It took Dane twenty minutes to get his old Ford close enough to the winding dirt path that led to the cabin the new sheriff of McFalls County had called him out to. He passed the young sheriff’s county vehicle back by the main road, where he must have had to leave it and walk the rest of the way in. Dane figured the newly minted sheriff, Darby Ellis, didn’t yet know the steep terrain well enough to know how to get his two-wheel-drive county-issued Crown Victoria this deep into the woods without getting stuck. The new sheriff was trying to play by the rule book, but Dane knew he’d be rolling over this mountain in a four-wheel drive as soon as he got sick of having to hike to every call.
For Dane, on the other hand, there wasn’t a trail or pig path in North Georgia that he couldn’t navigate with his eyes closed, no matter the vehicle. He’d learned every nook and cranny of every county from Fannin to McFalls to Rabun as a kid pitching dirt clods with his friends, from kindergarten through high school. He’d driven every road and trail out there in his Deddy’s old Ford. The same old Ford he’d just climbed out of. What he hadn’t found out about the area out here as a young man looking for the best place to take girls or sip whiskey his father kept in the truck’s old rusted tool box, he had gone on to discover over an eight-year tenure as the fire chief and arson investigator of McFalls and a brief stint as sheriff for Fannin County—the next county over—a job he’d only recently vacated after two years. The former sheriff of McFalls, Clayton Burroughs, had taken his leave as well, and his abrupt retirement left this new guy, Ellis, ready and willing to take up the mantle. The locals around here half expected Dane to take Burroughs’s job himself, but Dane had walked away for a reason. He enjoyed his retirement.
He decided to vouch for Ellis instead. He liked him, and Dane felt like the county needed younger blood behind the badge after almost two decades of Clayton Burroughs calling the shots. He liked Burroughs, although he’d been born to one of the biggest and meanest families of outlaws in the state. He’d done his part to keep them in check but some people thought he was planted in the office to turn a blind eye to his family’s operations. Dane wasn’t one of those people. He believed Burroughs to be a good man, but he believed Ellis to be an even better one.
Besides, Dane had been offered a much better gig to leave his post in Fannin. He now worked part-time for the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. He was in his first year with the Bureau now and it still felt a little strange to think about. Dane had never been all that fond of the police when he was coming up in the fire service, even during his short stint as sheriff, but now he was Agent Kirby. He laughed to himself every time he had to say that out loud. He was more of a consultant than anything else, and his new job kept him busy mostly deciding which side of the desk to stack the endless piles of useless paperwork on. He’d traded the wide-open spaces of his country home for a small box of an office. He did get to shoot a lot of darts, though, and midday naps had taken on an important role in Dane’s life, so life was good. Fighting fire and running into burning buildings was a young man’s game. The fire service was work, plain and simple, and Dane was enjoying the lack thereof that his new job afforded him. It paid a lot better, too. The state benefits were something he couldn’t go without, even with his county pension, and a nice comfortable leather chair was much more appealing these days than constantly being on his feet in ravines like the one he was hiking into now.
He stopped and looked around the forest. He did have to admit, as easy as he had it now, he sometimes missed his old life. The pine-rich northern air and the feeling of authority that came with wearing a badge and a uniform were things he’d grown accustomed to, and it felt good to be back out on his old stomping ground, even if it was at the behest of the new sheriff. It made Dane feel relevant again and less like the paper pusher he’d become. The move to the Bureau was a good fit for him physically—Dane had just turned thirty-seven—but it wasn’t much of a challenge for the investigator side of him. He’d never say it out loud to anyone, but he was excited to get Sheriff Ellis’s call.
Dane stopped the truck about sixty yards from the old cabin. The place belonged to a recluse named Tom Clifford, who had been living there since before there were roads or trails to get to it. Tom had become a fixture in the Blue Ridge foothills, and his home, a town landmark. Dane hadn’t run into him much during his time with the county. In fact, he only vaguely remembered meeting the old man once or twice as an up-and-comer. Clifford had been a friend of his father’s and Dane remembered his being old as dirt even back then. Dane imagined the geezer had been born old. Clifford was also one of the last of the old guard living up here, and like most of the old-timers, he didn’t care much for the company of other people. Dane couldn’t much blame him for it, either. He wasn’t a big fan of people himself, and from what Ellis had said when he called, the old man had been right to keep to himself. Because by the looks of things, one of those people Tom had gone out of his way to avoid had shot and killed him dead.
