Page 65 of At Midnight Comes the Cry
“Lieutenant, Ranger Pierre Laduc is dead. We saw the gunshot wound and his body had been purposefully hidden.”
“Or he was killed by a stray bullet from some incompetent hunter and his corpse cached by a bear to feed on later.”
“Lieutenant!” Paul slammed his hands on the table and stood. Looking at his face, Hadley understood why the first European settlers had lived in fear of the Mohawks.
Pelletier held up his hands. “Calm down, Ranger, I’m not trying to play ignorant. I’m just pointing out the real difficulties we have, legally, in pursuing this. I’m worried—no, I’m more than worried, I’m alarmed by the sort of militia groups and nationalist crackpots we’ve been seeing up here. But right now we have a report of a death with no body—”
“I can get him down,” Paul insisted.
“Sure, but rightnowwe don’t have even visual evidence to consider homicide instead of accidental death, which, as you know, happens one or two times every season.”
Paul slowly sat down.
“And we’ve got two civilians”—he looked at Hadley—“yes,former law enforcement, but still civilians, fallen in with a militia group hanging out in the Santanoni Preserve. None of that is illegal, except maybe for not having a camping permit, which is the Department of Environmental Conservation’s problem.” He pressed his pen into the legal pad. “I could raise the cry that we’ve got one officer dead and two more threatened, and every cop from Albany to Plattsburgh would turn out. Which makes for a very effective manhunt, and a very crappy investigation. Is that what you want?”
Hadley shook her head.
“Ranger?”
Paul blew out a breath. “No. I want to build a case against whoever killed my uncle and see justice served.”
“That’s how I’d like to proceed as well. Officer Knox, let’s start with some eyewitness photos and see if you can ID anyone. You said there’s an assistant state attorney involved with this unauthorized operation; we’ll get in contact with her and see what she’s got. Ranger Terrance, if you can retrieve Ranger Laduc’s body, we can get the ME on it right away.”
“What about surveilling the site?”
“We can ask the State Police Aviation Unit to do a flyover. But sending more people on foot into the mountains sounds like a losing proposition at this point.” He looked at Hadley, then at Paul. “Agreed?”
It didn’t feel like enough, but she had been the one worried about an overwhelming armed response, hadn’t she? “Yes, sir.”
Paul nodded. “Agreed.”
The lieutenant stood. “Let’s go, then. Slow and steady builds the case.”
6.
It was a long, long day. After they finished at the sheriff’s department—Hadley had completely failed to identify anyone she had seen through the binoculars—she and Paul made a food and beverage run at the truck stop. Paul was right; the coffee was excellent.
Laughing about Betty Beaver was the only light point of the afternoon. With every mile they drove south and east, they came closer to the unhappy job of bringing Pierre Laduc’s body out of the mountains.
They went to the ranger’s home first, a cozy little cabin up another barely drivable excuse for a road. Paul hitched his uncle’s snowmobile trailer to Van Alstyne’s truck, adding a long, body-shaped rescue basket that could be towed behind. Before they set off to retrace the journey they had made that morning, Paul went into the cabin and came back with a neatly folded quilt he placed gently in the backseat.
“To wrap him in. It was his favorite. My great-grandmother made it.”
Hadley nodded.
They towed the snowmobile as far as the trailhead. The brilliant sunshine had been working on the packed snow, and what had been a slick surface was slushy and easier to maneuver through. Paul circled the truck so it was, again, nose-out, and handed the keys to Hadley. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll take it from here.”
“Oh, no you won’t. We started as a team, we finish as a team.”
He looked amused. “Does your chief like to say that?”
“No, my son’s cross-country coach. Look, there’s been nothing but surprises and close calls these past couple of days. It just makes sense to have two responders on hand instead of one.”
“I only have one helmet, Hadley.”
“Oh, no! I might fall off as you speed through the thick forest at, what, fifteen miles an hour? Quit making excuses. Let’s get this done.”
Fifteen miles an hour might have been generous. They triangulated the spot where Paul had slid his uncle’s truck into the trees using a map, a compass, and guesswork. There was no trail, just a constant shifting, circling, and, on two occasions, backing up when they found themselves stuck in a thicket. Still, the Arctic Cat growled upward, managing slopes that would have challenged Hadley’s thighs.
