Wolf Who Walks Alone: A Raymond Wolf Mystery Novel

by Steve R. Yeager

The deputy rubbed along her jawline and drew a breath. “I told you the best option is to leave town and not come back. You won’t get another warning.”

  Wolf had been ready to leave town. Not because he was afraid of any retribution or of being arrested, but it was, in fact, the better of the two options, leaving or staying. Inviting trouble when it was easier to walk away from that trouble was something he took to heart. Plenty of trouble found him, regardless, and adding any more to that pile just didn’t make sense right now. But Pearson had impressed him, and she had intrigued him—and he really had nowhere else to go, so he figured he might as well stick around and see where things led. For now. Trouble, or no trouble.

  “By the way,” Pearson said, “where is the other deputy I saw earlier? Did she go with the sheriff and the girl? You know, the one with the ponytail and the big boobs.” She made a rounding gesture over her chest, which Wolf glanced at involuntarily. Pearson caught him looking and twitched a grin before he could glance away.

  The sour expression on the deputy’s face returned twofold. “Deputy Kristina is off duty until tomorrow morning. Now, go on. Get out of town before the sheriff returns.”

  - 18 -

  BAD GUYS ARRIVE

  THE KID TURNED to Montez and said, “This is some boring shit to drive through.”

  Montez snorted himself awake from his half-dozed state and replied, “Then drive faster, kid.”

  But the kid was right about the scenery. They’d seen nothing of interest for hours. So many hours. Just the same old plowed field after field after field followed by small, shitty little towns between them. They’d once had to slow for some huge farm machine that took up the entire highway. It was going about forty miles an hour, with some old hick driving it with a dog sitting by his side. The old guy was completely oblivious to anyone but himself. No courtesy whatsoever. The kid had righteously laid into the horn on the big Crown Vic, and the guy driving the hideous machine had finally pulled aside to let them pass. Besides that, a couple of big semi-trucks were going in the opposite direction, but that was about it.

  It was a whole lot of boring shit to drive through. But one thing did strike Montez as odd. There was not a single German or Japanese car on the entire road. Plenty of American-made junk. Plenty of pickup trucks, many old and rusted and well beyond their service life.

  But not one sporty little sedan. No little silver Mercedes or flashy red sports cars and hardly a single one of those ugly hybrids. At least none with in-state plates. Didn’t they know they were causing too much global warming with all those pickup trucks? But what did they know? They were only a bunch of stupid hicks.

  Fortunately, the drive would soon be over. They’d arrive in Crow Canyon and pick up the girl, right on schedule. The GPS said a little less than an hour now, and Montez had no reason to doubt it. But once they arrived, they’d have to make contact with whoever snatched the girl. That was the part that had Montez worried. Cold-sweat worried.

  The burner phone in his jacket pocket buzzed against his chest and he jumped.

  “Yes, sir?” he said as he quickly answered.

  “Do you have her in your possession yet?”

  “Almost.”

  Pause. Static.

  “You informed me earlier that you would have her in one hour.”

  “Traffic, sir. Lots of traffic. Can’t help that.”

  “You have one more hour. No more.”

  The phone disconnected.

  Not good. The boss wasn’t at all happy. Montez adjusted himself on the seat and looked at the road ahead and began making small sucking noises through his teeth. How the hell am I supposed to find the damn girl in an hour when it was gonna take almost that long to reach this hick town in this hick state? It’s impossible. Fucking impossible. That guy Rodney in the backseat was going to get a good beating before he died—that was for damn sure.

  Montez considered all this while watching an SUV approach from the opposite direction, low-profile light bars on top catching the setting sun and glaring white. But the windshield was clear. The closing speed between the two vehicles was well over one-hundred miles per hour, probably closer to one-fifty, but the road was so straight, so level, that he could see just who was behind the wheel of the SUV.

  The driver was wearing one of those ridiculous Smokey the Bear hats. A hat inside a car? Another goddamned hick. Cop this time. But—in the passenger seat next to the guy was a smaller figure, one that looked…just like a young girl.

