Siege at Hawthorn Lake: Murder on the Mountain Read online

  SIEGE AT HAWTHORN LAKE

  Murder on the Mountain

  Paul G Buckner

  Text Copyright © 2015 Paul G Buckner

  All Rights Reserved

  Edited by: Jody Kirchner

  To my supportive wife, Jody, and inquisitive son, Chase

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  A note from the author

  About the Author

  Siege at Hawthorn Lake

  Chapter 1

  Troy Turner sat at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee, and watching the sun make its appearance over the snow covered mountain ridges. The warm, orange glow revealed a beautiful panorama of Lake Hawthorn below surrounded by tall, majestic pines and mighty oaks standing guard around the crystal blue water. As the sun continued its grand ascent, the small valley slowly awakened with the sounds of wildlife. Shrill cries of black birds could be heard calling out, echoing across the water as if to warn all that winter was coming fast. Squirrels were waking up hungry and barking at each other. Soon, they would be tunneling through the snow searching for the prized nuts, seeds and other goodies they had buried to fill their empty bellies.

  Troy had been up since 3:17 a.m. The bright-red numbers of the digital clock beside his bed was the first image he saw through his blood-shot, sleep deprived eyes. He could still see that image of the clock clearly in his mind. He had awakened by what he gathered was a bad dream - a nightmare rather, with details that he couldn’t remember once the cobwebs of sleep faded away. He remembered hearing a blood curdling scream that actually woke him, which he believed to be his own once the morning grogginess wore off. He half-heartedly laughed to himself. Too real, he thought, not remembering any solid details about the dream, but still feeling a cold chill from it.

  He was forty-two, but had the body of a thirty-year-old, a product of good genetics, exercise, and healthy living. People referred to him as a ruggedly handsome man. His dark and weathered skin tone was a sharp contrast to his light colored hair that had gotten a bit darker as he aged, but his steel gray eyes had never changed. He took pride in his appearance, but lately he hadn’t been sleeping well and it showed in his features. Two days growth of dark beard stubble adorned his face and added years. He was a writer by trade and bought the cabin only a few months back during the summer. He hoped that the solitude would not only be relaxing, but productive for his work. Perhaps too much quiet is what kept him from sleeping well. His thoughts drifted away from the lack of sleep and to his earlier days.

  Born an only child to a family from Cincinnati, he was mostly raised in the city, but loved being in the country. The family would take trips often to visit his dad’s parents in Albany on their little farm. Troy spent many weeks during the summer months on the farm and helped his grandparents with chores. What he liked most, however, was walking out to the fields, catching up a horse with nothing more than a hackamore, and riding down to the creek bareback. There he would take the bridle off and let the horse graze while he fished or explored, depending on his mood. Sometimes the horse would still be grazing nearby and he would ride back, but more often than not, he would have to walk.

  His grandparent’s farm was a small dairy farm with several milk cows. His grandfather was up every morning by five o’clock for the milking - rain or shine. When Troy was there, he would help in the mornings. He was supposed to help in the evenings too, but there were so many things for a young boy to do in the country that, sometimes, he lost track of time, and failed to make it back.

  His grandmother would scold him when he finally showed up for dinner.

  “Did you help your grandpa this evening with the chores?” She’d ask, knowing the answer before he said anything by how he hung his head, and looked away. She would chuckle a little and tell him to make up for it by feeding the chickens, or tending to the horses. It was a great way for a young boy to grow up and he always looked forward to those summers.

  Tragically, he lost both of his grandparents in an automobile accident shortly after he began high school. It was a very difficult time for him, and his grades in school suffered for it. He became broody, and began keeping to himself more, turning away from friends. He would have gone down an entirely different path had it not been for his football coach who also happened to be his freshman English teacher.

  Coach Bradley saw his potential not only on the football field, but as a writer. He would have all of the kids write short stories and essays. He was most impressed with Troy’s writing and encouraged him to use it as a way of dealing with his feelings. On the football field, he could take his aggression and anger over losing his grandparents out on the opposing team. Troy’s success on the football field got him the scholarship he needed for college, but his writing skills gave him goals and a successful career he loved.

  Troy moved east with his bride shortly after graduating college. She was determined to live in New York City in order to pursue a career in theater. Her goal was to one day perform on Broadway. He wanted to support her dreams, but he also longed to live in the country. He truly wanted nothing to do with city life, but he stuck it out for several years in an attempt at making the marriage work. That wasn’t the only difference they discovered. As time went on there were many things that the couple never saw eye to eye on and eventually they divorced. Troy had lost his parents during those years, which was hard on him. The stress of losing them, and not being happy in the city, caused more insufferable arguments between him and his wife. He believed it was simply due to the fact that they had grown so drastically apart. They tried for a long time to keep the marriage together, but in the end, divorce was the only sane thing they could do. His memories of those days slowly faded away as he came back to the present. His coffee needed refilling.

