Read Online Believe No One by A. D. Garrett - Free Book Online

how to breed good stock,’ Guffey said appreciatively.
    The animals chewed the cud, watching the humans, indifferent to their admiration.
    The pond water had receded for lack of rain, and the water lapped against a three-foot strip of cracked mud, leaving cattails and other marginal plants high and dry. The collapsed the section of bank under which the body had rested during winter was clear to see, as was the cause – two small, shrubby-looking trees, which had fallen landward. Diagonally opposite that, the kidney-shaped curve of the pond was missing a large oval chunk of clay, like a bite out of the rim, where the big cottonwood tree had been torn out by the roots.
    â€˜You found her in the mud under the collapsed bank?’ Fennimore asked.
    â€˜That’s where she started,’ Guffey said. ‘I didn’t know she was there until I dragged her a ways.’
    Fennimore tried to picture the scene. ‘So the cottonwood fell from right to left, some of it on dry land and some in the mud.’
    Guffey nodded. ‘’Cept, this was mostly water here at the time. Level’s gone down in the dry spell.’
    â€˜Do you know when those smaller trees came down?’
    â€˜Been puzzling on that,’ Guffey said. ‘We had a storm October twenty-nine, last year – probably the same wind that shook the cottonwood loose. Soon as we got the storm warning we rounded up the cattle from here and put them on the pasture near the house, so I know those trees were standing then. That was real a bad storm,’ he reflected. ‘Next morning, I drove over the farm to look for damage. Took me two days in all, fixing as I found, and I seem to remember seeing those two late on, so they must’ve come down between October twenty-ninth and November first.’
    â€˜That narrows down the dates,’ Fennimore said. ‘You didn’t do anything about the damage?’
    â€˜The pond was full at the time, so I couldn’t see the mud-fall on the edge, and those trees weren’t in anyone’s way. Didn’t seem much point messin’ with ’em, when there was fences to mend.’
    Fennimore nodded. He turned full circle, noting the line of trees that ran along a slight ridge about thirty yards from where they were standing, taking in the short turf they had just traversed, the SUV’s tyre tracks showing plainly the path they had taken to get to the pond.
    They had driven down farm tracks, through two gates – both chained and padlocked – to get there.
    â€˜Whoever left the body in your pond could not have come via the farm, because you would have seen them, and even if you didn’t, the locked gates would have stopped them.’
    â€˜So, he carried her, or dragged her, up here,’ Hicks said.
    â€˜A body is heavy,’ Fennimore said, doubtful.
    Hicks raised her eyebrows.
    â€˜I know,’ he said. ‘Stating the bleeding obvious, but people often underestimate just how heavy and awkward dead weight really is. Even a fairly small female is about a hundred pounds, and – crucially – it’s unevenly distributed weight – arms and legs flopping around …’
    â€˜They could’ve used a fireman’s carry,’ Guffey suggested.
    â€˜Maybe, but most people couldn’t lift
or
drag a body for more than a few hundred yards, and I don’t see a convenient roadway.’ He squinted again at the line of trees on the ridge. ‘Unless there’s one up there along the treeline.’
    Something bright flashed in Guffey’s eye. ‘Can’t give you a road,’ he said, ‘but maybe something as good.’
    He led the way to the ridge. They found more cottonweed, red cedar and a type of birch with an exceptionally flaky bark, the outer surface shining silver and the curled inner cinnamon red, like pencil shavings. In the treeless fields, the mating call of cicadas was an annoying whine, but up in the