  Montez cocked his head to one side as the SUV whooshed past, causing even the big Crown Vic to lean just a little into the slipstream and then away from it—but just ever so slightly, given that the weight of the two vehicles was nearly identical.

  And then there was a tap on Montez’s shoulder from the lowlife in the back seat. Montez cringed at the guy’s very touch.

  “Hey,” the guy said, “that’s the girl we’re looking for.”

  - 19 -

  SEXUAL TENSION

  THE SMALL U-shaped motel turned out to be the only game in town. In the front lobby, yellowed brochures of local attractions filled the racks leaning up against one wall. All of them appeared to be way out of date, better viewed in the 1990s, or maybe even the 1970s, when people traveling cross-country frequently stopped along the way to enjoy themselves rather than hitting the local coffee shop to relieve and refill, and then driving straight through.

  All this made Wolf wonder if any of those advertised roadside attractions were still in existence. Certainly no one came to Crow Canyon to visit the town’s namesake, given that the ravine had been used for years as a trash dump.

  Behind the chipped and battered barrier that served to separate the hotel’s meager lobby area and the back office, stood a narrow-faced man with wisps of gray hair plastered down with wax against his combed-over scalp. Wire-rimmed spectacles dug into the pudgy flesh at his temples and the bridge of his red, bulging nose. On his drooping frame, he wore a sweat-stained undershirt, stretched thin by time and age.

  A television set blared from the room behind the motel lobby and filled the entire space with loud, inane chatter. Over the noise came a yelled question, “Who is it, Howard?”

  “Shut yer damn mouth, woman. Got a customer,” the gray-haired guy shouted back. He glowered and then banged on the side of an aging computer monitor half-hidden below the countertop.

  Wolf could see the computer’s screen reflected in the man’s glasses. Blue screen, white writing. He glanced at Pearson, who also had seen what he’d seen and was smirking. He did not have much experience with computers, but he did recognize what he had seen meant something was wrong, which itself seemed to be a normal state for most computers.

  The gray-haired guy turned away from the monitor and scratched his side like a monkey might do. “So you need a room just for tonight? I hear that right?”

  Which was precisely why Wolf was there in the motel lobby with Pearson in the first place. The man behind the counter apparently was an excellent detective, and Wolf nearly complemented him on his fine work.

  But, instead, he realized that saying anything to that effect would not be positive in any way, so he just held up two fingers and said, “Two rooms.”

  “Ain’t got no two rooms,” the old guy said. “Just the one.”

  “But there’s no cars in the lot,” Pearson said. “So how can you have only one?”

  “Got reservations coming,” the guy said. “And, yeah, we got plenty of other rooms, but none are in service right now.”

  He scratched himself again. Wolf glanced at Pearson, who shrugged.

  “Maybe we should find another place to stay,” he said. “In the next town.”

  The gray-haired guy looked to his computer then back at Wolf, then shook his head. “Then why the hell are you here wasting my time with this nonsense?”

  Pearson slid next to Wolf and nudged him aside. “It’s okay. One room for the two of us will be fine.”

  “Hmmm,” the guy said, raising
an eyebrow. “Are you two married?”

  Wolf shook his head no.

  The man adjusted his spectacles and glared at Wolf for a hard second. “Well, you should be. Ain’t right not being married and sharing a room unless you are relations, and then times that ain’t often good enough, either. ‘Specially if you are from down south in Arkansas.” The guy chuckled at his own joke and indicated toward the back room. “Been married for thirty-eight years to the same woman, myself. At least I think it was a woman I married. Nowadays it’s hard to tell for sure.”

  “Congratulations?” Pearson said questioningly.

  The old man snorted and banged on the side of the computer again. “God-danged thing won’t work.”

  “Have you tried turning it off and back on again?” Pearson asked.

  “Three times even,” the old guy said.

  “Then you might need a new one,” she proffered.

