My walk back to my cabin took me past the horse pasture. Several stopped grazing and gave me a curious look. They appeared to be mostly Quarter Horse crosses with a few Appaloosas and a couple of mules.
The events described in Roy’s letter seemed random and not particularly unusual, but the destruction of the art room and the possibility that the bear had been deliberately lured convinced me something was wrong at the resort. Unfortunately, I’d only smelled the fish, and Roy had cleaned up the art room, so I didn’t have tangible evidence. The raccoon incident was up in the air. None of the events I’d witnessed targeted a specific individual.
One of the mules sauntered over to see if I had a treat. I stroked his velvety nose. “What do you think? Should I just hop on your back and find out if I’m ready to ride again?” He puffed into my hair and wandered away.
I continued to my cabin. The dogs were calmly lying on the small porch. When she spotted the bone I held out, Holly leaped up, grabbed it, and trotted to a nearby tree.
Maverick simply stared at me.
“Come on, big guy. You deserve this treat.” I held out the bone. “You saved me from certain death, or at least a nasty mauling.”
The Anatolian was unmoved by my words.
I placed the bone on the porch, then moved to the other side and sat in a willow armchair.
Maverick, gaze never leaving me, stood and retrieved the bone. I stayed seated. He lay down and began gnawing on it.
“You know, Maverick, everyone is betrayed at least once in a lifetime. Everyone has wounds and scars. Maybe if I knew where yours came from, you’d learn to trust me even a tiny bit.” I took the three pebbles from my pockets, rolled them around in my fingers, then put them back. “I don’t know why Shadow Woman would leave the two of you to starve. I’m trying to find out more. Maybe once I know your background better, I can find a way to reach you.”
Maverick continued to chew on his bone.
I still had the brochures Roy gave me. I opened the one on team building.
Corporate Team Building
Whether you want to bring together new employees or reenergize the creative working spirit in long-time staff, we are poised to customize the perfect program for you. Our exercises are designed to challenge and sharpen your skills, refine objectives, and develop reliance and trust.
Consider our wilderness scavenger hunt, where participants are placed in a remote location with only a few tools and must live off the land while recovering specific items.
Our most popular challenge, and most useful in today’s difficult environment, is active-shooter and workplace-violence response . . .
I stepped inside and dropped most of the brochures on the counter. I placed the one on team building in my notebook. The insurance carrier had dropped their coverage on team building. How big a hit did Roy’s pocketbook take for that? I’d need to talk to him.
The creaking and rattling of a wagon accompanied by the clop, clop, clop of a horse announced the arrival of the supplies. Liam drove Sam’s wagon around to the side of the lodge, then began unloading it into the kitchen. Perfectly timed delivery for Liam to stay for lunch.
Dee Dee Denim and Golden Girl Grace were standing under a ponderosa in deep discussion with Angie. I could have easily heard Angie’s powerful voice, but Grace did the talking. Were they discussing the bear or reviewing the deeper meaning of relative values? Or something more sinister? Now I’m getting paranoid. I wandered closer to eavesdrop.
“Yellowstone’s incredibly fragile geothermal pools and geysers,” Grace said, “can be destroyed or altered by man. For example, people routinely throw pennies, garbage, even soap into geysers and pools. This can change the direction of a geyser or . . .”
Grace seemed to relish the subject of natural disasters. I caught a glimpse of someone near the barn before the figure dodged out of sight. Returning to my cabin, I kept an eye on the barn. When I reached the porch, I had a good view of an opening where two windows lined up. This time I saw him.
Riccardo Rinaldi, the teenage son of Teddy and Nona. The one who’d been restricted to his cabin for sneaking out last night. Obviously he’d decided to ignore his punishment.
“Well,” I said to Maverick. “You already know what I’m going to say.”
Maverick paused midchew and squinted at me.
“Right. It’s none of my business to get involved with teen discipline.”
A horse whinnied in the barn.
Maverick glanced at the barn, then at me.
“No. He wouldn’t be so foolish as to try to leave. I doubt he even knows how to bridle a horse, let alone cinch a saddle.”
