Deadfall (3 page)

"I—1—1 don't know. Sheriff. I've never seen it b-before," Stan stammered, turning pale.

'*Someone must have planted it on him," Callie defended her uncle. 'They're trying to get him blamed for this fire."

The sheriff stepped away from the car, all of a sudden very professional and serious. 'There are half a dozen sticks missing. Why?"

''He told you he doesn't know!" Joe broke in. "Anyway, you don't know that the fire was started by dynamite, do you?"

The sheriff shook his head. "1 radioed the county seat for a couple of fire investigators. 1 admit I don't know much about fires, but I do know that this got started too fast and too loud to be anything natural. My guess is that an explosive of some kind had to be used. Also, the longer this mill's closed, the longer your trees stay up, right, Stan?"

Joe turned to Stan, wondering why he didn't speak up in his own defense. The conservationist had turned an unhealthy shade of gray and seemed to be too stunned to speak.

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"How about if my brother and I take the first-aid supplies to the volunteers while you talk to Mr. Shaw?" Frank said, breaking the awkward silence.

''Good idea," the sheriff said, shooing them away.

'Tm staying," Callie insisted. ''I know my uncle Stan couldn't have had anything to do with this."

'Tine." Joe lifted the heavy first-aid kit out while Frank grabbed some blankets. "We'll be back in a few minutes."

As soon as they were out of earshot, Joe said to his brother, "Okay, what gives? You were so eager to get away from there I could practically smell the rubber burning on your hiking boots."

"I might be wrong," Frank said as they hurried toward the group of injured people, "but Stan Shaw seems like a straightforward guy to me. If he says he doesn't know how that dynamite got in his truck, he doesn't. That means somebody planted it on him."

"But why didn't he even try to defend himself?" Joe asked. "He practically surrendered to the sheriff before the guy even suspected anything!"

"He must have panicked," Frank replied. "I mean, think about it. You live in a town where no one really likes you, and you're caught at an explosion with a bunch of dynamite. He must already be figuring how he'll come up with bail."

"But if he didn't do it—" Joe said.

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"Whoever did planted that dynamite in the last half hour," Frank interrupted. ''Now the faster we start tracking down who did it, the better our chances are."

''But who would do a thing like that?" Joe demanded. "Were they out to get Buster, or did he just happen to get caught in the blast?"

"Finding that out," Frank answered, "is how we pay for those pancakes you ate. Here's the first-aid kit you asked for," Frank said to a volunteer standing with the injured. "We have blankets, too. Is there anything else you want or need?"

"We didn't ask for anything." A busy woman glanced up from where she was bandaging a young man's arm. "We used the supplies from the fire truck. 1 think everybody's just about taken care of now."

"But the sheriff said ..." Joe's voice trailed off. He was puzzled.

"If anyone shows up with a case of soda, though, you can bring that right on over," the woman joked, turning back to her patient.

"Frank, what's that all about?" Joe asked as soon as the brothers had moved a short distance from the crowd. "Someone asked us and the sheriff for first-aid supplies nobody needed?"

"Yeah, somebody who wanted that dynamite to be found in Stan's truck," Frank replied. "I'll bet it was the same somebody who planted it there."

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"So you think someone's trying to frame Stan for this fire—^and for Owens's murder?"

"It's all I can think if we believe Stan's innocent," Frank answered. "What we've got to find out, though, is what Stan was doing here before the explosion. He sure acted as if he was hiding something. Maybe whatever it is has something to do with why that dynamite turned up in his truck."

Joe had to stop to cough to clear some of the smoke from his lungs. Then he took off at a jog to catch up with his brother, who was heading back to Stan. As they approached the truck, Joe saw he wouldn't be able to question Stan in private. The sheriff was still with him.

"I'm sorry, Stan," the sheriff was saying as Joe and Frank joined them. "I've known you for almost ten years, but the law's the law. This truck has to be impounded so I can thoroughly search it, and you're going to have to come in for questioning."

"My uncle's not a criminal!" Callie exploded, pulling away from Frank, who was holding her to calm her down. "He was here about an hour ago. We all saw his truck. That must have been when somebody planted the dynamite in his truck. Stan couldn't have anything to do with it!"

