Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

voice. Smith stepped closer.
    “You better not be telling tales out of school, McNally.” Gavin had come out of the bush, soundlessly. Did he put the creaky old man bit on as suited him?
    McNally jumped. “Not me.”
    “Keep it that way.” A line of fresh red blood ran across Gavin’s cheek—doubtless from an encounter with a thorn. He held up an evidence bag. Inside was a long grey and green metal tube with a trigger at the base, looking like an exceptionally thin gun.
    “The camera’s in the car,” Smith said. “I’d like a picture of that, can I run and get it?”
    “Sure. It’s the sort campers use.” Gavin held the bag up and turned it around so he could see all angles. “Judging by the camouflage coloring. Looks newish. Should be able to tell if it was bought strictly for this purpose by the fuel level. Something’s stamped on the handle. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be.” He held the bag out. “Can either of you see what it says?”
    “Looks like an eagle and the letters MKAV,” McNally said. “Probably the manufacturer.”
    “No,” Smith said. “It means Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations.”

Chapter Eighteen
    A pickup truck that had not been young when the first Bush was president was parked at the side of the road a hundred yards from the entrance to the Grizzly Resort development. A head was silhouetted in the driver’s seat, but Rich gave no more than an idle thought as to who it might be. Cop backup, maybe someone from the local paper hoping things would get interesting.
    The truck turned around as Rich, Greg, and Meredith got into her car. Rich watched it in the side mirror, as Meredith pulled away. The truck came closer. The headlights flashed; the horn tooted. Greg turned around. “Guy wants to pass, Meredith. Idiot, there’s plenty of room.”
    “Pull over,” Rich said.
    “Huh?”
    “I said pull over. He doesn’t want to pass. He wants to talk to me.”
    Meredith guided the car to the side of the road.
    “Have the camera ready,” Rich said.
    “Never would of thought of that all by myself,” Greg mumbled. Rich ignored him.
    The truck pulled up behind them, so close that it almost touched the bumper. A man got out. He was Rich’s height, around five foot seven, and scrawny. A blue ball cap advertising a brand of beer perched on his head; strands of greasy hair touched the back of his neck. His jeans were too large, his T-shirt could use a wash, and his running shoes trailed muddy laces across the ground. His left eye jerked under the force of an out-of-control twitch.
    Rich stood beside the car and waited for the man to approach him.
    “Recognized you back there. Ashcroft, right? From TV?”
    He was in his late twenties, maybe younger.
    Rich said nothing.
    The man held out his hand. Rich looked at it. “Can I help you?” he said.
    The man took his hand back. He didn’t look offended at having it rejected. “No. But I can help you. I’ve been here a while, laying low, checking things out. Wondering what I can do to put an end, once and for all, to this peace garden idea. I saw your show last night. I figure you want the same thing I do.”
    “I want,” Rich said, “to report the truth.”
    The man laughed. “Yeah, right.”
    “What’s your interest in the park?”
    “My dad was U.S. Army. Died in Vietnam. December of ’72.”
    Rich whistled. “Only a couple months before the U.S. pulled out.”
    “I was born six months later. This monument, they might as well spit on my dad’s grave.”
    Rich held out his hand. “What’s your name, pal?”
    They shook. “Harris. Brian Harris. And I’m proud to say that was my father’s name.”
    “Greg,” Rich said, “set up the camera.”
    ***
    Smith’s parents’ store stocked hundreds of those lighters, maybe thousands. They’d had the store logo stamped on them because they gave the lighters out as promotional items, freebees with the purchase of camping stoves or kerosene lamps.
    And one of those lighters had, apparently, been used to set fire to the gardening shed at the peace garden site.
    Coincidence, or was someone sending a message to the Smiths?
    Smith switched off the camera. “I’d better go find the boss.”
    “I’ll walk with you,” he said. “I haven’t finished my coffee.” From inside the bush, Rebecca squawked in pain. “Must be what an iron maiden was like,” Gavin said.
    Smith didn’t know what an iron maiden was, and didn’t want to look foolish by