woods.
As he drove deeper into the wilderness on the deserted road, he felt the thrill of expectation that came from being alone and waiting. It tensed the muscles in his thighs and made his breath come in short bursts. It was a kind of intuition he had developed long ago, in the jungle. The feeling was so strong that he wasn't even surprised when he saw the man with the rifle walking up the road.
LeDonne slowed the patrol car, looking hard at the stranger in camouflage. He was tall and muscular, early forties, sandy hair thinning out on top. He was close enough to hear the motor of the car, but he didn't turn around to see who was behind him. The deputy pulled the patrol car sideways in front of the hiking man, forcing him to stop. Spencer Arrowood would never have engineered such a deliberate confrontation; LeDonne, however, wasn't interested in public relations but in the rush of courting danger. This dude didn't look like a local voter, anyway.
He didn't look scared, either. LeDonne had to give him that. When the fender of the patrol car came to rest a few feet in front of him, he had stopped in no particular hurry, and now he stood patiently waiting for the deputy to make the first move. It wasn't as if it were illegal to carry a rifle in plain sight outside the city limits.
LeDonne took his time getting out of the car. Hurrying was for rookie officers; it meant they were nervous, and wanted to get the confrontation over with. Sometimes it got them shot. Much better to take your time and let the other fellow build up a case of nerves anticipating your approach. He let a good two minutes pass before he eased himself out of the car.
"Afternoon," LeDonne said, closing the car door behind him. He didn't smile. His eyes never left the stranger's face.
The man raised his eyebrows, quizzical but polite. "So it is."
"Could I see some ID, please?" LeDonne's left hand rested casually near his holster.
Shrugging, the man set the stock of the rifle on the ground and with his free hand dug in his hip pocket for his wallet. "Here you go, sport."
The frown deepened as LeDonne examined the license photo and the printed description. The man's name was Justin Warren; he was
forty-three, and the address listed for him was Nashville. The deputy took a long look at the expressionless man. "This isn't hunting season," he said, nodding toward the firearm.
"I wasn't hunting."
"And this is national forest land, so hunting is illegal, anyhow."
"Uh-huh."
LeDonne was careful to conceal his annoyance. "So, sir, do you want to tell me what a resident of Nashville is doing all the way over here in Wake County carrying a rifle in a national forest?"
"I own some land adjoining the federal tract. I was out walking and decided to take the road back."
"Are you always armed when you go for a walk?"
"I hear there are bears in these parts," said the man with an air of innocence that heightened the sarcasm.
LeDonne glowered. "Sir, it is against the law to carry a loaded weapon on a public road. I could give you a ticket for a firearms offense, but since you are a legitimate property owner on this road, I will let you off with a warning. Remember what I said about hunting, though. The season starts the week before Thanksgiving."
"Thank you, Deputy. I'll commit it to memory." With a grave smile, Warren picked up his rifle and strolled past the fender of the patrol car without a backward glance.
Joe LeDonne watched the man saunter down 123
the road. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he walked. Another veteran of the war in Southeast Asia. The deputy made a mental note to ask around in Hamelin: realtors, registrar of deeds. He wanted to know what a Nashville vet was doing buying forest land in the back of beyond. He had a good hunch about it.
She set the hot cookie sheet on two trivets on the countertop, and lifted the cookies off one by one with a wooden spatula of hand-carved poplar. It had been made a century ago by
As he drove deeper into the wilderness on the deserted road, he felt the thrill of expectation that came from being alone and waiting. It tensed the muscles in his thighs and made his breath come in short bursts. It was a kind of intuition he had developed long ago, in the jungle. The feeling was so strong that he wasn't even surprised when he saw the man with the rifle walking up the road.
LeDonne slowed the patrol car, looking hard at the stranger in camouflage. He was tall and muscular, early forties, sandy hair thinning out on top. He was close enough to hear the motor of the car, but he didn't turn around to see who was behind him. The deputy pulled the patrol car sideways in front of the hiking man, forcing him to stop. Spencer Arrowood would never have engineered such a deliberate confrontation; LeDonne, however, wasn't interested in public relations but in the rush of courting danger. This dude didn't look like a local voter, anyway.
He didn't look scared, either. LeDonne had to give him that. When the fender of the patrol car came to rest a few feet in front of him, he had stopped in no particular hurry, and now he stood patiently waiting for the deputy to make the first move. It wasn't as if it were illegal to carry a rifle in plain sight outside the city limits.
LeDonne took his time getting out of the car. Hurrying was for rookie officers; it meant they were nervous, and wanted to get the confrontation over with. Sometimes it got them shot. Much better to take your time and let the other fellow build up a case of nerves anticipating your approach. He let a good two minutes pass before he eased himself out of the car.
"Afternoon," LeDonne said, closing the car door behind him. He didn't smile. His eyes never left the stranger's face.
The man raised his eyebrows, quizzical but polite. "So it is."
"Could I see some ID, please?" LeDonne's left hand rested casually near his holster.
Shrugging, the man set the stock of the rifle on the ground and with his free hand dug in his hip pocket for his wallet. "Here you go, sport."
The frown deepened as LeDonne examined the license photo and the printed description. The man's name was Justin Warren; he was
forty-three, and the address listed for him was Nashville. The deputy took a long look at the expressionless man. "This isn't hunting season," he said, nodding toward the firearm.
"I wasn't hunting."
"And this is national forest land, so hunting is illegal, anyhow."
"Uh-huh."
LeDonne was careful to conceal his annoyance. "So, sir, do you want to tell me what a resident of Nashville is doing all the way over here in Wake County carrying a rifle in a national forest?"
"I own some land adjoining the federal tract. I was out walking and decided to take the road back."
"Are you always armed when you go for a walk?"
"I hear there are bears in these parts," said the man with an air of innocence that heightened the sarcasm.
LeDonne glowered. "Sir, it is against the law to carry a loaded weapon on a public road. I could give you a ticket for a firearms offense, but since you are a legitimate property owner on this road, I will let you off with a warning. Remember what I said about hunting, though. The season starts the week before Thanksgiving."
"Thank you, Deputy. I'll commit it to memory." With a grave smile, Warren picked up his rifle and strolled past the fender of the patrol car without a backward glance.
Joe LeDonne watched the man saunter down 123
the road. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he walked. Another veteran of the war in Southeast Asia. The deputy made a mental note to ask around in Hamelin: realtors, registrar of deeds. He wanted to know what a Nashville vet was doing buying forest land in the back of beyond. He had a good hunch about it.
She set the hot cookie sheet on two trivets on the countertop, and lifted the cookies off one by one with a wooden spatula of hand-carved poplar. It had been made a century ago by
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