  We’ve only got about ten hours to find them, or have to do this in the dark, no fun in this area.”

“Fifteen minutes …fourteen, now.  Wait or Captain West and Sheriff both will have our hides.”

“I’m not waiting, Tom.”

“Jessie—”

She cut the call.  Locked up, and mounting Snake, called her dogs, Grant and George’s ATVs already gone.  Mountain Special Rescue was already gone, too.  “Dogs?” Jessie hollered.

“Jessie?”—Nelson Remmers.

She reined Snake stopped.  “Yeah?”

“Please wait for Deputy Hudson, would you?”

“Nobody else has to wait or have a babysitter, Nelson,” she said, and gave Snake her head, dogs trotting out to lead the way.

*

LANDON MET OLI Anderson at the wide spot on Johnson Road.  Unloaded Duster long enough to swap the trailer from Oli’s rig to The Rhino, the horse already saddled.  “Thank you.”

“Be safe, Cowboy.”

Landon nodded.  “Plan on it.”

“You sure you want to take that stallion?”

“I am.  He’s capable and, while he’s been out playing show horse, it doesn’t mean he’s lost his sense.  I’ve already taken him out under saddle more than a couple of times, and he’s solid.”

“All right, but I think Jessie took Snake.”

“She did.  We’ve had that test already.  He’ll mind me.”

“Armored up?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Good hunting.”

“Thank you.”

Ten minutes later, Landon pulled in to find Remmers talking to Hudson, Hudson holding his mare.  Jessie’s XV was there, too, but there was no sign of her, her horse, or her dogs.

Got out.  Unloaded Duster, and, with a warning finger to the horse to behave, joined the two men as they conferred.  “Where’s Jessie?” Landon asked.

“She left about twenty minutes ago,” Remmers told him, eyes rolling up from the ring binder he held.

“She didn’t wait for Tom?”

“No, sir, she did not.”

“Why not?”

A long ‘umm’, then, “She said that nobody else has to wait for a babysitter, sir.”

Tom’s face took on a guilty look as he gave his eyes to Landon’s square.  “I was late.  There was a wreck—”

“On the 95.  I know.  I had to run the back roads, too, Deputy Hudson.  Stop feeling like you did something wrong.  Deputy Anderson should have waited.” 

Landon directed his attention back to Remmers.  “Did you advise her to wait, Captain Remmers?”

“I asked her to, yes, sir.”

“Asked?”

A grimace, then, voice firming, the man dogged his head down and said, “Yeah.  Asked.”

Nodded.  Heard Remmers’ message—Remmers and Jessie highly respected each other and Remmers wasn’t about to turn ‘boss’, even if he now did wear captain’s bars.  Felt a stirring of pique, but knew the wisdom of it.  Why couldn’t you wait, Jessie?! 

Turned to his horse.  Held up a finger, the horse watching him.  “Behave.  She might be girl, but behave.”

Stepped up, leather squeaking.  Settled.  Said, “All right, Tom.  With me.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

30 – Alphas

TAKING IT at a long trot and a slow lope, dogs going along well in front, except for Duchess who rode steady between her thighs, her harness snapped to a ring on the pommel, Jessie and her dogs caught up with the ATVs within about twenty minutes.  They were still in the canyon.  After reconnoitering, a half-an-hour later she and her dogs split off from the rescue specialists and Grant to take the ‘high trail’, and, by the look of things, there wasn’t any sign that the hikers had been this way, but nothing was sure.  The dogs registered that somebody had passed through, so she kept going as planned. 

Checked the signal on her phone—one bar.  This was where cell reception got really spotty.  Her phone would still track the dogs, but she wouldn’t be able to call out very easily until she got to some high, open point of the heavy climb. 

Touched the satphone clipped to her belt.  She had that, but, yeah, she should have waited for Tom.  She was feeling edgy without him.  It was the very first time she’d gone out without him or somebody along with her since the mob attack. 

Why hadn’t she waited?

And the answer?

Landon.  He’d ticked her off with his self-righteous accusation that she’d somehow violated something sacred between them, like he hadn’t when he’d refused to even give an inch!  “What about listening and compromise, Landon?!”

Snake’s ears twitched at that and Jessie eased a hand along the mare’s neck, the ears relaxing.  Touched the right holster of the SIG strapped to her hip with her elbow.  Well, she didn’t need to wait for Tom or anybody.  It wasn’t as if she couldn’t protect herself, now was it?

Hit the start of the hard climb and followed her dogs who were beginning to scatter on search.  Oso had already disappeared.  So had Acer, Mitch, and Sumi.  They were starting their reconnaissance and quartering, noses to the wind swirling around the mountain.  Ahead, Milo was steady on the trail upwards, his nose high, Queenie right behind him, nose level.  That said no ground scent, so chances were the hikers hadn’t come this way. 

If she was fast enough on the climb, she could hit the midway trail and circle around to connect with Grant …or, if her dogs found track, find the hikers before him on the way back down.  She’d just go that far—the midway trail.

Checked the app on her phone to see where the dogs were.  Yes, except for Milo and Queenie, the dogs had fanned out, the air scent master, Oso, and those who were dual ground and air scenters having spread wide, each off on a slight angle from each other and moving farther apart as they climbed.  Obviously, the pack had opted for Milo to stay with Jessie, and she was more than fine with that.  Smirked at a fact nobody much got about running SAR, especially with a pack of good trackers—the dogs called the shots, not the handler.  Even Queenie would only stay until and unless she found ground scent. 

Ten minutes later, after a particularly dicey bit for footing for Snake, Jessie stopped to let the mare catch breath.  Checked on the dogs again, and, yeah, all of them were, in fact, still climbing on the heading to where the high trail crossed and recrossed the midway main trail on the steep mountain slope.

This was a thickly treed area, heavy with moose, deer, coyote, bear, wolverine, cougar, and wolf, and, of course, lots of smaller critters, too.  No elk up here, though.  They preferred more, level, open ground.

The scree of a hawk made Snake’s ears rotate, and, with a heave, the mare initiated the upward climb on her own, and Jessie was glad she’d opted to take the younger horse instead of Chesterton.  This would have been a lot to ask of her old gelding.  She needed vigor for this search, and she had that with her tall thoroughbred.  The horse was strong on endurance and all go.

A yip from her phone.

Jessie glanced and saw the blue dot that was Oso’s marker traveling fast.  Turned on his cam.  Yes, the dog was moving fast and hard. 

Another alert—Mitch’s—and then Mitch’s orange dot started heading more toward Oso’s line.  Now, so did Sumi’s purple one.  She hadn’t given an alert, so she hadn’t struck scent.  Oso and Mitch had the line.

Checked on Acer, but he wasn’t deviating his path.  Why?  Usually, if one dog gave an alert, and, especially if several did, all the dogs converged.  Acer was not, though.  Above her, Milo kept on the trail.  He was sticking with her.  So was Queenie.  She’d gotten no ground scent.

Jessie touched on Acer’s cam.  Ground whizzed by, so he had his nose to the ground and, by the speed he traveled, he had a hot line, too, this one on a different trajectory than Oso’s and Mitch’s.  Why hadn’t he alerted, though?  Turned off the cam to save battery.  Thought about it.  So Acer had the ground line, Oso and Mitch the air.  So the hikers had gone off trail?

Snake stopped suddenly, and, not paying attention, Jessie grabbed leather, Duchess hanging tight, nails scrabbling on her jeans and on saddle leather.

What?!

Ahead, Milo had vanished.  Only Queenie remained, and she was stopped, too.

Jessie dropped reins and touched her left side SIG.  Unsnapped.  Glanced at the butt of her rifle in its scabbard.  Kept her phone under her in sight, Milo’s white dot angling off and around, way off-trail.

Frowned.  …Listened.

Nothing.

Resnapped her holster and picked up her reins as she urged Snake on with her heels.

The horse refused, planting her feet hard—not like her.  Fluttering nostrils and the whistle of hard, nervous breath.

What?!

Saw Queenie turn around to face Snake and her, and, of all things, walk herself into down!  That meant either a ‘find’ or it meant ‘animal’.  No barks, no pointing nose though, so ‘animal’.

Next thought: grizzly!  Grabbed the flap of her saddlebag, jammed in her hand without unbuckling the straps, the leather resisting.  Palmed a bear bomb and eased her hand out.  Put her right palm on her rifle.  Waited, her horse still whistling breath, the mare’s body tense and ready to bolt.

Jessie forced herself calm.  Whispered to Snake, the horse’s ears twisting to her, but only for a moment before going back pricked, the tips quivering with tension. 

Waited….

…But there was no crashing brush.  Not even the snap of a twig.  Then Jessie realized that there were suddenly no bird sounds, either.  Everything had gone eerily silent.

Whispered to Duchess.  Dropped her reins and pulled her rifle.  Got ready.

A rumble beside her—Milo’s—and Jessie started hard.  So did Snake.

Said, “Whoa!” and the mare stood, though she didn’t want to.  Jessie repeated the command and the horse took a huge, rib-spreading breath.  But Snake held.

Neck hairs prickling, Jessie eased a glance behind her and saw two very big wolves staring at her.  Their hackles rippled when Milo rumbled again, but went back down when he stopped.

Okay.  “Milo, shush, down,” Jessie said loud enough for him to hear.  She kept her voice calm, tried for normal-happy.  Hoped she had pulled it off.

Her Milo grumbled once more, then obeyed.

The wolves stood stock still for a moment longer, watched them both, then moved off and disappeared into the forest. 

Jessie heard a twig snap beside her.  Caught a glimpse of another wolf—just an eye and an ear, then, when it turned and moved off, she saw the brush move, then got a glimpse of its body. It was a very big animal, taller than Milo and a lot huskier, probably the alpha male.  It disappeared, too. 

And then, to Jessie, the living world seemed to return with a rush as she started breathing again, unaware until that moment that she’d stopped.  When Snake also blew a breath of ease, that’s when Jessie’s brain connected the dots.  The wolves hadn’t intended to attack.  They were curious about who was in their territory.  Put her rifle back in its scabbard.  Hoped they’d leave her other dogs alone.

Through her phone speaker, she heard Oso yip again, and she urged Snake on, Milo taking off to lead, Queenie coming out of down to follow.

And, now more than ever, Jessie wished she’d waited for Tom.

*

TAKING THE CANYON trail at a lope, him reining Duster down to match Tom’s mare’s speed, Landon quizzed his deputy on Jessie’s compliance to cooperate.  “How many times has my wife gone rogue, Deputy Hudson?”

“Not like this she hasn’t, sir.  This is a new one.  I mean, well, she does go left when the rest of us are goin’ right, like with that sniper in the snow.  Pushes boundaries, but….”

Landon nodded.  He remembered that, yes he did.  About gave him a heart attack, that one.  Luckily, the sniper—out of shape and past prime—had already been dead of a coronary. 

They were coming up on where the trail split, now.  Landon recognized it.  “All right.  Here we are,” Landon said, pulling up.  Saw sign of Snake’s shod feet—distinctive.  Jessie had put in the calks.

Looking down at his dog, he saw that, though panting, she was holding her own, no problem.  So was his horse, he was pleased to see.  Duster was just warming up, the stallion stronger than ever he’d been before he’d left Landon’s care for the equine limelight.  Jim Henderson’s work had been very good for him.  Tom’s horse, on the other hand, needed a breather.  “Let’s let them all catch their wind before we go the next leg,” Landon said, switching unconsciously into ‘local speak’.  Caught himself.  “Before we take the next leg,” he corrected.

“I know what you meant.  I grew up here, too.”

*

JESSIE KEPT HER eyes and ears open.  She let Snake take the climb at her own pace, not urging her faster.  Jessie needed to keep her wits about her, not just focus on the rescue.  She was in wild country and she knew the rules.  She’d done this for years by herself, the only help at least a mile away, at closest, unless she had a spotter—rare, because nobody could keep up with her and her dogs.

You got sloppy, she scolded herself.  She’d let her guard down because, for the last year or so, she’d always had somebody else along to watch out for her.  You know better!  And she swore that would not happen again.  She’d gotten careless.  No more.

*

BRITTA’S PANTING was easing.  Landon watched her swallow, then, with a noticeable gulp, she sat looking up at him, closed her mouth, and tipped her head.  She’d gotten a little soft with spending most of her time laying around or following him around at the office.  So had he.  His butt was feeling it.  So were his legs.  “You ready?” he asked his blonde girl.

“Yeah,” Tom answered.  “Sass has got her wind back,” he said patting his horse’s neck.”

Landon nodded.  The man had thought Landon was speaking to him instead of Britta.  He urged Duster forward, and the big stallion headed up the trail, front feet toeing in, quarters driving.  He’d let the horse take it at his own pace, but keep an ear open for sounds of the smaller horse behind him laboring or falling behind.

They were in wild country now, and, touching his rifle where it rode in its scabbard, he thought of Jessie.  Why couldn’t you have waited?  You promised.

*

PARALLEL WITH Oso’s position now, Jessie checked her topo.  Grimaced.  This was ‘the steep’, the mountainside a solid 40° to 50°, and it was heavily treed.  Looked for a likely pathway through.  Tried one and almost got herself and Snake jammed between two trees.  Backed out in time with care, thankful her mare was so limber and so responsive to careful cues.  Also very thankful she’d had the foresight to screw in Snake’s toe and heel calks.  The mare had her toes dug in, her legs shaking with the effort to keep her footing without turning slantwise to the slope.