Sheriff Ellis was standing by the front porch of the solid cedar-framed cottage in a nicely pressed tan uniform. A second man wearing a matching outfit was hovering by the front door inspecting the doorjamb. Dane never remembered the former sheriff, Burroughs, wearing anything but a loose-fitting county-issued shirt with his silver star pinned to it, tucked into a pair of blue jeans, but this Ellis fella was all-in—pressed and starched from head to toe. Dane liked that. This mountain could use a few more just like him.
Four other men in Realtree camouflage jumpers and blaze-orange vests stood huddled by the left corner of the house spitting tobacco into Styrofoam cups. They were hunters—locals, Dane thought—and unfamiliar. All four of the men held rifles of different calibers. Dane chuckled as he held his balance on a sturdy yellow pine. Only in small counties like McFalls were civilian participants of an active crime scene allowed to keep their firearms on them. Dane had debated grabbing his Redhawk from the glove box in the truck, so he wouldn’t feel so naked in present company, but had decided against it. This weekend had been his first real stretch of time off since he took the job at the Bureau and he was supposed to be fishing. Fishing didn’t require a firearm and he had no intention of taking part in anything that did. This was Ellis’s show. Dane was simply an invited spectator.
The sheriff waved Dane over and whistled at him as if Dane hadn’t already seen him or wasn’t already on his way. Dane smirked and held a hand up in response. He knew he was a little slower these days, but it was teaching him patience, something the rest of the world didn’t seem to want to learn with him. He cleared away a clump of thorny brush and low-hanging birch branches as he carefully crept his way down through the woods. He stopped only once on his way down to the house to examine some ATV tracks that crisscrossed over the path. Some of the tracks were fresh, but most of them were old and crusted over in the clay. He wasn’t surprised to see them. Four-wheelers were the best and most common method of transportation this deep in the woods. The fire department even used them sometimes to rescue hikers who wandered a little too far out of their depth. The diamond pattern of off-road tread indentations most likely meant nothing in this case, but the investigator instinct in Dane made him take notice regardless. Old habits die hard. He took wide steps, careful not to disturb the rest of the tracks. This was, after all, a crime scene.
But it’s Ellis’s crime scene, Dane. You need to remember that. There’s no fire, and even if there was, you’re retired. You’re a desk jockey now, enjoying the weekend. You’re just looking to catch a few fat brookies in Bear Creek. That’s it. Now get over there and say hello.
“Down here,” Ellis shouted.
“I’m coming. Just hold up a minute.” As Dane got closer he could see a sheet draped over the front steps, and the closer he got to the sheet, the more the shape underneath it began to take the form of a body—old man Clifford’s body.
“Thanks for coming, sir.” Ellis held out a firm hand and Dane shook it. “I didn’t know if you could hear my message when I called or not. Reception is for shit out here.”
Dane knew that. He grew up here, too. He’d never heard a county sheriff call him sir before, either, but he figured Ellis was just playing up to his new role. Ellis seemed like a good fit for the sheriff’s seat in McFalls County. Dane could read people pretty well, and he could also see Ellis’s genuine love for the job. His neatly pressed uniform and regulation haircut were evidence of that. He was going to make a good sheriff—a great one, even, Dane thought as he turned and looked up the ravine at the main road—as soon as he learned what to drive, anyway.
Dane pushed his ball cap up on his forehead and leaned against the porch railing.
“Yeah, I got your message, Sheriff, but you don’t need to call me sir. You’re the one calling the shots out here. I didn’t even have jurisdiction over this area when I was sheriff in Fannin. This section of the mountain falls square in McFalls. That’s you, my friend.” Dane didn’t envy Darby’s job, especially because Bull Mountain also fell under McFalls County jurisdiction, and no one ever wanted to be involved with the kind of shit that happened up there. They both knew that. An awkward silence began to creep in, so the sheriff went back to playing the role.
“Well, regardless, the last time I checked, GBI had jurisdiction over county law enforcement, so that still makes you sir to me, whether you like it or not.”
Dane scratched at the three-day stubble on his face and looked past Darby at the other man in uniform. He was a deputy Dane had never seen before, who, as of yet, hadn’t paid Dane any mind, and seemed to be fascinated with the crumbling paint on the open front door. Dane kept scratching at his chin and didn’t bother to ask for an introduction. Instead, he stared down at the porch. “Fair enough, Sheriff. So tell me why I’m out here looking at this poor fella instead of casting flies in the river? I don’t see any signs of fire.”
