Murder in Wolf Valley

By Gary Bloxham

In the rugged Idaho hills, modern day rancher and artist, Ash Connelly, encounters a sheriff’s team recovering the body of his best friend, Terry Collins. The deputy in charge, believes Terry’s murder resulted from a chance encounter with poachers or rustlers while he was hunting. For Ash, the explanation does not make sense. Terry, a partially disabled veteran had given up hunting and guns.

When Ash openly casts doubts on the sheriff’s investigation, he finds himself under suspicion. Distrustful of the authorities, he begins a search not only to find the killer, but to clear his name. Late, one rainy evening, after the closing of an exhibition of his work in Portland, Ash is violently attacked and barely escapes with his life.

Returning to Idaho, he finds that another close friend has been killed. The two murders and his attack cannot be mere coincidences. Along with his dog Blink, Ash decides to reexamine the scene of Terry’s murder. There must be something in the hills worth killing for.

In the backcountry he crosses paths with Carrie Gates, state fish and game agent, and together, the two struggle to survive a deadly blizzard. As the violence increases, Ash finds his family threatened and asks his ex-fiancée, Alyssa, to help hide them. Free to focus on the search, his probing draws closer to the truth. Unexpectedly, he finds himself torn by his love for two very different women.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Bloxham
• Release date: Mar 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311052681

Gary Bloxham

My life has revolved around family, work and the outdoors. As my passion for writing has grown, I’ve found these three areas are usually thematic to my stories. My first priority has always been family, but as the owner of a machine tool sales company, work often conflicted.Over the years, I’ve enjoyed Chukar hunting in the hills north of Weiser, Idaho; the setting for my novel. Many of the adventures of Ash, the protagonist in Murder in Wolf Valley, were taken from these experiences. One scene was inspired by a winter hunt where I was forced to hike out of the backcountry in a blizzard, guided by my German Shorthair, Cocoa. In the failing light and heavy snowfall, her help in finding a safe trail was crucial.The outdoors is a wonderful way to escape the humdrum of life, and for me it is a family affair. When our daughter was sixteen and our son twelve, we loaded backpacks, and with my wife, the four of us hiked north following the old smugglers’ trail across Washington’s Pasayten Wilderness into Manning Provincial Park in Canada. Cocoa took it as her duty to protect us. Over the years I’ve led adventure hikes of fifty to a hundred miles. The journals from these trips provide both settings and characters in my stories.One activity that has impacted my writing more than anything else over the last ten years, is my participation in the Ravenna Writer’s Workshop. Their critiques of my work have definitely improved the quality of my writing. Fortunately, I have been able to retain a few of my most treasured shortcomings.

Book preview

Murder in

Wolf Valley

Gary Bloxham

An Asher Connelly Novel

Murder in Wolf Valley

Copyright © 2016 by Gary Bloxham

First Printing 2016

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means now known or hereafter invented, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Cover Art by One Earth Images

EPUB ISBN: 978-1-31105-268-1

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – The Body

Chapter 2 – Picking up the Pieces

Chapter 3 – Searching for the Truck

Chapter 4 – Flagler Applies Heat

Chapter 5 – Madge Hamby

Chapter 6 – The Funeral

Chapter 7 – Waking Up

Chapter 8 – Gathering Together

Chapter 9 – Checking Out the Oxbow

Chapter 10 – The Burnerd Gallery

Chapter 11 – Once Again

Chapter 12 – Returning to the Scene

Chapter 13 – The Long Hike Out

Chapter 14 – Dinner and Drinks

Chapter 15 – The Poachers

Chapter 16 – It’s About the Girls

Chapter 17 – A Sketchy Affair

Chapter 18 – Rattling Their Cage

Chapter 19 – In the Mind’s Eye

Chapter 20 – The Chase

Chapter 21 – Who’s the Bad Guy?

Chapter 22 – This Must End

Chapter 23 – A Little Surprise

Book Club Reading Guide

About the Author

Chapter 1 – The Body

I wiped the sweat off my forehead with a shirtsleeve. Just after daybreak, Cliff Ritter had dropped me and Blink high in the hills above the Snake River on the Idaho side. We traversed the steep slopes, hunting from one ridgetop to the next as we made our way down to Wolf Valley, where I’d left my truck the day before. Because of the remoteness and the gnarly hills, we seldom encountered other hunters.