Both Maverick and Holly jumped to their feet and faced the barn.
“I suppose . . . I could interview him, although I doubt I’d get him to say he trashed the art room.”
Holly whined.
“You’re laying it on pretty thick.” I stood. “You save me from a bear, I check on a wayward teen. Is that it?” I sauntered toward the barn, muttering, “Who’d have figured my two dogs were the cruise directors for a guilt trip?”
The nearest door of the barn opened to the milking stanchions, all spotless. The rich odor of hay filled the air, and light streaming in from the window highlighted a ginger-colored cat sprawled in the warmth.
Thump!
It sounded like a bale of hay had been dropped from the overhead loft. A half door opened to a hallway, with a ladder attached to the wall in front of me leading to an overhead trapdoor. The feed trough for the stanchions lined one side. The hall continued to my right, dimly lit. At the far end was a small pile of hay and something blue. I moved in that direction. Slowly the image became clearer. A second ladder to the loft was open at this end, allowing a shaft of light to illuminate the hay. The blue turned out to be jeans.
My vision narrowed to a single focus. I slowed and shuffled through the carpet of loose straw. I didn’t want to see but couldn’t look away.
A foot extended from one denim-clad leg. The pants disappeared into the pile of motionless hay.
Reaching forward with a trembling hand, I brushed the dried grass from where I figured his face would be.
Riccardo Rinaldi. The young man’s white face was in stark contrast to the blood around his lips. I knelt beside him and touched his neck, feeling for a pulse I didn’t believe would be there.
He opened his eyes, then closed them.
I started to stand and go for help, but the light from the loft glinted on something. I stared at it, trying to figure out what I was looking at. Two pieces of metal. Pointed. Bloody. From the center of his chest.
Bile rose in my throat. Oh no.
Riccardo had landed on a pitchfork.
I jumped to my feet and ran, not stopping until I was out of the barn. I slid to a halt, frantically searching for help. Next to the lodge, Wyatt was unloading the last of the supplies from the wagon. I raced to him, gasping for breath. “Barn. Riccardo. Fell. Pitchfork—”
He dropped the box of fresh vegetables and grabbed my arms. “How bad?”
“Bad.”
“Go find Roy. He should be in the dining room. Tell him to get on the radio and get a medivac chopper here immediately.” He turned me toward the lodge and shoved, then took off running to the barn.
I found Roy just entering the dining room. I was still sucking in air but made an effort this time to make cohesive sense.
Roy blanched as I described what happened. Without a word, he ran from the room.
I turned and found myself face-to-face with Teddy and Nona. Heat rushed to my face.
“Miss Graham, have you seen our—” Teddy peered at my expression. “Where?”
I opened and closed my mouth before I could squeak out, “Barn.”
They rushed past me.
Turning to stop them, I found they’d already crossed the distance to the barn. I should have kept my mouth shut. I’ve probably made things worse—
They entered the barn. Shortly after, Nona let out a guttural scream.
The anguish in her cry cut through me, leaving me dizzy. I should go help her, help someone, do something. I couldn’t move.
The sound drew the others, who gathered around me.
“What’s going on?”
“Who screamed?”
“Is it another bear?”
“What’s happening?”
The questions flew at me like small darts. Their pressing nearness threatened a panic attack.
Someone grabbed my arm and pulled me from the group. Cookie. Her lips were pulled down and a vein pounded in her forehead. “Folks, please head into the lodge. We’ll update you shortly. You come with me, Miz Graham.” She towed me to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. “Tell me what happened.”
After taking a gulp, I explained, trying to control my voice.
Cookie sucked in air, making a hissing sound. “Nasty business.” She looked at her watch. “The chopper will be here soon. You stay here while I—”
“I’m okay now. I want to help. I need to help.”
Cookie nodded. “Very well then. I’ll give you some things to take over to the barn. I’ll get Liam to finish unloading the wagon so we can use it. I’m sure Riccardo’s folks want to be with him, but the chopper can only evacuate one adult plus the patient. We’ll need the wagon to get any others to town.” Without waiting for me to respond, she bustled off, returning shortly with a clean sheet and blanket. “See if they can use these. I’ll try and calm the rest of the guests.”