Tried again.  Again didn’t make it.  Backed out, turned around when she could, and returned to the trail.  Gave Snake a rest. 

Milo’s soft, low woof.  He was facing her, watching her, Queenie with him.  As soon as Jessie made eye contact with him, he reared around and trotted off.  Stopped.  Looked back.

Got it.  “Good, good, Milo.  My good, good dog,” she called out, tears springing to her eyes.  Her wonder dog!

Once Snake had recovered, Milo led off and she followed.  And, winding through tight, but horse-passable timber, they finally got there, Oso and Mitch laying beside two women near the top of the edge of the third bench up where the midway trail crossed.  Both had their heads turned to watch them come. 

Maybe fifty yards down from them lay Acer and Sumi, and that was weird.  As Jessie closed on the women’s position, she had the strangest feeling crawl down her back.  Angled toward Acer and Sumi and pulled up.  Saw what they guarded—a gun—a .22 revolver.  Whispered to them, downed Milo and Queenie next to them, then went on to the targets.

***

31 – Impasse

BOTH WOMEN HAD been shot.  Jessie recorded their babbling ramble about what had happened as she worked cleaning the through-and-throughs—both shots, one each, through the calf of each woman’s left leg, one shot delivered through the fleshy muscle from the medial to the lateral, inside to outside, the other similar except that it had been delivered from the lateral to the medial.  And there were muzzle burns on both entry wounds. 

Jessie went straight to med-speak when she got the ER via her satphone, and she stayed in med-speak throughout prepping the women for transport.  Called Remmers.  Got told Mountain Special Rescue was climbing the middle trail to her position. 

She was still prepping when Britta showed up.  She guessed Landon would be close behind, and she was right, but Tom was with him, too.

The two men’s help was more than appreciated.  They carried the injured up to the bench where they’d all wait for mountain rescue to make their way up. 

Jessie let them and left them, going down to Acer and the rest of her dogs.  Bagged up the gun, then started back up.  Stopped at the blood seeps and dug down.  Found the two bullets.  Bagged and tagged them.

Landon met her before she got on top.  Gave her a huge hug.  Then, before she could even tell him her suspicions about the women victims, he started in on her, and Jessie was not in the mood.  At all.

“You said you’d wait,” Landon said, letting her go.

“What?”

He stood looking down at her.  “Do you remember our conversation outside The Pleasant View Café the morning after The Narrows incident?”

Yeah, she did.  Yeah, she’d already known what he was referring to.  Nodded.

“Why didn’t you wait?”

“Nobody else has a babysitter.”  And that was the wrong thing to say.  Landon’s eyes hardened.

“One: Tom is your protector, not a babysitter,” he said. 

She was already shaking her head, not even aware she was doing it until she caught herself and stopped. 

“Two—”

Broke in.  “Never in the whole time he’s been assigned to me have we been in a situation where he was needed.  I doubt we ever will be.  I don’t need him.  I don’t want him.”  But of course that wasn’t true.  Not at all.  Why she’d said it, she didn’t know.

“Not true,” he said.  “Do you want me to list off the times he’s stepped in the save your bacon?”

“No.”

He just stood there looking down at her, and that made her madder still.  She powered on.  “I’m a better shot that he is, anyway.  I’m a better shot than you!  I can take care of myself!”

The head had raised, the eyes looking over her to elsewhere.  Jessie turned to look.  Expected another wolf, maybe.  Saw nothing.  Turned back, but his eyes were still looking at something in the distance.  “What are you looking at?!”

“I’m waiting for you to be done answering.”

That gave her pause.  Calculated.  Tried to figure his angle.  Decided she either couldn’t or he was just being rude.  Not like Landon to be rude, came the unbidden thought.  Stung, she snarled, “I’m done answering!”

The head dropped back down, the eyes, now even harder, locking on.  “When I asked you that morning outside The Pleasant View if you’d please wait, do you remember what you answered?”

Despite the eyes, Landon’s voice was surprisingly gentle.  Suspicious, she studied him.  Almost softened.

He just watched her.

Okay….  Decided to press on.  Maybe this could be resolved without getting into a big fight, so again she nodded.  Answered the question: “I said I would.”

“Why didn’t you?”—still gently asked.

“Because….”  Then, “I didn’t feel like it.”

“You promised me.  Twice you’ve promised me, once last year as sheriff and then just days ago outside the café.”

Okay.  He’s listening this time maybe.  “You wouldn’t have accepted any other answer,” she said, not hedging her words, not softening.  He could have it cold, hard honest, no matter hurting his feelings.  “You weren’t going to listen, no matter what I said.”

Again the head raised, the eyes looking as if studying something in the distance.  Again, she looked where he did—nothing but tree trunks.  “What are you looking at?!” she snapped grabbing his shirt at the shoulder and shaking it.  “We’re talking here.”

Now the head dropped, but when it did, Landon’s face was that mask she’d seen him put on in circumstances with people who were being difficult or with whom he didn’t want to speak.  That startled her, giving her mouth pause. 

She dropped her grasp of his shirt.  Waited.

“I was listening.  You said you would not let your dogs be endangered.  Were they endangered?  Is that why you wouldn’t wait?”

She suddenly felt cornered.  He had heard that much!

“Were they endangered today when you decided not to wait?” he pressed when she didn’t respond.

“No.”

Again the head lifted.  Came back down almost instantly, the eyes changed now from hard to sad.  “So you lied,” he finally said, and somehow his voice was even quieter.

She watched his face.  Got nothing.  Shrugged.  “So what?  You weren’t going to listen.  No point in trying to talk to you when you’re like that.”

Now the face dropped to hide beneath the hat brim—typical Landon.  But just maybe he’d heard her finally.

“So you knew it was a lie when you said it?” he asked.  He didn’t raise his face.  Kept his eyes down, staring at the ground at their feet.

“You weren’t listening, Landon!” she repeated.

“So our vows to each other mean nothing.”—said as a statement, not a question.

That segue made her blink.  Completely unexpected.  “Of course they mean something!  Don’t be stupid, Landon!  Not everything is cut and dried, black and white.”

She heard him swallow.  Caught her dogs slinking away, except for Acer …except for Britta.  Both those dogs stayed beside them, but, instead of just standing there, they walked themselves down into a platz.  Then they turned their heads away.  She frowned seeing it.

“To love and to listen, to trust and be trustworthy, to always speak truth, no matter how hard….”—all but whispered, his voice as low as Milo’s deep grumble.

She blinked at Landon quoting that.  So, no, he wasn’t listening.  “You weren’t listening, Landon, just like you’re not right now.”

“You knowingly lied.  To me.  No matter our promise to one another,” he said, his voice gone deep and even quieter—just breath.

And, anger coming up hard and strong, because, yet again, he wasn’t listening, she hit him with it straight out.  “Yes.”

*

HE JUST realized that he’d made the biggest mistake of his life.  And there was no going back now. 

Getting on Duster, Landon signaled with a finger, pointing at Tom, then to himself with a small wave of ‘come’.  As his deputy, face confused, came near, he then said it: “With me, Deputy Hudson.  Deputy Anderson says she doesn’t require your services any longer.”  Then Landon headed his horse down the easier trail, his dog leading, Tom riding behind and off to the side.

And Landon cursed himself.

*

JESSIE COULDN’T believe it.  Her husband had just ridden off without her and taken Tom with him.  She was left to wait for Mountain Rescue and do the hand-off of the two wounded all by herself.

Wanted to holler, “Landon!” but stopped herself.  Not with Hudson there.  Not with the wounded listening.  Started getting angrier.  You selfish, self-important prig!  Big deal.  You got lied to—fibbed to, actually—and it was your own fault.  You didn’t listen!  Thought you could tell me what to do.  Well, you can’t!  Tough it out, Big Boy!

Went back to her charges and waited for Rescue.

*

LANDON DROPPED Duster and the trailer at home, then called Oli and begged off meeting the man at the range.

“Long day?”

“Troubled day,” he said.  “And I’ve got a lot of work still to do at the office.”  And he did.  It wasn’t a lie.

“All right.  See you tomorrow.”

He wanted to answer ‘maybe’, but knew even that would be a lie, so said nothing.  Headed back to the S.O. with less than an hour left to his official day.  By the time he got there, it was closing on four-thirty and Martin, Red, and West should have been prepping to go home.  Instead, they were, all of them, waiting in his office.

Groaned.  “Now what?  Please no more critical emergencies.”

“Just one,” Captain West said.  “What are you doing pulling Deputy Hudson from his assignment?  What did he do this time that ticked you or Deputy Anderson off, because he has no idea?”

Landon stood there nonplussed, but just for a second.  Asked, “Are you all here about this or is something else coming down?”

Heads gave curt, single nods.  West said, “This.”

Disgusted, Landon hung up his hat.  Did not stow his weapons.  Sat down.  Motioned for them all to do so, too.  They didn’t.  Instead, they just stood there, watching him.  Finally Martin said, “What gives, Sheriff, sir?”

And, biding his temper, Landon told them.  No it was not something Hudson did.  Yes, it was something Anderson did.  Did he want to explain?  No, he didn’t and wouldn’t.

“I’ve countermanded your decision, sir,” Howie said when he’d finished.

He watched the man, but there was no shift.  Frowned.  Looked at Red.  Looked at Martin.  They were all just standing there, watching him.

Unbent a little.  “What’s the problem?”

“If you need a reason, it’s for the sake of morale in my team,” West added.  Then, without so much as a ‘by your leave’, he exited Landon’s office.

So did Red.

Martin didn’t.  Martin sat down.  Martin continued to watch him.  It was unnerving.

Landon shifted focus to any elsewhere.  His anger was just about ready to blow its lid off, and he knew—absolutely knew—that was not prudent—not at all.

“I don’t know what’s going on, Reid,” Martin said, “but, whatever it is, I think you’re going to need to get your good sense back before you do anything else you’ll live to regret.  Hudson was ready to turn in his badge.  Somehow thought he’d done something to get himself fired.  And, according to you just now, he didn’t, did he?”

Landon pulled breath.  He did not need this.  No, he didn’t.  “I will remind you, Martin, that I’m sheriff, not you, not Captain West, not Captain Wheeler.  Me.”

Martin sat forward, eyes gone steel.  “You’re not listening.  Let me try again, Sheriff, sir!”

And that made Landon take notice.  And, despite his rage poking its head up, he took a long breath, eased himself back in his chair, grabbed a hold of the chair arms, and did just that.

Over forty minutes later when Martin and he had finally come to an understanding—correction—Landon had come to understand the why and what Martin and the rest were worried on, he agreed with the decision West and the rest had made.  Martin made him sign an order that Hudson needed—needed—to feel secure in Landon’s good graces.  Then Landon took himself off to the store, bought what he required, then checked himself into a motel.

*

LANDON DIDN’T come home.  Jessie knew that he’d opted out of target practice with her dad on the excuse of office work.  Her dad had told her when she called to say she’d just gotten down from Far Peak.  And she knew Landon’s excuse was a lie.  So, she guessed, did her dad.  But when Landon didn’t come home for dinner, and, when it got later and later and he still wasn’t home, she drove into town.

The Rhino was not at the S.O., so she was right.  He’d lied about staying late at the office.  Bringing up her onboard, she typed in a code she wasn’t supposed to have, and sent out a ping.  And got a hit.

Drove there.  Saw The Rhino.  Drove home angry.

*

LANDON DIDN’T sleep.  He lay awake haunted by his thoughts.  Giving it up when his phone said it was closing on three, he drove to the ranch, fed the stock.  Went upstairs and quietly got some clean clothes, then left again. Sent a text message to his dad that the chores were done and he had to get back to the office. 

*

SHE’D HEARD him come in, pretended she didn’t and lay quiet.  Heard him leave.  Heard The Rhino start, then the sound of its engine fade.  Got up and got ready to go run with her dad.  She’d let Landon stew.  He deserved it.

***

32 – To Bear False Witness

BOTH OF THE INJURED claimed that men on ATVs did it, and they were able to name them—Harold Palmer, president of the Off-Road Warriors club, and Royce Whitby, a longtime member of the same group.  No fresh wheel tracks were discovered in the vicinity.  Both hikers had been shot with a .22—suspected recovered.  It was unregistered.

Landon didn’t wait for ballistics.  He had an emergency search warrant executed, confiscated the men’s ATVs and all their guns.  He did not arrest them, but informed them they were to stay in the county.  Did they not, they would be considered fugitives from justice.

Why didn’t he arrest them?

The ER doctor—Dr. Bill Moynihan—who treated the women said that he suspected that both wounds had been self-inflicted, and, in Landon’s view, that doctor would know.  He’d been a M.A.S.H. doctor, working right at the front lines.  Not only that, but one of the inured was what Bill called ‘a cutter’.  Landon had to ask for clarification.  “Self-injury,” the man said, then begged off.  “I’ve got real patients waiting, Sheriff.”  And that coming from Moynihan spoke volumes to Landon, too.