Running across the hillside, tail a blur, nose to the ground, Blink worked intently, sniffing out chukar and Hungarian partridges hiding on the steep slope. While not a blooded hunting dog, she still loved finding birds. She had large paws, tan fur tipped with black, and a dime-sized brown dot above each pale yellow eye. Blink had shown up at my cabin two years ago, emaciated and wary. After I cleaned her wounds and fed her for two weeks, she finally allowed me to coax her inside. Two months later, she had decided her job was taking care of me.

I paused to catch my breath on a small flat halfway up the slope. The brown bunchgrass, rock outcroppings and deep ravines made great hiding spots for chukar, but they were hell on men and dogs. Each year, a few unlucky hunters slipped in the loose rock, sometimes breaking bones. Four-footed hunters like Blink seldom fell, although one or two each season suffered strikes from angry rattlers.

Blink’s cool nose nudged my hand. It was time to get going. With only a couple of hours of daylight left, we began the short climb up the ridge. Hidden on the far side was a mile-long swale with water, grass and hopefully some birds tucked into the folds of its sidehills. During the heat of summer, an occasional cow could be found in the shade of its willows or grazing in the tall grass around the spring at the upper end. The swale was a special place, a great finish to our long hunt. We were one bird short of a limit.

Tightening my grip on the shotgun, I climbed toward the ridge crest expecting to find a covey of chukar. Fresh bird droppings littered the ground. Blink ran ahead, nose down and tail wagging furiously. She stopped, but instead of pointing birds, she gazed into the swale. I climbed up to see what held her attention.

On the far side of the ridge a couple of hundred yards away, a group of four people stood around a motionless body in hunter orange. A brown canvas stretcher lay alongside. Nearby lay the carcass of a red-coated Hereford, its yellow identity tag hanging from an ear.

Was he dead? A hunting accident? Maybe the exertion of the climb up from the valley floor had triggered a heart attack. Scrambling down the slope, I recognized one man immediately from the belly hanging over his pistol belt and his county sheriff’s uniform: Deputy Ron Flagler. The two other men wore blue jeans and white shirts with name tags and shoulder patches from the country coroner’s office. I headed down to the group.

The fourth person, a woman in her midthirties, wore blue jeans and the uniform shirt from the Idaho Department of Fish and Game. When she turned her head, a dark ponytail flipped from side to side. Her eyes followed me as I walked up. Tall and slender, she was the only one of the four not red-faced and gasping from the steep climb up from the valley. Apparently they had hiked into the swale only moments before me.

Blink whimpered and edged toward the body.

Get that damn dog out of here, Flagler said.

I called Blink to my side and looked at the body. There was a gaping exit wound in his back; his shirt, hunter’s vest and face were drenched with blood. Black flies swarmed across torn flesh and blood. Even with his face in the dirt, I recognized Terry. I gagged violently and almost threw up.

Do you know him? asked the woman.

At first I couldn’t speak and just nodded, then tried again. Terry Collins, my best friend.

You and that dog need to get out of here, Flagler said. You’re contaminating the crime scene and interfering with our investigation.

I pulled Blink back. She whined softly.

What the hell happened here? I asked, struggling to talk.

Flagler pointed at the body. Apparently your buddy came across a rustler butchering a steer. Should have left it alone—it’s stupid to confront someone like that. This morning, we got an anonymous phone tip directing us up here. Until our investigation’s finished, that’s all I can say.

Just a few days ago, I had dinner with Terry, his wife Lizzi and their two little girls. We laughed, cracked awful jokes and gotten giddy on wine. How could this have happened? Why had Terry been up here? Had he known he was confronting a rustler? Hell, most cattle had already been driven out of the backcountry. This didn’t make sense.

Connelly, Flagler said, hooking a thumb into his gun belt, it’s more than coincidence finding you up here while we’re recovering your friend’s body. Are you the one that called in the tip?

No, I’ve been chukar hunting all day. Started at the top this morning and been hunting my way down.

You expect me to believe that you’ve been hunting since morning, all by your lonesome? Maybe you two were hunting together. That would explain the coincidence. Flagler took a notebook out of his pocket and began to write, laboring over each letter.

You know damn well Terry had a bum leg and wasn’t strong enough to hunt these hills.

Flagler paused and looked at the body. You two should have gotten your stories straight. He’s wearing hunting gear.

He was right, but it didn’t make sense. How had Terry gotten up here?

I’d like to help carry him down.

Let me be clear. I don’t want you here, and we don’t need you. So get on your way. He glared at me as if winning a stare-down came with his authority.

