The Devil's Teeth (Ravenwood Mysteries #5) Read online

  "It could have been a hunter aiming for a deer," the deputy said. He was a wiry man, who was quick to reach for the gun on his hip.

  Isobel nodded. "A possibility. There's deer track, and droppings over there." She headed back towards the tree line to where she estimated the shot had originated. It took her a few minutes of searching to find two spent cartridges. She handed them to Nash. "See here—the leaves are torn, and spread out."

  "And?" Julius asked.

  Isobel rubbed the back of her neck, gazing down at the spot. "There was a struggle."

  "You don't sound so sure, Miss Amsel," Nash said.

  "I'm not positive. Someone may have simply tripped and fallen here."

  Nash frowned at the copper casings. "John Sheel, the younger of the boys, got a ninety Winchester short for his birthday on Monday. Titus got the magnifying glass. A gift from his mother."

  "Twins?" Isobel asked.

  Nash shook his head. "A year apart. Titus is twelve, John is eleven, but you'd think John was older. He's a big boy. This looks like a twenty-two gauge casing."

  "Not much more than snake shot," the deputy pointed out.

  "Which explains the drops of blood. It's certainly possible they were hunting a deer," Isobel said. "Or someone else was."

  "Do you remember hearing any gunshots?" Nash asked.

  Isobel thought back to the day of her climb. "I did. Five shots. But I hear gunfire every day out here. There's a whole lot of hunters and rowdy miners."

  Nash nodded.

  A mark on a fallen log caught her eye. She brushed the scuff with her fingertips. In her mind, she imagined two boys, one with a rifle and one with a magnifying glass. She planted herself where the cartridges had been found, raised her arms, and mimed aiming at an imagined deer in the meadow. She squeezed the trigger.

  John might have hollered with excitement. A brand new rifle and a first kill. She ran to the fallen log, hopped up beside the scuff mark, and crouched. Searching the ground below.

  "There!"

  Isobel hopped down. A perfect shoe print, where one of the Sheel boys had jumped down and darted after his prey. The impact had been enough to mark the ground.

  "A boy's shoe," she said.

  No one argued. Their gazes were on the distant branch. What had happened in the space between where the rifle was shot and the tree across the meadow?

  Fanning out, the four made slow progress, until they finally converged under a branch. Nash looked thoughtfully at the limb. The Palisades towered over the meadow to one side. Isobel shielded her eyes, spotting the crag she had been blinded on. Gunshots had been fired, but that wasn't uncommon here. She heard their bark on every walk.

  So when had the magnifying glass been tied to the branch? On Tuesday, or was it Wednesday, the day she climbed the Palisades? Had the beam been directed at her by someone, or had the sun's position caught the frame’s reflection and simply thrown it at her?

  Isobel stepped forward to examine a gouge in a nearby tree. She reached for her tickler, but it wasn't there. The weapon had been confiscated for the duration of her sentence. "I need a knife."

  Nash drew his bowie, but instead of handing it over, he nudged her aside with a shoulder. She swallowed down anger as Nash applied the tip to the gouge. A flat bit of lead fell into his palm. "The second bullet missed," he said.

  Isobel moved deeper into the woods, pointing out a bent twig, a torn leaf, and finally another boot print on the bank of a stream. But this wasn't a child's print. It was made by a large, heavy boot—worn down to the nails on the left front toe. Indicative of a scuffing gait.

  Isobel frowned, trying to reconstruct events. There were too many possibilities. Too many unknowns for her to be sure of anything.

  Nash removed his hat and ran his fingers through his sandy hair. "I'll round up a search party."

  Isobel held out her cuffs. "First, unlock these."

  "I don't think so."

  "I can search for more tracks while you get help."

  "I'm not leaving a convicted felon out here," Nash growled.

  "I'm with Doctor Bright."

  "He's no lawmen. You'll come back with us."

  "Are any of you trackers?" she asked.

  "We'll bring a search party. And dogs."

  "You'll trample over what's left of these tracks. Those boys could be in trouble."

  "Don't tell me how to do my job."

  "Watering down the streets?" She instantly regretted the slip.

  Nash grabbed her arm, and pulled her towards the horses.

