Overtime in the Woods by Ryan Sean O'Reilly

Author:Ryan Sean O'Reilly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: suspense, private eye, private investigator, ryan sean oreilly, overtime in the woods, ryan oreilly
Publisher: Ryan Sean O'Reilly

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As it turned out, Stamford’s truck wasn’t far away. They went over a large hill, then down about a hundred yards to another dirt road. Or another part of the same road, Rich wasn’t sure. He guessed that the hill had blocked the signal on the transmitter. When Stamford wasn’t looking, he stole a glance at the bumper and verified the antenna was still there.

Rufus, or Ruff, set the rifle on top of the dash as they drove. Rich stared at the weapon, it didn’t seem very large, but he wasn’t really that familiar with guns. The investigators weren’t allowed to carry them for work.

“You want to take a crack at something with my .22?” Stamford asked, turning the vehicle around.

“No, I’m not much of a hunter.”

“Ahh, you’re one of them liberal types, huh?”

Rich shook his head. “I never thought much about it.” He had no wish to get into an argument, so he tried to redirect the conversation. “So, you were hunting squirrels? For what? Do you get them stuffed or something?”

Stamford looked at Rich and gave him the half-smirk again, then he looked back at the road. “I eat ’em.”

“Oh…” Rich tried to not look surprised, but couldn’t help his eyebrows raising.

Stamford chuckled. “Well, actually, I was out earlier for snowshoe hare. Course I’ll take a fat gray squirrel if I see one, but I’m really out for the hare. You see, sometimes around this time of year, some of them get tricked by the weather and grow their winter coats too soon. They have a nice soft pelt that goes from rusty-brown to pure white, except for the very tips of their ears—those stay black. Real pretty.”

“Wow,” Rich furrowed his eyebrows trying to imagine the hare. “Not very good camouflage.”

“Sometimes things can’t help but show their true colors, Ned.” Stamford made a clucking noise with his tongue, and his eye twitched slightly as he watched the road.

Rich pushed himself up higher in the seat. His hand went down to his pocket, feeling the outline of the pepper spray, “Did you see any?”

“A few, ’cept they hadn’t changed yet.”

The rest of the ride to the cabin went by slowly. Occasionally, they would stop and Stamford would motion out the side of the truck at some tree and tell Rich the name. They spotted dark green towering balsam firs, basswoods that had bits of moss growing up and down their trunks, and plentiful stands of quaking aspen with their leaves fluttering. When the truck stopped at a red and rough-barked cherry tree, Stamford asked if Rich wanted to take a photo in front of it.

“Nah, I prefer not to have people in my shots.”

He got a queer look for the comment, but Stamford eventually shook his head and drove on, stopping only once more to point out some cedar trees. They came out into a large, open field where some type of crop had been planted. When Rich looked out the window, Stamford identified the plant as a wide-leafed clover.

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