Gun Shy by Donna Ball Page B

what they meant.
    I said, looking at him closely, “What car? Where?”
    He gestured back down the road. “Down there, off in the woods. There were lots of groceries and stuff inside, but looks like squirrels and possums already got most of it. I drank most of the Cokes,” he added. “My dad will pay.”
    I said, hardly daring to think what I was thinking, “Is it very far? Do you think you could show me where it is?”
    He shrugged. “Sure.” He tossed Cisco another chip and turned back down the road. “Say, do you think I’ll get my picture in the paper?”
    “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” I murmured, and gathered up Cisco’s leash. “Come on, boy, let’s go.”
     
Less than an hour later, I was perched on the open tailgate of a forest service vehicle, stroking Cisco’s fur while he enjoyed the dog biscuit Rick had promised him, watching as sheriff’s deputies roped off the area surrounding a silver PT Cruiser at the bottom of a small gorge. The path the car had taken when it left the dirt road was easy to see—downed saplings and crushed shrubs marked a swath. However, the car had managed to bury itself in the foliage of an uprooted hemlock when it came to rest, and it might have been months before a vehicle passing on this seldom-used dirt road spotted it.
    Ryan Marcus, boy of the hour, was on his way back to base camp in a forest service Jeep, where he would be welcomed as a hero, have his picture taken for the paper and be bundled home to his mummy and daddy. There he would be showered with all the chips he could eat and soda he could drink. This was one of the good stories.
    So far.
    Buck made his way back up the slope to me, a task made slightly more difficult by the fact that the path of least resistance—the one the car had left on its way down—was now bracketed on either side by yellow crime scene tape. He lifted his hat when he reached me and wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve.
    “The registration papers say the car belongs to Michelle White,” he told me. Resting an arm on the car roof, he leaned down to ruffle Cisco’s neck fur. “Good job, boy.”
    Cisco grinned up at him.
    “Keys were in the ignition,” he said, and nodded toward the path the car had taken when it left the road. “Looks like the driver tried to take the curve too fast and plowed right off into the woods.”
    “That would be easy to do at night,” I observed.
    He shrugged. “Or if the driver was drunk, or swerving to miss a deer, or just not paying attention.”
    I guess that’s why they paid him the deputy money. He never went for the obvious answer just because it was easy.
    “The air bag deployed when the car hit the tree,” Buck went on. “So far no clue about the driver.” He glanced at Cisco. “I don’t suppose . . .”
    I shook my head. Aside from the fact that I hate doing police work—the last time Cisco and I had assisted in a police search I had stumbled over a body with its face blown off and I still wasn’t over that one—this was an easy call. “The kid’s scent is all over the car and all around it. Cisco’s not discriminating enough yet to ignore that find and understand that he’s supposed to go after another one. It would just be a waste of time. You’re better off waiting for Hank to get here with the bloodhounds.”
    Hank Baker was my team leader and the real expert when it came to search and rescue. The fact that he lived two hours away, however, meant that the best I could do when things got complicated was to try not to contaminate the trail too much before he arrived.
    Buck nodded, squinting back down the slope. “We popped the trunk,” he said. “There are a couple suitcases, a wheelchair and a service dog harness. We’re not going to move anything until the state crime lab van gets here, but it looks like enough luggage for a couple of weeks, maybe more. The backseat is full of groceries—dry goods mostly, cereal, coffee, paper towels, sodas; the kind