  "Sheriff Nash," Julius called. "Please put your pride aside for a moment. Miss Amsel has experience with this sort of thing. There's no harm in letting her remain here with me while you get help. She's right, you know. The Sheel boys might be in trouble. Can we really risk a delay?"

  Nash stopped. Isobel resisted the urge to run her knee into his groin. Nash took a breath. "Sharpe. Ride back and round up some willing men."

  The deputy nodded, and darted back to his horse.

  Nash tightened his grip on her arm. "You're not getting rid of me that easy."

  "Bored yet, Doctor?" Isobel asked as they sloshed up a stream. Despite the sheriff's insistence on keeping an eye on her, Nash had moved downstream. He was likely hoping she'd run so he could gun her down.

  "Only concerned."

  "What do you make of the glass being hung from the branch?"

  "Context is always important," the alienist said. "Without any, I can come up with a dozen possibilities. What do you make of it?"

  "It's troubling, especially the blood on it. But I tend to think the worst."

  “Have you always?"

  She glanced at him. "Hardly the time to dig around my brain."

  Julius chuckled, and nearly slipped on a rock. He reached out to catch himself, and froze. "Miss Amsel?"

  She was by his side in an instant. He pointed to a spot on the bank.

  "Good work, Doctor." A twig had been pushed into the mud, and a tuft of grass hung limp. She climbed the bank, and spotted a print. "Sheriff!" Her sharp call echoed in the forest. Without waiting for either man, she followed a sparse trail: a snapped twig, a leaf pressed into the ground, and finally a faint smell that tickled the back of her throat.

  Julius stopped beside her, wheezing. Isobel looked at him in alarm. She did not relish the thought of dragging such a large man back to the asylum for burial.

  "A breathing condition," he explained. "Did you find something?"

  "Can't you smell it?

  Julius shook his head.

  "Wood smoke," she explained.

  Crumbling leaves and snapped branches signaled the sheriff's arrival. With a clink of chain, Isobel put her finger to her lips. She plunged after the faint aroma. Boulders, fallen from the crags overhead, had come to rest against a charred tree. Vines and ferns clung to its sides, nearly covering a hollowed out core. Isobel stuck her head in the dark opening. She smelled sweat and fear, and heard the click of a lever. She ducked back out.

  "We won't hurt you!" she called. And then in a softer voice. "There's a boy with a rifle inside," she said to Nash.

  "John? Titus? It's Sheriff Nash. Put that rifle down, and come on out, boy."

  Sniffling came from inside the tree, then rustling movement, and finally a boy edged into the sunlight. He was covered in grime, and what Isobel suspected was blood—his face swollen with bruises. His knuckles were raw, and the rifle in his hands shook.

  "Why don't we put down that rifle," Julius said, smiling at the boy. "There we are." He plucked it from the boy and started to hand it to Isobel, but Nash grabbed the rifle first.

  "Where's your brother, John?" Nash asked.

  But that was the wrong question. The boy crumpled to the leaves. "He's gone."

  "Where?" Isobel asked.

  The boy gasped for air. "The man… the man got him."

  "What did the man look like?" Nash pressed.

  John flinched at the question.

  J
ulius gave Isobel and Nash a firm look. He carefully placed his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Let's get you some water." Julius led him back to the stream. Nash followed. Momentarily forgotten, Isobel ducked inside the hollow. A ring of stones with glowing embers offered some light. The boy's pack lay on the ground, along with a bedroll and a cooking pot—everything needed for a camping trip. Isobel crouched to pick up a feather. Quail. She searched the edges of the fire pit, and found tiny bones buried in the warm ashes.

  She gathered up John's things, and ducked out to join the others by the stream.

  "There we are. Good as new." Julius had just finished wiping the grime from the boy's face. John’s eye was bruised and swollen, his nose puffy. He had black hair, striking blue eyes, and a spattering of freckles.

  "Do your ribs hurt?" Julius asked.

  "Yes, sir."

  "May I?"

  "No, sir. They hurt."

  "I'd like to see if any of your ribs are broken."

  John shook his head.

  "Lift up your shirt, and let the doctor look at you," Nash ordered.

