Killer View by Ridley Pearson Page B

across acres of snowfield. He located and climbed two trees that had clearly been used to scout the cabin; they’d been climbed by a strong man with a good-sized leg spread—a man with coarse black hair, judging by the strands he found stuck to the pine sap. At the top of one of the trees, he found a rubbed spot on a stout branch that suggested an object had been braced there—a rifle or monocular—the location offering an unobstructed view of the cabin’s porch.
    Brandon had not been shot from such an elevation, but the dart on the floor of the cabin lingered in Walt’s mind.
    What was Mark involved in? Why would anyone want, first, to try to kill and then, later, kidnap a local veterinarian? If he’d been willing to shoot Brandon, why not Mark Aker? Why the dart?
    Being up a tree helped with radio reception. Brandon had reached the vehicle and felt able to drive himself into Challis. They signed off, with Brandon promising Walt a snowmobile on Yankee Fork Road in short time.
    Walt returned to the snowfield and stayed parallel to the tracks. Jeff Longfeather had taught him about time and patience; where possible, he stole into the center of the well-traveled elk trail and reestablished the snowshoe tracks—the man was pulling a heavy sled. Mark? He’d clearly made good time, establishing himself in Walt’s mind as big and strong. He was also an expert with a sniper rifle, keeping Walt mindful of his cover.
    An hour and a half passed before his radio barked again. The Challis sheriff and a deputy were waiting nearby on Yankee Fork Road.
    Walt discovered some cigarette ash, dancing on the snow. The butt had been GI’d, or packed out, leaving only the rolling worms of ash as evidence. The man towing Mark had paused here, had come back to the sled and done something—had administered more drugs, maybe, or delivered a warning. Walt followed the tracks and soon met up with two men on snowmobiles. They wore sheriff patches.
    A track of a snowmobile towing a sled was evident. It headed not toward Challis, as he’d expected, but deep into the National Forest.
    Introductions were made. Steam poured from Walt’s clothing. The two eyed him apprehensively; he sensed reluctance in them that he didn’t understand.
    Riding a snowmobile would chill him down quickly, so he took a moment to strip down to his bare chest and change into a fresh Capilene undershirt. He redressed in his uniform shirt and zipped up his jacket, shifting on his feet to get his body heat back. The conversation never stopped as he caught up the Challis sheriff, a man with whom he’d had a major falling-out over the killing of a wolf a year earlier. There was no love lost between them, and he thought that that explained their mutual reluctance.
    The Challis sheriff established that they’d crossed no fresh snowmobile tracks. “This guy’s headed back the way he came.”
    “But what’s out there?” Walt inquired.
    “Not much. Not for a long ways, anyway,” said the sheriff.
    “Sunbeam or Clayton, I suppose,” the deputy said with a bit of a twang. His face barely showed out of the tightened hood and ski goggles. “Nothing else between here and there but a shitload of snow.”
    “And your odd summer ranch on grandfathered parcels,” the sheriff added. “Would be a hell of a lot faster to head back to town and drive down to Clayton than punching through on Yankee Fork Road.”
    “But the only sure way to know where he’s going is to follow the snowmobile track,” Walt said.
    “Can’t argue with that,” the sheriff said. “I’m just saying there ain’t many places a fella can meet up with Highway Seventy-five, and Clayton’s the most likely of ’em.”
    “But not the only one,” Walt said.
    “I think we established that,” the sheriff said indignantly.
    “You mind if I borrow one of your machines?” Walt asked. “I’ll follow on the trail while you get your guys down to Clayton. It wouldn’t hurt to roadblock Seventy-five at