  Troy loved the way his cabin rested comfortably on the gentle slope of the foot hills of the mountain. Located only about a hundred yards from the edge of the water on the west end of the lake, it was the perfect, picturesque setting. The two-story log cabin had an amazing view from the upstairs master bedroom that led out onto a beautiful red-wood deck. The veranda was quite large and contained a variety of lounge chairs and a small grill. He sat out there many times to watch the sun rise and light up the valley with its bright red, welcoming radiance.

  Just below the house was a boat dock that ran about fifty feet out into the crystal clear water where a fourteen-foot V-bottom boat floated silently in Hawthorn Lake. The small gasoline engine hanging on the transom was old, but ran well, and was strong enough to push the little boat across the lake under most circumstances. If, however, the wind was really howling down from the mountain passes it always proved to be a struggle. The landing deck of the boat dock was a perfect twenty feet by twenty feet square. Troy knew this because he had measured the old one and bought new material to rebuild it with even before he closed on the property. He was c
onfident the paperwork would go through and simply couldn’t wait to get moved in to begin creating his own space.

  As he sat quietly sipping his coffee, the sound of a loon could be heard echoing across the lake. The water was fairly smooth and calm this morning so he thought it may be a good day to take the boat out on a short fishing trip. The lake was large with several inlets from the mountain runoff that kept it cold and full year round. The water would be icy cold, but at least it wasn’t completely frozen over yet. He would have to remember to haul the boat out before that happened. The freeze was still another month or so away, and even then it wouldn’t freeze over entirely.

  The fishing on the lake was excellent as was the hunting in the area. The realtor that sold him the property mentioned that during season he could practically hunt from his porch. He warned Troy that even though most hunters never venture this close, he should still make sure to wear his hunter safety orange if he was out in the woods during hunting season. Sometimes, out of state hunters got lost or turned down wrong roads.

  “There’s a lot of public hunting land in these mountains. Easy to get lost,” the realtor said. “It never hurts to be cautious.”

  Troy finished his coffee and climbed the stairs to his bedroom to get dressed. He opened the veranda doors wide to let the cold morning air invade the room as he pulled on a pair of Carhartt jeans. Thick wool socks would keep his feet warm for the morning, but as the sun warmed the day the wool would also breathe well. He opted for his hiking boots instead of the deck shoes he normally wore. Next, he pulled a red plaid flannel shirt over a long sleeve thermal under shirt followed by a light jacket. A Kansas City Royals baseball cap hung on a nail near the door. He grabbed it and haphazardly put it on his head as he closed the doors behind him.

  He left the cabin by a staircase that led down from the deck, and walked through the thin layer of snow to the shed that doubled as a garage. His fishing gear was stowed in the back. The wide double doors were made of thick, rough cut wood and were strong and durable. There was no need to open the big doors so he went in the walk-through door on the side. The shed was large enough for two vehicles and had an upstairs loft for added storage. The former owner had left some boxes up there, and Troy had told the realtor about it. The realtor said that he would be glad to let the man know, but still had not followed up with Troy to tell him if the man would be coming back to get them or not. Another item on the to-do list, he thought.

  Troy grabbed a couple of his fishing poles, a tackle box and a small Styrofoam container with big red night crawlers inside. The few times that he used the worms for bait, the catfish in the lake devoured them. The fishing was great here due, in large part, to the absence of a lot of fishermen. His land encompassed the lake on all sides, though sometimes locals liked to come up to fish. There were many streams below that held beautiful trout and brownies that were excellent eating, but the lake held everything from walleye, perch and crappie to Kentucky’s and steelhead.

  He closed the door to the shed and walked down to the boat dock. He set his fishing gear on the edge of the dock before stepping into the boat. He had to be careful not to slip on any snow or ice that had frozen in the bottom. After he had boarded, he grabbed his gear off of the dock and stowed it. He spun around to the engine sitting behind him and after a few squeezes on the fuel bulb to fill the lines with gasoline, he turned the choke on and cranked the motor. It took a few pulls, but it kicked off without fail, and puffed out bright blue and white smoke as it warmed up. He slowly opened the choke of the little two-stroke engine as it began idling on its own, untied the boat, and pushed off with a paddle. Once he was out a few feet from the dock he grasped the throttle handle and puttered out across the peaceful lake.

  Troy guided the boat across the inlet and out into the main body of the lake staying fairly close to the shoreline opposite the cabin. His destination was a spot a few miles away from the house, to a small creek that flowed out of the lake. The creek itself ran almost the entire length of the valley getting very small in some areas and rather wide and deep in others. He had boated quite a ways down it exploring one day, but didn’t know if he would have enough fuel in the tanks to go very far. He would remind himself later to make sure to put the spare tank in the boat as he had yet to do so. As a matter of fact, he remembered that he hadn’t thought to refill the tank from the last time he went out and reached down to check it now. He picked the tank up and sloshed it about. Figuring it to be about a half of a tank, he thought it would be plenty to get him there and back with no trouble.

