Page 4 of Unwanted

Dwayne placed the picture back in the folder, and Harper glanced at the blank screen. “What does he have to do with all of this?”

Dwayne sighed again. “Suppose you heard about the murder weapon used on the woman staying at the Larkspur.”

A statement, not a question, but Harper nodded. “I did.” She didn’t need to mention that Keri had confided to her—and half the town—that the woman had been shot with a bow and arrow at the one establishment in town that was available for out-of-town guests.

Harper grimaced internally at the picture that still formed in her mind when she thought of the unknown woman she’d heard about a week earlier, an arrow shot so powerfully that it had come out of the other side of her body and still had enough force to lodge in the wood of the wall.

“The weapon used in that crime is the same type of weapon used in Isaac Driscoll’s murder.”

“Oh,” she breathed.

“Yeah. Unusual to say the least. Not too many people use them in general, and especially not to commit murder. Much less two.” Dwayne glanced at the blank screen the same way Harper had. “Paul had just left the scene and almost ran that guy over on his way out. Acted like he’d never seen a truck before—which, come to find out, maybe he hasn’t. Anyway, Paul was already shaken having just discovered a macabre crime scene, and here this guy comes, right across his path, carrying a bow and arrows on his back.”

Harper widened her eyes. “Carrying—You think he’s the murderer?”

“He says he’s not, and there’s no evidence at this point to say he is except the bow and arrows. Though the one he was carrying has arrows different in appearance than the ones used in the two crimes. And there are spots for each arrow in the case he was carrying and none were missing. We took it into evidence. But add in the fact that he knows how to use one and that he lives in the vicinity of Isaac Driscoll, and he’s at least a person of interest.”

Harper stared at the sheriff for a moment. “They both live out there?”

“Appears so. Says he lives ten thousand, five hundred seventy-three steps from Driscoll, in the direction of the three mountain peaks.”

“Huh?”

“I know. That’s how he described the distance between their residences. Strange.”

To say the least. She led guided tours into that wilderness—nature lovers, campers, hunters. But she couldn’t imagine living there permanently—in every season. It would be…practically impossible to survive, at least without a whole hell of a lot of gear.

“Did they know each other?”

“Lucas says he traded things with Driscoll, who made trips into town. Fish Lucas caught for clothing items, etcetera. He said other than that they didn’t have much of a relationship—he didn’t consider the man a friend. Just someone he did business with.”

Business. “Fish he caught? So…that man in there has never been to town?”

“That’s what he says.”

“So he couldn’t have killed the woman at the bed-and-breakfast.”

Dwayne shrugged. “We’re going on his word alone right now because it’s all we have. We won’t have forensics back for a little while, but so far, nothing places him there. We really have nothing to hold him on.”

Harper went back over Dwayne’s words. Never been to town? Never been out of that wilderness? How was that possible? Her questions were endless. But that wasn’t why Dwayne had asked her there. He wanted information from her, not the other way around. “I don’t typically take tours south, and hunting is better east of the river. But in any case, I’ve never run across either one of them that I can remember. And I’ve never come across a dwelling of any sort. I’m as surprised as you are.” Twenty miles made a hell of a difference as far as terrain, but it wasn’t so far that someone couldn’t live a more comfortable life in a populated town and still enjoy the wilderness for all it offered. She didn’t get it.

Dwayne stood up from the table, gesturing to a small fridge near the door that she assumed held drinks. She shook her head, and he removed a water bottle, uncapping it and taking a long sip before saying, “We called in the Missoula crime lab to process the scene, but we’ve had to call in the Montana Department of Justice to investigate. We’re simply not equipped to deal with a crime like this. The agent they sent is at the first crime scene at the Larkspur, but he should be back shortly to ask Lucas a few more questions. And”—he paused, creasing his brow as if he was worried about what her reaction would be to his next words—“I’m hoping you’re okay that I’ve offered up your services. We could use your help.”

Chapter Three

Agent Mark Gallagher stood still, taking in the room as a whole, memorizing the layout, waiting for anything that immediately seemed out of place to catch his attention. Nothing did except the large dark stain on the carpet. But he’d expected that. The woman who’d died here had not experienced a peaceful death.

No, there had been fear and suffering and finally death, though a quiet one, as the arrow that had been driven through her throat had cut off her air and the scream he was sure had been trapped within. He’d seen the crime scene photos. The woman was wearing nothing but a T-shirt and white cotton underwear—presumably what she’d worn to sleep in—and her eyes were open in horror. Judging by the thrown-back covers, she’d been halfway between the bed and the window—she’d attempted to run but hadn’t gotten very far.

Of course, she hadn’t had much of a chance. Killing with a bow and arrow didn’t require close proximity. That was kind of the point, wasn’t it? The killer hadn’t had to move much farther than the doorway, where he’d entered by picking the flimsy lock while the woman slept.

Mark opened a dresser drawer. Nothing. She had a duffel bag holding several items of clothing, and there was toothpaste on the sink, but it appeared she hadn’t intended on a long trip. Or the woman didn’t own much.

There was a stack of books on the nightstand, and Mark picked up the one on top. The Giver. He placed it aside and looked at the next three: Ender’s Game, The Maze Runner, and The Lightning Thief. Mark’s brows lowered. He didn’t know anything about the victim, but the titles seemed like odd choices for an adult woman the ME had estimated to be in her mid- to late thirties. Mark recognized them as books geared toward young adults.

Mark spotted something on the spine of The Giver, and upon closer inspection, it appeared that a sticker had been there but had been peeled off recently. Some of the remaining glue was still sticky. A price tag? Although…the books on the nightstand were well used. Maybe they’d come from a used bookstore. He inspected the other books and found visible traces of glue and small pieces of yellow sticker on the spines of those ones as well. Huh. So they’d probably all come from the same place. Somewhere in town that might remember this woman? He opened the book covers one by one and saw that the first page of each one had been torn out. Weird. They could very well be books the woman had owned for years, old favorites she’d brought along to reread. Still…they felt out of place, and that nagged at him. He snapped a couple of quick pictures of the pile of books on the nightstand.

“Sir? Agent Gallagher?” The woman standing in the doorway wringing a dish towel in her hands was small and thin, in her late sixties he estimated, with a blond bob that ended at her jaw. She was wearing an apron, a smear of something bright red on the skirt. In the midst of a bloody crime scene, the vision was decidedly unsettling.

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