“No lights,” Rory murmured, her breath visible in the cold night air as she and Evan approached Brigham’s cabin. “No movement.”
The structure was little more than a dark silhouette against the star-studded sky. Beside her, Evan crept quietly forward, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and the promise of an approaching winter.
“Could be sleeping,” Evan said. “Or he could be out…”
He didn’t need to finish the thought. They both knew the other possibility—that Brigham wasn’t here at all because he was out stalking his next victim.
As they neared the front porch, Rory’s unease grew. The place had an abandoned feel to it, with overgrown weeds pushing through cracks in the concrete and a stack of unopened mail by the door. Yellowed newspapers littered the ground, their headlines faded and irrelevant. She exchanged a glance with Evan, seeing her own concern mirrored in his eyes.
“Russell Brigham!” Rory called out, her voice carrying in the still night air. “This is the sheriff’s department. We need to speak with you.”
Silence greeted her words. No shuffling movement inside, no startled response. Just the soft whisper of wind through the trees and the distant hoot of an owl. Somewhere in the darkness, a coyote howled, the sound eerie and forlorn.
After a tense moment, Rory nodded to Evan. They approached the door, weapons drawn. The wood was weathered, paint peeling in long strips. It swung open at Evan’s touch, creaking ominously on rusted hinges.
The cabin’s interior was a study in neglect. A thick layer of dust covered every surface, disturbed only by the scurrying of small animals. Cobwebs hung in corners and across abandoned furniture, gossamer threads glinting in the beam of their flashlights. The air was stale, tinged with the musty scent of abandonment and something else—the sour remnants of spilled alcohol and unwashed clothes.
“He hasn’t been here in weeks,” Evan said, his voice low. “Maybe months.”
Rory’s heart sank. Another dead end. But as her flashlight beam swept across the room, something caught her eye. On a cluttered desk, partially obscured by scattered papers and empty bottles, was a framed photo. She moved closer, brushing aside the detritus for a better look.
The image showed a younger Brigham, his arm around a smiling woman Rory didn’t recognize. Behind them stood a massive bull, its coat gleaming in the sun, a blue ribbon pinned to its halter. A large trophy sat on a pedestal nearby, the gold finish now tarnished with age.
“His glory days,” Rory murmured, a pang of something like pity stirring in her chest. How far Brigham had fallen, from celebrated rancher to…this. The woman in the photo, her eyes bright with hope and love, seemed to stare accusingly at Rory from across the years.
She set the photo down, turning to survey the rest of the room. Empty liquor bottles littered every surface, a silent testament to Brigham’s downward spiral. On the wall, faded ribbons and photographs told the story of a once-successful rancher. But among the memorabilia, something else caught Rory’s attention.
Pinned to a corkboard were newspaper clippings, yellowed with age but carefully preserved. Headlines screamed of bank foreclosures, accusations of fraud, the downfall of one of Bearclaw County’s oldest ranching families. Rory leaned in, her eyes narrowing as she read.
“Evan,” she called softly. “Take a look at this.”
Her partner joined her, his flashlight illuminating the wall of shame. “Looks like Brigham was keeping tabs on his own downfall,” Evan said.
Rory nodded. “But look at these notes in the margins. And the names circled, dates underlined. He wasn’t just reminiscing. He was…”
“Planning,” Evan finished, his voice grim.
Before Rory could respond, a sudden noise behind them made them both freeze: the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being racked. The floorboards creaked as they slowly turned to face the intruder.
“Don’t move,” a gruff voice commanded. “Hands where I can see ’em.”
In the doorway stood a man in his sixties, weathered and lean, a shotgun trained on them. The moonlight streaming through the window cast deep shadows across his face, accentuating the lines etched by years of hard work and harder living. His eyes, sharp despite his age, darted between them suspiciously.
Rory and Evan exchanged a quick glance, both acutely aware of their weapons, now useless at their hips.
