Winter Prey

Chapter 6

A four-wheel drive pickup with a law enforcement insignia on the door sat outside the window. The path of tire tracks had plowed around Caleb's truck.

The man pounded on the door again.

Caleb threw the door open and let the sheriff in, along with an inch or so of snow mounded on the front cabin step.

"What took you so long?" Caleb demanded, still seething with pent-up anger. He should have gone out looking for the bastard who shot at him rather than waiting for law enforcement. But he'd assumed the sheriff would speed to the scene of a crime involving a shot fired. By the time Caleb decided that wouldn't happen, the shooter had probably been long gone.

The sheriff removed his fur-lined hat and gloves as he said, "An old, rotted pine finally gave up the ghost and fell across the road a mile or so back. Luckily, I carry a chainsaw among my other supplies in the county vehicle."

"You should have called me. I could have helped clear the road." He handed the sheriff the bullet he'd placed in a plastic sandwich bag.

"And put yourself in the line of fire again," the sheriff stated as he looked at the bullet, then shoved it in his pants pocket, "if that .22 wasn't a stray bullet. That's not your job, it's mine. And that might be what the perp wanted you to do. You got any coffee left in that pot on the stove?"

Caleb poured coffee into a clean cup and handed it to the sheriff. Then, despite knowing he'd be better off with an antacid, he poured another cup for himself, ignoring what the caffeine would do to him. He'd been easily unhinged for months now, his instincts on edge, his mind working on the various paths, trying to decide which one was right, which wrong.

His wife had hated those periods of intense distraction. He'd made sure he never allowed them to distract him from his son.

"You don't seem too shocked at what happened here," Caleb said. "And before you ask, I have no idea who it was. Or why anyone would want to shoot at me - if that's what happened. Hell, as far as I know, the only two people who are even aware that I'm up here are the Ojibway shaman, Keoman, and the man I rented this cabin from."

"I knew you were here," Hjak said. "Keoman told me. It's not smart for someone to isolate themselves in this country, especially this time of year."

"This time of year...or this specific year?" Caleb demanded.

No surprise shadowed Hjak's eyes. Perhaps Keoman had also informed him of the reason for Caleb's visit. Hjak carried his coffee cup over and sat at the table covered with research material. "I'll be up-front with you. I checked you out. Amazing what you can discover on the internet about people."

So the sheriff can use a computer. "Shouldn't you be out there looking for whoever shot at me?"

"My deputy is checking, and he'll call if he finds anything before he heads back to town. But doubt he will. Maybe it was a hunter - a kid - who missed a shot at his game. 'Bout the only thing a .22's used for is rabbits or squirrels. We've also got plenty of young people up here who live and breathe this wilderness. Who can move through the woods and not leave a trace. Older folks, too."

"What about tracking dogs?"

"We had a hound, but he got too old a few months ago. Hasn't been any money in the budget to replace him. Those dogs cost a pretty penny."

Hjak sipped his coffee, then gestured at the papers on the table. "The articles about your wife and son's deaths were on the 'net. You have my condolences, of course." He went on with a question in this tone, "But their deaths happened hundreds of miles from here. Months ago."