  “And how the hell am I supposed to afford a new one?”

  Pearson let go of the argument and threaded her arm through Wolf’s and brushed against him. “I also need to ask you if the room where we will be staying is well insulated? You know…soundproof. We tend to make a lot of noise.”

  The old guy grunted and clicked a key on the keyboard with progressive vigor. “Sorry,” he said, “last minute reservation. We’re all filled up now.”

  Wolf could see in the guy’s glasses that the screen was the same blue with the same white lettering on it.

  Pearson said, “But just a moment ago you said there was still one room left. No one’s called. So, how—?”

  “Sorry,” the old guy said, not looking up.

  Wolf drew his thick wad of cash out of his pants pocket and peeled off a hundred-dollar bill. He set it on the chipped counter and flattened it. The old man eyed the hundred, eyed the roll of cash, and eyed Wolf suspiciously. He then picked up the bill and checked it against a lamp on the table behind him. “Looks good to me. You got another in there so I can be sure?”

  Wolf peeled off another hundred and set it in front of the man.

  The old guy smiled. “We jus’ had a cancelation.”

  He turned to shout over his shoulder. “Mabel, you got room 6 all ready?”

  Nothing. No response from the back room other than the fake laugh track sounds of the television.

  The man twisted and shouted again.

  A hollered response came through the threshold this time. “Yeah, I heard you the first time, goddammit! My show’s on, so keep it down!”

  “Yeah, what?” the old man shouted back.

  “Yeah,” the woman shouted. “Your dinner’s ready. Hurry up, will ya? Commercial’s just about to come on now.”

  “Goddamn woman,” the old man said, head shaking. “She makes no damn sense anymore. Okay, I can give you room 6, I think. Pretty sure it’s all fixed up good. That’s all we got. That gonna be okay?”

  Pearson nodded, as did Wolf. The man snapped the twin hundreds between his fingers as if he were still wondering if they were genuine, or wondering if maybe he should have held out for more. Then he folded them into his pocket and handed over a dull brass key on a keyring with a diamond-shaped fob of black plastic with the number 6 on it in scratched, gold paint.

  The room they’d been given was straight out of the 1970s and probably hadn’t been redecorated since. There was a small color television set with a row of pushbuttons along one side. The wall behind the bed held paintings of horses in various poses, yellowed by ancient cigarette smoke. A painting on the opposite wall depicted a girl in a field surrounded by crows. The canvas had a tear in it that had been repaired with even yellower cellophane tape than the image itself. A water-stained lampshade with a single dull bulb sat on top of the nightstand next to a single, queen-sized bed, and there was a threadbare twill chair up against the far wall by the metal heater unit.

  Pearson chuckled as she opened the heavy curtains. “Cozy,” she said. “I like the room’s rustic quaintness and charm.”

  Wolf glanced through the opening curtains at his motorcycle parked just outside, which was next to Pearson’s rented Chevy sedan. She walked across the room and set her purse down on the nightstand and then went out to the car and pulled a rolling suitcase from the trunk and came back inside, closing the door behind her, having to yank it hard to get it to shut all the way. Then she flipped the lock and set the chain, sealing them inside.

  He scanned the room from his seat at the edge of the bed, noting the dirty carpet, but also noting it was the only other horizontal surface in the room capable of supporting his mass.

  “I will take the floor,” he said.

  “Suit yourself.” She shrugged and headed for the bathroom with her suitcase in tow.

  He soon heard the shower kick on as he moved to the only chair in the room, which rested against the corner by the front window, facing the bed.

  He scratched the back of his head, massaged his neck, and settled into the chair. There was something definitely going on that was not right. He just didn’t know what it was or who was behind it. The sheriff didn’t seem right. Just didn’t feel right. And something about the two missing girls bothered him, but he could not figure out exactly why. The Nebraska cornhuskers, the Crawford boys, had told them under duress that they’d been hired over the phone by some guy named Jonathan, which was not much to go on—and probably a lie—and when pressed further, they started making up stories that led nowhere.

