Page 13 of The Killing Plains

Colly rifled through the papers in her lap. “The last person to see Denny alive?”

“Yeah, I don’t trust coincidences, either, but this one seems legit. Rangers looked at him hard, but the receptionist at Digby’s backed up his story, and he passed a polygraph.”

“Maybe so. But he’s definitely someone I want to talk to.”

A few minutes later, Russ turned onto a gravel road. After crossing a cattle guard and passing beneath a wrought-iron arch that read “Newland Ranch,” the road curved north, but Russfollowed a rough dirt track that snaked away south. They bumped and lurched through the scrubland, gravel pinging against the metal floorboards, until finally rounding the shoulder of a hill into an open space, where a squad car was parked beside a weathered fencepost hung with a “No Trespassing” sign.

Russ turned off the ignition. “Let’s go.”

Colly and Avery followed him single-file past the sign and along a narrow cow path. The day was growing warm. Startled grasshoppers leaped around them as they pushed through the sagebrush and stunted cedar. Colly was glad she’d worn jeans and hiking boots.

They emerged from the scrub near a stock pond ringed with cottonwoods. Two officers, sweaty and red-faced, were resting a few yards from the waterside. They had spread out a plastic tarp, on which a metal supply kit sat beside a wet, greenish lump.

The officers clambered to their feet. The taller—a lanky, acne-scarred youth—waved enthusiastically.

“Hey, Chief, look what we got.”

The other officer, older and more dignified, mopped his face with a red bandana. “We ain’t opened it yet. Figured you’d wanna do that. Jimmy found it,” he added generously.

“Good work.” Russ leaned over the object for a closer look. Colly joined him.

“It’s a backpack,” Jimmy, the younger officer, said.

The older one swatted irritably at a pair of blackflies. “They got eyes, Meggs.”

“Get some shots of this, Avery,” Russ said.

Avery circled the tarp, taking pictures from every angle. “Army-green canvas. Could be Denny’s. It wasn’t with the other stuff.”

Colly looked up. “Other stuff?”

“Denny’s clothes were under that tree, perfectly folded. Except for the red baseball cap. We never found that. His bike was over there.” Russ pointed.

“The clothes were folded? Interesting.”

“Think there’ll be DNA?” Jimmy asked.

Colly frowned. “Doubtful. Looks like it’s been submerged a while.”

Russ bent closer and sniffed. “Smells like it, too.” He picked up a stick and poked gently at the backpack. “Something’s inside. Gibbins, hand us some gloves and evidence bags.”

“A forensics lab should open it,” Colly said.

Russ shook his head. “That’ll mean calling the Rangers back in. They’ll cut us out of the loop. I want to see what’s in here.” He pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves. Handing some to Colly, he squatted on the tarp.

“Why drag me here from Houston if you won’t listen?” Colly muttered, kneeling beside him.

Russ didn’t hear, or pretended not to. “Avery, keep shooting,” he said, and he began to unzip the pack.

The zipper was badly corroded. After several minutes of coaxing and cursing, he dropped the bag and sat back on his heels. “That’s only a couple inches, but it won’t go any further without some WD-40.”

“You could cut it,” Jimmy said eagerly. “I got a Bowie knife.”

Gibbins, the older cop, glared at him. “He ain’t doin’ that, you dimwit.”

Russ ignored them both. “You’ve got smaller hands, Col. Try reaching in.”

Colly hesitated. “Are there—?”

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