We sure could use the help, said one of the men from the coroner’s office. Hauling this body down’s going to be a real bitch.

Flagler glared, one hand on his hip. That’s your job, so live with it. And you, he said, jabbing his finger at me, get the fuck out of here.

I’ll wait up on the ridge and walk down with the body.

You checking out what we find up here?

That comment was unexpected. Nope. I plan on staying nearby as you carry Terry down.

Look, you aren’t listening. I want you out of here. So get your—

Flagler, interrupted the woman, he isn’t challenging your authority. So give it a rest, will you? We can do our job, and he can do what he has to.

Flagler glared at her for more than a moment. Let’s get this photographed and wrapped up. It’ll be dark soon.

I looked at Terry again. One arm was curled around his head with his cheek and nose pressed into the dirt, legs bent, one crossed over the other. He looked like a sleeping child, almost posed for a picture. I’d seen bodies before—good friends, even—but this cut deep. This wasn’t a war zone; it shouldn’t have been a killing ground. Terry should have been standing here with his usual smile, asking how many birds I’d bagged.

We had both served in Iraq, though in different units, so we never came in contact. Seeing him lying dead brought back memories of medevacs hauling away our dead and wounded, bodies tossed into the choppers like so much garbage, identities lost inside black body bags. I couldn’t leave Terry.

I headed upslope, just far enough to keep out of the deputy’s way yet close enough to watch. Flagler and I had history; I no longer backed down when he barked. He was just an asshole who abused his authority and bullied anyone who got in his way.

Setting my pack down, I laid the shotgun on top and settled onto the grass to wait. Blink sensed my misery and came over to nuzzle my cheek, whining softly. You know who’s down there, don’t you, girl? She sat down, and I wrapped my arm around her neck.

Why had Terry been up here? After his medical discharge from the army, he’d lost all interest in hunting. His Humvee had triggered an explosion while he was leading a convoy into Karbala. We both knew the aftereffects of war. When something triggered an outburst or a bender, his wife Lizzi would call. We always managed to get him back on track.

Terry had been determined to recover from his wounds and lead a normal life. We realized he was winning the battle when he dusted off his laptop and began establishing himself as a journalist. The binges and outbursts tapered off. His investigation into the poaching of bald eagles for feathers used in the ceremonial dress of Native Americans was published in the Idaho Statesman and led to the conviction of several poachers. Lizzi and I were proud of him.

Flagler’s loud voice carried up the rise to my grassy perch. He shouted orders, gave directions and did little. The woman appeared to do most of the investigative work. Pacing off a perimeter, she had begun to mark the crime scene when Flagler stopped her and pulled the yellow tape closer to Terry and the steer carcass. Whenever anyone, especially the woman, acted with initiative, Flagler re-tasked them, abbreviating the job. The Fish and Game lady clearly wanted a more thorough investigation. But inside of twenty minutes, everything was done to Flagler’s satisfaction, and the four of them headed upslope with the stretcher, toward me.

The woman led the way with an effortless stride over the rough ground. The faces of the two men from the coroner’s office glistened with sweat as they gasped for air. Terry was a big man, over six feet with weight to match, a tough load to haul out of the backcountry. Flagler trailed further behind with each step.

When the stretcher drew near, I stood and walked over. The men stopped and set their load on the ground, ready for a break after climbing out of the swale.

Blink ran over to the Fish and Game lady, tail wagging expectantly. That was the first time she’d ever approached a stranger. The woman crouched down and slowly extended her hand until Blink accepted a gentle scratch behind the ears.

My offer to help still stands, I said, studying her. Like the others, she was sweating, and long strands of dark hair stuck to her cheeks.

I don’t give a damn what Flagler says, said the man at the front of the stretcher. We need help if we’re going to get this body out before dark. The woman nodded.

No problem. I’ll give you a hand. I needed to help carry Terry more than they needed my help.

Downslope, Flagler had stopped to rest. Despite the chill of the late afternoon, rings of sweat blossomed around his armpits and his chest heaved as he struggled for air.

He’s too far away to object, the woman said. When she turned, I noticed a black leather belt strapped to her waist with a 9mm pistol lying flat against her hip.

Flagler didn’t introduce us. I’m Carrie Gates, with Fish and Game. She extended her hand.

