Read Online The Constantine Conspiracy by Gary Parker - Free Book Online
Authors: Gary Parker
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straightened and wiped the lens again. The rain continued to fall, not heavy but steady. A gray car approached from the highway, and she stopped to watch as it pulled up to the gate. More media? The window rolled down and a man poked his head out and waved—not in a friendly way. Shannon tensed.
Both doors on the car opened and two men in dark suits and sunglasses hopped out and moved her way. Her heart raced, but she kept her wits enough to turn and quickly film the surrounding area, making sure to record identifiable features to mark the location of the motorcycle track. If this ever ended up in court, the authorities needed to see landmarks to attach the track to a specific location. Otherwise a defense lawyer could claim the track had no connection to the murder scene.
The men yelled at her and she shut off the camera and hustled to her vehicle.
“Hold it there!” the men called, now running at her. “Who are you?”
Wondering the same thing about them, Shannon hopped into her truck and sped away, the men no more than twenty feet behind. She checked her rearview mirror and saw the men stop, turn, and rush back to their car. One of them had ears like saucers and she made note of that as she wheeled around one corner then another, calculating the time it would take the men to reach their vehicle and come after her. She turned left on a side road, then right past a grove of trees. One thing about her year as a ranger—she knew the area. Another turn and she saw the road she sought, a gravel path off the highway. She pointed the truck down it and sped around a twist, then a turn, until she reached a thick rock outcropping. Panting, she braked to a stop behind the rocks and waited for several minutes, her senses on alert for sounds of pursuit. Nothing followed, so she took a deep breath as an unexpected sense of relief hit her. Although the tire track didn’t prove anything, it offered at least a little support for Rick’s suggestion that an intruder had killed his father, and she desperately needed that—something to help her believe in his innocence. Otherwise her mission to Montana made no sense, and she had spent the past year in the wilderness chasing a ghost.
She touched the camera on the seat as if feeling for a pulse, something to assure her of what she’d just filmed. Although the police might dismiss this as irrelevant, she didn’t see it that way. To her, it went a long way toward supplying the proof she would need.
Yet . . . Shannon lifted the camera and bit her lip. In spite of her good feelings, she still needed to check this out. Others would demand it, would remind her that her emotions held no value in a court. Only God deserved faith; everyone else required verification.
Shannon remembered a friend who worked in the state crime lab in Helena; if she asked him with just the right amount of enticement, he might agree to investigate the tire track. Maybe he could match it to the motorcycle it came on and that could possibly lead him to the owner of the bike, perhaps to the man who murdered Steve Carson.
Pleased, she picked up her cell phone and punched in a number. A few seconds later, a voice spoke on the other end.
“Gerald,” she said quickly. “Shannon Bridge here.”
“I recognize your voice, Shannon. How are you?”
Shannon hesitated, a slight guilt eating at her for calling a man she’d never dated but who had a major crush on her. “I’m great, Gerald.”
“Would love to see you,” he said. “You in Helena anytime soon?”
“Not for awhile but I need to ask a solid from you.”
“Any way I can help you, I’m yours, you know that.”
“Good, I’m over near Wolf Creek—”
“The Carson death? You mixed up in that?”
“Yeah, exactly.” She quickly told him how she’d gotten involved. “I want to send you something on the quiet,” she said when finished. “Just between you and me. It’s probably not connected to anything, but I found a motorcycle tire track
Both doors on the car opened and two men in dark suits and sunglasses hopped out and moved her way. Her heart raced, but she kept her wits enough to turn and quickly film the surrounding area, making sure to record identifiable features to mark the location of the motorcycle track. If this ever ended up in court, the authorities needed to see landmarks to attach the track to a specific location. Otherwise a defense lawyer could claim the track had no connection to the murder scene.
The men yelled at her and she shut off the camera and hustled to her vehicle.
“Hold it there!” the men called, now running at her. “Who are you?”
Wondering the same thing about them, Shannon hopped into her truck and sped away, the men no more than twenty feet behind. She checked her rearview mirror and saw the men stop, turn, and rush back to their car. One of them had ears like saucers and she made note of that as she wheeled around one corner then another, calculating the time it would take the men to reach their vehicle and come after her. She turned left on a side road, then right past a grove of trees. One thing about her year as a ranger—she knew the area. Another turn and she saw the road she sought, a gravel path off the highway. She pointed the truck down it and sped around a twist, then a turn, until she reached a thick rock outcropping. Panting, she braked to a stop behind the rocks and waited for several minutes, her senses on alert for sounds of pursuit. Nothing followed, so she took a deep breath as an unexpected sense of relief hit her. Although the tire track didn’t prove anything, it offered at least a little support for Rick’s suggestion that an intruder had killed his father, and she desperately needed that—something to help her believe in his innocence. Otherwise her mission to Montana made no sense, and she had spent the past year in the wilderness chasing a ghost.
She touched the camera on the seat as if feeling for a pulse, something to assure her of what she’d just filmed. Although the police might dismiss this as irrelevant, she didn’t see it that way. To her, it went a long way toward supplying the proof she would need.
Yet . . . Shannon lifted the camera and bit her lip. In spite of her good feelings, she still needed to check this out. Others would demand it, would remind her that her emotions held no value in a court. Only God deserved faith; everyone else required verification.
Shannon remembered a friend who worked in the state crime lab in Helena; if she asked him with just the right amount of enticement, he might agree to investigate the tire track. Maybe he could match it to the motorcycle it came on and that could possibly lead him to the owner of the bike, perhaps to the man who murdered Steve Carson.
Pleased, she picked up her cell phone and punched in a number. A few seconds later, a voice spoke on the other end.
“Gerald,” she said quickly. “Shannon Bridge here.”
“I recognize your voice, Shannon. How are you?”
Shannon hesitated, a slight guilt eating at her for calling a man she’d never dated but who had a major crush on her. “I’m great, Gerald.”
“Would love to see you,” he said. “You in Helena anytime soon?”
“Not for awhile but I need to ask a solid from you.”
“Any way I can help you, I’m yours, you know that.”
“Good, I’m over near Wolf Creek—”
“The Carson death? You mixed up in that?”
“Yeah, exactly.” She quickly told him how she’d gotten involved. “I want to send you something on the quiet,” she said when finished. “Just between you and me. It’s probably not connected to anything, but I found a motorcycle tire track
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