Wolf Who Walks Alone: A Raymond Wolf Mystery Novel

by Steve R. Yeager

  She held out a water bottle for him and shook it, side to side.

  “So, nothing down there, huh?” she said. “Good, I guess.”

  He nodded an affirmation and unhooked from the rope and pulled off his gloves, then took a long drink from the bottle and mopped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  After he had cleaned up as best he could and had changed clothes, they both leaned against the back end of the Chevy, not saying anything to each other for several minutes. He just kept drinking from the water bottle, trying to wash the taste of mud and filth from his mouth.

  “So where does that leave us?” she asked. “We’ve eliminated one thing, at least. Right? But I’m not so sure where to go from here. When I can get a few bars of reception, I’ll make some phone calls and probably check in with the girl’s parents. After that, we should probably visit the sheriff again about that other girl you met.”

  He nodded and took another drink of water.

  She pushed away from the car. “In some ways, I’m glad we didn’t find her. There’s hope. I’m sure she’s just gone missing somewhere and will turn up soon.”

  Wolf wasn’t so certain.

  - 23 -

  TIRES SPITTING GRAVEL

  IT WAS A quiet drive back to the four-way stop sign. Pearson slowed and signaled to turn right, even though there was no one else at the town’s only intersection.

  She eased off the brake pedal, and the Chevy crept into the intersection.

  Wolf thrust a hand out, and she slammed on the brakes. He had spotted the pressing danger first—a slight flicker of movement, growing rapidly.

  A second later, a police cruiser blew through the stop sign, missing them by a couple of short feet. The cruiser was accelerating hard and the light bar clicked on and the siren started to wail as the big car headed out of town, screaming down the lonely two-lane road.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Pearson asked.

  Wolf shrugged and withdrew his hand.

  Pearson kept her foot on the brake. “You think we should follow it?”

  He nodded once.

  She floored the gas pedal and wheeled left, leaning into the turn.

  Tires spitting gravel, the rental car wheezed asthmatically, but still managed to build sufficient speed to follow the rapidly disappearing police cruiser.

  - 24 -

  GOT THE GIRL

  MONTEZ WAS SLOUCHED in the front seat of the big black Crown Victoria, watching the orange sun split on the horizon, marking the start of a new day. He grinned back at it all, thinking of his good fortune. To see what he had worried over just go driving past the previous evening was a ridiculously nice piece of luck.

  It could have gone a whole lot worse.

  That dumb sheriff hadn’t even known what’d hit him, either. Not in the least. After the kid had spun the big sedan around, it was easy as pie to chase that SUV down and get the guy to pull over. And when the guy had gotten out, shoved his thumbs in his belt, and asked what the hell was going on…well then, that was the icy moment Montez realized the sheriff wasn’t the one they were looking for. But it no longer mattered. That was also the moment, apparently, when the sheriff realized the threat to his life and wellbeing was real and immediate and had backed onto his heels and gone for his gun.

  Big mistake. But, it almost wasn’t.

  Fortunately for Montez, the kid was way faster than that fat sheriff and got his own piece out and on target first. Because when Montez went for his, he got all tied up in wool fabric and sharp metal edges. Then that damn sheriff had the balls to just raise his hands to shoulder height and spit like he was in one of those old-timey Western movies they showed on late night TV. It was a gesture that had Montez chuckling hard by the time he’d lined up his own piece on the guy.

  He’d said to the guy in his best Texas drawl, “Keep them hands up there, partner,” which was hilarious as shit.

  “What do you want?” the sheriff had groused back, holstering his gun and glowering with a seething impotency at Montez and the kid.

  And then a name came to Montez in a flash—Fast Eddie. It was a good one. One that could stick. And that’s what he decided to call the kid from then on. The name had a certain clichéd charm to it. Fast Eddie, yeah. Montez figured he’d eventually get the kid a girl and see if that name stuck with him there as well.

  But that was for later.

  Now, he just kept his gun pointed at the sheriff and said between chuckles, “There’s been a small misunderstanding.”

