Free The Dying Hour by Rick Mofina

whoop-wail-cry. Unease shivered through Hanna and she pictured her husband’s Winchester rifle locked in the cabinet in her living room, wishing she’d brought it.
    “Let’s go.”
    The dog was spooked and wanted Hanna to confront whatever was over the butte and down by the creek. Hanna looked around and considered it, thinking this was silly. In all her days living her life on her property, Hanna had feared nothing. She turned off the truck. The day was so peaceful.
    “All right, I’ll look, then I’m picking you up.”
    The cab squeaked as she stepped from it. A pair of larks flitted by as Hanna ascended the small rise, followed by Cody. As she climbed the hilltop, she noted the wildflowers, the candleweed, Gray ball sage, Jim Hill mustard, and rip-gut. She could hear the water rushing below, saw the sun shimmering off the waves, drawing her to the object by the grassy bank some forty yards away.
    What a mess.
    That was her first thought.
    Garbage spread all over, some even piled in a heap, as if in defiance of respect for a person’s private property. Heading to the site, Hanna decided that she would go to the sheriff and give him an earful about how these young hoods were out of control. As Hanna got nearer, her pulse quickened and her anger evaporated.
    What is that?
    For a few seconds she was confused, blinking to adjust her understanding, then her jaw fell open.
    Oh, sweet son of Mary, this can’t be!

17
----
    A n hour out of Seattle, Jason Wade watched the trees blurring by his window as news photographer Nathan Hodge pushed his Cherokee well over the limit east on I-90.
    Destination: somewhere in the Rattlesnake Hills.
    A radio station in Richland, on its noon broadcast, was first to report the discovery of a woman’s body in a remote coulee near Whitstram. The Associated Press moved the story on the wire and soon every news organization in the Pacific Northwest had it and was speculating on whether it was Karen Harding.
    When it reached the Mirror, Ron Nestor called Jason’s cell phone.
    “Where are you?”
    “Supermarket.”
    “A woman’s body’s been found in Benton County. Get in here, hook up with Nate Hodge, and get your asses out there.”
    “Is it Karen Harding?”
    “That’s what you have to find out. Get as much as you can. File ASAP.”
    This was Jason’s shot. A major breaking story.
    * * *
    His stomach lifted when Hodge braked hard coming up too fast on a slow-moving van as they entered the Snoqualmie Pass. In winter this was avalanche country. The Wenatchee Mountains rose in the east. Southwest, the highway threaded along the Snoqualmie National Forest with its alpine slopes and peaks shrouded by glaciers.
    Hodge was hard to read. Bald under his Seahawks cap, the brim down low over his dark aviator glasses, he had been shooting news for some twenty years. When Jason climbed into the Cherokee, Hodge made it clear that he had no time to babysit interns. He also made it clear that Jason must never track mud into his Jeep.
    As they drove, Jason fired up his laptop and scrolled to the contact list he’d dumped into it. He called Benton County for an update.
    “You want Lieutenant Buchanan, but he’s at the scene.” The secretary recited his cell phone number. It rang through to Buchanan’s voice mail. Jason left a message, then searched the landscape, wondering if Karen Harding had been murdered out here.
    Around Ellensburg, they got on I-82.
    “We’re going to hit a fast food place in Yakima,” Hodge said. “Use the washroom. It’s going to be a long, long day.”
    After a pit stop at a Burger King, they got back on the road and were coming up on Outlook when Jason’s phone rang.
    “Lieutenant Buchanan, Benton County Detective Division.”
    He scrambled for his pen and notebook, opening it to a clean page.
    “Thanks for getting back to me. Lieutenant—”
    Hodge interrupted Jason to ensure that he got directions to the scene. Jason noted it before continuing. “Lieutenant,