She nodded, surprised there was road access out that far, or even flat land by which to travel.
Dwayne sighed. “Luckily, there was a small break in the weather so Paul could get out there, because the snow really started coming down before he had even left the crime scene.” Dwayne rifled through a folder on the table and pulled out what looked to be a photo printed from the Internet. He handed it to Harper. “This is the victim. Ever see him on one of your tours?”
Harper studied him. He was a nondescript older man. Sixties. Gray, balding hair, glasses. Short beard. A thick neck leading her to believe he was stocky. Harper handed it back to Dwayne. “Not that I can remember.”
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 expound, 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 arrow 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 arrow. 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 shook her head in disbelief. 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 & 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 pressed her lips together, going 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 w
as 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 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.