  Then he pinched all the humor off cold.

  “You need to drop those guns and get your hands up,” the sheriff said, sounding more nervous than threatening.

  “We thought you were the guy who snatched the girls. But, I know now that you’re not that guy.” Montez twisted his head back and forth. “So not that guy.”

  The sheriff said nothing, but his hands slowly dropped to his sides, inching ever closer toward the gun on his hip.

  “Ah, ah, ahhh,” Montez chided. “Keep them up and you’ll live.”

  Which was a lie, mostly, because Montez had no reason to let the guy keep breathing and plenty to make sure he stopped.

  The sheriff lifted his arms again. “What do you want with her?”

  “Oh, I’d want to do a whole lot,” Montez said as he circled closer to the SUV and peeked inside, “if I were allowed to despoil the merchandise. Sadly, I’m not.”

  The girl sat on the front seat, staring forward through the front windshield, trying to ignore Montez. He wiggled his fingers at her and she adjusted her jacket, pulling it tighter about her shoulders.

  Montez stepped in front of the sheriff. “She’s a cute one, that’s for sure, but she’s in no danger from us. Let me assure you of that.”

  “And what else can you assure me of?”

  “Oh, plenty, I guess,” Montez stated with a casual ease as he unfastened the strap on the sheriff’s sidearm—a big shiny revolver—and withdrew it and holstered his own 9mm Sig inside his jacket and returned to unclip a pair of chrome-plated handcuffs from the man’s black utility belt.

  Handcuffs dangling from one finger, he took a step backward and admired the big .357 Colt Python with a critical eye. “This is a nice, big piece.” He massaged the checkered grip with his thumb and then got a feel for the weight of the gun. “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing it for a bit.”

  The sheriff said nothing.

  Montez pushed the cylinder release lever and flipped out the six big chambers, all loaded, all filled with pristine and unfired shells, each with intact primers. He spun the cylinder, which made a zinging sound, and then snapped the whole thing shut and tested his aim on the sheriff’s center of mass, which happened to be the guy’s protruding belly. Then he let the tip of the barrel drop to aim somewhere lower, a little more intimate.

  He said to the man, “Gonna need you to get down on your knees for me now.”

  The sheriff stood there, unmoving. A dark stain appeared on his khaki trousers, about crotch high, and quickly spread down one leg.

  Montez sighed. “Now see what you’ve gone and done? You got nothing to worry about from us, pal. We don’t kill people. Not over small shit like this. It’s not our style. Can’t have too much collateral damage, you know? Bad for business. But I am going to recommend that you work real hard to forget you ever saw us. Can you do that for me?”

  The sheriff remained stock still, then nodded slightly.

  “Good,” Montez said, more than a little surprised it had been so easy, “that will make things go better for you in the long run. Okay, now turn around and get down on your knees.”

  The man assessed Montez with the same critical eye that Montez had used when assessing the big silver revolver. Sizing me up…? Not much you’re gonna learn, pal.

  The sheriff nodded slowly and spun and begrudgingly dropped to his knees as ordered and lifted one hand to accept the expected click of the handcuffs. And he waited.

  Montez put the
barrel of the shiny Colt against his own lips, indicating silence as he brought the kid forward with a sideways nod of the head. And when the newly monikered Fast Eddie arrived at his side, Montez handed him the gun. This time, the kid did not hesitate, not one tiny bit.

  As Montez backpedaled a step, the kid raised the gun and fired, almost point blank, but just a hair further back than last time. Fat orange flames colored like the dawning sun erupted from the barrel. The gun kicked hard, and the sheriff’s head exploded like a ripe melon. The remaining inertia and friction carried along by the slug sent the guy’s body just past the tipping point, and he fell onto his forehead and stuck there against the pavement like he was one of those Muslims praying to Allah. Montez hated those guys. His once great city of New York was now lousy with them. And here this dumb sheriff was now practically mocking him with his ass high in the air. What bullshit. Montez nearly drilled the guy a new asshole for it. He raised his gun and—

  Then he lowered it.