Sheriff Ellis took a step up to the landing and squatted down by the covered body. “Well, you’re right. I know this is a little outside your wheelhouse, and to be honest, this—”
Dane cut him off. “Hold up a minute, Sheriff.” He was watching the young deputy again, who was now kneeling at the front door. He’d taken out a pair of latex gloves and a small black box and had begun feathering the doorknob with what looked like one of Dane’s wife’s makeup brushes. Dane had to know. “Who’s that?” he whispered.
Ellis whispered, too. “He’s my deputy, Woody. Woody Squire. His name’s Woodson, but we all call him Woody. He’s part-time and the county pays him next to nothing, but he’s a good kid, and between me and you, I don’t think he ever goes home. He heard this call go out and damn near beat me here.”
“He looks like he’s still in high school.”
“Graduated last year.”
“Right—and what’s he doing?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s dusting for fingerprints.”
Dane stared blankly at the sheriff. “Really? He does know he’s in the country, right?”
“I hope so.”
“Aren’t the forensic guys from Rabun on their way here with the coroner?”
“Yes, sir. I called them right after I got here—right after I called you.”
Dane smiled as the kid worked the brush lightly over the cracked and peeling paint. Ellis shrugged. “What can I say? He says he wants to be federal someday.” The sheriff leaned in and spoke even more softly than they already were. “You know, he pulled out all that crime-scene stuff right after I told him I’d called you out here. I think he’s trying to impress you. You are kind of a legend around here.”
Dane smiled a little wider and shook his head. “Well, I like him already.” He shifted focus. “They find the body?” Dane motioned over at the hunters, who were now gathered around a spray-painted matte black ATV. He thought about the tracks he’d seen in the woods—same pattern on the tires.
“Yeah, they called it in on a sat phone. They said they found him just like that.”
“What brought them out this way?”
“They said they heard a couple of shots from a handgun that spooked a buck they were walking down, and they made their way over here to see who fired.”
“They said they knew it was a handgun? Not a rifle or shotgun?”
“Yep. Even called the caliber. These guys live for that kind of thing.”
“And you believe them?”
“Yep. Well, I mean, they’ve been drinking a little, but hell, you know how it is out here, everyone in these woods normally is. I’d be surprised if they weren’t drinking.”
Dane’s smile turned to one of pride. The young man is catching on.
“That being said, sir, I don’t think they know much more than they’re letting on. They all seemed genuinely upset that this old fella was dead. People up here liked this old coot.”
“Yeah.” Dane’s smile vanished. “They did.”
Dane let the sheriff’s opinion be the final word on the hunters and gave his attention to the dead body at his feet. “Well, I’m not sure what I can do to help, but let’s have a look at what you got.” He kneeled down slowly and pulled back the sheet that covered the old man. The body lay facedown on the porch, flat on his belly, but it was Tom Clifford, all right. The skin that showed on the back of his neck was as old and leathery as dried jerky. Out of habit, Dane felt the old man’s neck for a pulse—nothing, just hard, dry leather. The body was rigid and cold to the touch, but he certainly didn’t look like a victim of any violence. On the contrary, he actually looked pretty peaceful. Other than a bit of dried blood on the porch next to the old man’s head and the awkward position in which his face was pressed into the wooden slats, he looked like he had just fallen asleep there. He lay lengthwise over the five feet of porch with his boots just over the threshold of the doorway, as if he had tripped and fallen and just decided to stay there. Dane felt a twinge of doubt, or maybe hope, and pressed two fingers down hard on the old man’s carotid artery again.
“He’s dead, sir,” Ellis said. “Two in the back.”
Dane pulled the sheet back farther to see twin bullet holes in the man’s puffy orange vest. Two perfect little circles in the fabric surrounded by loose down feathers. He pulled the vest up to see the wounds more clearly. “Yup, I suppose that would do it.” Dane reached across the body to roll him over. “Give me a hand with him, Sheriff.”
Ellis hesitated. “This isn’t really what I—”
“Just give me a hand, Darby. I’m not going to compromise your scene. I just want to take a look at him.”
The sheriff didn’t argue. He was still green to this kind of work and this was Dane’s old territory, so he grabbed Tom’s shoulder and helped roll him onto his side. The body stayed in the same flattened position, stiff from rigor, with strings of congealed blood connecting bits of the old man’s clothing to the wooden slats of the porch. They turned him over enough for Dane to see the not-so-perfect exit wounds in Tom’s chest. There was nothing peaceful looking about that. Dane could finally see Tom’s face and leaned in to get a closer look. He sighed. Death was always hard to look at up close. It lingered in the eyes as a cloudy reminder of how easily life could be stolen from a man. Dane and the sheriff eased Tom’s stiff body back down onto its belly the way it had been before, and Dane stood up. “Well, Sheriff. It looks like you caught yourself a real whodunit right here.”
