The Girl In The Woods

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The Girl In The Woods - book excerpt

Chapter One

How can heaven and hell be so close to each other?

A gray squirrel heralded the dawn of a glorious day with incessant chatter. It could not have been more wrong.

The hunter strained to get an unobstructed view of his prey.

One more step! C’mon! Just one more step!

The hunter’s pounding heart shattered any hope of keeping the cross-hairs steady on his target. The onerous task stood in stark contrast with the natural beauty of his surroundings. Sweat poured from his forehead despite the chill in the air. His finger gently squeezed the trigger slowly and carefully, preventing him from jerking the rifle. The explosion of the cartridge startled him.

The crash of the body and subsequent thrashing disturbed the serenity of the forest as the prey fell immediately to the ground. The hunter tip-toed over to the fallen figure in the leaves, knowing he had made a perfect shot that would cause the termination of life. He stopped about two feet from her with a self-satisfied smile of a job well done. He did not want her to suffer an agonizing death.

The hunter had watched the morning sunrise over the horizon on this crisp November morning in the National Forest in south Mississippi a few hours earlier. He realized this was one of the purest and most fulfilling pleasures in life. The bright orb glistened off of the dew-laden leaves in the early fall as the woods came to life. It wasn’t long before the squirrels were busily gathering up the fallen white oak acorns, scurrying across the forest floor for these prized possessions. The hunter had learned what the animals instinctively knew; the white oak acorns were larger and much sweeter than the acorns from the other oak trees, such as the live oak, red oak or pin oak. In the rites as old as nature itself, mating time abounded in the animal kingdom, and the males of the species chasing the females. The old male squirrels were hard pressed to keep up with their younger counterparts as the young females made life difficult for all of them by performing the most acrobatic of leaps from tree to tree seemingly effortlessly. A grin crossed the hunter’s lips.

If only I had those kinds of hops. I’d be the best basketball player ever!

A tom turkey gobbled on the other side of the creek bed, probably spotting an owl or maybe just showing off for one of the many hens in the area even though the primary mating season in spring had long since been over. The hunter imagined the strutting bird spreading his enormous tail feathers and fluffing up his body until he presented an image twice as big as normal. The purr from a hen affirmed nature once again would provide the resources for the future of the species when the two of them would get together. The old Tom wouldn’t stop with just one hen, however. His drive, embedded in him by nature itself, would force him to mate with as many hens as he could in the short breeding seasons available to them.

The hunter smiled at the simplicity of the wild.

Why did humans make it so difficult to perform the same tasks of life; gathering enough to eat, finding a place to sleep and perpetuating the species?

He knew the basics of life were not enough to satisfy the human spirit. More impressive tools and toys drove mankind throughout their lives only to leave them behind. In fact, that is precisely why he was out in the woods on this gorgeous morning. The complexity of the human spirit drove mortal men to do more than just survive.

He watched the little whitetail doe stop at the creek for her first drink of the morning or more than likely her last drink of the night since she normally would have fed all night and now was seeking a thicket to lie down for the day. To the hunter, the symmetry and grace of the whitetail deer set them apart from the rest of the entire animal kingdom and made them one of the most sought after game animals in the world. While he spent only a modest amount on the sport, he knew of the billions of dollars spent each year by the hunting industry in the pursuit the elusive whitetail deer, only for most hunters holding a deer tag to come up empty-handed. When the little doe turned sideways to feed her way back up the oak flat on the other side of the creek bed, the hunter slowly raised his rifle and focused the telescope right behind her front shoulder. He knew the heart and lungs were the vital organs to pierce and by doing so would limit the distance the doe could run after being hit. Looking through his scope, he could discern the intricate details of the deer’s body and marveled that nature could manufacture such a graceful creature right here in south Mississippi.

Bang! You’re dead! But not this morning!