  Letting go of his annoyance, he stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it. His whole head was ringing from the huge thunderclap that had come from the revolver. But, as the high-pitched tone faded off into nothingness, he began to chuckle again.

  The kid was inspecting himself all over for blood, and amazingly, not a single drop had splashed back on him, which made Montez wonder if he should now start using a bigger caliber.

  Maybe that’s been the problem all along?

  The increased punch was probably what was necessary to blow clean through the skull and keep the blood and bits of brain matter all traveling in the same direction—away from him.

  Yeah, maybe it really is just as simple as that.

  “Damn,” the kid said, admiring the Colt, “this thing kicks so motherfucking hard.”

  Montez made a noise with his mouth, “Psssh, damn right it does, kid. Now hand it over and go drag that body off into the bushes and hide it. Don’t have to be too good, just good enough to let us scoot before these hicks can discover it.”

  The kid complied with the order, waving to Rodney first, who was still back at the Crown Victoria, leaning against the front fender and picking his teeth with a finger.

  Together, the two dragged the sheriff’s body down into a ditch and hid it in the undergrowth alongside the road while Montez wandered off to smoke. He watched them from a distance, enjoying the morning air and the subtle effects of the nicotine on his system.

  When they’d finished, he nodded his approval and returned to the SUV and shut the driver’s door, then circled around to the passenger’s side, practically whistling to himself a show tune he couldn’t get out of his head. He remembered what a good night it was when he’d seen that play. It’d been filled with booze and hookers, and there’d been plenty of coke, practically enough to ski on.

  But what he saw just now made him slow his step.

  A pickup truck was coming down the road in the opposite direction. He watched it decelerate as he came to a stop by the SUV’s side. The guy behind the wheel of the crusty, piece-of-shit truck was glancing over to see what had happened as he drove past. Montez gave the guy his friendliest look and a slight wave. The old guy did not wave back.

  Then, down the road a bit, the truck’s red taillights popped on, and it screeched to a worn-brake stop about fifty feet from where Montez stood. It began to back up to meet him on the road, reverse gear whining. When it reached him, the truck clunked out of gear and sat there idling.

  “Everything okay?” asked the guy behind the wheel through a rolled-down window.

  The leathery old mook had dirt in the creases of his face, which were deep and furrowed and drooping like so much saggy skin. It was all Montez could do to keep the fake smile going. And as the old truck idled, the guy spat on the road and then wiped his lips with his fingers. Montez followed the sputum’s path to where it landed, smelling the dirt and exhaust and pig shit that wafted off the vehicle.

  He found it all disgusting, but hid his reaction. “Everything’s just fine here. Except for the car. We had some troubles with the car.”

  The old farmer nodded. “The sheriff with you?”

  “Yeah. He’s off taking a leak somewhere. We are all just waiting around for the auto club to show up. The sheriff has been a real help.”

  “Tow truck coming?”

  “Yup, probably,” Montez said, trying on a southern accent again. It felt a little odd speaking that way dressed like he was. Still, he relaxed a little to show the guy he was no threat, leaning back on the heels of his fine Italian lace-ups and putting one hand in his jacket pocket.

  The big Colt was slightly too large for him to keep concealed inside his jacket easily, but he didn’t think the old farmer could notice. He figured the guy was too busy being the concerned citizen to give two shits about the gun, and Nebraska was probably full of these types. He could hardly wait to get the hell home where people acted more like normal people and minded their own damn business.

  “Okay,” the old guy finally said. He waved a genuine goodbye and shifted the old truck into gear and chugged away.

  Then, from behind, the lights and siren fired up on the sheriff’s SUV. Montez turned toward the racket with a sour annoyance, and when he shifted his gaze back to the pickup truck, he noted it had again come to a full stop.

  Which was a very bad decision for the old man to make.

  But, leaving the girl in the sheriff’s SUV hadn’t been that smart either. Once this trouble with the farmer was resolved, Montez would make her pay for his mistake, and pay dearly.