The sheriff looked pensive and sagged a little in the shoulders. For the first time Dane felt like Ellis had been holding something back. In fact, the Sheriff had seemed unsettled ever since Dane asked him to help roll Tom’s body over. Dane kept his tone gentle. “If I’m out of line, here, Sheriff, I promise you, I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
Ellis chewed his lip as if he was making an attempt to swallow his reply. “That ain’t it, sir.”
Dane was genuinely confused. He didn’t just stumble upon this mess. He was called into it, so he pushed. “Listen, Sheriff, maybe a sweep of the cabin will turn up an answer or two as to what happened out here, but it’d be best to wait on them boys from Rabun before you try to start unraveling this little mystery.”
Ellis still seemed uneasy. He removed his hat and pushed his thick blond hair back in a sweaty wave over his head. He kept chewing his bottom lip. Dane thought he might just chew it off.
“Are you okay, Darby? Is there something you’re not telling me here?”
Sheriff Ellis pushed himself up from the porch with one hand and stood. It was the first time Dane took notice of just how tall and fit Darby Ellis was. He stood well over six feet—almost a full head taller than Dane. His broad, V-shaped shoulders were wide enough to put a strain on his uniform shirt. When he put his hat back on, Dane actually felt a bit intimidated. Sheriff Ellis hooked his thumbs into the sides of his patent-leather gun belt. “We’ll sweep the cabin, sir, as part of my investigation, but truthfully, that isn’t why I called you out here. I mean, I appreciate the help and all, but there is no mystery to solve.”
Dane was confused by the sheriff’s shift in demeanor. “Okay, Sheriff. If this corpse isn’t the reason you called me, then what exactly am I doing out here?”
The Sheriff looked down at the body at his feet and let out a long, slow exhale. “Professional courtesy, I suppose.”
Now Dane was really confused. “I don’t understand.”
Sheriff Ellis looked up and caught Dane’s eyes. “I delayed the coroner by a few minutes because the perp said he was a friend of yours.”
“What perp? Who is a friend of mine?” Dane watched the sheriff stroke at his clean-shaven chin.
Deputy Squire supplied the answer. “I think the Sheriff is trying to find an easy way to tell you that we wouldn’t have bothered you at all with this ugliness, Agent Kirby—the murder part, anyway—if you didn’t already know the man who shot him.”
Dane swiveled his head from Ellis to the young deputy. “I do?”
“According to the shooter, you do—sir.”
“Well, would somebody mind telling me who that is?”
“Him.” Darby pointed across a clearing to the left side of the cabin, opposite the hunters and the ATV. At the tree line, where the dirt and saw grass turned to woods, a man Dane could barely make out sat propped up against a cluster of sweet-gum trees about twenty-five yards away. The man was far enough from the scene that Dane hadn’t noticed him sitting there until that very moment. The man hadn’t made a sound or done anything else to bring attention to himself since Dane had arrived. He sat with his back against the trees in a T-shirt, covered from the waist down with a sheet identical to the one that covered Clifford’s dead body, but this man’s sheet was covered with leaves and dirt from the forest floor and no longer had the pristine white glow that Clifford’s had. Dane wondered at first how he could’ve missed him, but the truth was he hadn’t been looking. He’d stopped to examine some useless ATV tracks, but missed a half-naked man against a tree within shouting distance from where he was now standing. That fact only reinforced his belief that he no longer had any business being out in the woods playing big shot. He took off his ball cap and scratched at his head with the brim of it before taking a step off the porch and straining his eyes to get a better look at the mystery man. Then recognition set in. “You have got to be kidding me,” Dane said. He sounded winded when he spoke. The sheriff took the single step down off the porch to stand next to Dane.
“Lemon—he said his name was Ned Lemon.”
Dane didn’t say a word. He didn’t look like he could.
“I’m guessing by the look on your face, it’s fair to say you do know him.”
“Son of a bitch,” Dane said to himself, and slapped his hat back on. “Yeah, I know him.”
“He asked for you by name. He said the two of you were close. He’s the reason I got you out here. I hope it wasn’t the wrong call.” The sheriff turned and stood where Dane could see his face. His expression had softened a bit. “Was it? The right call?”
Dane dropped his chin to his chest. “I don’t know yet, Sheriff, but maybe you and me should start over. What the hell happened out here?”