McKean S03 The Ghost Trees Read Online Free Page B

blood.
    “Because,” McKean countered in his unflappably cool logic, “the police know I’m involved in the Olafsen case. It wouldn’t look good if you killed someone who’s investigating you.”
    “What’d you put in your coat pocket?”
    “A sample of that stump for DNA testing.”
    “Why you gonna do that?”
    “To see if we can match it to the DNA of the wood in your warehouse,” McKean replied. “Or to show it’s a mismatch and that the stump in the cedar grove is a match. Either we’ll absolve you of tree poaching, or implicate you not only in tree poaching, but in lying about this stump and in being present at the scene of Olafsen’s death.”
    “You can’t do DNA on a tree!” Sturgis half accused, half begged.
    “Just wait and see,” McKean asserted.
    “Look,” Sturgis pleaded, lowering his gun. “I didn’t kill anybody. When the tree went down, it loosened a widowmaker on a tree right next to it.”
    “Widowmaker? What’s that?” I asked.
    “A snag branch that can fall on a logger,” McKean explained.
    “That’s right,” Sturgis said. “It must’ve hung there while we loaded our trucks, and then a breeze came up and it fell and hit Brad. I checked him but he was dead. His head was split open. So I hauled my load outta there and came back and took his load and put it in my truck. Hard work when only one man’s lifting all that wood. But I got it done and took off just before dawn.”
    “And you left your buddy just lying there?” I asked incredulously.
    “If I called the cops, I’d be in jail now for tree poaching and consorting with a known felon. That’s enough to put me in the big house for five more years. Look, Brad’s dead. He doesn’t care if I left him there. Woulda done the same to me.”
    “An interesting twist,” McKean said. “It’s almost believable.” He turned and walked toward the gate, motioning me to follow. “Come along Fin. The story’s unsubstantiated but this wood chip will speak irrefutably.”
    “Wait!” Sturgis cried. “You gotta tell me if you believe me.”
    “I have nothing to base an opinion on,” McKean replied. “But your story seems quite credible. It may fly well in the courtroom.”
    “Stop!” Sturgis pointed the .44 squarely at McKean’s back. The dog added its bark to the command. My heart thumped in my chest. I considered lunging at Sturgis’ gun hand but I judged the distance a bit too far.
    McKean stopped and turned and eyed the man almost casually. “As I said,” he murmured coolly. “Shooting me in your yard is a poor choice. Come along, Fin.”
    I followed McKean out the gate and we got into my Mustang and I quickly drove off. Still shaky from what I had thought was my last moment on earth, I glanced at McKean and was gratified that, despite his almost superhuman ability to be cool, a few beads of sweat had broken out along his brow.
    “We’ll need a sample from the stump in the woods,” he said. While I drove, he tapped a number on his cell phone and arranged for Franky Squalco to meet us at Puget Creek Canyon. When we arrived, Henry George was there with Franky.
    “What’s the point?” the old man asked as McKean broke off a pencil-sized sliver of wood from the stump. “You might prove he’s a poacher, but you say yourself he’s innocent of murder even if I don’t agree. Grandmother Tree still weeps for a grandson that was killed for money. Even if that pahstud goes to jail, he’ll just kill more trees when he gets out.”
    Dusk arrived as we took our leave of the place. Franky walked home up the hillside path. George stayed behind, singing low in a thin voice and pounding a small drum he had fetched from under his cedar-bark robe, with a small leather-headed mallet.
    Near the stop sign where the narrow asphalt run of Puget Way joins the wide thoroughfare of West Marginal Way, a black Ram pickup was waiting on the shoulder with lights out and engine idling. I couldn’t see through the dark tinted