  Reluctantly, John did so. For an eleven year-old he was tall and well-muscled. An outdoorsman in the making. Julius gently probed his ribs. A purplish bruise decorated his right side.

  "They appear to be intact," Julius said.

  Nash hooked his thumbs beside his belt buckle. "I need to ask you some questions."

  Questions weren't necessary. John offered up a narrative in a rush of words. "The man came. He chased us both, but Titus is slower, and I didn't know… I didn't know he couldn't keep up. I thought he was right behind me."

  "What did the man do?" Nash asked.

  "I told you. He chased us. I don't know where Titus is!"

  "You did what you had to do," Julius soothed. "Did the man grab Titus?"

  John shook his head. "I don't know. Titus was screaming…" The boy choked to a stop.

  Nash put a hand on his revolver, searching the woods. Isobel kept her eyes on the boy.

  "Why didn't you get help?" she asked.

  Julius looked sharply up at her.

  John swallowed. Warmth spread across his face. "I should have went back with my rifle, but I froze. I couldn't move. I just couldn't do it. And I couldn't go back home. My father will say I'm a coward."

  This was too much. Although John made a mighty effort to hold them back, tears came. And a single, choking gasp. Julius handed over a handkerchief, and patted the boy's shoulder as they waited for the storm to pass.

  "One more thing," Nash said. "Did you get a good look at the man?"

  John nodded, wiping his nose on a sleeve. "A tall Chileno with big shoulders—one was higher than the other. And one side of his face looked funny… droopy like."

  Julius gave a start of surprise, and Isobel arched a brow. It was Nash who voiced their realization. "Samuel Lopez." Isobel's messenger.

  13

  The Limping Man

  "Samuel isn't violent," Julius insisted.

  Nash grunted. "He was chasing those boys, Doctor. Sounds violent to me. Should I dismiss John's story?"

  Julius grabbed the saddle horn to center himself as he slid from one side to the next. "I'm not suggesting that. But the man who chased those boys might not be Samuel. Surely there are other men who fit the description?"

  "A droopy-faced Chileno fellow?" Nash asked.

  "There's an entire mine of workers only miles from here," Julius pointed out.

  "Maybe so, but Samuel Lopez is a damn good place to start. Sounds to me like you're trying to protect him."

  "I… no," Julius said. "Just be gentle. He's easily startled."

  "As gentle as he was with those boys?" Nash spurred his horse into a run.

  Isobel was following quietly. If she said a word, the sheriff would realize she had come despite being told to stay behind. They had left John in the care of the Bright Waters nursing staff, and sent a nurse to fetch his mother. What would it be like? Realizing your child had been missing for days? Isobel thought of Sarah—to those long days when she and Riot hadn't known the girl's fate. She hoped to never feel that way again.

  Samuel Lopez lived in a little shack along the road to Calistoga. It was miles from where John had been discovered. And even farther from where the Sheels lived. It seemed odd that Samuel would have been walking in the shadow of the Palisades, but then what did Isobel know of the man?

  She eyed the hobbled-together shack. Scavenged from rotting lumber, tarps, and an old rowboat. Sheriff Nash and Deputy Sharpe dismounted, guns drawn. Nash nodded to his deputy, and both men charged the flimsy door. A swift kick knocked it off its hinges.

  Primal shrieks shattered the peace of the valley. Alarmed, Julius tried to dismount quickly, but nearly fell from his saddle. Isobel hopped down to assist the alienist.

  A minute later, Sheriff Nash dragged out a terrified man. Tears streaked through the blood on Samuel's face.

  "Where's the boy?" Nash growled, giving Samuel's collar a shake.

  "Sheriff, please, there's no need for this!" Julius begged.

  But Isobel barely heard the words. Every muscle in her body went rigid. Her nostrils flared at the scent that permeated the little homestead: sickly sweet rot. There was only one thing that caused that smell. Death. She plunged into the shack. A small fire in the pot-bellied stove lit the single room, illuminating a basket covered by a blood-stained blanket. Steeling herself, she twitched the blanket aside.

  "Sheriff!" Isobel called.

  Voices cut off, and Nash stepped back inside. "It's his dog, Bebé. She's dead." A wail from outside emphasized her words. "There's no boy in here."