“We’re police officers,” Rory said calmly, keeping her hands visible. “I’m Assistant Sheriff Wood, and this is Deputy Tate. We’re here on official business, looking for Russell Brigham.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m Earl Hawkins, and this is my property you’re trespassing on,” the man growled. “Now, nice and easy, I want you both to take out your weapons and set them on the floor. Any sudden moves, and we’re gonna have a problem.”
Slowly, telegraphing their movements, Rory and Evan complied, placing their guns on the worn floorboards.
“Kick ’em over here,” Earl demanded. They did as instructed, the weapons sliding across the floor to rest at his feet.
“Now, let’s see some ID,” he said, the shotgun never wavering.
“I’m going to reach into my jacket for my badge,” Rory said, her voice steady despite the tension. “My partner will do the same.”
Earl grunted an acknowledgment, watching intently as they produced their badges. After a tense moment of scrutiny, he lowered the shotgun slightly, though his grip remained firm.
“Alright,” he said, his tone softening a bit. “Sorry for the suspicion. Can’t be too careful these days. What’s the sheriff’s department want with Brigham?”
“We’re investigating a series of incidents,” Rory explained, relaxing slightly but remaining alert. “We need to speak with Mr. Brigham. When was the last time you saw him?”
Earl scratched his chin thoughtfully, the rasp of stubble audible in the quiet night. “Must be…hell, going on couple months now. Used to see him stumbling home most nights, drunk as a skunk. Then one day, poof. Gone.”
“Did you notice anything unusual before he disappeared?” Evan asked. “Any visitors, strange behavior?”
Earl shook his head, then paused. “Well, now that you mention it… Day before I last saw him, he was loading up his truck. Seemed in a right state, muttering to himself. Said something about ‘making things right.’”
Rory felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. “This truck,” she pressed, trying to keep the urgency from her voice, “can you describe it?”
“Sure can,” Earl replied, warming to his role as informant. “Old Ford F-150, blue. Dented to hell and rusted worse. Had a big scratch down the passenger side where he sideswiped a fence post last year. Oh, and a bumper sticker— ‘Cowboys Do It Better’ or some such nonsense.”
As Earl continued describing the vehicle, adding details about a cracked taillight and a distinctive rattle in the engine, Evan stepped away to call in an APB. Rory’s mind raced with possibilities.
“Mr. Hawkins,” Rory said carefully, “did Brigham ever mention any grudges? Anyone he felt had wronged him?”
Earl barked out a harsh laugh. “Who didn’t he blame? The bank, other ranchers, the whole damn system. The man was eaten up with bitterness. Used to go on and on about how he’d show them all someday.”
It fit. God help them, it all fit.
As they wrapped up their conversation with Earl, picked up their weapons, and headed back to their vehicle, Rory felt a growing sense of urgency. If Brigham was their killer, he could be out there right now, hunting his next victim.
“We need to warn the ranchers,” she said as they climbed into the car. “Set up patrols, checkpoints. Maybe we can catch him before—”
“Rory,” Evan interrupted gently. “We don’t know for sure it’s him. We can’t panic the whole county based on a hunch.”
She knew he was right, but the frustration was maddening. “Then what do we do? Sit around and wait for another body to show up?”
Evan was quiet for a moment, then said, “What about land records? If Brigham’s targeting specific ranchers, maybe there’s a pattern in property sales or foreclosures.”
It was a long shot, but it was something. They spent the next few hours poring over records at the county clerk’s office, looking for any connection between Brigham and the victims. The smell of dusty papers and strong coffee filled the air as they searched, the tick of the wall clock a constant reminder of the passing time.
But as the night wore on and their coffee grew cold, Rory had to admit defeat. There was nothing—no clear pattern, no smoking gun. Just endless columns of numbers and names that revealed nothing.
Her phone buzzed, startling her from her gloomy thoughts. It was Harlan.
“Wood,” he said without preamble, “we found Brigham.”
Rory’s heart leapt, a surge of adrenaline chasing away her exhaustion. “Where? Do you need backup?”
“Stand down,” Harlan replied, his voice tinged with what sounded like…amusement? “He’s at the Pinewood Recovery Center over in Johnson County.”