The sheriff turned to Stan, who took a quick hop-step backward. "You were here earlier, Stan?" the sheriff demanded. "Before the explosion?"

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*'Well, sure, I—I—" Stan stammered. He glanced at Callie, who clapped a hand over her mouth as she realized what she'd said. *'I was just—"

"Don't say any more." The sheriff took him by the arm and steered him toward the patrol car. ''You can tell me the rest in my office— where I can read you your rights and we can get it all recorded. I think you'd better call a lawyer when we get back," he added as the two men walked away.

Callie, Joe, and Frank stared after the sheriff and Stan. Joe noticed that Stan didn't even glance back at them. It was as though he felt guilty.

Joe was lost in his thoughts and didn't hear the tall, athletic-looking young woman in khaki pants and T-shirt striding up to them. Her hair was long and blond and pulled back into a pony-tail that was covered with oily soot from the fire.

"Ronnie," Callie was saying, "you won't believe what happened. This is my boyfriend, Frank Hardy, and his brother, Joe," she added hastily. To the Hardys she explained, "Ronnie Croft owns and edits Crosscut's weekly newspaper."

"The Crosscut Guardian," Ronnie said proudly, shaking the Hardys' hands. "What could possibly have happened that hasn't already gone on today?" she demanded of Callie.

As Callie told her about her uncle Stan's arrest, Ronnie's jaw dropped. "I'm going to the station," she said. "You want to come along?"

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"Definitely," Callie said. ''Uncle Stan seems to be in shock about all this. I want to be there to help if 1 can. What about you?" she asked Frank and Joe.

"We'll hang around here a little longer," Frank said calmly. "We'll meet you at the sheriffs later, if that's okay."

"If I'm not there I'll be at the newspaper office," Callie agreed as she started off with Ronnie toward the newswoman's car. "Boy, am I glad you guys came with me this summer. I didn't know how much I'd need you."

"Hear that, Frank?" Joe couldn't resist teasing as Callie and Ronnie walked away. "She needs you. A mystery to solve and a girlfriend who needs you. What more can a guy ask for in a day?"

"Answers, for a start," Frank said with a frown. "Let's head out to where we saw Buster's truck pulled off the road. I want to see if it's still there, and if we can tell anything from it. But first we should pick up our packs. My camera's in mine, and we might need it."

"Right, boss." Joe took off after his older brother. "Then we can catch a ride back to town for lunch. It's way past noon, and I'm starved."

Most of the onlookers were leaving now that the fire was in the smoldering stage. The fire fighters had to stay to douse any flare-ups.

"Hey, Joe," Frank said. "Look over there."

Joe followed Frank's gaze to a cluster of loggers standing next to a battered station wagon,

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talking in the far corner of the lot. He recognized several of them from the general store that morning. Mike Stavisky was easy to recognize, with his muscular build and heavy black beard. Skinny Freddy Zackarias stood beside him, nodding at everything Mike said.

*'Let's wander by there," Frank said softly. ''I want to hear what they're saying."

It didn't take long for Stan's name to come up in the conversation. "There was dynamite in Stan's truck," he heard Mike tell the others. ''He must have heard that the Forest Service was going to let Horizon cut down his precious redwoods after all. Him and his assistant have been causing trouble around here for years. I knew sooner or later one of 'em would pull something Hke this."

''But Stan Shaw?" a short, baby-faced logger interrupted. "If it was Galen I'd understand. He's threatened to blow up every mill in the state. But Stan's kinda reasonable for a tree hugger."

"There's no such thing as a reasonable tree hugger!" Mike boomed. "What's bad for logging is bad for your wallet, Nat, and don't you forget it. Stan lost his patience, that's all, and now he's going to pay for it."

"What's his problem?" Joe whispered to Frank as the brothers moved away before they got spotted.

"He probably believes what he's saying, but he's not making things any easier for anybody,"

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Frank replied grimly. 'The trouble is, the others are listening to him. Let's hurry up and get those packs. I want to get a look at Buster's truck."

"I'm not up to walking across those logs just now. What do you say we jog down to the bridge," Joe said.