A run of ballistics on the guns belonging to the accused showed no match to the bullets extracted from the ground. Those bullets did match a test shot fired through the gun Jessie said in her report that Acer had found.  Neither did trace soil samples taken from between the lugs on the men’s off-road machines match that of the ground up on that part of Far Peak.

The guns and quads were returned to Harold and Royce, and they were cleared of involvement.  They waited for DNA results to come in from the .22, then his deputies rounded up, Miranda-ed, and arrested the two liars pursuant Idaho Code 18-5413.

“Why did you lie?” Landon asked each of the women during their interviews, both women already lawyered up.

“For what?” Kiki Osbourne asked again, though that had already been explained.

Landon tersely gave her the shortened versions: “Providing false information to law enforcement officers concerning the commission of an offense.  …In other words, bearing false witness.”  He said it because he knew the woman was a zealot about the Word of the Lord.

The other women, a Jan Neskey, laughed out loud when she’d been similarly informed, less the biblical reference, because she was a Christian of convenience.  “Whoo.  Big deal.”

Her lawyer bent close and said something.  “So what?” she snapped at him.  She turned back to Landon.  “Lying to one of you people?  You should expect it, and what’s that get me, thirty hours of community service?”  And the contemptuous way she said it rankled even Landon.

Martin, who was sitting beside him, shifted in his chair.  His eyes reading angry, he snapped, “A one to fourteen year prison sentence, ma-aaam.”

But that, Landon knew (and so did Martin), would be up to a judge at sentencing were a jury to find them both guilty as charged …which could be difficult if they were tried in Bitterroot County.  Both women were well-off and well-connected through both church and civic organizations.

What Landon wanted to know from them was why they’d done what they had—self-inflicted gunshot wounds—he winced thinking about it—then borne false witness against two innocent men.  Unfortunately, they wouldn’t say. The Neskey woman just smirked at him.

Nasty people.  Neither of them were born and bred here, though.  Did that excuse it?  No. And Lord knew the sad truth Landon was finding hard to admit—that natives to Bitterroot County could be just as vicious and nasty as anybody coming from anywhere else, even hardened, jaded city folk coming from out of the worst of the slum neighborhoods.

Martin ended the interview and deputies hauled both women back to jail to await their arraignment hearings.

Landon went home that night, and, yes, he slept in their room, but he didn’t sleep with Jessie.  He got out his bedroll and slept on the floor instead, the cats and Britta with him, but not before words with Jessie that he didn’t ask for, didn’t want, and did his best to avoid …and succeeded, but not without a price to his already sore soul.  He’d made a mistake, and that mistake was unable to be undone.  His vow had been for life.  His vow.  He no longer knew about Jessie’s.

*

“WHAT ARE YOU doing, Landon?!”

“Please keep your voice down, Jessie,” he said.

That made her even madder.  “Why should I?”

“Because I don’t want the household disturbed knowing that we’re having …differences, that’s why.”

She thought about it.  Was about to say, “So what if they know?!”  Thought about it again.  Gave him a curt nod.  Hiss-whispered, “Fine.  Now tell me what’s going on.  Why are you going to sleep on the floor?”

“We’re having differences.  …Difficulties.  Not seeing things similarly.”

He said it calmly and quietly, though his eyes looked like they had when the boy died.  But his voice!  Him in his oh so quiet voice, in his oh so arrogant, impenetrable, imperturbable, self-certain aloofness—it made her angrier.  “So you’re going to sleep on the floor?!” she demanded.  Crossed her arms to hug them close, a defensive gesture she knew, but so what?!  “We need to have this out, Landon.  Right now.”

“Please keep your voice down.”

“Fine!  Now, talk to me.  And, best, listen to me.”

“I’m tired.  I’m going to sleep now.”  And, stunned, she watched him climb into his sleeping bag, stick some foam earplugs in his ears, then roll over, turning his back to her.

So she went to bed, turning her back on him.  Didn’t sleep for a long, long time, she was so upset.  Finally did.  Had bad dreams.

He was gone when she woke at four.  And she cried.

*

UPSET ENOUGH that he felt bereft of even God’s counsel, Landon managed to coerce himself into putting Jessie and their problems out of his mind.  It was hard, because he shook inside, but, getting to the S.O. earlier than normal, he managed it by digging into work. 

He checked logs.  He checked and answered email.  He studied their active cases.  He thought only about their active cases, especially the ones that had resulted in death.  And he thought about Peter Schuler.  Then, looking at all of them, of which a good three-quarters were related to trails on public lands or, in the Fromm/Fair case, were somehow connected to the erroneously labeled ‘walking trail’, he came to the only reasonable conclusion he could.  They were related.  Convincing Martin, though….

Shook his head.  Thought.  Pulled everything connected—the investigative records for the cases.  Went through them from what he considered the start of it—the Kendra Marston case on through the Neskey and Osbourne one.  Opened the file on Kendra.  Went through page by page …and, for the first time, saw pictures that hadn’t surfaced in any of the briefings or case summaries.  Read the references. 

They were pictures Jessie had taken that day after Kendra’s rescue.  He counted heads in those pictures.  He tugged the two files into the facial recognition program, limited it to ‘local’, and got positive IDs on everyone there, and every one of them were members of the Bitterroot Wilderness Walkers.  They included Baramont, Yeld, Neskey, Osbourne, Black, Schuler….  “Every one of them!”  And it included Dan Evans, too.  He was secretary/treasurer.

Flipped to the Northridge Crest case.  The FBI had duplicated what evidence could be, then put what couldn’t into a shared box for both their offices.  Went to the Evidence Room, signed in, and, cracking open the boxes, started going through what was there. 

“I know all this.”

Spied the box containing what had been confiscated from Peter Schuler’s residence.  This he hadn’t gone through himself.  He’d left it to Martin and Sol. 

Dug through it.  Found an external drive.  Found a map.  Went back to his office. 

Studied the map.  Tried searching the external drive.  Called Terri who came in immediately.  Let her work.  Went to his window and looked out at the Bitterroots.

*

“Sir?”—Terri’s voice.

He turned.  Had lost track of time until he looked at his wall clock.  “Yes, Sergeant MacLeod?”

“I have cracked the drive.  I also think I’ve found something important.  May I?” she asked, pointing to his laptop.

“Don’t even hesitate, Sergeant.”

And what Terri put up on screen made Landon place a call to the governor as soon as that office opened.  Got a call-back immediately.  Got an assurance that the bill was dead in committee in the Senate.  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll try again, but it is not happening.  Our public lands are hunting country.  Nobody is keeping dogs, pack animals, and motorized vehicles out.”

Landon took that as gospel from the man, though he knew there were already trails in some Idaho counties that limited access to certain users.  “Another day’s fight.”

Looked through the rest of what Terri had found, and what she’d found was a manifesto and instructions.  That manifesto damned them all, both the perpetrators and the people upon whom they aimed their ire.  It called for three stages of ‘effort’ as they named it, each an escalation of the previous:  Stage 1 – Campaign: petitions, influence, and legislative pressure at the local, regional, and national levels that included bribery of key targets they considered vulnerable; Stage 2 – Complaint: filing complaints, like Schuler had done on Jessie and him, plus demonstrations and stirring up sympathy for their cause using social media and groups with shared interests in hiking wilderness.  Stage 3 was labeled Coercion, and, plain and simple, it literally and actually encouraged and incited violence.  Had instructions—detailed ‘how-to’s.

There was also a direct statement set into an announcement format.  It was in a document written by Peter Schuler: “With only 7% support from other hikers, we got the county, the state, and the feds to close almost all the trails in our county to everything except hikers, and we had a lot of opposition.  Then we moved on to other counties.  It can be done, because we’ve done it.  Now we’re moving to repeat our success in every county and state all across the country.  The agencies involved, like the Forest Service, for example, will do anything to avoid conflict breaking out between us and those other perverts out there who want to use, abuse, and contaminate our trails.  Since we’re the ones objecting and the other sides aren’t organized, they’ll buckle to our demands.  If they don’t, we prove to them that it’s in their best interests through all means necessary.  They’ll do it, mostly, to avoid lawsuits and to keep their insurance premiums from costing them even more.”

“You miserable little weasel,” Landon muttered.  “Gotcha.”  But not yet he didn’t.  Not really.  He didn’t have direct connections.  Peter Schuler could say and print whatever he wanted.  It was an inalienable right, guaranteed by the Bill of Rights.  What Landon did have, though, was an inkling of how he could get a direct connection, probably several.

Got back on the phone and, engaging County Legal, started the process to seek a permanent protective order and injunction, then doubled down by getting Assistant Prosecutor Larry Johnson to file criminal complaints against the Bitterroot Wilderness Walkers.

*

“WELL, YOU DO know how to stir up a hornet’s nest, don’t you,” his dad said two days later, giving him a grin.  “Good job.  Guess that book learnin’ of yours is worth more ‘n I thought.  Now, what’s going on with you and Jessie?”

***

33 – The Start of the End

IN HINDSIGHT, as far as Landon could tell, the last stand started in the local paper, in the Letters to the Editor, though he was informed after the fact by Hamilton’s task force efforts that it had spread there from a huge blowout fight online in one of the popular social media groups.  It started in response to what Landon had instigated with his legal maneuvering and a notice he’d placed online and sent out via radio and TV.  And his strategy had worked.  It had exposed the Wilderness Walker’s aims to the public.  Flushed them out, and put them on defense.

Despite Landon’s personal call to Chief of Police Harvey Mueller to be on alert though, a fistfight in one of the county commissioner’s offices seemed the first small inkling the Northridge P.D. rank and file had of how far out of control tempers had gotten.  It didn’t surprise Landon at all.  Death, injury and mayhem….  These were the people who’d either committed the acts, or condoned and encouraged if not instigated them.  He was sure.  But, again, Landon had no solid proof.  Yet.  It came in short order.

Harvey Mueller, Northridge Chief of Police, called to have two of the arrestees housed in the women’s side of the county jail, Landon’s purview.

“Judge is just going to let them all out on bail tomorrow,” Landon argued.

“These people are not cooperating, Landon.  They’ve been right back at it in our facility, and we just don’t have the cell space to be able to keep them separated.  I swear, they’re trying to kill one another and us, too!”

Landon should have taken Harvey’s words as an omen.  He didn’t.  He thought this would be all hashed out in the various community public forums, in commissioners meetings, and, ultimately, with his criminal complaints, in the courts.

He was wrong.

*

A PLB (Personal Locater Beacon) is known as a ‘life or death beacon’.  One had been activated, and it came from the southeastern slope of Menlow Mountain where it met a ridge extending from the next peak over northeast of it.  It was the part of the same slope, but a couple miles or so east as the crow flies, down which Jessie and Landon had chased the Arabian mare.

Jessie took her ATV, not Snake or Chesterton.  Feeling low because of Landon distancing himself and, again, not listening …or, more accurately, not being willing to, she did her best to hide it and act normal. 

Tom with her, plus Marty Weaver, his wife, Sally, and Mark MacDonald, they split the area into six quadrants.  Jessie and Tom took three of those, the Weaver team another two, Mark the remaining one because he was only running one dog.

“Isn’t this part of the same trail network where the ATVers got shot,” Tom asked as they geared up.

Generally it was.  “That happened a long way west of here.  Over on Sundowner Peak,” Jessie said.

“Yeah, but it’s still the same trail network, isn’t it?  I mean, they all pretty much interconnect, don’t they?”

“You know they do …not extensively, but, yeah, you can get there from here.”

Tom’s face went thoughtful. 

“What?” Jessie asked.

“Just strikes me as odd, because this is part of where that whole big fuss in the paper is about.  A bunch of folks want these trails shut down.”

This was news.  Jessie didn’t read the paper.  She didn’t spend much time online, either.  “Shut down?”

“Yeah.  No off-road rigs, horses, dogs, or bikes.  These are mountain bikers we’re looking for, isn’t it?  They’ve got something they call a shredding trail they’ve been playing on.”

And, again, it was.  Jessie remembered seeing the ‘shred’ trails—more grooves in the land that made for problems in spring run-off.  “What are you thinking, Tom?”

“I don’t know, but it could be related, maybe.”

“I hope not.  Land— …Sheriff Reid doesn’t need that.  Bitterroot County doesn’t need that,” Jessie said.

“I hear you.”

Tom mounted his fancy ATV.  “Ready?”

“Yep.”

“Let’s roll,” he said, starting his machine.

Jessie gave a finger wave to the others who were still getting prepped, then turned toward the trailhead, her dogs, tails high, leading the way, Duchess sitting up in the front basket, ears folded back, nose lifted to the wind.

*

A TOTAL OF five individuals had arraignment hearings this morning, all of them part of the fracas in Commissioner Lacey Palmer’s office.  Landon attended because he wanted to see live faces, not just mug shots and names, even though some of them were familiar.  This incident, he was sure, was the result of the injunction, not the criminal complaint.  Why?  Because it involved a county commissioner, not the prosecutor’s office. 

What Landon wanted to know was why Commissioner Lacey Palmer had called the private meeting.  How was she connected? 

According to the police report, she’d been injured in the fracas, in fact hammered pretty badly, her nose and cheek broken, hairline fractures on the latter.  The picture of her face around her eyes from above her eyebrows to her cheeks was black, purple and a dark, weird shade of red.  “Why was Lacey even there?  She works at the bank,” Landon asked Chief Harvey Mueller who joined him as his P.D. officers escorted in three people, two women and one man.