He lowered his rifle, knowing before he had taken aim this was not the prey he was after this morning. The little doe slowly meandered right and left up the other side of the creek, munching on the few white oak acorns the squirrels had not already stashed in their winter dens. The doe was old enough to know that the first hard frost would turn the sweetest of the acorns bitter to the taste, and she would then feed in the open food plots the hunters had constructed around the edges of the forest. A much more dangerous prospect than reaping the nutritious bounty provided by nature. She had been fortunate so far because most of the hunters in this area did not readily discriminate between harvesting the bucks and the does. This hunter, as most other hunters in the South, loved venison. For most of them, the tender sweet tasting flavor of the does was preferable to the testosterone-laden meat of the old bucks.

The hunter leaned back against the enormous beech tree, dressed in blending camouflaged hunting clothes. The old beech tree was hollow, which made it available as home to a whole nest of cat squirrels with their cotton-white underbellies and the equally white flashes on their long tails that flashed as they quickly maneuvered through the forest tops.

A squirrel came out of the hollow tree and descended directly down the immense trunk above the hunter’s head. When the squirrel reached a spot three feet above the hunter, it stopped and tried to figure out what this big blob was at the foot of his tree. He wildly chattered in the unique high-pitched voice of his kind, setting off alarms throughout the immediate vicinity. As he raced back up the beech tree, the woods became alive with birds chirping and squirrels chattering. Each knew a danger lurked, though none knew what the danger was or how close it was. The hunter chuckled as he witnessed the effectiveness of nature’s Neighborhood Watch program.

It doesn’t require meetings with a quorum of members of the community once a month to set up the rules and assign the tasks. There is no budget and no disagreements on scheduling.

The hunter didn’t budge and waited for the forest to settle down. After only a few minutes, life returned to normal, and he slowly turned his head from side to side, waiting for the singular prey that would fulfill his plans. A big Whitetail buck stepped into the small opening around the beech tree, hastily gobbling down acorns and beech nuts as he fidgeted down the same path that hundreds of his ancestors had in previous decades. The hunter had once heard a whitetail buck described as a mere bundle of nerves wrapped in skin. He believed it because he knew they had to be afraid of everything that moved just to stay alive. The quick jerks of the buck’s head verified its concern that the forest was full of predators dependent on the death of the whitetail deer to sustain their own species. The whitetail had to be smarter or faster than the best of these predators just to survive. This deer was a mature buck, estimated by the hunter to be three and one-half years old and weighing well over two hundred pounds. His rack, riding tall on his head, sported four tips on each side, making him an eight pointer in the local vernacular. Sweat broke out on the hunter’s forehead, for this magnificent animal was truly a prized trophy, especially for hunters limited to pursuing their game on public land.

The hunter again slowly raised his rifle and focused on the hairs right behind the front shoulder.

Bang! You’re dead! But not this morning!

The temptation to squeeze the trigger was overwhelming, but the hunter knew this big buck, as beautiful as he was, did not fill the requirements of today’s hunt. He reluctantly lowered his rifle and watched in genuine admiration as the buck vanished as quickly as he had appeared. The hunter had deep doubts as the white flickers of the buck’s tail became indistinguishable among the brambles and the briars surrounding the small opening in the woods. He stared in the direction the buck had disappeared for several minutes after all traces of the deer were absent.

Still very early in the morning, the hunter determined to be patient in his quest for the day’s perfect trophy. As the morning passed, the sun warmed the forest floor and an overwhelming dreariness overcame the hunter, unaccustomed to getting up so early in his everyday routine. As he leaned against the big beech tree, his eyelids became heavy and had trouble staying open. He nodded off despite his best efforts to stay alert. Before long, he was fast asleep dreaming about all the good things in his life.

A snapped branch brought him wide awake in an instant; his bleary eyes struggling to focus on the source of the sound. Another branch broke, and he knew the intended prey wasn’t far away. He brought the rifle to his shoulder and slowly turned in direction of the sound. As soon as the figure filled the scope, his heart rate jumped and his breathing became erratic. Although he could only see the outline of his intended target, he knew he could not afford to pass up this opportunity. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled; his aim through the scope becoming much steadier as the air escaped his lungs.

One more step. C’mon! Just one more step!

The explosion from the rifle barrel violated the serenity of the morning.

The hunter's shaky knees threatened to give as he stood over his prey. The body of nineteen-year-old Rachel Chastain twitched uncontrollably at his feet, her big hazel eyes searching out his.

