Page 75 of The Last Close Call

Jack pulled out his mini-flashlight and shined it over the path. The CSI was right. Shoeprints galore.

Jack glanced over his shoulder and counted the rooftops to Maura Mooney’s house. The trail curved left, leaving a gap between the houses and the trail. Jack walked four houses in and then stepped into the brush.

“There’s a drainage ditch over there,” the CSI told him.

Jack stopped and looked back. “Where’s your camera?”

“Our photographer has it. She’s finishing up back at the house.”

“Tell her to come out here.”

The guy paused a moment, probably wondering whether he needed to take orders from some dick down from Austin. But then he trudged off without comment.

Jack pointed his flashlight at the woods. A carpet of leaves covered the ground. Jack ducked through the tree branches and tried to keep his steps to the leaves. If there was a decent shoeprint to be found out here, he didn’t want to mar it.

Slowly, carefully, he made his way through the thicket until he reached the space behind the Mooney residence. The ground made an incline, and the slope was a muddy tangle of vines and exposed tree roots. Jack looked at the house. The TV room’s window was illuminated, and Jack pictured Maura Mooney still sitting in there with Heidi and Bryan, clutching the green pillow like a security blanket. The house had a U-shaped floor plan, and the master bedroom was on the opposite side, facing the fence.

From this vantage point, Jack saw only the fence.

He turned around and pointed his flashlight at the ground. Behind him was a sycamore tree with brown streaks on the bark.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

Stepping over, he shined the flashlight on the tree and followed the trunk to the first limb, about eight feet off the ground. He stared at the branch, then looked at the Mooneys’ yard. Anyone up there would have a perfect view into the house.

Taking extra care now, Jack stepped from leaf pile to leaf pile and made his way closer to the tree. Near the mud-streaked tree trunk was an impression in the dirt.

Pulse racing now, Jack took out his phone and snapped a photo of the shoeprint. Size twelve Adidas, he’d bet his badge on it.

Jack snapped a shot of the tree bark, too, and glanced around. Where the hell was the photographer? It was supposed to rain tonight, and when it did, all this evidence would be long gone.

Scanning the ground carefully, he repositioned himself on another pile of leaves and took another picture.

A breeze kicked up, and some of the dead leaves fluttered on the ground. Something white caught his eye. A cigarette butt? Jack had no indication this guy was a smoker. Crouching down, he picked up a stick and moved the leaf aside.

It was a gum wrapper. He glanced up at the limb above his head.

Snick.

He turned around and caught movement in the shadows.

Jack switched off his light. The CSIs would be coming from the opposite direction.

Jack’s pulse picked up again. Slowly, silently, he rose to his feet and unholstered his pistol.

A shadow moved.

“Halt. Police.”

The shadow darted into the brush.

“Stop!” Jack yelled as he took off after him.

Branches snapped at him as he plunged into the trees, swiping at leaves. The ground sloped down, and Jack nearly lost his footing as he slid to the bottom of the ravine. It was clearer there, and the shadowy figure sprinted ahead through the tunnel of vines and limbs.

“Stop! Police!”

Jack’s toe caught on a root, and he pitched forward onto his knees. He surged to his feet and ran, gripping his weapon as he tried to keep sight of the dark figure ahead of him. It was a man—tall, fast, wearing all black. As Jack sprinted after him, he leaped sideways. The man grabbed a vine and pulled himself out of the creek bed and dove into the trees.

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