“They had an appointment with her,” the chief said as, moments later, Landon’s deputies escorted in the culprits who had been kept in his county jail overnight.  The odd thing to Landon was that most of them were women, save one—Harold Palmer, president of the Off-Road Warriors club.  He was one of the two men accused by Kiki Osbourne and Jan Neskey of shooting them.

Landon frowned.  “Do you happen to know what the meeting was about?” he asked Harvey.

“Closing state lands in Bitterroot County to all off-road vehicles and everything other than foot traffic.”

Yeah.  There it was.  Landon shook his head.  “That isn’t happening.”

“They’re sure trying to get it to,” Harvey said.  “They’ve trying to get a bill sponsored in Congress.”

He knew that.  Acted like he didn’t.  “Idaho’s?”

“U.S.,” Harvey snapped.  “Keep up, Reid.”

He didn’t respond to that rudeness.  Moved on.  “Who pounded on whom?  Who started it?” Landon asked.

Harvey shook his head, then said, “Cherise took a swing at Harold, Harold blocked her punch.  Georgia lit into Harold, and Sharon and Lynn went after her and Cherise.  Then Cherise clocked Lynn.  Took some slaps from Sharon.  Lacey stepped around her desk, screaming at them to stop, and Cherise, after kicking Sharon in the leg, and then, when she fell, in the gut it looked like, Cherise slammed Lacey in the face.”  Harold turned eyes to Landon.  “And kept slamming Lacey in the face until she went down.”

“Harold doesn’t look much the worse for it.”

“No.  He took his fists to Georgia, got her off him, then knocked her on her butt.  Hard.  Luckily, no broken tailbone or anything else, according to the medical report.  He must have pulled his punches.  Then he pulled Cherise off Lacey, and,”—Harvey chuckled—“basically bear-hugged her until she couldn’t breathe, then dropped her on the floor …where she stayed.  Got to watch the whole thing after the fact from the computer’s cam, which was on, I’m glad to say, in preparation for the meeting.  It was a melee, and I wish I’d seen it live.”

And, no matter the criminal outcome, Landon could see all sorts of civil suits in the making.  Dropped his face to hide his disgust.  Shook his head.  Lifted his face again as his deputies stuck the women who’d spent the night in his jail on a bench one down from the one where the remaining women were being watched by two P.D. officers.  Harold had been seated on the other side of the hallway, one of Harvey’s guys guarding him.  “Why’d you arrest Harold?” Landon asked.

“Shouldn’t have, but my officers just grabbed everybody except Lacey, who they called an ambulance for.  She was out cold.  Cherise was trying to get out the door when my captain got there.  Swung at him, too.  And that woman’s got some powerful lungs, I guess.  Compton says his ears are still ringing.”

Compton was Harvey’s second in command and a darned fine officer and, not only in good shape, but skilled in hand-to-hand.  He would not be one to be toyed with by anybody, even Cherise, who was a coach in women’s boxing in intramural sports.  “Didn’t these people all used to be friends?” Landon asked.

Harvey nodded.  “The women, anyway.  …Well, I don’t know about Lacey, but I think so.  That was a couple of years back, though.”  He shrugged.  “Things change.”

“Right.  They’re all townies, too, right?” Landon added, nodding toward the women.

“Stop calling us that,” Harvey said dryly, then chuckled.  “To answer your question, everybody but Harold, yes.”

“Right.”

“Sorry about snapping,” Harvey said.  “My phone’s been ringing off the hook over this all morning.”

Landon nodded and said the necessary niceties.  And now he was sure.  The whole mess was interconnected.

He sat in on the hearing just to see if he could learn any more details, Harvey sitting with him.  Captain Compton came in and sat with them, too.  And Landon listened.

The charges against Harold Palmer were dismissed. The charges stuck for everyone else, but they were released on bail, just like had been Jan Neskey and Kiki Osbourne.  The only person still locked up in his jail of all those who were involved in any of what Landon now considered part of one big, unwieldy case with no connection evident was Peter Schuler.  Schuler was still serving out his contempt of court sentence and would be for months.  Despite the man being still behind bars, Landon knew Peter Schuler was somehow involved, knew he was the instigator. 

Had that proof.  Had handed it over to Andy Newsome, FBI.  It was bigger than his office—much bigger.  It was part of a national agenda, funded by some national organizations, some of which Landon found surprising. 

This wasn’t the usual culprits doing this.  This was what he considered solid, reputable long-standing preservation, conservation, and wildlife organizations—not all, but some very big names.  Landon found it unbelievable that they had been co-opted into the movement. 

Dismissed it as someone else’s worry …because it was.  His was maintaining the peace in Bitterroot County, and he was doing his best to curtail anymore of the violence spawned of this broader agenda from happening right here.  He was bound by his oath of office to do so.  And would.

***

34 – Trail Hazard

TAKING THE SAME trail where Kendra Marston had been injured, Jessie’s dogs paired up, Milo and Mitch at lead, Oso and Acer in the middle, Sumi and Queenie taking the rear.  Instead of keeping to the main trail when they got to the first split, Jessie turned on her phone mic and told the dogs to split right. 

Winding its way through the meadows, then treed sections, all of them intermittently grooved with bicyclist’s shred trails, they spooked some deer as they worked their way towards where they’d start their search in the approximate six square miles of terrain from which the PLB signal showed to emanate, on the ridge that travelled toward Sundowner’s eastern slope. 

Where GPS was accurate in the flatlands, out here there could be deviations of up to ten to twelve miles.  Jessie guessed it would be more like two here on the gentler south slope of Menlow.

A half hour of traveling, and again Jessie had the dogs change course to the northwest, a less traveled trail that was especially popular with the mountain bikers and with horse people, too.  It was more like a double trail, the shred tracks criss-crossing over the path that the horses took.

Pulled up, got down, attended a call of nature, then got back on her quad.  She’d stay to the horse trail with her machine.  The dogs would scout the narrow bike courses that ran close.

Her walkie-talkie squawked.  Then came Tom’s voice.  “Slow down, Jessie.”

“What?”

“STOP!”—commanded.

She coasted to stopped, and Tom rolled up beside her.  He shut down.  Spoke.  “Get off-trail—far off the trail, Jessie.  And recall the dogs directly to you.  Do not, under any circumstances, let those dogs take the trail back to you—any trail—or they could wind up dead.”

Jessie felt herself go stark inside.  Swallowed hard.  “Why, Tom?”

But Tom was on satellite phone.  Walked away from her.  Looked like he was having no luck.  He kept trying, pulling it away from his ear, trying again, repeatedly punching buttons. 

Jessie turned off the key.  Got off.  Took her key.  Pulled her med pack.  Pulled her rifle and got them slung and anchored.  Moved off the trail a good two-hundred yards, positioning herself by her map to a place where, when she recalled, the dogs couldn’t hit any known trails on their way to her. 

And, within minutes, her dogs came, her pounding heart slowing as each and every one of them bounded in to do ‘happy dog’ around her.  Then she platzed them and collapsed, butt on the ground, her breath coming hard. 

Slowed her breathing.  Thought of Landon.  Thought of his demand that she ‘wait’.  Swallowed down the remnants of her fear.  Got up and, dogs at heel, made her way back to Tom.

He was still on his satphone when she got there—strange.  Listened to his side of the conversation:  “Trail traps.  Recall the searchers if you can.  I can’t reach them.  I’ve tried over and over, mobile, radio, and satphone.  Maybe they’re in a dead spot.  Probably have their satphones shut off.  We do.”  A pause.  More: “Or it could be something worse.”

Then, “Get Tac out here.”  Listened.  “Then we’ll rendezvous back at the parking area and wait.”  Tom’s face was stern as he spoke.  So was his voice.

“Why– why are you saying that?” she asked when he closed out the call. 

“With me,” he said without answering her question.  Then, about twenty feet down from where his quad sat, he pointed.

And Jessie saw.

*

LANDON WAS just getting back from the courthouse when his onboard computer went nuts.  He called in.  Got the scoop.  Barked an order and, lights and sirens, got to the S.O. in minutes.  Tearing around to the back lot, he ripped his hat off his head, threw it on the seat, got out, and ran for it, Britta racing along with him.  Got there in time. 

“Sir!”—Howie was holding out a hard armor plate. 

Took the proffered chest shield.  Turned so Howie could put the back plate on.

“Straighten up, sir,” Howie said, his voice uncharacteristically soft, his eyes …respectful?  Landon wanted to ask what gave.  Didn’t.  Did as told, and Howie West connected the back shell of the thing, cinching it till Landon felt the squeeze.  A tap on his shoulder.  A point.  Landon sat as directed, got the harness on, Howie sitting down next to him and strapping in, Howie tapped twice on the panel between him and the driver as another deputy got in and slammed the passenger-side door shut—Howie’s lieutenant.  Burning rubber, they lit out, headed for the airport.

Howie handed him a rifle, then a helmet fitted with a breather.  Handed him another mask.  “For the dog, sir.”  Asked, “And where’s your hat?”

“In The Rhino.”

“Nobody will recognize you!  That hat is my ace in the hole, sir.”

Landon shot him a hard glance, and the man grinned.  Howie was ready for action.  Landon looked around at the deputies who were likewise looking hyped and happy.  This was the hot, action-ready state of every one on Howie’s team.  This was the morale and will-win attitude Howie was so keen on maintaining.  It’s what kept his personnel sharp.  It’s what kept them alive.  And Landon remembered high school football.  Nodded.  It was amazing what a dose of high confidence in yourself and your teammates could do.  This went way beyond that.  Football didn’t put its players in the line of fire; law enforcement did. 

“Anderson’s out near there,” Howie said.  “Just so you know.”

Landon frowned.  That hadn’t been in the data.  “Since when?”

“About an hour or so before we got this call.  SAR has four teams out on Menlow Peak, looking for whoever engaged their PLB.”

“Whose PLB?”

“Terri’s working on that.”

“Related?”

“I don’t think so, sir, but Anderson is in the area.  Deputy Hudson’s with her, and I’ve given him leave to step on her when necessary.  Hope that’s okay.”

Landon nodded.  “It is, and thank you for advising.”

He thought about Tom.  Yeah, he’d about destroyed this hard, high fighting spirit Tactical had built in that young man, and all over a tiff with Jessie.  But she lied.  And that was what most disturbed him. 

The APC yawed hard, and Landon reflexively grabbed the harness strapping him in as the driver took the turn onto the highway with enough speed to make Landon fear they’d tip over.  Britta leaned into him, her foot on his boot.

They didn’t tip.  Just tore down the highway, cars in front of them diving for the shoulder to let them through.  Lights blazed and sirens screamed as units merged in ahead and behind, Landon’s deputies and the ISP giving escort and rear guard.

*

“WHAT ABOUT the people we’re looking for?” Jessie asked.

“We don’t know where they’re at,” Tom said, clearly not happy with the question.

Jessie persisted.  Jessie pressed.  Lives mattered.  “The dogs can find them.”

“Not without getting hit by one of those,” Tom said, again pointing at the spiked sapling.  It had blood on it.  And hair.  She looked closer—deer hair.  A deer had tripped it.  Said so.

“Where there’s one, there are more, Jessie,” Tom growled.  He was all spikes himself, just like the booby trap.  “Let’s move out.  We retrace our path exactly.  I’m on point.  Keep the dogs back.”

Jessie looked at the trail.  Looked at the dogs.  Turned back to him.  “What are the chances that those things are only near the trail?  What if we leave the quads and go off trail?  Then we should be safe, right?”

Exasperation plain, Tom shook his head.  “Jessie, we wait for orders in the parking area.”

“Lives matter, Tom.  That’s why we come.  And if they were injured by one of those, they could bleed out.  They could be dead by the time we reach them.”

“They could be anyway,” he snapped.

She refused to acknowledge that rationale.  She was SAR.  This was what SAR did.  Told him he could go back.  She was going on, with or without him.

Tom dropped his face, the action so much like Landon’s.  Jessie waited.

Maybe thirty seconds later, Tom pulled his satphone off his belt, again.  Turned away.  Spoke, but so quietly that Jessie couldn’t catch what he said. 

*

THE CALL CAME in as they were coming up to the turnoff to the airport.  Howie listened.  Howie hit the mute.  Then he verbalized the problem and asked the question, eyes on Landon.

*

TOM TURNED to Jessie, his eyes almost resigned-looking as he took the satphone from his ear, then stowed it back in its holder.

Jessie held her breath, waiting for the verdict.

“We’ve got a go, but we’ll do it off-trail.  Can you get the dogs to keep off any trail?  Can you do that?”

Jessie could, but it would significantly slow the search.  Said so, and Tom came back with, “Them’s the breaks.”

Jessie’s eye went back to the spiked tree, nails sticking out of it that were easily more than six inches long.  It was vicious-looking. 

Squatted down, her dogs crowding near.  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen—”  And that made her brain pause as the phrase caught in her ears.  How was that different than Landon’s or John’s ‘please’s and ‘thank you’s? 

Shrugged it off.  “Okay, guys and gals, we’re going cross-country, and you have to pay attention to me, and I have to pay attention to you.  You will search at heel with me,” she said.  “Fuss-such, she commanded, keeping her voice stern and no kidding.  Dog tails paused.  Leveled.  “Heel-search,” she repeated in English, though her dogs all knew both now.  Saw all eyes connect to hers.  They would obey.

