The Wrong Bones (Widow's Island #10)(10)

“What are you doing?” Logan asked.

“I need a flat area to write on so I can label the finished cast with the case number, GPS coordinates, and date.”

Twenty minutes later, the cast was dry and felt like ceramic. She lifted the cast, leaving a thin layer of dirt attached to its surface, and set it in an open cardboard box. The cast was set enough to lift and handle with care but should be allowed to dry completely before being stored in a closed container. They carried it back to her patrol vehicle and locked it inside before returning to the trail.

The ground was dry and the soil packed. The dirt bike had left only the occasional mark when it had strayed to the deeper, looser soil at the edges of the trail. But if the suspect had turned off, Logan would see broken foliage. He reached a sharp turn in the trail. He gestured toward a section of flattened underbrush and a fresh scar on a tree trunk. “It looks like the bike skidded off the trail into this tree.”

Tessa bent and examined a trail of smashed underbrush. “This could be where they dragged the bike back to the trail.”

“The driver probably isn’t an experienced rider if they didn’t slow enough to navigate this tight bend in the dark.” Logan studied the trail. Sunlight glinted off a metal object. “Hold on. I see something.” He moved closer and spotted a metal ring nestled in the weeds.

“A key ring,” Tessa said.

Logan studied the ground again. “Could have fallen out of their pocket when they crashed the bike.”

“Would you get pictures?” Tessa lowered her pack and rummaged in it for an evidence-collection bag. She filled out the label while Logan took photos and noted the GPS location. All evidence needed a clear chain of custody, beginning with discovery and collection.

After putting on a glove, Tessa picked up the key ring. A single key dangled from the metal circle. Silver and shaped like a ferry, the key chain itself was a souvenir from the Anacortes ferry station, where visitors caught the ferry from the mainland to Widow’s Island.

“It would be nice if we found the lock this key opens.” Tessa put the key ring in an evidence bag and stuffed it into her backpack. “Where do you think they went?”

“Up the trail.” Logan pointed north. The trail curved and became steeper.

Tessa looked up and grimaced. “Thankfully, we’ve been hiking regularly.”

He grinned at her over his shoulder. “You’re keeping up just fine.”

“If this trail gets any steeper, I’ll be saving my breath.”

Logan’s muscles warmed, and he settled into his stride. He loved hiking in the cool forest. After being deployed in Afghanistan, he never wanted to set foot in a desert again. In the lush Pacific Northwest, he could hike all day—and often did. The trail continued with a steady but not steep incline. An hour later, he caught a faint whiff of smoke in his nostrils.

He stopped and turned. “Do you smell that?”

Tessa sniffed. “Smoke.”

He turned, scanning his surroundings.

“Can you tell where it’s coming from?” Tessa asked.

“This way.” He followed the scent into the brush for about twenty feet. The trail opened into a small clearing, where someone had made a crude campsite. In the center, the remains of a fire smoldered near a small tent. Anger flared in Logan’s chest. “They could have started a major wildfire.”

Tessa propped her hands on her hips. “Careless idiot.”

Campers needed to make reservations to book an authorized campsite in Bishop State Park. This was not an authorized location, and the only reservation for tonight had been the youth group. Annual or one-day passes were required for all visitors. A ranger wasn’t always at the entrance. Logan was the only park ranger, though he sometimes employed a part-timer for the busiest weeks of summer. The park utilized an automated pay station and depended on the honor system. Most people respected the rules, but there was always one.

Like this one.

Cursing, he took a small collapsible shovel from his pack and piled dirt on the embers until he was sure the fire was extinguished. Once safety had been addressed, Logan took in the crude campsite. The ring of rocks encircling the fire was a sorry effort to contain the blaze. A mere five feet separated the fire from the surrounding underbrush, and it wouldn’t have taken more than a breath of wind to carry an ember to the bone-dry fir needles carpeting the ground.

Logan surveyed the area. He spotted a metal can next to the fire. He picked up the can. Water. Probably boiled in the can. Socks and boxer briefs had been hung to dry over a low branch. “He’s male, from the clothes.” He gauged the ashes in the fire. “Doesn’t look like he’s been camping here very long.”

Tessa stuck her head inside the tent. She glanced back at Logan and lowered her voice. “And he isn’t far away. He left his backpack here.” She emerged. A dirty green pack dangled from her hand by the shoulder strap.

“Do you see any food?” Logan asked.

“Not in the tent. All he has in there is a sleeping bag.” She set the backpack on the ground and opened the zippered compartments one by one. “He has some extra clothes, a couple of books, a flashlight.” She pulled out a small bag of peanuts.

The faint whine of a dirt bike came from the west. It grew steadily louder. The hairs on the back of Logan’s neck lifted. “Sounds like he’s coming back.”