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CHAPTERONE
Achill ran down Police Chief Sam Mason’s spine as he took in the grim scene before him. Amidst the towering trees of the owl sanctuary, a woman lay sprawled on the ground, her face obscured by a curtain of blond hair. Next to her, the lifeless body of a tiny owl, its white feathers ruffling in the breeze, tugged at Sam’s heartstrings.
The hush of the forest felt heavier, the usual ambient rustle of leaves and chirping of distant birds eerily absent. The only sounds piercing the quiet were the restless sniffing of his K-9, Lucy, and Beryl Thorne’s intermittent nose blowing.
His second in command, Jo Harris, methodically documented the scene. With phone camera in hand and razor-sharp focus, she made a record of the crime scene.
“Did you see anyone leaving?” Sam’s voice cut through the silence, his eyes meeting Beryl’s. Always a little too close for comfort, Beryl stood near him, her red-rimmed eyes peering out from a crumpled tissue.
“No.” Beryl sniffled. “I came to photograph the owls, like I usually do, and then… I found her.” She leaned into Sam, her sobs soaking the fabric of his uniform. Sam caught Jo’s gaze over Beryl’s trembling form. Jo rolled her eyes. Lucy let out a low woof as if agreeing with Jo’s eye roll.
“Beryl,” Sam said, gently extricating himself from her grasp. “You can head home. We may need more from you later, so be ready.”
“Thanks.” Beryl managed a half smile, her doe-like eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She turned and left, her body trembling slightly. The vulnerability in her posture tugged at Sam, but an instinctive caution held him back. He watched her leave, a familiar unease niggling at his conscience.
His gaze flicked back to the crime scene, but his mind drifted to Beryl’s notorious husband. Lucas Thorne, the underhanded swindler and suspected drug dealer, had been a literal thorn in his side for years. It was Beryl’s evidence that had finally put the man behind bars, yet her eagerness to betray her own husband raised more questions than it answered. It was true that she did come to photograph the owls often, but Sam still got a feeling that might not be the whole story.
Sam shook off the thoughts. He needed to focus on the scene in front of him.
“Sam.” Jo motioned him over. She was crouching by the victim, her fingers lightly brushing away some debris from the woman’s hair. Jo’s sharp green eyes were narrowed in concentration.
“Look at this.” She gestured at the victim’s matted hair, revealing bits of bark embedded in the blond strands. “She didn’t fall here accidentally. She was hit with that log.” Jo pointed at a hefty piece of wood nearby, its rough bark mirroring the fragments in the victim’s hair. “Must have been hit hard, too, to fall so hard onto that jagged rock.”
Jo moved to a patch of mud near the log, her eyes catching a peculiar pattern. She knelt down, her fingers hovering over the impressions in the soft soil.
“Sam, look at these footprints,” she said, her voice laced with intrigue. “The edges have tread, but the middle is smooth. Maybe someone with an odd gait. I’ve never seen wear like this.”
Sam peered over her shoulder. There were three larger prints mixed among some partials of smaller ones. “Me either.”
He turned to take in the scene. The soil underneath the leaves on the ground was muddy. Because of the layer of leaves, there weren’t too many footprints. He could see Beryl’s near the body and a few where she had been standing. The other smaller ones had probably been made by the victim.
The leaves partially covered up another thing, the gun which lay near the body. “There’s the gun,” Sam pointed out.
Jo snapped a few pictures. “What kind of killer leaves the gun?”
“Good question.” Sam dialed the medical examiner as Jo continued to survey the crime scene, her eyes darting between the lifeless woman and the fallen owl. The sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor. A soft breeze rustled the leaves overhead. It would have been almost pleasant if not for the circumstances.
“Look at this.” Jo lifted the owl’s wing carefully.
Sam looked down to see a bullet hole right in the poor bird’s chest, out near the wing. His gaze was riveted to the body. No bullet holes, at least not that he could see. “We should call John. I need to get a better look to see if our victim was shot too.”
Jo looked disgusted. “Who would shoot an innocent owl?”
Sam gestured to the body. “Same person that would murder, I guess.” Sam’s gaze swept the area. “I don’t see the bullet though.”
“Maybe we can get Wyatt out with a metal detector.”
“Good idea. Let’s be careful not to disturb those footprints. We can take a cast of them.”
Sam turned his attention back to the victim, whose long hair obscured her face. As he gently pushed the strands aside, recognition flickered through him. Blood seeped from a wound on her forehead, evidence of a violent meeting with the jagged rock beneath her. “I know who this is.”
Jo, who was crouched next to him, glanced at him curiously. “Who is she?”
He let out a sigh, his eyes never leaving the lifeless face. “April Summers, the environmental activist.”
Recognition flashed in Jo’s green eyes. “The same one who chained herself to a tree in the logging area?”
“That’s the one.” Sam’s mind was racing. “Had quite the fallout with the owner of the logging company, Travis Burton. I had to intervene.”