  The mouth of the creek was fifty yards wide with soft grass banks along the sides. Tall pines dotted the land near the lake, but an overgrowth of scrub brush obscured any chance of a view into the woods. Troy had found the spot last weekend and caught several nice sized catfish that he fileted and deep fried along with some crispy hush puppies. That sure sounded good again for dinner this afternoon, he thought.

  He guided the boat close to the shoreline for a mile or so in until he found the familiar tree that had fallen from the edge of the creek out into the water. It was a huge birch that had grown too close to the flowing water. The edge of the creek bank finally eroded from flash floods and over-flows and the giant tree no longer had a good foothold and eventually gave way to the forces of Mother Nature. The tree itself covered almost the entire width of the creek leaving only a small gap on the other side to slide a boat through. He reached back to the engine and hit the cut-off switch. He didn’t want the sound of the engine to spook the fish away so he paddled the remaining distance to the tree.

  Troy wasn’t born and raised a country boy, but the many summers at his grandparents’ farm taught him a lot about country living. What he didn’t know, he could certainly figure out on his own. If he had not had those experiences growing up he never would have bought such a remote place. When the realtor first told him about the cabin he almost bought it without seeing it. He joked about it with the man later as he signed the paperwork. A very secluded cabin on a beautiful lake with all the hunting, fishing, and solitude a writer could ever ask for was cliché, but nonetheless an incredible opportunity.

  As the boat glided up to the tree, Troy reached and grabbed one of the lower hanging branches that looked strong enough and tied the bow line to it. As he did so, snow from the overhead branch fell down into his jacket collar and melted into an icy, cold rivulet down his back causing him to scrunch his shoulders. The cold, windy weather made Troy cringe a bit so he pulled his collar up and around his neck a little tighter. He then let the anchor down to keep the boat from moving around and drifting off his fishing-hole. He took one of his rods, pulled the hook free and put a fat, juicy worm on it, dropped the line in the water and kicked back in the padded boat seat to relax and think about nothing at all. Within a short time the rod tip bounced and Troy perked up. He picked up the pole and waited for the fish to hit the bait again. He felt the strong thump on the line, set the hook and reeled in a nice four-pound catfish.

  “That’ll make a couple of nice filets,” he said out loud, as he put the fish in a wire mesh basket and dropped it over the side. He didn’t like to clean the fish, but it was a necessary evil, he supposed, that couldn’t be avoided. It could be a nasty job, but he learned how to filet from his grandfather long ago so he didn’t have to get too messy. He put another worm on his hook and re-set the pole. He figured a few more of these beauties should keep him stocked up for another week.

  +++

  A crow cawed loudly overhead as it flew to its unknown destination stirring Troy out of a sleepy, lazy haze. He realized he had been asleep, but didn’t know how for how long. He never wore a watch, not since he moved in. The Sun was still low in the east so he surmised he had slept for a half hour. He laughed out loud and thought that maybe he should start sleeping in the boat, he might get better rest. He had caught a few more fish earlier, but hadn’t had a bite in a while now. He figured that the fish had moved on to deeper water or weren’t biting anym
ore. He made his mind up to move a little further into the creek and try to catch a few more before returning home.

  He untied the boat and pulled the anchor up. He paddled out around the tree and floated silently past the overhanging branches. Just a little further up he passed a bend in the creek where a small beaver lodge was built on the edge of the shore. He knew that fishing near the lodge wouldn’t be productive because of the beavers, but there was a spot a ways on up past it that opened wider and much deeper where it should be better. There were a few natural laydowns and buckbrush growing at the edges where bass and channel cats like to hide out and ambush their prey. That’s where he was heading. He soon reached the area where he wanted to try his luck and stood up to get the anchor to drop. When he bent down to pick up the nylon rope attached to it, his hands slipped on the wet rope as he hoisted it over the side. The heavy weight plunged into the creek with a loud WHOOSH! He wasn’t ready for it and the sudden shift in weight rocked the boat causing him to lose his balance. He fell heavily in the boat among his fishing gear and paddles. At that same moment, he heard another large splash in the water somewhere just ahead of him and then a heavy crashing in the brush that startled him. A loon standing in the water not far away suddenly flew off with a loud cry and wings beating hard on the air. Troy struggled to sit up in the boat, but where the water had dripped on the aluminum hull it had already frozen making his attempt even more difficult. By the time he was able to gain his balance and sit up, whatever had caused the splashing was gone. Must’ve been a beaver, he thought, as he laughed out loud. Surprising, was all. The poor beaver was probably more scared than he was.

  After his nerves calmed, he picked up his fishing pole and put a worm on the hook, cast it to the edge of the buck brush and set the rod back down between his feet. As he sat there watching his bobber float in the water, the area grew strangely quiet. He began to feel a bit uneasy the longer he sat there, like there was someone or something watching him. He knew it had to be his nerves just settling after his tumble in the boat, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling. It was too quiet now and it seemed that all of wild game had stopped everything they were doing for the day and were holding their collective breaths. The eerie silence pervaded the area and made him feel even more uneasy the longer he stayed. He decided the fish had stopped biting so he might as well head back to the cabin anyway; mainly as a defensive justification to his male pride.