“I’m coming,” stated Truman. “We need to put a stop to these fires. I don’t care if the prowler turns out to be a deer. From here on out I want multiple cars at each late-night call.”
Relief swept over Ben. He’d felt like a wuss calling county and his boss, but Truman was right. They had a killer to catch, and nights were his prime operating time.
Tonight’s call was a report about dirt bike noise behind the Cowler property. Ben knew exactly where he’d find the noise makers. Next to the creek bed that created the north property line of the Cowler farm stood an abandoned tractor shed. At one point it’d housed various pieces of the Cowlers’ equipment, but since the Cowler patriarch had died in the early nineties, the shed had stood empty and slowly fallen apart, board by board. All that stood now was a framework of old timbers, waiting to collapse on some teenage head. Ben had responded to a half dozen calls about teens drinking in the location over the last two decades. He’d asked the Cowler family to tear down the structure, but their last response had been that someone would deserve a beam to the head for trespassing.
The shed was isolated, hidden in a small copse of trees next to a dry creek that came alive during the fall and spring months. Adjacent to the old shed was a field with naturally formed jumps and ramps that dirt bike riders couldn’t stay away from. The noise of the dirt bikes couldn’t be heard at the Cowler house, but if the wind was blowing from the east, their neighbors could hear the bike engines. They were the ones who had called the police tonight.
Ben turned off his headlights and took the dirt road that wound its way to the back of the Cowler property. It was a cold and clear night with stars that looked unnaturally close and a partial moon that aided the officers with its faint light. When the road widened a few hundred yards in, he pulled over and waited for Truman. He lowered his window and smiled as he heard the faint whine of a dirt bike. Whoever it was, he was still there.
Checking the clock, Ben saw it was just after midnight. His breath showed in the cold air flowing in through his window, but he didn’t want to raise the glass. As long as he could hear the bike, he knew they would catch their trespassers. He radioed for the county cars to set up camp at the bridge that crossed the creek north of the shed, effectively cutting off an escape route. The bikers’ only choices would be to ride either straight toward Ben or up the creek toward the county units.
A louder engine sounded behind him, and he spotted the outline of Truman’s Tahoe in his rearview mirror. He’d also turned off his headlights. Ben stepped out of his vehicle and walked up as Truman lowered his driver’s window.
“I hear ’em,” said Truman. “See anything?”
“I spotted the headlight of one for a few brief seconds. Sounds like there are two bikes. Probably racing.”
“County says they’ve got the north end covered if they decide to make a run for it.”
“No place else for them to go. Unless they plan to plow through fences.”
“That might work in our favor,” Truman joked. “Ready?”
“Waiting on you.” Ben headed back to his vehicle. He pulled back into the road, pleased that Truman waited for him to lead. Any other boss would have taken the point, but Truman had no problem letting Ben go first. It made sense; Ben knew the area best. But for some men, ego would have demanded they go first. Not Truman.
It was one of the reasons Ben liked him so much.
His tires made nearly no sound on the packed dirt. He pulled up to the edge of the trees and parked. Here the engine noises were louder, and he could hear laughter. Female laughter. Could it simply be teens fooling around?
Disappointment filled the back of his throat. He’d wanted to catch their killer.
Truman was suddenly right beside Ben’s door, and Ben realized with a start he’d been sitting in his seat, letting his mind wander.
“I hear women,” Ben said as he quietly shut his door.
“I hear them too,” Truman said grimly. He gestured for Ben to lead the way, and followed.
Ben stepped carefully. The ground was a mix of packed dirt, ruts, and tall grass tufts that could easily trip a person.
“What’s that?” Truman asked in a hushed voice.
Ben looked up from the ground at the light that’d suddenly filled the copse of trees. “Fire. They just lit something.”
“Shit.” Truman started to jog, and Ben took off after him.
Music filled the night. A Southern rock anthem that Ben had heard for the last thirty years but whose title he’d never bothered to learn. Happy whoops and female laughter sounded over the music. It’d become a party.
As they reached the clearing, Ben spotted the silhouettes of two women dancing in front of the burning remains of the Cowler shed. They both had beers in hand, and ten feet away two guys sat on the ground by the dirt bikes, watching the women dance. A rifle leaned against a tree stump a good twenty feet from the men. Ben automatically scanned the foursome for more weapons and rested his hand on the butt of his gun.
“Eagle’s Nest Police Department,” Truman yelled as they approached, his hand near his weapon.
One woman gave a small screech and dropped her beer, but they both froze with their hands raised. The guys instantly stood and raised their hands, their feet planted. Ben didn’t see how it happened, but the music went silent.
Good.
The flickering light from the burning frame of the shed cast odd shadows across the faces of the foursome. Ben wrinkled his nose, smelling gasoline. He spotted a plastic gas can tossed to one side.
Bingo.
“A little cold for a party, isn’t it?” Truman asked. “But I see you decided to provide some heat. You know it’s a crime to light someone else’s property on fire, right?”
“It’s falling down,” said one of the women. “We’re doing them a favor.”
“Did you ask first?” questioned Truman.
Silence.
“We aren’t doing anything illegal,” said one of the guys. “We’re just having a little fun.”
“To start with, you’re trespassing,” said Ben. “And burning private property.”
“And I happen to know that you two aren’t twenty-one,” said Truman, nodding at both men. “How about the rest of you? Is anyone here of drinking age?”
Silence again as the flames crackled in the background.
“Know them?” Ben asked in an aside to Truman.
“Yep. Caught both of these guys drinking and shooting earlier in the week. Jason Eckham and Landon Hecht. Don’t know the girls.”
“Is that a knife on the second guy’s belt?” Ben murmured. “We’ve got dirt bikes, a gas can, the fire, and a knife.”
“Radio Deschutes County to get in here,” ordered Truman. “And the fire department.”
Ben scanned the young faces. Was their killer standing in front of them?
NINETEEN
Could I see him shooting a cop?
Hell yes.