Outcast In Gray

by M. Glenn Graves

  The Outcast In Gray

  A Clancy Evans Mystery

  M. Graves

  The Outcast In Gray

  (A Clancy Evans Mystery)

  by

  M. Glenn Graves

  City Lights Press

  An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 M. Glenn Graves

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-64119-765-6

  to Cindy for years of encouragement

  Contents

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  About the Author

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  A Look at Out Jumps Jack Death, the next Clancy Evans PI novel

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  About the Author

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  A shade on the stubble, a ghost by the wall,

  Now leaping, now limping, now risking a fall,

  Lop-eared and large-jointed, but ever always

  A thoroughly vagabond outcast in gray.

  ….

  Well, take what you will—though it be on the sly,

  Marauding or begging, -- I shall not ask why,

  But will call it a dole, just to help on his way

  A four-footed friar in orders of gray.

  Bret Harte, from “Coyote”

  Prologue

  The wind was blowing a fine mist into his eyes as he walked along the seldom used, single lane, logging road that passed within a hundred yards of his remote cabin. The road led to nowhere in particular, at least not now. The cloud cover made it darker than usual for his return trip from the community store near the river. The thin rain and biting wind caused him to shiver, more than the mild temperature. It was two days before the end of January with the thermometer hovering around fifty. If he hurried a bit, he could make it home before complete darkness set in, before the relentless mist saturated his jeans and light jacket, and before he would be chilled to the bone despite the unusual warmth of this bleak winter day.

  A distant howling stopped him suddenly. He craned his neck toward the eerie noise in an effort to comprehend it. The craning was not a full turn; merely a slight movement because of the wind and rain. The elements which made this night miserable for him were coming from the direction of that disheartening din.

  The woeful clamor ceased.

  A slight, momentary fear passed through him as if some primitive memory inherited from one of his thousands of ancestors had manifested itself. Just a coyote, he muttered to himself as a way to abate the trepidation from lingering too long. Probably marking his territory. At least that’s what he thought it might be as he continued moving once again along the narrowing road up the hill and through the mostly leafless forest that separated his small, four-room cabin from the riverside store. The less-than-two-mile-trek was familiar to him. Nothing more than a weekly walk to the store and back despite his isolated habitation. It was his foray into so-called civilization. That was his phrase—so-called civilization. The bitterness he had developed in childhood lingered still.

  The howling returned. Closer this time it seemed to him. He paused once more. No need to turn and look, even a glance … not this time. The mist and fog had thickened to the point of impaired visibility. He stood motionless for several seconds. He was waiting. The howling ceased. All he could hear now was the clacking of the tall pines swaying against each other in the wind and the weighty, pelting rain falling heavy on him. He shivered. A gust of wind sent a chill over his entire body. Whatever other sounds he might have been able to hear otherwise were suddenly drowned out by the crescendo of the hard rain. Damnation.

  The flashlight he had remembered to bring along this time was a major help as the descending water-works continued its intensity. The temperature was dropping a degree or two and his jacket proved to be insufficient for his two-mile trek back home from the store. He was about halfway there, maybe a little further along. However, he was not yet close enough to ease his troubled mind. He longed for the safety and marginal comfort of his tiny, secluded cabin.

  The rain abruptly slowed its descent as quickly as it had begun. The remnants of the deluge were the now relentless drops of excess water from the tree branches. The cold silence surrounded him. He trudged on toward his empty house.

  The primal howling came once again. More yelping than howling this time. Still closer. Too close, he imagined. He did not stop to listen. Now that the rain had abated, there was no reason to stop. He could hear the clamor of the beasts well enough. He kept a steady pace. Home was in reach, so he plodded onward.

  Not the trees, he said to himself as he picked up his pace. The now closer still yelping sounds seemed to be coming towards him from all directions. Singing, my ass, he thought as if to encourage himself to control his fear and to pick up his pace. He had overheard someone at the store talk about the coyotes singing as they roamed their territories in packs. He dismissed that notion as quickly as he had heard it.

