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seven
Better to return and make a net, than to go down to the stream and merely wish for fish.
—Ancient proverb
    The pickup skidded to a stop in front of the Loon Lake Police cruiser. Ray slammed the gearshift into neutral and, leaping from the driver’s seat, shouted over at Lew, “Got it! Found the place where they were shot! Mile and a half down the road. You can see where they were run off. Even the tread marks of the vehicle that pulled ‘em over—”
    Lew looked up from her note taking. “You sure it’s the same cars?”
    “There’s more.” Ray’s expression was grim.
    “I’ll follow you,” said Lew, flipping the notebook closed as she jogged toward the police cruiser. “Doc, everything’s under control here—need you to help me out.” She motioned for Osborne to ride along.
    Tires spinning, she pulled onto the gravel road behind Ray’s truck, staying close to avoid the dust. About ninety seconds down the road, the pickup swerved to the right and stopped so fast Lew had all she could do to keep from rear-ending it. “Jeez Louise,” she said, rolling down the car window as Ray came running up.
    “Get out here,” said Ray. “Any further, we might mess up some of those tread marks. I want you to follow me up the hill there—we’re gonna circle back and around so we don’t disturb anything.” Ray spoke fast, his voice low.
    “You think anyone is hiding back in there?” said Lew.
    He gave her a quizzical look. “No. Oh no.”
    “Then can we slow the hell down and speak in a normal tone of voice? I almost took out your truck two seconds ago.”
    “Sorry,” said Ray, “I just—you’re right, no need to rush …”
    Lew reached through the window to lay a hand on his shoulder. “We’re all of us working this the best we can. Now settle down, will you?”
    “Sure,” said Ray.
    But before Osborne and Lew could close the car doors, he was gone. And while Ray could move through a wall of aspen and across boulder-strewn hummocks as smoothly as a trout in water, the best that Lew and Osborne could do was stumble forward hoping not to trip and fall. The hill that Ray took in two leaps, they crawled up—clutching at clumps of grass for support. Pausing at the top to catch their breath, they skidded sideways, feet fighting gravity until the only option was to sit down and slide.
    “Last thing I need right now is a twisted ankle,” said Lew, wiping at the sweat on her forehead as she got to her feet.
    “Or a branch in the eye,” said Osborne, wondering why he took the time to brush dirt from his pants before plunging ahead. Twice they lost sight of Ray, only to catch glimpses of khaki bobbing and weaving through slash and past dead stumps. Just when they thought they had lost him, they came around a stand of balsam to find him waiting.
    He pointed off to the right. “We’re not looking for a brain surgeon—whoever shot Peg and those other two women was dumb enough to throw their purses in the bushes over there.”
    “Dammit!” said Lew, hands on her hips. “I knew something didn’t fit when I was checking out that wreck. Just couldn’t put my finger on it—but that’s it: the purses. You don’t find three women and no purses. One of their bags, at least, would have been thrown from the vehicle when it rolled.”
    “Good work, Ray,” she said, emphasizing every word. “Assuming it was the killer who threw them, let’s pray for decent prints … and more dumb mistakes.”
    “Walk slowly now,” said Ray, his hand up in warning as they neared the edge of a clearing surrounded by balsam, spruce, and Norway pine. “Stop right where you are … okay, take a look …”
    Pools of something bright and black caught the light of the lengthening sun: blood, tissue, flies. The bare trunks of three tall pines had served a purpose.
    “This is where it happened, all right,” said Lew.
    “Yes,” said Ray, his voice soft as a prayer, “three people died here … one was like a