A Rendezvous to Die For (20 page)

“
That’s intriguing, Cass, but
merely because you see his company truck doesn’t mean he was there
himself. An employee could have been using the vehicle. You’ll need
a photo of Strothers at the event.” Jack pushed a branch from his
face.

“
I’ve got tons of photos to
go through,” I said. “I’ll keep looking.”

Jack was feeling apprehensive and
wanted to get off the trail. “I can’t believe Jim would be out
here, Cass. Let’s turn around.”

“
Even if we wanted to, we
couldn’t,” I said, moving forward. “There’s no room to
maneuver. Midnight is skitterish enough. I can see the glimmer of a
pond up ahead. Let’s at least go there, let the horses refresh
themselves, and then turn back.”

“
I don’t think that’s
wise,” Jack insisted. “We’ll get bogged down in the muck.” He
had no more than said that than the trail opened to an expanse of
tall, reedy green plants. A narrow shelf of ground looked as if it
would allow us to skirt the area. “See . . . I told you, Cass. We
can’t get through that mess. Don’t even try.” He reined his
horse around.

“
Okay,” I conceded. “I’ll
just ride along the edge a couple feet and find a better place to
turn.” As Midnight stepped into the clearing, I saw an old oak tree
dominating the tiny patch of land on a slight knoll. “We’re not
the only ones who have been here, Jack,” I said, pointing to a ring
of rocks. ”Someone has built a fire out here.” Midnight kicked a
muddy Budweiser can out of the way. “Drinking, I might add.”

Jack drew abreast of me and we
listened to the sounds of swamp insects and the occasional croak of a
frog, while peering more closely around us. “Whatever they were
cooking out here doesn’t smell very appetizing,” Jack said,
wrinkling his nose.

“
It smells more like something
died.” I covered my nose with my hand. “Maybe a coyote brought
down a deer. Come on, Midnight, let’s go home.” I lay the reins
on his neck and was about to turn him around when something caught my
eye. “Jack, look over there. What’s that?” I pointed. “Over
there by the tree.”

Both of us inched forward. When
we were about ten yards from the tree, Jack stopped. “Oh, shit!”
he said. He put out his hand to stop my progress.. “Cass, go for
help. I’ll wait here.”

* * *

Friday
Evening

The corpse was that of Frank
Kyopa’s nephew, Jim Tuttle. He had been hanging from the
century-old oak tree for three days. His hands were bound behind him
with a length of the same rope found around his neck—a hand-braided
rawhide rope. Jim was thirty years old and left a wife and two young
children.

Law enforcement was not amused
that I had turned up at the scene of the third body to be found in
Clayton County in less than two weeks. By now, the sheriff’s
interrogation was so familiar that, with Lawton Sanders by my side, I
anticipated most of the questions and answered them automatically. As
I left the station and headed for home, I was surprised to see the
sun still shining. For too long, I had felt I was walking under a
dark cloud and that cloud had stubbornly followed me since I’d
found Eric Hartfield’s body. Even my “Cassandra” mantra had
failed to drive it away.

I’d always reveled in my name,
telling myself I was special and destined to be more than ordinary.
If not, wouldn’t my mother have given me a common name? Mary,
maybe, but surely not Cassandra. Since childhood, I’ve chanted it
to myself over and over whenever I was feeling stressed, like an
affirmation that I’d get through my predicament. “Ca-SAN-dra,
Ca-SAN-dra, Ca-SAN-dra,” I’d chant, to the rhythm of my bike
tires. The mantra usually relaxed me, but, today, it taunted me.
After finding three bodies, I was beginning to think the Greeks had
the more correct interpretation of my name. Cassandra: prophet of
doom.

