Free An Owl Too Many by Charlotte MacLeod

they’d gone a quarter of a mile or so. “Thank goodness for that. She ought to be out of the woods by now.”
    “Urrgh!”
    Dr. Svenson could not have stated the position more succinctly. The trackers were in fact near the road by now, they could catch glimpses of asphalt through the trees. More than that, however, they could see directly in front of them a small area of torn-up ferns, scuffed-up leaf mold, broken twigs, and a wisp of bright green cotton knit caught on the thorns of a blackberry vine.
    Winifred was determined not to panic. “She could have stepped on a digger wasps’ nest and got caught in the briers when she tried to run. That happened to me once, and it’s no fun, I can tell you. One can’t help dancing around, which of course is the worst thing to do. See, she’s plunged through the bracken over there.”
    “Carrying a hundred-pound boulder?” said Peter. “Look at the depth of those footprints.”
    “Viola’s a big girl and she’s wearing heavy boots,” Winifred insisted. “Anyway, those prints won’t tell us much, too many pine needles mixed in. They do look rather ominous—look, they go straight to the road. Oh dear.”
    Streaks of black rubber on the asphalt told a story. “She must have been dragged out of the woods and taken away in a car, but why?”
    “Phone,” barked Svenson.
    “Yes, the police. Hurry!”
    Winifred began to run back toward the field station. Peter outstripped her this time, he’d been a miler in his youth and could still cover the ground when he had to.
    Knapweed was alone in the lobby, putting his bedstraw in a flower press; he looked up and started to say something. Peter ignored him and rushed to the telephone. By now he knew the state-police number by heart and the officer at the switchboard recognized his voice.
    “What’s up, Professor Shandy?”
    “I’m at the Balaclava College field station on the Whittington Road. We’re missing a young woman employee named Viola Buddley. About five foot seven, stocky build, weight maybe a hundred and fifty or so, wearing hiking boots, khaki shorts, and a torn green jersey that reads ‘Have you hugged a tree today?’ across the front. Reddish-blond hair and a great many freckles. It appears from the signs we’ve found that she was captured in the woods a short way from the station during the past fifteen minutes or so, and taken away by car. Don’t ask me what car, I haven’t the foggiest idea. We’re guessing that this may have something to do with last night’s murder of Emory Emmerick. He’d been around the field station all last week and she’d gone out with him the night before he was killed. Please notify patrol cars in the area. If I get anything more, I’ll let you know.”
    By the time Peter got off the phone, the president and Winifred had come in. “The state police are putting out an alert,” he told them.
    “Not enough,” barked Svenson. “Shandy, car. Binks, stay.”
    “But I—” she began to protest.
    “Hold fort. Answer the phone. Calthrop, guard.”
    “Yes, sir!”
    The young botanist spoke up manfully, no doubt eager to redeem himself after his rather unfortunate showing with regard to the red squirrel. Peter gave Knapweed an encouraging nod and darted out to his car before Svenson could beat him into the driver’s seat.
    They’d judged from the direction of the tire tracks on the road that the kidnappers’ car, if in fact it was one, had headed away from Lumpkinton toward the neighboring town of Whittington. That road was never well-traveled, Peter remembered miles of nothing but woods. “Let’s try it,” he said, and Svenson agreed.
    They met only a few cars, mooching along at low speeds and carrying only leaf-peepers out to admire what was left of the autumn foliage. There was precious little of that by now, the searchers were able to see a fair way into the woods. It was Svenson who spotted the flash of bright emerald green.
    “Stop!”
    “By George!”
    Peter