Glad to meet you. I’m Asher Connelly. My ranch is just off Rock Creek Road. Her handshake felt warm and firm, but her face remained taut, her jaw clenched. I sensed an edge of anger as she glanced downslope toward the deputy. Flagler struggled; overweight and out of shape, he couldn’t keep up.

Flagler wants to go back the way we came up, but if we climb down those rock faces and scree slopes, someone’s going to get hurt. Do you know a better way out?

Yeah, if we cross this slope to the edge of the ravine on the other side, we can catch a cattle trail down. Should be easier than the way you came up.

Good. She secured her ponytail. Let’s get going. If we’re lucky, we’ll get down before dark.

Gates didn’t waste words or time and with a wave of her hand put me in the lead. The men from the coroner’s office picked up the stretcher and followed while she brought up the rear. After a couple of hundred yards, the stretcher guys ran out of steam, so I handed my shotgun to the lead man and took over the front position. Surprisingly, Gates did the same at the other end. With the four of us taking turns, we maintained a reasonable pace, but the going was hard and there was nothing extra for talking or even thinking beyond where to put the next footstep. We threaded our way into the ravine around sagebrush and rocks. The bottom proved easier going, but several times we had to pass the stretcher down rock falls. We moved Terry carefully, and anyone watching might have thought we were carrying an injured man. Flagler lagged behind, sometimes entirely out of sight.

Once we reached the valley floor, Gates and I headed for the vehicles parked about a quarter mile down the dirt track alongside Wolf Creek. Their trucks were parked near mine. The coroner’s men were happy to set the stretcher down. They had reached their limits.

As we walked away, Gates didn’t speak, lost in her own thoughts. I faced a quiet struggle, feeling that I was abandoning Terry. But other tasks required attention. Lizzi needed to be told about Terry, before someone like Flagler called from the sheriff’s department.

Hey, thanks for helping out, Gates said. If you hadn’t led us down that ravine, we’d still be up there.

No problem. Helping carry Terry had given me time to get a grip on myself.

I get the feeling that you two were close, she said.

Known him since fourth grade. We played high school football together and got close our sophomore year. He was our second-string quarterback, and I played wide receiver. Weiser High was small. Anyone who wanted to play football made the team.

It had all come together our senior year when we connected for two passes at the end of the homecoming game. I caught Terry’s pass in the final seconds for a Weiser win. That triumph burned into us the importance of being able to depend upon each other, something that Coach Bennett drilled into every player. Our opponents had better athletes; we had a better team.

Then you know his wife?

Yeah, Lizzi’s my cousin. I introduced her to Terry while we were all going to Idaho State. They’ve got two little girls. I’m not going to let Flagler be the one that breaks the bad news.

Understood. Glad I’m not in your shoes. She reached out and shook my hand.

As I drove out of the backcountry, I couldn’t stop wondering what had prompted Terry to climb up to the swale. With his bad leg, he shouldn’t have been up there bird hunting. Was it possible he’d been investigating something, maybe a cattle rustling story? Maybe Lizzi had the answer.

Oh shit—how was I going to break the news to Lizzi?

Chapter 2 – Picking up the Pieces

I stopped in front of Terry’s house just before dusk. The old two-bedroom clapboard was dark, but Lizzi’s sedan sat in the driveway.

The thought of telling her that Terry was dead left me choking again. Blink leaped out the passenger-side window and ran up the porch stairs.

Lizzi must have spotted me, because she stood waiting at the door as I walked up the steps. Tall, with a sturdy build and rich brown hair, she wore blue jeans and a faded cotton blouse. Normally she would call out a greeting, smile, and offer a hug. Today, her eyes locked on my face as she stood aside to let me in.

It’s about Terry, isn’t it?

Yes, Liz. It’s bad. I paused to let her brace for the news. Terry’s dead.

She covered her face with both hands as though trying to hide. Oh God, no!

Wrapping my arms around her, I held Lizzi as she convulsed with sobs. I could smell the salty dampness of tears mixed with soap. We stood that way just inside the doorway for a few minutes until she gathered herself.

What happened?

Flagler thinks Terry was killed by a rustler he stumbled across while hunting.

She pushed away. I need to tell Lacey and Patti.

Lizzi began walking down the hall to the girls’ bedroom in the back of the house, then stopped and faced me.

Ash, don’t go. I— She struggled to speak. We need you tonight.

Don’t worry, I’ll stay.

Blink followed her. While Lizzi and the little girls talked and cried in the back bedroom, I wandered into the kitchen. She must have been preparing leftovers when she saw my truck through the window. I turned the heat down and let everything idle on the stovetop.

