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sister to me …”
    Neither Doc nor Lew spoke. There was nothing to say. And Ray was a changed man. Gone was the lighthearted, affable fishing guide of two hours earlier. In his place was a somber, tense figure. A man who looked older than his years.
    Osborne had seen this man before—the night of his initial visit to the room behind the door with the coffeepot on the window. It was the first of many nights that he would listen to Ray tell his story. Over time their friendship flourished and Osborne came to know a side of Ray that few people did: the side that was driven. The side that woke every day determined to substitute water, monofilament, a lure, and the repetitive motion of casting for a more dangerous liquid addiction. An addiction bequeathed by his mother.
    “I was walking over here—following the blood trails and taking photos—when I found the purses,” said Ray as he guided Lew and Osborne along the edges of the clearing. “The killer was standing near that fallen log when the bags were thrown, and the footprints I found at that spot indicate whoever it was wore boots. Boots that left well-defined impressions.
    “You can see for yourself the shine on the ground right there,” he said, pointing. “See where the sole and heel compress the earth? Oh yes, I got close-ups, “he said, answering the question he saw in Lew’s eyes.
    “Be nice if we knew what kind of boots,” she said.
    “Not a hiking boot, I can tell you that,” said Ray. “Most likely a cowboy boot but with a heel that left a distinct pattern. Over here and heading towards the clearing from the direction of the road, you can see tracks of four different pairs of shoes: two with heels, one without plus those boots.
    “Something else that you can’t see from here are long, chute-like impressions, which are hidden under that bank of ferns over there—”
    “Drag marks?” said Lew.
    “Yes. At least one body was dragged back towards the road—but some of the footprints in that direction, which are identical to the ones by the fallen log, are so well defined that I think the person walking was carrying additional weight. The odd thing about the boot prints is that they aren’t any larger than the others—the ones from the shoes the women were wearing.”
    “So … another woman maybe?” said Osborne.
    Ray shrugged, “Could be. So what I see here are the tracks of four people walking towards the clearing—then a separate trail back to the road. That trail indicates weight being dragged or carried by only one person, a person whose footprints are identical to those around the fallen log. Now, I left prints myself when I first got here but I was very careful not to step any closer to those tracks than I had to for the photos—”
    “You’re wearing moccasins, Ray. Bruce will know your prints from the others easily,” said Lew.
    “Right. One more thing—whoever left those boot prints has been here before.”
    Lew gave Ray a long look. “Are you saying the shootings were premeditated?”
    “Well, take a look over here and see what you think,” said Ray, motioning for them to follow him twenty feet to the right of where they had been standing.
    “Even though we haven’t had rain for over a week, the forest canopy overhead protects the ground—allows it to hold moisture while the evergreens block the wind. I was able to find an older set of tracks leading back here, parallel to the paths taken by the three victims and the killer.” Ray motioned for them to halt, then pointed.
    “That trail. Even though I’m just eyeballing it, I’m positive those tracks were made by the same boots that—”
    “Okay, I’ve seen enough,” said Lew. “I better let those Wausau boys know they have to work this site ASAP. No rain in the forecast for tonight, I hope.”
    “Not that I’ve heard,” said Osborne.
    “Poor Bruce,” said Lew with a sigh. “There goes Shania Twain. Even if they tarp the site around the wreck, I doubt they