Stood and turned to Tom.  “Ready.”

“I’m on point, dogs and you to stop if I do,” he said.  “And do not move.  There’s no telling where the trip will be.”

He was referring to the booby-trap’s trigger.  “Yes, sir.”

He gave her a look.  He’d heard the insolence.  She regretted responding to him that way.  Hadn’t meant it.  He was trying to keep her and her dogs safe, not being overbearing.  “Sorry.  I’m just stressed.”

The man’s eyes softened a little.  “This is critical, Jessie.  I don’t want to be dead meat, and I don’t want you or your dogs to be, either.”

She nodded.  Said, “You stop, we stop.  You turn, we turn.  Whatever you do, we do, too.”

“Okay.  Behind me here,” he said, pointing.  Jessie watched him, his eyes, his face.  He was more sober than ever she’d seen him.  Where was his usual, buoyant, gung-ho go-get-um?

And she realized he was scared.  So was she. And Jessie obeyed.

*

LANDON HAD NEVER been big on flying—never had gotten used to it.  Had been aboard Air One a couple of times, including on his belly with a rifle in his hands, helmet on, targeting visor down and switched on.  Now here he was again, rifle and helmet in hand, scrambling to get onboard the S.O.’s very big helicopter, a helicopter he’d insisted they needed, and had gotten secured for them through the efforts of one of his own who was now dead by his own actions. 

Climbed up and on like everybody else.  Strapped into the seat Howie pointed to, his Tac captain a marvel of calm and ‘positive’.  Howie was almost upbeat—revved.  Landon was anything but. The pit of his stomach felt like an angry, festering black spot, and it wasn’t fear.  It was his Jessie.  He could never trust her again.

Clipped Britta to the next seat over, a crewman coming over to point to a different anchor point on the floor at his feet.  “Safer,” he said as Landon fumbled with trying to get his dog’s harness attached.  The man showed him the how of it—easy once understood—then let him be. 

Britta seemed perfectly accustomed to this stuff, and Landon again marveled.  He felt out of his depth and inept.  Dismissed it.  He could shoot—very accurately—“Thanks, Oli.”  Would kill if he had to.

Invoking that name brought him a bit of hope.  He needed to call on his father-in-law.  He needed Oli’s counsel.

Thought of Jessie, again.  Yes, he loved her.  Felt himself wither inside.  But he couldn’t trust her to be honest with him.  He couldn’t trust her to speak the truth—never again.  But he loved her, and Jessie was out there, right now, on search.  So were three other search teams.  They were in an area very close—too close—to the horrible mayhem happening on Sundowner.  And he prayed that their searches wouldn’t bring them near where he and this bristling contingent of his deputies were bound.

***

35 – Deployed

They were coming over the parking area of the Menlow Mountain trailhead now.  Landon’s eye caught sight of Jessie’s XV, Tom’s pickup, and some other vehicles, some of which he recognized.  Stay safe, Jessie.  Then, Keep her safe, Tom.  And yourself, too.

Dropped his face, his eyes taking in the rifle he held.  Remembered Jessie’s promise.  Remembered her words—her lie to him, and, when asked ‘why’, he remembered exactly what she’d said:  “You wouldn’t listen.  You broke your vow to me, too.”

Why would she say that?  He hadn’t.  He had listened.  …Hadn’t he listened? 

Shook his head.  So, according to her, her lying to him was his fault?  He’d chided her, yes.  He’d dismissed her arguments as irrelevant.  Guilty.  Jessie was not the kind of woman to take something like that lightly.  So this was retaliation in response to his accusation and reprisal?

But she had lied.  She had broken their vow to each other.

Still, he knew her.  She was not one to back down, especially when it concerned her dogs.  He knew that.  Her dogs and her dad were her everything.  He was, at best, third in line.  He’d known that from the start.  Jessie would lay down her life for her dogs, for her dad, and, yes, for him, too.  She’d proven that over and over.  She would not put her own safety first.  For Landon, her dad was not a problem.  Her dogs?

He pulled breath through barely gapped lips, and glanced down at his Britta.  Jessie had told him.  Had he honored that knowledge?  Or had he refused to accept it?  And that’s what she meant, he realized.  Her meaning of ‘not listening’ wasn’t about actually hearing her words, but about knowing her standards, that nothing would stop her—no, she wouldn’t wait—when her dad, her dogs, or anyone or thing else that mattered to her was in jeopardy.

I fought it.  And I never told her it was a problem.  He’d never known until right now that it was. 

Glanced down at Britta again.  Yes, he admitted it.  He placed more value on Jessie’s life than he did anyone else’s, especially a dog’s …any animal’s.

Then, But not my own.

Frowned.  Groaned.  Ate it.  Whole.

When it came to Jessie, he’d protect her at all costs.  Looked around at his personnel.  No.  Not all.  If she willingly placed herself in jeopardy against orders, he would not sacrifice others to save her from her willfulness.  And she would violate a command when it came to her dogs, her dad, and, yes, anyone or thing else, including those she, as a SAR person, was trying to save.  He knew that.  She’d protect them.  Had done it in the past—Sam Hull came to mind—with the same unwavering resolve.

Remembered, too, her admission to him about the mob.  She would have taken the lives of her dogs, then her own, rather than let those dogs or herself face that mob’s rage-driven violence: I was not going to let those people, that mob, tear my dogs apart, limb from limb …allow my dogs to know suffering and cruelty and terror. Never!  I wasn’t willing to suffer their viciousness, not for my dogs, not for me.  Never.  I’d face my God and take my chances, but my dogs would not suffer.  Not by cruelty’s hand.

Winced at the memory and how knowing that had so disturbed him.

Swallowed realization, because, yes, he remembered—vividly—what she’d said as they worked to know each other better in the weeks before their wedding.  She had warned him before ever they said their vows.  Her words—‘You marry me, Landon Reid?  You’re marrying my dogs and my family with me.’

“And I agreed.  Willingly,” he muttered, never realizing that he spoke it right out loud.

“WHAT, SIR?”—Howie yelling in his ear.

He glanced aside.  Yelled back, “NOTHING, CAPTAIN.”  But that was a lie, too.  It wasn’t nothing.

“Approaching target,” crackled over the speaker above Landon’s head. 

*

“YOU HEAR that, Jessie?” Tom said, stopping, then standing absolutely still.

Jessie didn’t hear anything.  Was about to answer that when all her dogs turned to look west, ears pricked.  And then she heard it, too.  “That sounds like a helicopter.”

“That’s our Huey,” Tom said.

“How can you be sure?”

He turned to her, face still sober.  “Just trust me.  It’s our Huey.”

He turned back and moved on, Jessie and the dogs following.

*

THE SUNDOWNER PEAK trailhead parking area came in view, retreating just as fast as the Huey continued onward.  It was full to overflowing.  It had supposedly been a workday for the ATV club, fixing spring runoff damage to the trails.  That’s what the load of logs was for that he’d seen decked up the night of their search for Jason Temple and Kelsey Westlake.

The Huey banking hard, Landon leaned against its pull and moved his eyes away from the spinning landscape out the open bays.  Felt a touch on his arm.  Glanced Howie’s way and saw the man gesturing.  Looked where directed.  Saw the unmistakable forms of sprawled bodies and smashed machines laid out on the spinning landscape below them.  Saw that the semi-load of logs meant for good had been used for bad, the timber sprawled across the landscape, bodies and machines crushed under them.  Saw people fighting, struggling against one another. 

The Huey was descending as he took it in.  These were citizens of the Bitterroot down there, killed, maimed, injured.  This was the worst kind of unlawful assembly—a riot, a war between factions.  And he was bound by oath to stop it and would, but, in truth, he was the one responsible for causing it, all to flush out ‘the bad guy’.  He’d sacrificed citizens to savagery, all in the name of catching and stopping the instigator, something he’d sworn to himself he’d never do.

Thought of the dead boy.  Thought of all the dead and maimed and injured.  To stop that, it had needed to be done.

“SPEAKER’S ON, SIR,” Howie yelled.  Handed him a mic.  Told him to speak directly on it, and did.  “This is Sheriff Landon Reid.  Cease and desist.  Immediately.  Lay down your weapons.  Lay face down on the ground and stay there.  Now.”

An odd snap.  A ping.

“WHAT WAS THAT?” he yelled at Howie over the pummeling of the Huey’s chop.

“THEY’RE SHOOTING AT US.”

*

“TOM,” Jessie whispered.

No response.

Tapped.  They were stopped.  Tom was studying something ahead.

He turned his head aside. 

“The dogs say someone’s ahead I think.”

Nodded again.  Moved on.  Pointed, his face, his eyebrows actually, indicating an ask.

Jessie looked at her dogs.  Oso had his face pointed up, his nostrils working.  So did the rest, but she trusted Oso for this best and most. 

She gave a nod back to Tom, and he headed there.

*

LANDON GAVE the go-ahead.  No, he was not putting his deputies down in that melee.  Yes, he knew the danger to those below.

“Tear gas deployment initiating,” came over the speaker, then the pow, pow, pow, as that began, the canisters launching and continuing to launch. 

Landon hoped nobody was killed by one landing on them.  Iced his thoughts down.  This was a battle in a war he hadn’t known was happening—nobody had.  And, on purpose, he’d pushed it to this boiling point.  He’d had to, to stop more innocents from dying because of the foment incited by an outsider intent on having his own way.

Would he have done it had he known this would be the result?  He didn’t know.  In fact, he was having a very difficult time believing that it wasn’t all just a bad dream.  Civilized people should not resort to violence, though they often did—crimes of passion—but this was not a crime of passion.  Then, remembering Schuler’s rage at the judge, maybe it was, but it shouldn’t be.  Not over something as banal as horse and dog poop or sharing the trail with said same creatures and their humans or with people riding off-road bikes and quads …even with other people on foot, people who ran the trails instead of walking.  Yeah, according to Schuler’s manifesto, he wanted to ban them, too—nationwide.  It was, to Landon, unbelievable.  The desires of the few denying freedom to the many as if they owned exclusive privilege to access and control access to public lands that belonged to everyone.

“DEPLOYED,” Howie yelled.  “GET THAT HELMET AND MASK ON, SIR.  WE’RE SETTING DOWN.”

And Landon did as told.  Pulled on his helmet, but didn’t put the visor down.  Not yet.  Tried to put the mask given him for Britta on her, his girl trying to avoid.  “Please, Britta.  It’s for your own good,” he begged, and she stopped her fight against him.  Saw Howie nod.

The Huey descending, the ground coming up….

Landon pulled down the visor, mask sealing around his nose and mouth.  Touched the Glock on his right hip, then his SIG holstered to his left.  Swallowed.  One palm on the rifle, the other ready to hit his harness release, he waited for the jolt of landing.

***

36 – The Trap

THEY WERE halfway up a draw, heading toward where Jessie’s dogs indicated they had a line on somebody.  By the way they were acting, it was directly ahead of them.  Up the draw.  That’s when a shot rang out.  It kicked dirt right next to Jessie, and she hit the ground and rolled sideways, the dogs scattering.  Tom went the other way, then blew over to her side and crouched.

Signed ‘crawl’.  Pointed.  Started moving that way himself.

Shaking, she signaled her dogs and did as asked, the dogs moving low and slow with her as she paralleled Tom.  They moved crabwise toward deeper cover.  Got there as another bullet kicked right by her head.

Tom grabbed her and pulled her up, then laid on top of her.  Was pulling something from his pack with one hand.  Pulled it down over her head—a camo-colored wool winter hat.  “Keep your hair covered or I’ll cut it off,” he hissed, rolling off of her, him panting. 

Breath short and shaking so hard that she had to concentrate to make her hands do what she needed, she stuffed every strand of her hair up under the knit cap.  And, no, she wasn’t angry at Tom.  She was grateful.  She’d never thought of the fact that her hair could make her an easy target.

Jessie thought of Milo with his white-and-brown-spotted body.  Motioned to the dog.  Pulled out a bottle of Betadine from her kit, and, on every place that wasn’t covered by his Kevlar and his SAR vest and harness, she poured it on and rubbed it around, the dog sneezing and huffing.  But he took it—cooperated. 

Watching her, Tom reached and helped to spread it, wiping his hands on his pants when they’d finished.  “So now he stands out like an orange beacon, not a white one,” Tom said, but Jessie figured red-orange was better than white, and it was all she had.  Another thing to figure out and carry—a way to camouflage her big white wonder mutt. 

“Sorry I got rough,” Tom said.

She nodded, glad that her shaking was stopping, and she was getting her breath back.

“Jessie, head for that,” Tom said, jabbing a finger at the tipped out roots of a tree fallen maybe twenty feet away, and she, dogs with her, started crawling.  Got there.

No more shots came their way, and, now deep in the cover of trees, Tom ran, Jessie and the dogs right with him.

*

THE STING OF teargas leaking through the imperfect seal of his helmet made his eyes water.  He’d suffered this when training to be a deputy, but this was the first time he’d experienced it in a law enforcement action.  It somehow made things seem more critical, more brutal and barbaric.