  The truck’s door squeaked open on rusty hinges. The old farmer got out on the highway brandishing a pump-action shotgun. The guy leveled it at Montez.

  “Whoa, there!” Montez said, raising one hand and getting ready to pull the big Colt with the other.

  “What’s really going on here?” the old man asked.

  And a slight worry crept through Montez. He’d not been fast enough before, and this time, he’d have to move extra quick to get the big, heavy gun out and fire it before the old farmer could react. But again, like having the dice going with him rather than against him, Montez got lucky for the second time that day.

  It turned out what the farmer had said happened to be the last thing the old man ever uttered on God’s green earth, because the kid stepped out from the ditch alongside the road, raised his own gun, and fired it at the side of the old guy’s head. A spray of red blossomed on the pickup truck, and the old man wavered there for a moment before collapsing onto the roadbed. The shotgun fell from the guy’s grip and clattered on the asphalt.

  The kid, eyes cold and dark, let his gun drop to his side and glanced at Montez. Now there were two bodies and two vehicles that needed to be dealt with, so that lucky streak now came with a sudden, almost unexpected drawback.

  “Shit,” Montez breathed.

  The kid and Rodney closed ranks, hovering around the farmer’s crumpled body lying in a heap on the gray asphalt. Rodney rolled the old guy over with his boot and kicked hard. The old man’s wiry body shuddered from the blow, but it was dead weight and only shifted an inch or so, and Rodney was left limping, moving in a circle, swearing down at his ankle.

  “It’s busted, goddammit,” the oily-haired guy said.

  “Well,” Montez commented as he joined them, “you guys better work real fast before we have to kill everyone in this fucking state. Go on. Take care of it yourselves. I gotta go deal with a little girl who needs a lesson in good manners.”

  And he had taught her that lesson, all right, with the back of his goddamned hand. But he’d gone easy on her. The boss would not be happy with spoiled merchandise. It wasn’t like the puttana he’d been with in Atlantic City. No, that one he was able to go as hard as he wanted to on, and he had. But that had made a real mess. He was a better man now. He could control his temper.

  And when he had finished with this girl, he was quite pleased with his own restraint.

  Lesson given, with the kid’s help,
he trussed the girl up nice and tight and dumped her in the trunk of the Crown Victoria. The slight damage he figured he could justify to the boss because he hadn’t broken any bones or done anything serious. He’d just given her a few bruises that would heal up quick. It would keep her properly cowed and docile, too. And she’d deserved all he’d given her, the little bitch.

  So, all-in-all, it had been a lucky night and a good morning indeed.

  He nodded knowingly from the passenger seat and checked the rearview mirror again as he pulled out Vaughn’s smartphone to make a call and update Mr. Krieg on their whereabouts, hoping it was not too early in the morning to be calling.

  As it rang, he started chuckling to himself once again. He had seen the blue sign they were about to pass. It said, LEAVING NEBRASKA, PLEASE COME AGAIN.

  Like hell I will.

  There was only one task left for him to do before they got back to New York. He had to find some nice quiet place and bury that skeez sitting behind him in the back seat, still moaning about his damn ankle.

  As he glanced over his left shoulder, waiting for the phone to be answered on the other side, he asked, “You doing all right back there?”

  - 25 -

  DOWNED SHERIFF

  WOLF AND PEARSON followed the flashing lights on top of the police cruiser out of town, flogging the rented Chevy for all it was worth. Eventually, the cruiser pulled over to the side of the road, lights still flashing and joining a chorus of other police and fire vehicles parked haphazardly across a single lane. An officer dressed head to toe in brown and tan had his wide-brimmed hat tipped downward and was directing traffic in the other lane as the few passing vehicles slowed to gawk at the scene.

  The primary focus was on an SUV with PIPER COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT painted on the side. That vehicle was parked awkwardly across the closed lane.

  Wolf figured they were probably less than ten miles outside of Crow Canyon, and whatever had happened, he was certain in his gut that the runaway girl who called herself Melody was somehow involved.