Page 33 of Crosshairs

Once he had their information, he asked if they’d heard anything Tuesday night and almost missed seeing Alma’s shoulders flinch.

“Terrible thing, what happened to that girl,” Jesse said. “But we didn’t see or hear anything until the sirens and lights woke us up.”

Linc tapped his pen on the notebook. Whatever Jesse knew, he wasn’t telling. Linc gave them two of his cards from his wallet. “If you remember anything, give me a call,” he said, tipping his hat. “Appreciate you talking with me.”

“Anytime, Ranger.”

Yeah, right. But if Linc could get the woman away from her husband, he might actually learn something. He’d have to work on that.

17

As Ainsley walked to the next camper, she listened to the recording of the conversation with Colton on her phone, pausing it when the Kingston name was mentioned. There’d been an Austin Kingston a couple of grades ahead of her in high school. His father, Jack, had relocated the family to Natchez after he married a Natchez socialite in a second marriage. Even though he’d been new to the area, it didn’t take him long to become a power player in city politics. But Natchez had not been big enough for him, and about the time Ainsley left for college, the prominent attorney moved to Jackson and later became mayor.

She hoped Drew didn’t belong tothatset of Kingstons.

Alpha males. It was the only description she could think of for the Kingston men, especially Jack. Like a wolf pack leader, he raised his hackles at any perceived slight to his son, whether it was on the football field or in the classroom.

Jack was also running against her father for governor.

She approached the trailer at the next campsite, calling out, and when no one answered, moved on to the third one. The older couple in the Airstream hadn’t seen anything unusual. Same story at the camper beside them. When Ainsley finished with the fifth campsite, she walked toward her Ford Ranger. She didn’t see Linc and figured when he finished his five campsites, he’d probably taken the other side of the circle to check for more campers.

Before she reached the trailhead, Ainsley heard voices, and then a man and woman emerged from a side trail. Scruffy. That was her first impression of the couple, especially the man, who made no effort to hide his blatant once-over of her. Ainsley could only imagine how the thin woman beside him felt.

“Good morning,” she said, focusing on the woman, who looked a lot like Colton. Besides their features, they had the same beaten-down expression about them. If these were Colton’s parents ... She barely kept herself from shuddering.

She tapped her badge. “I’m ISB Ranger Ainsley Beaumont. Got a minute for me to ask a couple of questions?”

“We just talked with another ranger,” the man replied. “We know nothing about the poor girl who was murdered, and my wife and I have seen no one acting suspicious this morning.”

She took a card from her pocket, which the man waved off.

“The other ranger provided us with his contact information in case we remembered anything, even though I explained there was nothing to remember,” the man said. “If you’ll excuse us...”

“Take it anyway,” she said.

The man took the card and examined it before he handed it off to his wife. “Just what does the Investigative Services Branch of the National Park Service do?”

Ainsley ignored his question for the moment and opened her notebook. “I need your contact information for my report.”

“We already—”

“I still need it.”

His eyes narrowed. “Jesse and Alma Mason.”

She ignored his snappish tone. “Phone number and address.”

“We gave that information to the other ranger.”

“Then it should be fresh in your mind.” Ainsley didn’t look up as he recited phone numbers and an address. “Is that in Natchez?”

“It is. And if that’s all ...”

She tipped her head. “Sorry to have hindered you, but thankyou for your cooperation. If you remember anything, no matter how insignificant, give me or the other ranger a call,” she said with a smile and pocketed her notebook. “Oh, and as for what the Investigative Services Branch of the National Park Service does, think FBI—we’re a small but effective branch of law enforcement rangers.”

Ainsley had only gone a few yards when she heard her name called and did an about-face. She almost asked if he’d remembered something already. “Yes?” she asked instead.

“Should you happen to talk to my son,” he said, “I would advise you to take anything he tells you with a grain of salt.”

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