  He figured he could have eventually gotten to the truth, but it would have cost him far more from his soul than he was willing to pay right now. Pearson was also in a hurry and had wanted to find the sheriff and check out the ravine, so they had left the guys to scurry away and lick their wounds. He also figured that if he stuck around more than a day, they would come looking for a little payback, and might not be so stupid as they had been. Or they might get lucky. Either way, it wasn’t worth it. And, finally, he was not sure why she wanted to check the ravine. He was certain it was only an animal that had fallen over the edge. It had to be. It must have slipped in the soft dirt and made that single fatal mistake that ended many lives, both human and animal.

  So, sticking around made some kind of sense, but he would rather just revisit with the sheriff in the morning and find out what happened to the girl he had met who called herself Melody. Perhaps that would lead somewhere for Pearson as well. A few other possible scenarios of what could be going on ran through his head while he waited, but nothing seemed to fit all the pieces together in a way that made sense. Plus, he was not really the detective—she was. So, maybe she had some ideas of where to go with all this. He was only a guy who was traveling through on his way to nowhere in particular, not quite knowing why he had even gotten involved in the first place, but trusting in the words his grandmother had once spoken.

  Listen to the voices on the wind, she had said.

  About twenty minutes later, Pearson came out of the bathroom wrapped in towels and trailing thick wisps of steam. She was definitely an attractive woman, and Wolf felt a certain tingling sensation at the sight of her. She had one towel wrapped around her head and another tight around her well-toned body. Her legs were smooth and shiny and shapely, and with her hair pulled up and out of her face, the steamy air had nothing on her.

  “Your turn,” she said.

  By the time he had showered and changed, she was already in bed and under the covers. She wore reading glasses and, it appeared, nothing else. The other side of the bed remained open for him but was covered with photographs, papers, and an open manila folder. He had put on his jeans inside the bathroom, but nothing else, and he could almost feel her eyes judging him as he crossed the room.

  He grabbed a brand new T-shirt from his bag and slipped it over his head, then tossed the old one he’d been wearing in the trashcan across the room.

  “Don’t you wash those?” she asked.

  “Why? Easier to buy new.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Where’d you come up with that?”
/>
  “Read it in a book once.”

  “You read?” she teased.

  As he adjusted his shirt, she gathered the stack of papers she had spread on the bed next to her and moved them out of the way.

  “What I mentioned earlier…” she said with a hint of shyness. “I’m okay with sharing the bed. You can sleep here with me. I don’t bite. Usually.”

  He wanted to tell her, “But I do.” He also wanted to crawl in next to her, grab her, and kiss her hard on the mouth and see where that led.

  But he did not.

  He picked up a pillow and tossed it on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  “At least take this.” She pushed the bed cover toward him with her feet while keeping herself concealed under the sheet. “That floor looks disgusting.”

  He grabbed the cover and shook it out and laid down on it. Then he folded his hands behind his head and stared up at the sprayed-on ceiling.

  “Are you comfortable?” she asked.

  He grunted, rolled away, and forced his eyes to close.

  They did not stay closed for long. He rolled over to find her staring down at him from the edge of the bed, still covered by the thin sheet.

  Somehow, he had missed it.

  “I thought you would have gotten the message,” she said. “Or maybe you are just a little dense.”

  She smiled seductively and let the bed sheet drop.

  - 20 -

  NIGHTMARE

  WOLF WAS RUNNING. Not from something, but to something, and it took him a very long time to get there. It was as if he were pushing his way through water and not air. There was a man. There was a girl. There was… He was brought to a halt by two crossed guns, barring his way forward.

  And he saw the blooming flashes of a camera and a man hovering over a corpse.

  A young girl was lying dead on the floor.

  There was blood, lots of it.

  Copper scented.

  Foul…

  It was hot.

  Very hot.

  Stifling hot.

  Humid.

  But Iraq was often like that. It was an eternal cesspool of heat and misery.