Free A Killing Tide by P. J. Alderman Page B

she have before Chapman showed the photos to Lucy, who'd have no trouble identifying that blurred image? Or before he asked Lucy about the space heater, which she knew that Gary regularly stored in his truck and used in the wheelhouse on long drag-fishing trips?
    An hour, maybe two.
    Picking up Chapman's glass, Kaz downed the other half of the protein shake. She could use the boost, and right now, a few metal shavings were the least of her worries.

    ~~~~

    Chapter 6

    After stopping for gas, Kaz drove west on Marine Drive, then veered off along the north shore of Young's Bay. The tide was out, exposing deeply carved, milk chocolate-tinted ridges of mud at the bay's edge. Tufts of bright green grass and burnt-orange reeds topped each ridge, and where water had drained away, silvery lines etched the shiny surface of the mud. The lines deepened into gullies that eventually dumped into the section of the bay where calm water could still be found, reflecting the gray sky above. As Kaz drove, she spotted at least a dozen great blue herons wading in the shallows. Eagles, plentiful in the winter months, fished from the ends of old logs and rotted piers.
    She kept an eye on her rearview mirror, hoping to spot anyone tailing her. A mile back, she could've sworn she'd glimpsed Clint Jackson in a patrol car. All Gary needed, at this point, was for her to lead the cops right to him. There was no one behind her now, though.
    Chapman remained her biggest worry. She thought she'd lost him, but maybe not. She could kick herself for not noticing what make and model of car he drove.
    Crossing the Wallooskee River, she drove through farm country until the highway started winding into the foothills toward its ultimate destination, the old logging town of Mist. After another ten minutes, she came to the Elk Preserve.
    People who wanted a lot of privacy and very few visitors had homes near the preserve, well hidden in the forest. The foothills of the Coast Range had been logged at least twice in the last century, and some of the more recently clear-cut areas resembled pastures full of nothing but dead stumps—stump farms, the locals called them. The older cuts, which had happened before logging companies had been obliged to replant, had grown stands of mixed, native forest as nature had intended.
    Chuck Branson had eighty acres of older forest, up a now-defunct logging road on the southeast edge of the preserve. He'd moved out there after Desert Storm, buying the land out of the money he'd earned fishing in Alaska. For the first two years, he'd lived in an army tent while he, Gary, and Ken had built his cabin from the trees on his land. The sign at the entrance to his property read, if i don't know you, you shouldn't be here .
    He meant it.
    His gate was chained shut with the kind of padlock that would take C-4 to breach, so Kaz parked her SUV in front of it and climbed over.
    The woods glistened in the morning light, and a tiny winter wren warbled shrilly from a nearby bush. Up ahead, a doe and her yearling browsed. As Kaz passed by, they watched curiously but didn't bolt into the brush.
    Sounds traveled oddly in the woods, muffled on level ground, yet amplified up ravines through the trees and underbrush. From his front porch, Chuck could hear a twig snap a thousand feet away. He wasn't fond of surprises—it hadn't been serendipity that had led him to build his cabin at the top of the ravine. And he had, Kaz was certain, been tracking her since she'd crossed onto his property.
    Although she hadn't heard him, the hairs on the back of her neck had already been standing up when Chuck suddenly materialized beside her, halting her before she was even halfway to his cabin.
    His Chicago Cubs sweatshirt had seen better days, and was matched by worn, baggy army fatigues and battered combat boots. In his left hand, he balanced the gleaming stock of a shotgun so that its barrel leaned against his shoulder. Chuck had always had chiseled, blunt features,