The packs were right where they had left them. They shouldered theirs, and Frank carried Callie's as they made their way back across the bridge and along the riverbank toward the abandoned truck.

"There it is," Joe said after a short while, pointing through the trees. Where there was no mud the red paint gleamed in the afternoon sun. It was parked in the same spot where Callie and the boys had spotted it earlier. "It's at kind of a weird angle. Do you think Buster could have been forced off the road?"

"I don't know, but don't touch anything," Frank reminded him. "If Sheriff Ferris is such a by-the-book cop, we don't want to mess up any evidence for him."

"Don't worry," Joe replied. "I'll be sure and— Hey, look," he said, stopping abruptly near the driver's side. He pointed to the trampled muddy ground around the driver's door. "It looks like there was some kind of struggle here," he said. "See the tracks?"

Frank appeared beside him, inspecting the mess of footprints. "Men's feet, definitely. Look how big the prints are," he said. "It looks like they were wearing boots."

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* Those hobnailed boots the loggers wear?" Joe ventured excitedly.

Frank nodded. ''Maybe. It sure was good it rained last night."

As Frank knelt down to inspect the footprints more closely, Joe's gaze swung down the length of the truck. His eyes caught on a flash of bright lime green color a short distance away. ''What's that?" he asked, walking toward the bushes.

"What?" Frank asked.

"It's a cap. Buster was wearing a cap just like this." Joe whipped out a handkerchief and picked the duck-billed cap off the bush. It had the orange-and-purple Horizon Lumber insignia on it.

"Yep, I bet this is it," he called to Frank as he walked back to join his brother. "Oh, wow. It's stained or something—" Joe stopped dead in his tracks.

"What's the matter?" Frank asked, staring at him.

Joe held up the cap and slowly turned it to show his brother. "Blood!" was all he said.

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"Let me see that." Frank reached for the cap. He took it, holding on to the handkerchief, and examined it more closely. The entire back of the lime-colored cap was dark with blood.

"Whoever wore this could have been slugged hard from behind," Frank remarked.

"There's a black hair here on the inside," said Joe. "Buster had black hair, right? This is his truck, so it's probably his cap, too."

"Or his attacker's," Frank pointed out. "Several guys were wearing these at the general store and at the fire." He handed the cap back to Joe and put down his pack. "I'm going to take some pictures of these footprints," he said. "There are a couple of clear impressions here. The sheriff might be able to use them."

"Let's just hope they're not Stan's," Joe said, and wandered off to search for more clues.

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Frank had snapped half a dozen shots when he heard his brother cry out again. '*Hey, Frank! Look over here!"

Frank joined his brother a short distance down the logging road. At Joe's feet was a different set of tire marks. From their depth it looked as if the vehicle had pulled out in a hurry.

'That's not all," Joe said. "Look at that."

Frank squatted down to inspect the ground surrounding the tire tracks. A pair of furrows were cut into the mud, flanked by a single bootprint on either side. **It looks like someone dragged something to the truck," he said slowly, '*and probably loaded it into the vehicle here."

''What if it was a body they were dragging?" Joe asked, examining the furrows. "These marks could be made by the heels of someone's shoes. Someone could have loaded Buster into a car, driven back to the mill, then dumped his body in the main building. Then the guy set a few sticks of dynamite on fire with a long fuse."

"You think Buster was already dead when the explosion was set?" Frank asked.

"What difference does it make? Dead or just out cold, he wouldn't have a chance to save himself." Joe shook his head in disgust. "This is murder, Frank. I have a real gut feeling about it."

"I'm with you," Frank admitted. "But if we're right, the question is, why? I don't care how weird Stan was acting, he's not about to start murdering loggers. There have got to be

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other people who had grudges against Buster Owens—after all, he owned a mill and had to hire and fire people.

''We really don't know enough yet to make a list of suspects," Frank continued. "We'd better take this evidence to the sheriff. Maybe it'll help spring Stan, at least. But first let me finish my roll of film on these bootprints. This one over here is almost perfect."

'TW take care of the hat." Joe produced a plastic bag from his backpack. "It can't hurt to keep any possible fingerprints clean."

"I'll tell you what," Frank said. "If the sheriff says you did a good job with the evidence, I'll buy you lunch."