  There was nowhere to hide. The single room was surprisingly neat. A bed of old grain sacks was dressed with a tattered quilt that had seen better years. But Samuel Lopez had smoothed the creases and tucked the corners like any good child.

  "Doesn't mean he didn't do something to that boy," Nash murmured. He went back outside, and resumed his questioning. She could hear their words through the flimsy walls.

  "Did you see a pair of boys, Samuel? You chased them didn't you?"

  The questions were answered with a long, frightened wail.

  "Sheriff Nash, please," Julius said. "He has the mind of a child. Let me question him."

  "Leave those cuffs on. Sharpe, check the outhouse and that shed over there."

  Isobel crouched to examine the dead dog. It was stiff as a board, curled into a ball. A bandage was wrapped around its side, tied with a square knot. A red stain on the linen. A fresh bowl of water and food had been placed near the dog's bed.

  Nash marched back into the shack.

  Ignoring Nash's haphazard search, Isobel parted the dog's matted fur, and poked her finger into cold flesh. "This dog was shot," she said without turning.

  "I don't give a damn about the dog." Nash upended the bed of sacks, dumping the quilt on the planks. He held up a pair of boots. "But I reckon this will match that footprint. Look." She did. Old boots with bad soles, worn down to the nails on the left side. The foot that Samuel Lopez tended to drag when he walked.

  "No, no, no!" The word grew in strength until Samuel was screaming them. He came crashing into the shed, hands in cuffs. Samuel fell to his knees beside Bebé, knocking Isobel out of the way. His hands gently stroked the fur, and he picked up the water bowl, holding it in front of the dead animal. Samuel Lopez either didn't realize his dog was dead, or he refused to believe it.

  Sheriff Nash grabbed his arm, wrenching him back to his feet. Shocked, Samuel lost his grip on the bowl, and the clay shattered. Samuel made a mournful sound from deep in his throat, and tried to bend down to clean up the mess, but Nash wrenched him up again.

  "You're under arrest, Samuel Lopez. I'm taking you in for questioning." He shook the boots in front of the man.

  Samuel shook his head violently, repeating No like a mantra, as he struggled against Nash's hold.

  "Feed Bebé." The words came out in a stutter and slur, and Isobel had to con
centrate to make sense of them.

  "Sheriff, could you release Samuel for a moment?" Isobel asked. She wanted to test a theory.

  Nash ignored her, and shook Samuel again. But intimidation only made Samuel incoherent. Urine leaked down his trousers.

  Annoyance flared. "Your dog is dead," Nash growled in Samuel's face.

  The aggression flipped a trigger in Samuel. He flew into a howling rage. Sharpe and Nash had to wrestle him to the ground, and drag him back out of the shack. She followed them out to find Julius dusting off his trousers.

  "Samuel," Isobel said, moving into his line of sight. Samuel stopped struggling, and looked at her. "I'll feed Bebé. All right?" She placed a hand on his shoulder, and he squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming from his one good eye.

  The sheriff and deputy cinched Samuel to a short lead, and wrapped the end around a saddle horn. "Bring those boots," Nash instructed Sharpe.

  Julius grabbed Nash's bridle. "I have a secure room for him at Bright Waters. You can question him there."

  Nash shook his head as he mounted. "He'll rot in my jail until he tells me where that boy is."

  "He'd never hurt those children," Julius said with conviction.

  Isobel wasn't so sure. Samuel had easily overpowered Julius, and knocked her flat. He might have the mind of a child, but he had the body of a man.

  Nash clucked his horse forward. Samuel was dragged along the dirt road until he got his feet under him, then staggered behind the sheriff's horse.

  Isobel turned from the sight, focusing her mind. She walked to a crude lean-to that sheltered a wood pile. Trinkets hung from the top support: a glass bottle, a rusty cow bell, corks, and crudely carved figures—all tied with twine in a neat bow.

  Julius cradled a little carved man in the palm of his hand. "Sammy was half-starved when I first opened Bright Waters. He was one of my first patients." The words were quiet. "I taught him how to tie these bows." Julius closed his fingers over the figure. "It took a long while, but he finally got it. He was so proud of himself."

  "Can he tie other knots?"

  "What?"