He’d been told to stay.  A shield had been given him with the command to stay behind it.  And he did as told.  His people did not need the distraction of him out there.  And he watched them launch themselves at the now coughing and wheezing antagonists and their victims.

Watched as someone ran, the unmistakable hulk of Deputy Amy Vandertil bolting after him, catching up, and, with a smack of her rifle to the side of his thigh, knock him to the ground, straddle him, then flip him on his belly and zip tie his arms and legs, dropping a flag on him.  Landon watched her run on after somebody else.

Beside him, Britta whined, ears pricked hard forward.  She raised a paw.  Put it back down.  Her jaws opened and closed.  “Easy, Britta.  I know you want to help, but easy.”

“Seven suspects fleeing,” Howie’s voice came through.  “What do you want to do, sir?”

“Capture them.”

His audio cut out abruptly.  Saw Howie hold up a finger, then two.  Obviously the man was speaking to his teams.  Eight bodies moved toward Landon where he stood watching at the open bay of the Huey, the crewman standing with him.  The other eight Tac deputies kept to whatever and whoever they were dealing with.

The rest, Amy and others he recognized, ran towards him …toward the Huey.  He backed out of their way as they bellied onto the deck.  Got up and moved past him.

A hand on his arm.  “Strap in, sir,” Vandertil said, her no-nonsense tone clear.

Howie joined them, climbing aboard just as the Huey lifted off, hands pulling him in.  He slammed down in the seat next to Landon.  Said, “Thank you for staying put as asked, sir, and, by the way, I’m real proud of you.”

Landon frowned at that.

“I didn’t think you’d do it—drop the teargas—but you did.  You saved some lives with that, probably some of ours included.”

And Landon didn’t want to know if anyone had been injured or worse by that act.  No, he didn’t.  Again, it had been necessary to keep his people safe.

“Fugitives in sight,” came the call, and Howie grabbed a hook from overhead, pulled it down and snapped it on.  Pulling his visor down, he turned it on, then took up a position belly down at the Huey’s open bay, three others doing the same, one on the other side of the same open bay as Howie, two at the open bay opposite.

“Closing….”

Howies voice on broadcast, telling those who fled to stop.

Shots.  At them.  The snaps and pings were audible.  That was their answer.

Shots fired back, and Landon closed his eyes along with his mind to it.  The runners had been given the chance.  They’d chosen not to take it.

*

JESSIE’S DOGS were acting weird.  They were wagging, happy, and that was not normal.  And, a check of coordinates showed that the PLB signal had to be close by.  What gives?!

Kept her wonder mutts at heel, all of them minding her hand signals—only hand signals now.  Would not give away their position in case the shooter was actually one of her own …which is the only thing that explained her dogs acting like they knew the scent their noses caught.  The PLB was a trap.

Please, God, no.  Not one of ours.  Please.  And Jessie touched her SIG.  Touched the barrel of the small precision rifle slung strapped on her shoulder and anchored to her waist, its stock folded down.

A touch—Tom’s.  He pointed.  Had binoculars out.  Handed them to her.

Looking, she nodded.  Felt relief and upset, both.  Handed back the binoculars.

Tom signed ‘advance’ and they took it slow, Tom stopping her as he pointed to the wire—fine.  Pointed where he wanted her.  Nodded when she got there.  Reached down and cut it, diving for safety and getting there as a small, limber pine bristling with spikes swung upright, swayed, then stopped.

Swallowed her horror.  Advanced toward Tom when, up on his feet and okay, he signaled to her.

Got there.  Got to their people, and, no, their people were not turncoats.  They were hurt, Sally and Marty, both, having caught a spiked tree similar to the one Tom had just disabled.  The spikes from it had penetrated Marty in the arm and belly and caught Sally in the legs.  Their dogs with their quick reflexes had avoided getting punctured.

Mark, EMT certified, had come to their call for help.  His dog had sprung another trap, but had bounded out of the way in time and, Marty had gotten to the wounded and done his job.  “Nobody’s coming,” he told Jessie.  “There’s an op.”

“Yeah, there is,” Tom said.  “It’s a no fly, no entry zone through this entire area now, I’m betting.  That’s our Huey you’re hearing.”

“That’s what the ER doc said.  Nothing till they’re given an all clear.”

“SOP,” Tom said.  “So we wait.”

*

LANDON WATCHED his app.  He watched them come closer and closer to where Jessie, Tom, and the dogs, along with the three other teams and their dogs held their positions.  Saw the PLB signal as well.  Swore.  It had been a set-up—a trap.  And he prayed, right out loud as gunfire popped, his deputies firing on the quads fleeing just below and in front of them, Air One maintaining distance, the vibrations from its blades furious as it kept them airborne as it held relative position.

*

THE SOUND OF the S.O.’s helicopter was loud, then faded away as Jessie sat with the rest eating a power bar and sipping cold tea.  Her dogs and those of the other teams chewed on dog jerky she tossed them, their heads lifting every time the big air machine came closer.

It faded away again, and in the momentary lull, Jessie heard something else.  It was unmistakable—a quad.

Picked up her rifle.  So did Tom and Mark.

The sound faded away and Jessie closed her eyes and thanked her God, then begged: Please keep them away from us.  Please.

*

GOT TWO of them, sir.”—Howie’s voice in his ear.  “Three still fleeing.”

“I want them all,” he answered as the Huey came to hover.

“Will do.  Deploying….”

The three deputies who’d been shooters dropped out the bays, stepping off as if it was nothing, three more taking up their places as the big chopper started moving again, rappel lines reeling in.

The Huey tipped and Landon caught sight of two blue and one red quad.  Frowned as he saw another one, this one green come toward them from the other direction.  He saw it at the same time as Howie broadcast that information to everyone onboard.  The green machine swung around and fled with the others.  All of them disappeared down into the trees. 

Saw the crest of the next mountain.  “Where are we, Captain?”

“Coming over the ridge to Menlow, sir,” Howie answered.

Jessie!

Tried to get to his phone.  Got his hand jammed up.  Got it through to the pocket where he’d stashed it.  Pulled it out and turned it on.  Got the app to come up.  Yelped, “The PLB.  It’s right there.  So are the icons for Jessie, Tom—”  He put his finger on the ones he didn’t know.  That brought up codes, but they weren’t ones he recognized.  “And three other SAR personnel.”

Howie’s eyes locked on his.  There was a pause, then, “What do you want to do, sir?”

Landon already knew.  Said, “Catch the bad guys, Captain,” and, even to his ears, his voice sounded certain.

Howie barked something—some code Landon didn’t get.  The chopper banked, Landon’s butt slipping sideways and back, him pinned by the Gs against the seat back that sat mounted to the hull behind him.

*

THE HEAVY POUNDING of the big helicopter, the angry buzzing of the ATVs—more than one now….  The sound of the ATVs brought up memories of Long Peak….

Jessie knew they were in trouble.  So did Tom.  Tom reacted first.  Barked, “Get under cover and hunker down.” he snapped. Squatted down, even as he said it, and, checking his rifle, he lay down on his belly and set up.

Jessie looked around.  There was no better cover than they had right here.  This had been a trap, and they’d all fallen right into it.

Thought.  Heard the words inside her head: We do what we can with the tools we’ve got. 

Turned to her people and their dogs.  “Lay your stomachs.  Those of you who can, then please cover your heads with your arms.  Whatever you do, do not make a sound, do not raise your heads, and do not move.  I’m going to cover you with sticks and duff to hide you.  I’ll be right here.  You might hear gunfire.” 

Watched as they did as asked, them getting their dogs to lay in next to them.  Then she repeated it: “Do not make a sound, do not raise your heads, and do not move.”

“What are you going to do?” Mark asked. 

She smiled.  “My duty is as a sworn deputy.  I’m going to help Deputy Hudson protect us,” she said, as she asked Queenie, Oso, and little Duchess to lay down beside them and their dogs.

“I can help.”

And she smiled more.  “You’re SAR, Mark, and your job is to stay with the wounded and, if you have to, protect them.  You’re our weapon of last resort.”  Then, pulling out a thermal blanket and laying it over them, silver side down, black side up, she covered them, even the dogs, then started throwing duff on top of them.

***

37 – The Last Stand

HE HARDENED his heart.  He hardened his mind.  His duty was to maintain the peace, and when that peace was broken, to do everything in his power to bring it back, to make the land safe again for the people who’d elected him, who depended on him to protect them and theirs.  He was duty bound.

“I need your marksmanship,” Howie said, squatting down next to him.  The man had a tether in his hand.

Landon nodded.  Hit the release on his harness, Britta rising as he did, expecting him to release her too.  “Bleib,” he said.  “You have to stay here, Britta,” he told her, and she lay back down.  He touched her head as Howie snapped the tether on.

*

THERE WASN’T enough soil and debris around to cover the black of the thermal blanket completely.  There just wasn’t any more.  She’d scraped up all within reach.  And, overhead, the pummel of the big helicopter as it swung back and forth and around, the angry buzzing of the ATVs, and the sound of weapons fire, was getting closer, closer.

Jessie gave it up.  It was as good as she could get it.  Repeated her instructions to the three injured people—SAR people and their dogs, plus hers—who all lay down beneath.

Sent Sumi and Mitch to Tom’s side.  Kept Milo and Acer with her.  “You remember the commands, right, Tom?” she said, laying down behind and beside him.

He gave a quick jerk of head—affirmative. 

She checked her left SIG.  Pulled her right.  Got her rifle and got ready.

“I told you to hunker down,” Tom snarled at her.

“I am.  This is as good as you get, Tom.  Remember?  My name is Jessie, not Ms.-Biddable-Always-Follows-the-Rules.”

And, for the first time in hours, Tom grinned.  Said, “You mean Ms.-Never-Follows-the-Rules.”  Shook his head, still grinning.  “At least you admit it.”  Then, “What they say around the shop about you is true.  You do find trouble.  We’ve got a whole load of it coming, I think.”

Jessie grinned back.  “At least I don’t cause it.”

“Oh, yeah, you do that too.”

She let it go.  “So, what’s the plan?” she asked.

He told her what he thought.  He told her his hazy strategy, and it was good.

*

THE PESKY LITTLE machines, the people who rode them obviously expert in their handling….  Landon was down on his belly between Howie and Deputy Chris Opie, new to the S.O., new to Tactical, too, but hand-picked to join the force and Tactical by both Landon and Howie.  The man was a combat veteran, a skilled marksman, and he had a good heart. 

Every time the targeting said they had a lock, the shots, even Landon’s, and that with the targeting helmets’ help, missed because the targets dodged that fast.  He managed—just—to clip a back fender on one—saw it happen.  Then the targets would disappear into the trees, only to appear again.

That they stuck near each other made no sense to Landon.  Why?  But it was a strategic error.  “If only we had a big fishnet,” he muttered.

Heard Howie say something that again he couldn’t translate into meaning.

Air One banked hard again.  Came around. 

*

JESSIE COULD see the Huey swing in arcs.  Then its bulk would be blocked from sight by the trees as the buzzing of the quads faded.  But Jessie could hear the monster machine.  It was really low.  She could see the treetops sway and bend from its wash hitting them.  And she thought, Wow!

The sounds faded.  Then, unexpectedly they returned, the sound of the angry engines of the quads suddenly very close.  And, again, they faded. 

*

DESPITE HIS stomach objecting, Landon kept his bearings and his brain didn’t whirl.  He was actually getting used to this airborne bucking bronco.  “Like the twister ride at a carnival,” he muttered.  Heard someone bark a laugh and realized that everything he said was being listened to.

Heard the pop of what sounded like the same cannon that fired the teargas canisters.

“Got those two!” came a yell and a couple of huzzas moments later.  And Landon realized he could hear everyone else, too.

“They just went south, end over end,” said somebody else, a voice he recognized.  Couldn’t place.

“Don’t think they’re getting out of bed in the morning,” said another voice.

Tried to see.  Couldn’t, because they were doing another hard spinning bank, him real glad for the security tether that kept him from sliding right out the open bay, either one depending on which way the big machine pitched and yawed and dove.  “Heck of a pilot,” he muttered.

“Copy that and double it.”

And Landon did recognize Vandertil’s voice.  My berzerker.

“Good call on the net, sir,” she added seconds after.

So that’s what had happened!  He’d contributed!

“Two down, two to go, one blue, one green.  They’re heading into cover again,” someone barked.

Landon concentrated on the targets.  Selected one and fired just before it vanished into the trees.  Caught a shoulder—he was sure.  So sure….

*

TWO QUADS broke from out of the trees at the top to come down the slope right at them.  Jessie sent both Acer and Milo to her left.  Tom opened fire.  He was trying to hit the engines, but the quads, coming crazy fast, were weaving erratically.  Nothing seemed to penetrate, though there were obvious hits.  Fenders showed it.  Jessie was hoping to catch sight of a body, but, them coming downhill, her flat on the ground, all Jessie could see was the front ends with their lights, grills, fenders, and bullbars, maybe occasionally a head. 

Tried for a hit anyway.  Obviously missed because nothing happened.

The Huey appeared like a huge monster, rising as if emerging from the very hill itself to follow behind the quads, its nose down, blades of its rotors concussive as it drove toward them at an insanely low level.  And the quads came on.