  The wind increased. The rain started up once more. He pulled his dirty, red ball cap down to within an inch or so of his nose. It was his failed attempt to keep the cold wetness from his face, mainly his eyes. The supplies he carried became heavier as he hiked along the climbing path to his remote spot deep in the woods not more than a mile from the river – as the crow flies. But he was not flying like the crows. He was walking the muddy road and had another half-mile or so before he reached his destinat
ion. Despite his familiarity with the area, the flashlight proved to be essential with the current weather bombardment. More rain descended. The wind would gust now and then causing regular shivers to erupt and send more coldness throughout his body. His disdain for the elements settled heavily on him as he trudged along.

  His pace was steady. The anticipated warmth of his cabin encouraged his vigilance.

  He anticipated more yelping, but was met with silence. The wind died off a little, but the rain continued its relentless downpour on the helpless man walking home in the dark carrying his groceries. The only sound he could hear now was the rain pounding the bill of his cap. The only thing he could see was the dim light cast by his failing flashlight on the forest floor-road, that quasi-road created by hearty settlers long past … the only thing on his mind was the safety of his little log cabin nestled deep in the woods of McAdams County.

  He stopped and directed the dim beam of his flashlight to his left. It took a few seconds for him to locate the path to his cabin from the road. He moved on and could feel the closeness of his hovel. A few more yards and he would be safe from the intermittent rain, the rambunctious wind, and whatever else was out on this wretched night.

  The suddenness of the attack left him defenseless as if he could have been prepared for the approach of the beast. He had heard the howling and the yelping, but his knowledge of canis latrans was, like it was for most people, severely limited. Mystery. The worst part of the initial attack was the fleeting fear which gripped him as the animal’s teeth sank deep into his neck. Intense pain and primal fear. It was a dreadful combination for anyone. The impulse to cry out lasted only a few seconds.

  His flashlight rolled behind some struggling spruce sprigs years away from becoming full-blown trees. The diseased hemlocks, the scraggly pines, and the black oaks lined the logging road at the edge of the path he had made leading to his modest domicile. If he had had time to think when the attack had come, he might have thought how close he was to home, to safety, … to staying alive. Still, he was not a man given to irony. He would likely enough merely mutter something like damnation, as his life ebbed from him.

  As it was, his blood mingled with the rain about a thousand feet from the front door of his small residence. He was dead of course. The location of his home—near the top of the mountain not far from the gap—was of little matter to him now. His dreams, his hopes, his fears were all dispelled in those earlier moments when the attack came.

  The groceries were strewn in several directions, but the attacker would clean most of them up after finishing its prey. Only the non-food items, the empty cartons, and the shredded, wet paper bag that had carried his purchases remained after the assault. That, and the rainy silence along with a few bones strewn about which the predator did not consume.

  The handgun he wore on his left side was no benefit to him since the beast broke his neck before he had time to even consider a defense. There had been no sound of an approaching enemy; just the menacing quiet of the now-still wind and the futile drops of rain from the high branches of the trees which helped to hide his cabin from the old road. It was as if the monster had been waiting for him to come its way.

  It took the monster less than two hours to devour the remains of his victim. Swift and deadly.

  It was completely dark now. Only the nocturnal vision of critters which might be present in this dense part of the mountains could have seen the beast and its masticating activity. Had the black death been less formidable, less intimidating, less menacing, perhaps some creature might have noticed the human hand that reached down, picked up the dropped flashlight, and clicked off the dim light. The only one who did notice was the massive canis species who turned his yellow eyes away from his prey to watch the hand pick up the torn pieces of clothing. The dark cleaning ritual continued as the black trash bag was stuffed with what was left of the victim’s scattered debris—a few canned items, a bag of potatoes, and the now shredded and useless wet paper bag. The only remaining items left were the few bones which the beast had not devoured.

