know Joey. This is Deputy Martin.”
Though both Alison and Logan said hello to Rick Martin, Joey Wilkenson said nothing, and suddenly Charley Hawkins’s words came back into MaryAnne’s mind.
Don’t be surprised if someone comes to talk to Joey, that’s all
. The nervousness she’d instinctively felt at the deputy’s appearance a few minutes before flooded back, and as she listened to what Rick Martin was saying, she could not keep herself from glancing at Joey every few moments, searching his face for some sign of how he was reacting. Had something really happened at the campground, or was Rick Martin actually here only to talk to Joey?
“I’m not sure what happened,” the deputy began. “I got called up there about an hour ago, and I still can’t figure it all out.”
The campground at Coyote Creek consisted of only ten sites spread over five acres. The creek babbled through the center of the grounds, and while every one of the sites faced the water, not one of them was visible from any of the others. Until this morning, neither Rick Martin, Tony Moleno, nor any of the rangers who patrolled the area had ever experienced any trouble up there.
No complaints of drunken parties involving college kids on a weekend bender. No motorcycles disturbing the quietof the summer nights. Not even any problems with fires left untended, or campsites left filled with litter.
But this morning a camper had appeared in town with a report that his campsite had been destroyed. Though Rick had suspected the man might be exaggerating, he’d followed him back up to Coyote Creek to take a report.
What he found had shocked him.
The tent, one of the old-fashioned kind made of thick canvas, was in tatters, and when he examined the frayed edges where it had been torn, Rick saw no signs of knife marks. Searching through the ruins of the tent, he found one of the sleeping bags, which had been torn nearly in two. Oddly, most of the feathers were still inside; indeed, when he turned it over, the down cascaded to the ground. Surely, if an animal had done the damage, the feathers would already have been spread all over the campground. All his life, growing up in one part of the mountains or another as his father had moved from sawmill to sawmill, he’d watched wildlife hunt, watched animals stalk their quarry, watched predators worry their prey once they’d caught it. They never simply ripped something open and then let it lay. Invariably, the animals he’d watched picked up their kill and began shaking it, just as his dog shook the occasional rat he managed to kill, instinctively trying to break the rodent’s neck even long after it was dead.
Finally, after he’d examined the rest of the ruined camping gear and searched the area for tracks, he’d shaken his head uncertainly. “I want a couple of other fellows to take a look at this—see what they think—but I have to tell you, I’m not sure what we can do about it. Unless someone saw something, or at least heard something, I’m not real sure we’ll ever figure out what did this.”
“What about a bear? Or wolves?” the camper, whose name was Roy Bittern, suggested, unwilling to accept that he might never find out what had savaged his gear.
“Could be a bear, I suppose,” Martin had agreed. “Except with this kind of damage, and no reason for an attack, you have to assume a rogue bear. And rogues don’t stop. They just keep on rampaging, till someone comes along and shoots ’em.”
Bittern had gazed speculatively at his shredded tent. “Unless this is just the beginning,” he mused out loud. “What about wolves?”
Rick Martin had already thought about that possibility and dismissed it. “Not a chance. Wolves have a bad reputation, but as far as I know, that’s all it is—just a reputation. They stick to themselves, and grab a sheep now and then, but that’s pretty much the worst of it. Never heard of wolves doing anything like this. Best guess I can come up
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