Tom got something!  One machine seized and bucked, throwing its rider.  The other was aimed right for him, and, revving its engine, sped up and bore down on him.

But not her.

Jessie screamed at the dogs and saw all four of them run, Milo coming in on intercept and pacing, getting too close and almost winding up under its wheels as it swerved, Sumi launching but missing as the machine dodged.  Mitch hit, but fell off.  Acer got a bite, then also tumbled. 

Jessie stood.  Dropped her rifle.  Pulled her SIG.  Fired.  Dove sideways as the quad now swerved toward her, the rider finally falling free of the machine as it rolled to a stop when, one more time, rifle shots popped as the Huey flew right over Jessie’s head, and, yes, she ducked and flinched.

Opened eyes to see the dogs on top of a struggling body, and Jessie, afraid they’d be shot by errant bullets from the Huey as it swung around, called them off as she got there, pistol trained. 

Tom came, too.  She had zip ties, but he had cuffs.

And the perp—bleeding from the neck, shoulder, both arms, torso, and a leg—was a woman with crazed eyes in a face that Jessie recognized.  She raised a pistol Jessie hadn’t seen and fired.

***

38 – Point Blank

IT WAS ALL BUT point blank in range, and Jessie didn’t hesitate.  She squeezed the trigger.  Blew the woman away.  Then, her heart pounding, she knelt to Tom.  Saw his eyes wide open.  Saw him blink.  He grinned at her.  “Are you all right?” she tried to ask, but her voice failed her on the second word.

“Fine.  Hit my armor.  See?”

He pointed, and, yes, a bullet was lodged there, but his words were a lie, because he was bleeding, blood pooling around his leg, his camo wicking it up, the stain of it spreading. 

When she eased him over and checked the wound …wounds, him grousing at her as she cut his pants off, she saw then felt that it wasn’t critical.  Breathed out stress and sucked in relief.  He had a bullet in him, but it wouldn’t kill him.  She could feel it with her fingers.  He’d been soooo lucky.  It had practically skimmed along just under the skin of the back of his right thigh after hitting then exiting the flesh of his butt, skipped out again, and embedded itself in his calf muscle.  It had to be from friendly fire, she guessed.  The quads hadn’t been wielding anything but their steering as they ran full throttle downhill toward them.

She got her pack and slapped pads on the three entry wounds and two exit wounds, then stuck adhesive bandages over those.  Wrapped Tom up with more bandaging, him still grousing that she’d ruined his uniform and that his legs were cold.  “Yep, I did.  I’ll buy you a new one, no worries.  I’ll get it in pink camo, just for you.”  Pulled off her overshirt and tucked it around his hips and thighs, the air cool on her bare arms, her armor and the Kevlar under it bunching her cotton undershirt that protected her skin from their irritation.

Heard the Huey come around, then its chop change.  Glanced that way and saw it settling down, its big body and tail lowering to disappear until just the whirling rotors were still visible.  Then, within seconds, seven helmeted, armed people came running down the slope toward them, and Jessie laughed out loud. Gathered her dogs to her and, seeing no blood and no limping, waited for the good guys to come to their rescue.

***

Epilogue

JESSIE RECOGNIZED HIM despite the hard-shell armor and the helmet—his size, his gait, his bearing.  Stood waiting.  And as he got to her, he did what she desperately needed him to do.  He jerked his helmet off and wrapped his arms around her, crushing her to him.  Then he kissed her like there was no tomorrow.  Didn’t let her go for a long, long time, her reveling in it.  They were going to be okay.

After that day, he didn’t touch her again, though.  He didn’t speak, except to tell her ‘he wasn’t ready’ whenever she tried to broach his retreat from her, or ‘please don’t’ whenever she tried to even touch him.  And, in the darkness of the night, him asleep with Britta and the cats in his bedroll on the floor of their room, she wept.  Then, every morning just like things were normal, she got up, went to run with her dad, Landon driving himself over, too, made breakfast with Celee and Sol, sat in on the 7AM briefings at the S.O., went to work at the dog ranch, and, when called, went out on search and rescue. 

By silent, mutual agreement, they pretended everything was fine.  But it wasn’t.  They were fully and completely estranged.  He hadn’t relented, and she wouldn’t.  He was in the wrong, not her.

*

“OLI?”

“Yeah, Landon?”

“May I ask for some advice?”

“Sit down,” the big man said, indicating one of the chairs in front of his desk. 

Landon sat.  Settled.  Said, “I need help.”

A nod.  “Go ahead.”

“Jessie and I are having …difficulties.”

The man’s eyes never shifted, never even changed their dark color to brighter as was the way of the Anderson eyes when they felt distress.  Oli’s eyes just stayed their wonderful dark blue.  Held steady on his.  Oli didn’t respond.

Landon took the chance and asked what seemed the obvious.  “Jessie told you?”

A shake of head.  “No.  It’s just very apparent.”

Landon nodded.  Took a long breath.  Dropped his face, eyes on his hand clutched to his jean-clad leg.  Forced it to relax its grip.  His other hand rode his dog’s head.  She was his strength in this moment, a difficult moment because Oli was, in truth, Landon’s very best, most trusted friend.  He didn’t want to lose that, no matter what happened between him and Jessie.  “I hold my vows sacred,” he said, raising his head and locking his eyes onto Oli’s as he said it.

The man nodded yet again.  “I know that.  So do I.”

Landon dropped his head back down.  Let go his dog’s head and picked at a nail.  He needed to sand it smooth.  Said …and didn’t mean to do it, his mouth blurting out words without his permission like it sometimes did.  “She lied to me, Oli.  Now I can’t….  I can’t trust her not to lie.  …I don’t know how to trust her,” and his voice choked saying it.  He swallowed.  Waited.

Nothing.

Landon didn’t raise his eyes.  Just went on when Oli didn’t say anything.  “I’m trying to get over it.  I am.  I know that it’s my fault.  I misunderstood.  I misinterpreted.  I …misjudged.”

“We all lie, Landon.”

He nodded.  Still didn’t raise his eyes to the man.  “Yeah.  Sometimes it’s necessary, at least in my job, but not to—”  Took a breath and spoke it out” “Jessie and I made a vow to each other, a vow I took as sacred, to never lie to one another—never.”

Now he did raise his eyes and saw Oli just sitting there, relaxed and unchanged.  Said, “I know why she did it.  I pressed her, not understanding that she’d never—”  Broke off.  Sucked breath.  Tried again.  “She lied to get me off her back, to please me …or maybe to …just tell me what I wanted to hear …which is what she said.  …When I insisted that she stop what I now realize aren’t just the result of spontaneous actions …tendencies, but are, instead innate standards, personal scruples… she lied.”  And, rushing on as Oli sat forward, the man’s eyes going bright and intense, Landon said, “And, for me, lying is—”

“The ultimate violation of trust between a husband and wife,” Oli broke in.

Miserable, Landon nodded.  “So she did tell you some of it.”

“No.  You just did.  She hasn’t said a word.  I knew something had happened.  I just didn’t know what.”

Oli paused.  Frowned.  Finally said, “But I do know about lies and trust between husband and wife, Landon.”

And Oli did.  Landon knew that cross years-borne in Oli’s life with Jessie’s mother.  He held nothing but sorrow for the man for all those years Oli had suffered misery and self-torture.  Now Landon was there, but on the opposite side of right.

Oli pulled open a drawer.  Got out a bottle and two tumblers.  Cracked the seal and poured.  “We both need this,” he said.

Landon hadn’t planned on drinking, but he accepted.

They sipped.  Then Oli tossed back his glass and refilled it.  Topped off Landon’s, which was still near full.  “What decisions you face,” Oli said, “you have to face yourself, Landon.  I can’t advise you on it.  I know my daughter.  I know how willful she is.  I know she’ll win at any cost.  I know she’s a force of reckoning, intrepid, dauntless, and, honestly, that’s what makes her who she is.  I can’t and won’t fault that.  She is my daughter, and I not only love her, I admire her.  She’s everything I could ever hope she’d be.” 

He stopped, and Landon waited for the rest, because he knew there was more, and he knew it would probably be the hardest part for him to hear.  It’s why Oli was softening it with whiskey.

Oli tapped a finger against the glass.  Locked eyes on Landon’s as he did it.  Said, “But I also value and admire you, and especially value our friendship.  How you two do or don’t resolve this won’t ever change that.  I’ll always be your friend, Landon, and I hope you’ll always be mine.”

And to Landon’s relief, Oli’s face read ‘honest’.  What he had hoped to get—an answer to his needs he now knew he wouldn’t get, not from Oli.  Sighed out resignation.  Nodded.  Accepted the fact.  Picked up the tumbler of whiskey, touched it to Oli’s as the man held his out, then drank it down.  Put the glass down and said, “Thank you.”

“Stay for dinner?”

It was the seal on Oli’s promise of forever friendship, no matter what.  It would be his to accept or reject, to own or to toss, the owning his own pledge of same.  Answered, “I’d love to.”

“Good.”

And Oli poured another round for both of them.

*

SEVENTEEN BITTERROOT residents died on Sundowner that day, most of them members of the ATV club, the rest of them members of the Bitterroot Wilderness Walkers, the group that had split the Bitterroot Day Hikers Club.  The Wilderness Walkers had a total of only twenty-six registered members, and most of them were on Sundowner that day, all of them except Peter Schuler and the FBI’s infiltrator who had no idea they were even up there. 

Peter Schuler had still been sitting in Landon’s jail.  The undercover FBI woman had been left out of the loop, and Landon guessed it was because she was suspected for what she was.

Naomi Black survived.  Jan Neskey didn’t.  Neither did Kiki Osbourne.  Naomi will spend the rest of her life in prison, having, despite the prosecution’s best efforts, avoided the death penalty after having successfully argued for a change of venue for fear of a lack of an impartial jury if tried in Bitterroot County. 

As an adjunct to the case already against Ms. Black, ballistics proved that Naomi’s rifle had fired the rounds at the boy, Stan Arndt, and at Jason Temple and Kelsey Westlake.  A search of the Black home yielded a shirt with identical fiber pills, including embedded cat hair.  Those pills with its cat hair matched those found both on the trunk of the tree where the shooter stood firing at Jason Temple and his girlfriend as well as on the tree blocking the lower trail that brought Sy Waterton’s tragic death.  The partial prints on the casing, the chainsaw wrench, the double-sided bit, and on some of the spikes and nails recovered from the trail hazards that deputies and volunteers spent days dismantling on Menlow Mountain also proved her culpable in those actions. 

Trial moved to Boise, it took three years before even that much justice was done, the more lenient-minded jury there finding her guilty on all counts, but recommending against the death penalty.  It was, however, three years Black spent behind bars because she was considered a high flight risk.  

Her husband, the fireman Jack Black, divorced his wife, sold their home, and left Bitterroot County for parts unknown within a year of his wife’s arrest and long before she was convicted.  Landon managed to track him down, but didn’t contact him.  He just wanted to know what had happened to the man, and discovered Jack had moved to New Hampshire and resumed his career as a fireman.  Landon nodded seeing that, happy the man was continuing to serve.  He’d had an exemplary record with Northridge Fire.

Others of the Wilderness Walkers who lived through the Sundowner barbarity were also likewise tried and convicted.  They were tried in Bitterroot County, received fair trials, two receiving the death sentence, the rest just life in prison.  Appeals in all cases are, of course, pending.

Peter Schuler was found guilty of complicity under the criminal conspiracy code, and he too was sentenced to spend the remainder of his natural born days behind bars.  The FBI’s case against him is still pending trial in federal court, his external drive providing proof of his guilt in organizing, with dozens of others, the Memorial Day blitz of vandalism with its resulting injuries and deaths that had hit the nation that sad weekend.

Naomi Black’s cat was successfully rehomed by the county’s no-kill animal shelter as was Peter Schuler’s.  So was Peter Schuler’s hamster.  His aquarium full of tropical fish wound up in a display tank in the shelter’s lobby.

Dan Evans, the structural engineer who sabotaged the Northridge Crest viewing deck was also convicted of first degree murder and sentenced to life, no parole.  He too is awaiting trial in federal court.  He’s never talked. 

Mike Hart wasn’t charged by the feds in exchange for his testimony against Dan Evans.  He did receive a ten-year sentence from the Idaho courts, but got out on parole after six.  He returned to Bitterroot County and, despite his record, was rehired by the engineering firm with which he was previously employed.

Whoever shot Fromm is still unknown and possibly at large.  That case is still unresolved.  Landon doubted it ever would be.  He suspected the culprit was either dead or in prison.  Mr. Yeld and Mr. Baramont both spent one year each in county jail for their antics.  Nathan Fair helped Holly Fromm put her fence back up, using his Percheron team to stretch the wire taut.  Fromm and Fair became good neighbors and, better, friends.

Bill Arndt’s boy, Stan, was, upon Landon’s beg to Assistant Prosecutor Larry Johnson, not charged.

And the victims?

The man, one Samuel King, and his infant child, both of whom had survived the fall of the middle viewing deck on Northridge Crest recovered.  His finger was successfully reattached, but was never fully functional again.

Likewise, the four surviving cyclists made successful recoveries, though they all will carry the scars of their ordeal for life. Even Pam Parnel whose stomach and spleen had pushed up into her left lung, suffered no permanent debilitation.  She went on to race in The Ironhorse Bicycle Classic in Durango, Colorado the following May, coming in second in the women’s 19-29-year-old category.

