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"No. He tells the fisherman that he's fine. He just came in to 'take a piss.' Those words. The fisherman is a die-hard evangelical and wanted to hear no more of--I quote--'that kind of filthy language.'"
"He sounds like a barrel of laughs."
Ski stopped to retrieve his flashlight from the crotch of a tree where he'd left it. He clicked it on and turned to check on Dodge, who'd been keeping up, but barely. The older man was huffing. "Are you all right?"
"I've got on city shoes."
His shoes weren't to blame for his wheezing like a malfunctioning bagpipe. "You need to lose the cigarettes."
"Walk."
Ski directed the beam of light to the ground, which made the trekking much easier. "The fisherman went on his way and didn't think any more about it."
"Not even when he heard there'd been a shooting in the vicinity around that time of night?"
"He was out on the lake all day. Didn't learn about the incident until he got home this afternoon,
and by then we were contacting him."
"Did he describe the guy?"
"He got a fairly good look because there's a light above the restroom door. Oren Starks's general height, weight, and age. Receding hairline. The guy was wearing khaki slacks and a dark golf shirt. Ms. Malone said Starks had on khaki slacks and a navy golf shirt."
"No one coached the fisherman? He hadn't heard that description on TV or from his wife when he got home from his fishing trip?"
"He says no, and I don't think this guy would lie."
Dodge hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat. "Fuck no. Not if he takes exception to the word piss."
Ski chuckled. "Plus, I showed him a faxed photo of Starks that I got from the marketing firm's employment records. Fisherman said he was ninety-five percent sure that was the guy."
"Not one hundred?"
"On account of it was dark and he was twenty or so yards away." Ski motioned forward. "It's just ahead."
The flashlight beam picked up the yellow tape that had been strung around a small area that appeared to be the cul-de-sac of an overgrown track. "My guess," Ski said, "is that when the house was being built, the construction crew pulled some of their vehicles off the road and parked them in here where it was shady, and to keep from cluttering up the area in front of the house.
"When the house was completed, the track and clearing became overgrown with disuse." He shone the light down on the tire tracks in the dirt. "Fresh. And they weren't made by heavy equipment. I discovered them just after daylight this morning, got a man out here pronto. He's no expert, mind you, but he made a pretty good cast."
"Lucky it didn't rain last night."
Ski nodded. "I'm rushing up the match, but I'm betting the tires will be standard-issue Toyota."
"Find anything besides the tracks?"
"Scuffed footprints." Ski shone the light onto the ground. "Unfortunately, nothing we could imprint."
"Candy wrapper, bottle cap, piece of cloth?"
"Nope. I've combed the area twice myself and had two other deputies do the same. Nothing. But, if you know what to look for, Starks left a clear trail to the house."
He showed Dodge a skinny branch that had recently been broken and was hanging limply from the trunk of the tree, also a patch of grass that had been trampled on. "Ms. Malone said he was no outdoorsman."
Dodge studied several broken limbs that Ski spotlighted. "He doesn't have your pathfinder skills, that's for sure."
The older man was thoughtfully gnawing the inside of his cheek, indicating to Ski there was more on his mind. He asked, "What are you thinking?"
"Why'd he stop at the bait shop and go to the men's room, risk being seen?"