  The hand patted the beast on its head as the large, deadly black animal licked his mouth as a sign of enjoyment of this most recent meal.

  “Let’s go,” the human said to the beast.

  The beast sauntered over to the few remains of what used to be a man. It selected a leg bone, quickly locked its large teeth around it, and then turned abruptly to follow the human away from the scene of destruction and chaos.

  The two walked off together as the rain descended with intensity once more. The wind was now blowing again but the human and the creature paid no attention to the inclement weather. They trudged on in the blackness of the mountain night. Amid the noisy, pelting rain and the pine tops knocking their branches together, the sound of the singing coyotes could be heard in the distance.

  1

  I was minding my own business while in the throes of reading an old issue of Bon appétite. Aside from the fact that I had no idea what farro was or how it might taste or where I might find such, the recipe for farro mixed with acorn squash and kale sounded so good that I could feel my lust for it consuming me. That, plus I was hungry.

  I looked up farro and discovered that is was merely a grain much like barley. My education continues. My love for all things Italian marches me towards my next kitchen experiment. It’s the closest description for my culinary endeavors. If I had only paid more attention to my mother in the kitchen, I might actually have some domestic skills. I make coffee. I fix a mean bowl of cereal. I toast bread with the best of them. It’s a short list. My mind was on other things during my formative years while I lived close to my parents. I was too busy wondering what my father was doing as sheriff of the county. My mother was Betty Crocker® in the kitchen, to be sure, but I was my daddy’s daughter. I was thinking of ways to catch criminals.

  My immediate focus on the possibility of food was such that I actually missed hearing the insidious cell phone ringing. Occupied with a tempting recipe of some unknown flavors while resting comfortably on the couch in my Norfolk apartment, I was oblivious to the normal cacophony around me. Ubiquitous cell phones would certainly be included in that uncontrollable dissonance. Besides all that, I was recovering from a foot injury that occurred while on a recent case.

  Rogers answered the phone on my behalf. Yet another reason for enduring my adversarial relationship with a computer gifted with artificial intelligence, although I reluctantly admit that there is nothing artificial about her intelligence. It is rampant and ever-growing. Hardly artificial. Despite her curt attitude towards what she considers my lack of sufficient general knowledge, she serves a good purpose. I am developing a high tolerance. Check that – I am endeavoring to develop a high tolerance with her attitude.

  “Clancy here,” Rogers said. She had the incoming call fed through the loud speakers for my benefit.

  “If you’re not busy, I need you to look at something,” the easily recognizable monotone of my McAdams County friend peaked my curiosity.

  “Tell me what you have,” I said, interrupting Rogers before she could continue pretending to be me in her perfectly matched imitation voice.

  “I need you to see it,” the no-nonsense voice said.

  Starnes Carver was a coworker back in the day when she led the crime scene unit of the Norfolk Police Department. She was now living in McAdams County, North Carolina, deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains north of Asheville. We had recently worked a triple murder case in her home county while she was acting as sheriff there in the stead of the elected official who was recovering from a gunshot wound. Our relationship mysteriously blossomed as a result of our several months’ investigation and living under the same roof for that duration.

  As far as I knew, she was no longer the sheriff of McAdams County.

  “It would be easier for me if you would tell me a little of what it is you want me to see before I make the effort to climb into my Jeep and drive several hours to visit you in that remote wilderness
you call home nowadays.”

  “You won’t come if I tell you what it is.”

  “Keeping me in suspense is your strategy for help?”

  “Just working with your brain, lady. You have a penchant for solving mysteries.”

  “Think you know me so well.”

  “If you leave now, you could be here by supper time,” Starnes said.

  “I’m convalescing. Injured my foot.”

  “You’re growing fat and aging rapidly. You need to climb some hills with me and help me solve a mystery.”

  “Official case?”

  “Not yet. Pending.”

  “Pending what?”

  “Your arrival and expertise.”

  “Flattery, nothing less.”