Sy Waterton’s funeral was attended by over eight hundred Bitterroot County residents.  He was not only well-known, but well-loved.  The deceased members of the Off-Road Warriors club were mostly buried, some cremated, their families holding private memorial services, funerals, or celebrations of life.  The rest of the survivors are mostly either still in physical therapy or confined to wheelchairs, some for the rest of their lives.

Jason Temple and Kelsey Westlake were married the following spring and now have a child on the way. 

The injured SAR personnel all recovered and continue to search for the lost in Bitterroot County and in the sixteen other counties that comprise their SAR group’s responsibility.

The girl with the Arab mare, Kendra Marston, would, in all probability, never ride again, though, with physical therapy, she was walking unassisted.  Her decline into osteoporosis was successfully arrested, but the osteopenia persisted.  Doctors continue to try to determine cause of her infirmity, but, thus far, no means of reversing it have been successful.  They suspect a genetic factor yet to be identified.

*

“SOL?”—Landon.

Jessie couldn’t help herself.  She smiled.  She knew what was coming.  She’d seen the mare when Landon unloaded her, though Landon hadn’t shared his plans with Jessie. 

They still hadn’t resolved their differences, and the whole house knew, though nobody mentioned it.  Even her dad knew, but he didn’t say anything, either.  It had been weeks.

Landon had changed.  He was distant and taciturn, rarely speaking unless spoken to, even at work, she found out from Terri.  And Jessie had to make a decision about her future with him.  Soon.  He wouldn’t sleep with her, but continued to bed down on the floor, no matter how she implored.

She’d thought that things would resolve after he’d hugged her so close that day, kissed her so passionately, but they hadn’t.  He’d gone right back to being remote.

“Sol?” Landon said again.

“What?” Sol said, looking up.

“If you’d come outside, please?”

Sol frowned.  “There are mosquitoes out there.”

“I’m sure you’ve got plenty of blood to spare for a few hungry ladies.”

Jessie couldn’t help but smirk.  Almost laughed aloud.  Sol had been the one to inform Landon that only female mosquitoes bite: “A blood meal so they can lay their brood.”

Landon had given Sol that look he got when somebody told him something he didn’t buy, but then Sol had shown him the literature.

“And you believe that?”

“It’s a proven fact, Landon.”

And Landon had finally accepted it as so, probably by doing his own research on the subject, Jessie guessed.

Picking up the repellant, she handed it to Sol, and, taking it, he doused himself, then made his way out the door, Landon holding it open for him.  Then Landon’s eyes locked on Jessie’s and, bowing his head, he kept holding it open.  Said, “Please.” So she went.

Jessie stood in the alleyway as Landon brought the mare out of her stall.  Handed Sol the lead.

“Oh,” Sol said.  “This is a new one, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Landon said.

Looking slightly muddled, Sol asked, “And what am I supposed to do?  Saddle him—”  Tipped his head and looked.  “Excuse me, her myself?  Are we going to do cow things?”

“Whatever you like.  She’s yours.  Nine years old, bombproof, and all yours now.”

Sol’s eyes got huge.  “Mi– mine?”

Landon pulled an envelope from his back jean pocket.  Handed it to the man.  “Yours.”

Jessie grinned.  Waited.

“How– how much– how much do I owe—”

“She’s a gift, Sol.  From Jessie and me.”

Jessie jerked at that.  Covered it as Landon’s eyes quick-shifted her way.  He gave her the slightest of nods.  Said, “She belonged to the Marston girl, Sol.  Remember the case?”

Her short friend turned still huge, awed eyes her way.  Jessie smiled encouragement. 

Sol looked back at Landon.  “I– I do.”

“I didn’t want her being sold to someone who wouldn’t appreciate her,” Landon went on.  “You qualify as someone who will.”

And Sol was all ‘thank you’s to Landon and her, with hugs to both the mare’s leg and to Jessie.  He accepted. 

Tears threatening, Jessie left the men to it as Landon started to saddle the mare for Sol.  She went for a long walk.  Didn’t know what to think about Landon including her in Sol’s gift.  She hadn’t known about it.  She hadn’t contributed or even been asked.  He’d just done it.  Without her any knowledge or involvement.

Got back to find Landon gone and Sol riding the mare around, the animal dropping her head to pull grass every time she got the chance. 

Went to try to find her husband.  Estranged husband, she reminded herself.

He’d vanished, though.  Sighed.  Got some iced tea and went to sit in her favorite spot.

*

HE’D RESOLVED IT in his mind.  Come to terms with it.  But it would be a careful thing.  He had to be honest.  Would not lie to her.  Ever. 

It had to be a very careful thing.

Britta with him, he walked toward where she sat on the trellised bench, dogs at her feet, surrounding her. 

She sat where the wild rose his grandmother had tended climbed high in the big twin pines, its cascading fall of canes full of scented pink flowers.  “Jessie?”

She turned her face to him, blue eyes bright with, was it anger or stress?  He didn’t know.

Stopped when he reached her.  Asked, “May I sit?”

She scooted aside for him, his Britta leaving his knee to move off and lay herself down next to Jessie’s Acer.  He saw the two dogs touch noses.

Took a breath.  Let his mind go, and prayed the words would come out right.  Turned to her.  “I ask you for your forgiveness,” he said …and saw her frown.

She didn’t respond.

He waited.  Raised his eyes to watch the sky above the mountains, the mountains he loved.

“For what?” she finally asked.

He brought his thoughts down from the heavens.  Turned to her and gave her his eyes.  “For misunderstanding.  For misinterpreting.”  Stopped, then said, “And, worst of all, for misjudging.”

Her blue eyes, still bright with stress, darkened.  He watched it happen, not gradually, but within about two seconds of his speaking.  And she watched him.

He waited for her verdict. 

Finally, she shifted.  Blinked like she had something burning her eyes.  Dropped her head and seemed to watch her hands—hands that lay so still in her lap, her left still graced with the wedding band that matched the one still gracing his.  Brought her eyes back to him, their blue still dark but shiny with what he knew were pent back tears.  They searched his.  Then they stilled.  “You said this to me once,” she said.  “We were sitting right here.  I don’t know if you remember or not, but you said to me, ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’  Do you remember?”

He did.  Gave a nod—slight.

“Well, that’s how I feel about this.”  Then, after a moment, she said, “Can we just move on, Landon?  Learn from this?”  And then more: “Can we go back to how we were?  Happy?  Trusting one another?”

He listened.  Thought.  Watched the mountains and the sky.  Knew the answer: He hoped he could.  Someday.  Couldn’t say it.  This was for life.  She was his life.  Said what he could.  Said what he felt.  Honestly.  Softly.  “Please don’t lie to me, Jessie.  Never again.  Please?  I’ll never ask you for anything else, not to wait, not to stop—nothing.  Just don’t lie to me.”

And, standing up, she reached her hand, grasped his.  Tugged.  And when he stood at her behest, she wrapped her arms around his neck, tucked her face into him, and said, “I promise”—sobbed.

Enfolding her in turn, he felt her relax into him.  Watched the mountains and the sky.  …For life. 

Lowered his gaze.

Her head right there.  Her ear.  Her neck….  He dropped his face close.  Breathed her in—sunshine and fresh air.  Yes, he loved her.  No matter what.  Whispered, “I love you.”

THE END

(And, no, the series doesn’t end here.)

I know you hear this beg at the end of every one of these books, but, honestly, without reviews, a book dies, so would you please take a moment to leave your honest review for me?  Even a one liner would be appreciated, and, if you are interested in knowing when new books and audio versions of novels in The Jessica Anderson K-9 Mysteries series are available, you can sign up for my newsletter via my website, DLKeur.com.  Thank you.  –Dawn

ABOUT THE DOGS

MITCH, THE MARVELOUS MALINOIS

Mitch was found on the streets of Miami by ABMR (American Belgian Malinois Rescue) in October 2017.  They guessed that he was born sometime in July.

In November, he went to his foster home in Orlando.  His foster mom is a police officer at the Orlando Airport and her K-9 is a bomb specialist.

Ann’s daughter saw Mitch online, and, after an intense series of interviews and a home visit, says Ann Davis.  “It was like I was adopting a child.  They agreed to let us adopt Mitch and his gotcha day was officially February 2nd.”

MILO, QUEENIE, OSO, ACER, AND THE REST

Milo is modeled after my beloved Bailey.  And, yes, he really was that elegant and tall.  A wonder mutt, Bailey, for me, was extra special.  I so wish he were still with me.

Queenie is modeled on an Irish Setter I inartfully nicknamed ‘Red’.  She was a windfall who wound up going on to win all sorts of awards, both for her confirmation—the judges drooled over her, in fact—and for her startling skills.  This dog had a soul of boundless joy and was responsible for finding a lost six-year-old.

Oso, the Elkhound, was a dog I had as a kid, and, yes, I named him Oso, because he looked like a fuzzy bear.  He wandered in one day in the middle of winter, starved and sick.  We took him in …as we did all strays, got him the veterinary help he needed, nursed him back to health, and kept him.  Ultimately, because he was an Elkhound, a breed known for their air scenting skills, he was responsible for finding people lost in an avalanche in our mountains during Christmas break one winter.  His very best friend was Erasmus, the Philosopher Piglet, my pet piglet that grew into a thousand-pound Yorkshire boar.  Their friendship lasted their lifetimes, the two of them dying within weeks of one another.

Acer, Britta, and Sumi are all based on various German Shepherds that I have known or that have been part of our family throughout my life.  Within these novels, you’ll get to know them all and more, along with other notables …like Chauncey, the Briard …but that’s another story.

D. L. Keur

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ABOUT THIS SERIES

The Jessica Anderson K-9 Mysteries began life near the end of December 2020, during the Covid-19 pandemic which reference I have purposely omitted from the stories, because, like all of us, I hope to put that behind me and begin, once more, to live a more normal life.

In all, I have more than a dozen books planned for this series, four already heavily researched and in various stages of draft.  I plan to write and release these novels on a regular schedule for you (and me) to enjoy.  And joy is, in fact, the main reason for writing them, for, while there is drama and trauma, there is a quintessential heroism in these marvelous animals.  In writing these novels, I wanted to share that joy, inspiration, and unique richness that is a life with animals, specifically dogs, and of living in “God’s Country.”

Within this book and all the subsequent ones of the series, all the places and events, as well as all of the persons’ names, save one (with permission), are completely fictional.  That said, though, the bases (plural of basis) for the elements of the stories are very real and true to the land, the climate, and, most importantly, to the animals and people who call this great, but often misunderstood, part of rural America their home.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

As an author who delights in writing stories that I myself would want to read, this is the first novel and series of novels that I’ve written under my real name.  For decades, I’ve cloaked my identity under pen names, even once deciding to self-publish instead of continuing the traditional publishing route.  Convinced to by another author who has become a close friend and writing confidante, I decided to unveil my identity and allow readers to connect me with some of my fiction work.

Writing is my passion.  Though, among other things, I’m an artist and musician, writing novels is where I lose myself in The Zone, immersed for hours, even, days, into the worlds that birth themselves in my brain to emerge out my fingertips.  May you enjoy the results of my creative travels as much as I.  Dawn Lisette Keur

OTHER BOOKS BY D. L. Keur

Writing as D. L. Keur

The Jessica Anderson K-9 Mysteries

Death Scent (Book 1)

Stray Trouble (Book 2)

Grim Track (Book 3)

Dire Traces (Book 4)

Dead Falls (Book 5)

Troubled Pursuit (Book 6)

Game Trail (Book 7)

Cold Scent (Book 8)

Furtive Prey (Book 9)

Critical Traces (Book 10)

The King & Midnight K-9 Mysteries

Night Trouble, (Book 1)

Coercive Power (Book 2) (not yet published)

How to Write a Good Book in 17 Days, Get-it-written self-help for serious writers by D. L. Keur, non-fiction

Dawn’s Flute Notes, Practical Advice for Flute Players from Practice Room to Stage by D. L. Keur, non-fiction

Writing as E.  J.  Ruek

To Inherit a Murderer, paranormal suspense, set in N.  Idaho, this is the story of a godmother saddled with guardianship of her deceased best friend’s son, a twelve-year-old who is a murderer.  (Controversial)

Old Hickory Lane, the story of an Idaho veterinarian

Created Evil, mythic epic fantasy.  Get ready for a whole different take on the Apocalypse.

Slightly Disturbing Stories, a nerve-tingling anthology of short stories that end well for the innocent and good.  They will stick with you, each a slightly disturbing ripple in your memory, because it’s not what’s shown or told; it’s what’s left unsaid that echoes …forever.

Writing as Aeros

A Gathering of Rebels by Aeros, a 2 volume Science Fiction epic space opera in the most classic tradition of Frank Herbert.

[Title Withheld] (pending publication)

Writing as C.  J.  “Country” James

Through Better & Worse, a Montana Love Story, Western Family Saga/Romance by C.  J.  “Country” James

To Have & To Hold, a Continuing Montana Love Story, Western Family Saga/Romance by C.  J.  “Country” James

All of them are exclusively available at Amazon everywhere in the world.

And, in Joy, I hope we meet again.

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