She mouthed the question, “Why?” as her very lifeblood oozed from the exit wound into the moist dirt beneath her.

He did not answer, but knelt down beside her and stroked her long brown hair as the final seconds of her being slowly faded into the black oblivion of the afterlife. Those bright hazel eyes that had brought delight and joy to so many during her short time in this world clouded over and closed for the last time.

How can heaven and hell be so close to each other? 

Chapter Two

Life is but a vapor.

Sam Cates, the petite Sheriff of Evergreen County, drove her patrol car amid the growing number of hunters alongside the gravel road in the National Forest. She strode to the pickup truck containing the small body of Rachel Chastain in its bed. The men, almost all of them wearing camouflage with orange hats or vests, parted ways for the petite sheriff as she neared, allowing her immediate access without having to shove her way to get near. Sam instantly recognized Rachel even in this cold, lifeless form. Rachel was a little younger than Sam’s sister, Connie, and attended the same small Baptist church in Evergreen. She saw Luke, Rachel’s father, being consoled by some of his fellow hunters at the other end of the procession of trucks. He could not look at the body of his precious daughter lying in the pickup like a sack of potatoes as he sobbed uncontrollably.

Sam looked at Pete Jenkins standing beside the truck.

“I don’t know how Luke can cope with this. Knowing someone shot your daughter, and she is lying unceremoniously in the back of a pickup truck in the middle of the National Forest is something no parent should have to endure.”

Pete only nodded.

Sam reminded herself to go to him and express her sorrow after she questioned the hunters out of his earshot. Sam’s stomach roiled and nausea swept through her body from being so close to someone she had known who had been so vibrantly living just a few short hours ago.

How fleeting is life? Had she heard this at one of the many sermons she and Rachel had listened to together, or was it something she had read in the Bible in one of the many Sunday School studies her Dad had forced her to attend?

She could not remember, and it really mattered little. The internal turmoil did not help her outward disposition, and she was brusque when questioning the other hunters.

“How long ago did you find her?”

Sam stared at Rachel's body while asking the question.

“About thirty minutes ago, Sam,” Pete answered after spitting a wad of chewing tobacco in the ditch.

“Was she dead when you found her, Pete?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Shot deader than a door-nail.

Pete shoved another wad of tobacco in his mouth without thinking. The tobacco seemed to calm his nerves.

Sam glanced up to make sure Luke was still too far away to hear the conversation.

“So why did you move her?”

Nobody said anything.

Sam glared at the men standing around the truck.

“You may have messed up the crime scene and destroyed valuable evidence.”

Sam slammed her fist against the truck bed.

Pete shuffled his feet nervously. He stammered, but had to shift the tobacco in his mouth.

“We didn’t want to—the flies and the ants would have got on her and then Luke might have found her covered up with insects, Sam.”

Sam could understand the well-meaning but misdirected intentions of the men who found her.

“Who found her?”

Pete stammered, stuttered, and kicked the dirt with his boot. He had always found Sam to be so easy to talk to in the past, but the thick tension in the air made it almost impossible.

“I did, Sam. Least-ways me and Bob did.”

His chin jutted out toward the hapless man standing next to him, as if this revelation would spread the blame a little for moving the body.

Just as Sam examined the body a little closer, a green Ford truck with the caricature of a huge whitetail on its frame pulled up and Wade Dalton jumped out and raced to Sam’s side. Wade was an ex-FBI agent and was now operating a commercial hunting ranch in Evergreen. He was Sam’s fiancé and her confidant when she most needed one. He had worked with her on the only other murder case she had ever investigated in Evergreen without her dad’s help, one of victims in that case also being a young girl.

And Sam desperately needed help. 

Three

Even the lowest measure of common sense is lost on most people in a time of crisis.

“Are you doing okay, Sam?” Wade hugged her. “Where can I help?”

She looked at him with wide eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening again in Evergreen. Thanks for coming.”

“You know you can always call me, Sam.”

He released his hug.

Sam nodded her head and almost imperceptibly stepped even closer to Wade, seeking his protection once more.

