"Justin Stanchfield - Bone Lake" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stanchfield Justin)

from the others. Annie struggled with the reigns, dragging the mareтАЩs head around and kicking her
uselessly in the ribs. She kicked harder, digging with her heels. The mare snorted but stepped out,
following the wide swath the hungry cattle had left in the snow, heading toward the low, timbered gap
leading to the lake and the trail beyond. Annie wrapped one hand around the saddle horn as the mare
broke into a trot, slipping now and then on the icy path.

She had been a fool for falling in love with Billy Conlin. SheтАЩd been a bigger fool for letting Isaac find out.
It was one thing for a man to lose a wife, far another to lose his partner. Isaac had lost both. Shivering
and sick, she spurred the mare faster, afraid she was already too late. Snow swirled past, blinding her as
she topped the stony ridge, a few boulders peeking up from sickle-shaped drifts. Annie waited as the
gust settled down, trying to find her bearings, the trail rapidly vanishing under the falling whiteness. It
disoriented her, turning her sense of direction around. Were it not for the broad trail the cattle had
stomped as they followed the sleigh load of moldy hay off the ridge she would have been lost. The mare
danced nervously, trying to turn her rump to the storm. Annie kicked her and started down.

Ahead, through a narrow gap in the scrub pine, she caught a glimpse of the sleigh, the little herd strung
out behind, moving slowly toward a broad, perfectly flat expanse of snow. At the lead rode a single rider,
breaking trail a hundred paces in front. AnnieтАЩs stomach lurched as she realized Isaac was leading Billy
and the heavy, horse drawn sled straight across the frozen lake.

From far below she heard a crack, rifle sharp, muffled softly by the swirling snow.

***

Mick Saurbier drove the Taurus as far as he dared, the dirt road more suited for a four wheel drive than
a highway car. He pulled off in a small meadow, the tires bouncing across the deep ruts, trying to avoid
the rocks poking up, then started on foot, huffing in the thin air, the road steep and uneven. Sweat ran
down his back by the time he topped the ridge, his windbreaker hanging open as he stopped to catch his
breath. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and started off again, the .357 Smith strapped
under his left arm chaffing. He had thought about leaving it behind, but the bartenders warning made him
think twice. The road leveled, twisting through boulder patches and stands of lodgepole, mistletoe
choking the trunks, leaving misshapen growths bulging from their scaly bark.

The wind shifted, carrying the dank wet kiss of deep water with it. Mick pulled a folded map out of his
back pocket, trying to make sense of the tangled skeins of abandoned logging roads and trails. He had
stopped at the local Forest Service long enough to buy the map and ask the girl behind the front desk for
directions. She had painstakingly traced the route to Bone Lake in red felt-tip marker, no doubt dying to
ask why he wanted to go there. From the scattered reactions he had gotten around the little town it was
clear most people held the same opinion of Tim Garr as the bartender. He stuffed the map back in his
pocket, wishing the encounter was already over.

The road steepened once more, then abruptly ended on top of a small, wooded bench, a locked metal
gate barring his path. A faded тАШNo TrespassingтАЩ sign hung on the wooden brace post, slapping in the
breeze against the barb wire beneath it. Mick climbed over the gate, his weight dragging it down,
swinging it wildly. He jumped to the ground on the other side, his ankle twisting painfully as he lit.

"Shit." He stood a moment, letting the pain subside. "Hell of a missing persons case this is."

He walked on, the hair along the base of his neck rising. Mick had never been a cop, never even been a
fan of mystery novels or thrillers. Why he had become a private investigator remained the biggest