I took the items and trotted to the barn.
Riccardo was already covered with a blanket. Roy and Wyatt were huddled over him while Nona was sitting cross-legged next to him holding his hand. Teddy stood behind her, hands on her shoulders.
Wyatt took the items from me and used the second blanket to slightly elevate Riccardo’s legs.
I shifted my weight from leg to leg. What should I do now?
You know.
My mind shifted to a symposium I’d attended years before on mass-disaster and crime-scene reconstruction. The presenters told of horrific experiences—Pan Am Flight 103 that crashed in Lockerbie, Scotland. The Challenger space shuttle disaster. The Hyatt Regency walkway collapse in Kansas City. In each case the presenters told what happened, what they did right, and what they did wrong. Again and again they shared how, out of compassion, first responders didn’t do their jobs. They wanted to help but often just got in the way.
I couldn’t help Riccardo right now. I had very little medical knowledge beyond basic first aid. But I did know about potential crime scenes.
I gazed up at the opening to the hayloft. How could Riccardo have fallen through that opening? It was over three feet square.
I backed away and walked to the other end of the hall, where the second access to the loft was located. Grabbing the ladder, I stopped. At that same symposium they talked about the effects of PTSD, which wasn’t well understood at the time. First responders were told they could get counseling, but if they did, it would be viewed as weakness and lack of professionalism. Marriages collapsed, families fell apart, careers ended, and suicides resulted.
Mental health had come a long way since then.
I rested my head against the ladder rung. What’s it going to be? Use my knowledge to look into his fall, or scamper off, tail between my legs, and whimper about having a PTSD moment? I hadn’t signed up for this. I was here to examine some documents. Interview a few people. Find either a pattern or a run of bad luck.
Not investigate potentially lethal accidents.
I scrambled up the ladder to the loft. The center of the barn was filled with hay bales neatly stacked and bound with orange baling twine. The air was rich with the mingled scents of hay, straw, alfalfa, and oats.
On the far side was a matching loft holding bales of the distinctly green timothy hay.
This loft had no bales, only a thick mat of loose hay. From where I stood, I couldn’t see the opening over Riccardo. I slowly walked forward, looking around for anything out of the ordinary.
I stopped when I reached the place where Riccardo had fallen, then knelt and inspected the area.
Below me, Riccardo’s parents were praying over their son.
Several new-looking nails had been hammered into the wood around the opening. Caught on one nail were several strands of orange baling twine.
Rocking back on my heels, I put a possible scenario together. Someone could have created a wolf pit type of trap. If baling twine was looped around the nails to form a base, then the loose hay spread over the top, the opening would disappear. Anyone could bait the trap by placing something on the far side. If Riccardo was the intended victim, most any electronic device would work. He’d head straight for the device. The twine wouldn’t hold any weight, and the victim would crash through, fall backward, and land on the conveniently placed pitchfork.
Cleanup would involve pulling any remaining twine and removing the bait.
I shook my head. Of course, all of this was speculation. Riccardo might have been exploring without looking where he was going.
When I was working for law enforcement, I could run my observations past my coworkers to be sure I was being objective. But here? I ran into a bear and thought it had been lured to that spot. A young man fell through a hayloft and I thought it was attempted murder. The therapist at Clan Firinn warned me that PTSD could warp how I viewed life and events.
The distant thumping of a helicopter announced help was on the way. The much closer barking of the dogs revealed an impending earthquake. The barn seemed to sigh and a cloud of dust rose with the mild quake.
Nona let out a short scream below me, and Riccardo moaned.
A lump formed in my throat. I hope he can get to a hospital in time.
I rose and moved toward the other end of the loft. By the time I climbed down the ladder and left the barn, I’d decided that whether it was imagination or reality, I needed to photograph the twine, then bag it as evidence.
And I had a whole lot more work to do to get to the truth.