“I don’t think we’ll find much evidence here.”

Sam pointed towards a thick stand of trees.

“They found Rachel shot in the woods and carried her out to the road.”

Wade shook his head. “They really didn’t do that, did they?”

“I’m afraid so.” She stared at Rachel's body.

“They don’t get it, do they?” Wade rubbed his temples.

He understood that the local hunters knew little of the disciplines of detective work or modern forensics and did what their instincts drove them to do. He looked around at the couple of dozen hunters and guessed about half of them had already visited the crime scene looking for clues leading them to the identity of the shooter.

Wade immediately took control from Sam of this tragic situation, even though he was no longer officially in law enforcement.

He was careful to keep his voice low enough so Luke could not hear.

“All right, guys. Can you guys move in here a little closer so you can hear me? Not you guys with Luke, but the rest. Thanks. Now, how many of you have gone back there in the woods to where they found the body?”

Four hands went in the air, but the rustling of the small crowd told Wade that some of them were probably not being forthright.

“Okay, here’s how it'll be. I’m going there to rope off the area. We’re gonna bring in a team of detectives and take a mold of every boot print back there. If your boot print shows up and you tell me you haven’t been back to the scene of the shooting, then I’ll consider you a suspect in the shooting. Do you understand?”

The crowd of men murmured, looking around at each other. Most reluctantly nodded.

“Now, how many of you have been back in those woods?”

Almost every hand went in the air. Wade groaned. The chance of finding the boot print of the shooter just went from difficult to almost impossible.

“How many of you urinated, uh, took a piss back there?”

Two hands inched toward the sky.

“Okay, all of you that went into the woods; take off your boots and put them in the back of my truck. You’ll be able to pick them up in a few days at the Sheriff’s office. Anybody that took a piss close to the body needs to let me or Sam know. We’ll need samples of your DNA.”

Wade watched as the men undid shoe strings and laces and ambled to Wade’s truck and tossed their boots in the bed.

“Hold on, guys. How am I supposed to know which boots belong to whom? Take a piece of masking tape from the cab of my truck, write your name on it, and attach it to your boots. Pete, you make sure everybody puts their name on their own boots.”

Wade shook his head again as the grumbling men retrieved their boots from the bed of his truck and began the search for the masking tape. He moved back beside Sam.

“Even the lowest measure of common sense is lost on most people in a time of crisis.”

Sam looked at the crowd of hunters and nodded.

Wade looked in the truck bed.

“We might as well send her to the morgue in the back of the truck instead of waiting on the ambulance to get out here. Baking out here in the sun won’t do her or her father any good. We’ll get what evidence we can off the body back at the morgue.”

Sam nodded. “I’ll get Pete to take her in and let Luke ride with them.”

Sam squirmed through the hunters to reach Luke and explained what they had decided and expressed her condolences. She put her hand on his shoulder and gave him a brief hug, feeling inadequate trying to console a father who had just lost a daughter in such a violent manner.

As Pete’s truck pulled out with the body, the other trucks lined up behind him in a processional that mirrored a funeral. The events of the morning deeply affected all the men, some more than others. The most macho of these strong-willed hunters cried. With the trucks gone, Sam and Wade stood by themselves in the middle of the gravel road, each lost in private thoughts.

Finally, Wade broke the silence.

“Did they find anything at all traipsing around in the woods?”

Sam pulled out a small clear evidence bag containing some long strands of brown hair mixed with several pieces of pocket lint.

“One guy found these next to the body, but I think almost every one of them had to look. So they passed them around, and then Joe put 'em in his pocket to save for me.”

Wade’s gaze shifted down to the ground, and he shook his head in wonder.

“I think those guys should get together and collaborate on a book together: How to Screw up a Crime Scene in Ten Easy Steps!”

Sam grinned, and a little of the pent-up tension left her body. She had not realized just how tight her muscle tissues had become since getting the unexpected and unwanted phone call an hour ago. But now, Wade was here to help her.

“Or ‘Crime Scenes for Dummies’. That should be a best seller in New York,” she responded.

“Let’s go see where she was shot. Maybe, just maybe, they left something of value behind.”