Using the phone on the wall behind the kitchen counter, I dialed Cliff. After dropping me off high in the hills, he expected a call to let him know I’d made it back okay. Whenever I hunted alone, if he didn’t hear from me by evening, he’d be up searching at next daylight.

Cliff had been Connelly Ranch foreman as long as I could remember, and even though he was long past seventy, he still did most of the ranch work. After my parents died, Uncle Cap and Aunt Polly took me in, and as their ranch foreman, Cliff helped raise me. Uncle Cap left the ranch to me when he died, with the understanding that Cliff would always have a home there.

As Cliff put it, Ash, you’ve always been part of my job description.

Cliff was shocked by the news of Terry’s murder. Don’t make sense. Rustlers are a lazy bunch of assholes. They try to find a steer alongside a quiet road and out of sight. They shoot it, butcher it and are gone in twenty minutes. I never heard of a rustler packing anything out of the backcountry. Too much work.

Could you ask around and see if anyone’s lost livestock?

You bet, Cliff replied. But I’d have heard something if there’d been much rustling going on hereabouts.

Thanks. Let me know what you find.

After I hung up the phone, the quiet of the house felt strange. It was getting late, so I knocked on Lizzi’s bedroom door.

Come in.

I peeked inside. Three faces looked up, streaked with tears and red, puffy eyes. Lizzi clutched a daughter in each arm. Blink lay curled on the rug beside the bed.

Dinner’s ready. I know you’re not thinking much about food now, but you guys need to eat a little before bedtime.

Lizzi nodded and nudged the girls off the bed.

In the Collins house, mealtime was normally loud: Terry’s guffaw after telling a story, little girl giggles, Lizzi laughing and telling them to mind their manners. Tonight, the silence was broken only by yes, please, thank you and the sound of silverware on their plates. They hardly touched the food. While Lizzi bundled the girls off for a bath, I cleaned the kitchen and headed into Terry’s office and pulled the hide-a-bed open.

Some people read before going to sleep. I draw. Terry and Lizzi kept a pad and pencils in a drawer out of the girls’ reach for the nights I stayed over. The sketchbook recorded the doodles, landscapes and portraits that my mind’s eye had captured. I can’t always explain what prompts a particular drawing. I thumbed through the old sketches, which included two drawings of Alyssa Halway, my ex-fiancée. She and Lizzi had been close. If Alyssa were here, she would be better at helping Lizzi and the girls get through their grief.

One pencil sketch showed Alyssa lying naked on a bed, blond curls splayed across a pillow and a sheet covering one breast. She looked loving, beautiful and enticing. I still missed her, especially now. But as our relationship had developed, it became evident that she had demands I couldn’t meet. She wanted a life in San Francisco. My last drawing of her imagined a middle-aged woman, still beautiful but with a sharply lined face, imperious gaze and a large diamond pendant hanging from one earlobe. I’m not sure why, but that last sketch helped me accept that our relationship had ended.

I flopped down on the bed and began to sketch. The drawing showed Flagler and Gates working the crime scene while the men from the coroner’s office secured Terry to the stretcher. The people in the foreground were stick figures, almost indistinct, while Terry’s body was more complete and lifelike. By keeping the focus centered on the top of the swale, I avoided the image my mind had captured: black flies crawling on Terry’s body. The sketch looked toward the tall grass beside the spring where a sensible steer ought to graze, not the barren slope where Terry had been shot.

I heard a soft knock on the door. Lizzi poked her head inside.

I’ve got some of that Añejo rum you like.

Sure, that seems appropriate. I thought she had cleared all the liquor from the house to help Terry stay dry.

Lizzi stepped into the room with two full juice glasses.

Ash, there’s something I don’t understand. You said that Terry was shot by rustlers he came across while hunting, right?

That’s what Flagler thinks.

She settled onto the bed beside me and tucked her legs under her nightgown. But he quit hunting. After Iraq, he couldn’t bring himself to shoot anything.

That’s what I thought too, but he was wearing his orange hunting vest. There was no shotgun, but Flagler thinks the rustlers likely took it.

That doesn’t make sense. She frowned and took a sip of rum. When he left the house, he told me he was researching another story and might be gone for a couple of days. He didn’t say anything about hunting. When he hadn’t returned after three days, I thought maybe he’d fallen off the wagon again and gone on another binge.

Lizzi