The seemingly senseless killing
of Jim Tuttle didn’t sit well with the citizens of Colton Mills.
While Randy’s murder had finally driven them to lock their doors,
stock up on ammunition, and stay inside, this third murder seemed to
drive them into pressuring law enforcement to work harder. At least
the press was indicating this change in attitude. It was clear to
anyone with half a brain that a serial killer was in their midst. As
I listened to updates of the murder on TV, it appeared the police
didn’t have a clue or motive for any of the three murders.
Thankfully, few citizens knew that I was on Shaw’s list of
suspects. Otherwise, they’d probably be pounding on my door.

The only way to keep from
dwelling on that fact was to concentrate on what I could do to help
myself. My mind drifted to the paltry evidence I had that put
Strothers near the scene of the Rendezvous murder. I had found a
digital photo of his vehicle on a CF card the sheriff didn’t know I
had. I was reluctant to turn it over to him. Two weeks had passed
between the time of Eric’s murder and my discovering the photo card
in my pants pocket. Shaw would surely make something of it, like
charging me with withholding evidence . . . or something worse.

It probably wasn’t the smartest
decision I’d ever made, but I hadn’t even mentioned finding the
digital photos to my attorney. Fearing what Shaw would do with the
information outweighed the fact that I should share it with Sanders,
even though I’d had the opportunity to do so at the station. I
hated the feeling that, along with everything else this case was
doing to me, I was growing mistrustful of almost everyone.

I was determined not to become a
powerless victim, though. No one cared more about clearing my name
than I did. But . . . I was a professional photographer and not a
detective. I was a long way from being a candidate for the Detective
Hall of Fame. Instead of digging myself out of a hole, my lame
detection attempts had proven fruitless. I was digging a deeper hole.
I’d stepped out of character, photographing car doors in the middle
of the night. And what did I have to show for it? Nada. Not only had
I failed to acquire any overpowering evidence, I had left evidence
behind. Feeling somewhat encouraged that I hadn’t received a visit
or call from Strothers about the shirt, I found myself wanting to
believe I had lucked out. Perhaps he couldn’t link it to me,
because he had never paid enough attention to me to know I was
usually dressed in red.

As I parked my Jeep in the garage
of the carriage house, I wondered for the hundredth time what
evidence Shaw had on me, or if he was only bluffing, as Sanders
seemed to think. When would the other shoe drop and when would I
become an official suspect in Randy and Jim’s murders?

Chapter
19

Saturday—Week
Two

My feet hadn’t touched the
floor of my bedroom, before I was dreading what the day would bring.
Should I spend it indoors poring over the Rendezvous pictures on the
digital card? What I needed was to get out of the house and clear my
head. The weather report on the late night news had predicted a sunny
day in the low eighties.
It would be a perfect day to try one
of my favorite places—Tall Pines National Park, where an
Orienteering meet was being held. I could get off the beaten track
and do some hiking, and yet be in the midst of people having fun. I
laced up my red Lands End hiking boots, looking forward to what I
hoped would be a mind-clearing walk.

Despite my determination to enjoy
the day, I spent almost as much time peering in my rear view mirror
as I did driving down the county road to the park. No one seemed to
be following me, so I focused, instead, on the towering trees lining
the winding driveway up to the park’s main building. They soothed
me. I found a spot in the crowded parking lot, slid out from under
the wheel, and did a runner’s stretch against my car. I grabbed the
camera on my car seat (I have to have at least one camera or I feel
undressed), pulled the strap over my head, and started out by the
trail signage arrow. It was a good ten degrees cooler under the
majestic Big Woods canopy.

The trail I selected wound upward
and circled through the woods. Between the trees, I caught glimpses
of brightly clad orienteering participants jogging to one of the
orange nylon control boxes that dangled from a branch. Their presence
reassured me, and I trekked on resolutely, willing myself to forget
the events of the past month.

A woman in a blue and orange
skin-tight suit jogged by, topographical map in hand, and veered off
into the woods, seeking the next box. I knew a little about
orienteering. The participant who best combined reading the
topographic map with compass reading, and worked out the shortest
route through the woods from start to finish was the winner.
Participants negotiated the route from “control” to “control,”
punching their cards at each box. Finishers had their cards
completely punched.

