Blood trail

22

I WATCH the game warden through my binoculars as he leaves the school building. He is wearing his red uniform shirt. He clamps his Stetson on his head and climbs into his green pickup truck. He's doing something in front of him or on his lap, eyes down. Probably checking a PDA or his cell phone.

Following him wasn't a problem and I'm sure he never suspected I was there.

The stand of aspen is behind me, the dried leaves rattling in the wind. I've parked my vehicle on the side of the old road in back of the trees, so it's hidden from view. My rifle is beside me, pulled from its case. I estimate 250 yards at most across the flat. It is a clear, sunny day. The wind is so slight it wouldn't be a factor in aiming.

Two things, though: I don't like long shots, and killing the game warden now would hurt me more than help me.

Shots at this distance can be problematic. There is no guarantee. I like them much closer; close enough there is no doubt. Beyond the game warden's pickup is the school, and the windows of the classrooms are at the same height as the windshield of his truck. I've heard of occasions when bullets were deflected by glass. If I missed-not likely, but always possible-I could kill a teacher or a student. An innocent.

More important is that I have nothing against the game warden, although I fear in his clumsy way he's getting closer. I don't fear the sheriff, or the sheriff's men in the mountains right now. They're hunting a ghost. But this game warden has worried me since the first time I saw him. There is something earnest and relentless about him that scares me in a way I can't articulate. He reminds me of me.

But why would he be at the school, if not to ask about Alisha Whiteplume? Or question the staff about the person once known as Shenandoah? If he makes the connection, it is a big step toward finding out about me. I can only hope in this case I am mistaken. I'm not ready to be found out.

Not yet.

The game warden has frozen up in a way that I think he must know I'm here. I can see a certain stiffness to his movements, an attempt not to give away the fact that he's looking for me, trying to find the eyes that he feels on him. I wriggle backward on the hill, in case he uses his binoculars or spotting scope.

I wait until I hear him start his pickup and drive down the road. I hear the crunch of his tires on the gravel road.

I don't need to follow him. I know where he's going.