I liked the way the structure
combined running with a kind of treasure hunt, and the fact that it
had little to do with teamwork, a principle that seemed to challenge
my compatibility. I decided I might join a local “O” club, as
soon as the mess I was in blew over. The way my life was going now,
however, I’d probably get lost in the woods and never find my way
out. Picturing myself all suited up in a red and black jogging suit,
it suddenly dawned on me that I no longer saw any orienteering
runners. I had slogged beyond the boundaries of the course.

Damn.
Better reverse.
I turned to retrace my steps. That’s when I saw him. The man was
coming—make that trudging—up the trail toward me. He was still
too far away to identify his features, but I immediately spotted the
farmer-style jeans and red suspenders. I stopped dead in my tracks.
Where should I go? Did I have to stay on the path? Did he recognize
me, too?

The man in question stopped to
mop his brow. Then he plodded up the hill, head down. My eyes never
left him and my imagination went wild. Hundreds of old men wore
overalls and suspenders. At least dozens of them liked the color red.
Maybe the suspenders had been a Christmas gift. Maybe the old
gentleman was on a picnic with the family and simply getting away
from the grandchildren for a few minutes.

At that moment, he lifted his
head and saw me staring at him. He stopped with a jolt and stared
back at me.
He’s not just another hiker in the woods. He’s the
man at the farmhouse with Strothers. I think. Isn’t he?
He
stood perfectly still, straddling the trail so I’d have to either
walk through or around him to get past. Winded as he appeared to be,
he didn’t look like he’d be much of an obstacle. Except for his
size. He had a good hundred pounds on me. As we held eye contact, his
right hand inched slowly toward his pocket.

Now, a man can reach for several
things in his pocket—a hanky to wipe his brow, a stick of gum, a
pack of cigarettes, a cell phone. But my already uneasy brain
registered, “
He’s going for a gun!”
I reacted the only
way I knew how to react in such a situation. I drew my own weapon. I
lifted my Canon and adjusted the telescopic lens to bring him into
focus. Just as I pressed the shutter, he abandoned the trip to his
pocket and whirled, hiding his face behind his uplifted arm. In a
flash that belied his age and physical condition, he stepped off the
trail and lumbered into the woods. Happily, not quickly enough. I had
a perfect photograph of the red suspenders holding up his dungarees.

Feeling full of myself for my
quick thinking, I was tempted to keep going in his direction, but
once again, common sense prevailed. I jogged the remaining four miles
of the trail, confident that, unless he had a four-wheeler stashed
somewhere, I was out of his reach. When I returned to the parking
lot, I photographed the vehicles and their license plates, just in
case he had left his vehicle in the public parking lot and I could
match it to those in other photos.

Back home and behind locked
doors, I thought about him again.
What in hell was that all about?
I wondered.
Am I such an easy quarry that someone sent an aging,
out-of-shape farmer to follow me? Or, am I only being foolish and
imaginative and spooked about anyone and everyone without a name I
know and trust?

* * *

Sunday
Morning—Week Two

Knowing it had been exactly two
weeks to the day since I’d found Eric’s body in the sweat lodge,
I couldn’t spend the day alone. A trip to Grizzly’s for coffee
and cinnamon toast was better than wrestling with my thoughts. While
sipping latte, I read about the Colton Mills murders in the Sunday
edition of the
Minneapolis-Tribune.
It reported no progress
and an increasingly nervous population. “We are following up on
some promising leads,” the police chief was quoted as saying,
although he acknowledged there were precious few clues at the scenes
of the crimes.

Someone pulled out a chair and
slid onto it at my table. I peered over the newspaper. “Jack, what
are you doing here?”

“
I knew I’d find you here,”
he said, propping his elbows on the table. “I found out some
interesting stuff this weekend.”

I folded the newspaper and placed
in on the table. “How interesting?”

“
You know I went up north,
right? A couple of my buddies from the sheriff’s department were
there. They dropped a couple hints about the Rendezvous murder
investigation.”

“
And . . . ?”