Ellis’s pink cheeks flushed.
“God damn it, Frank,” Meecham muttered, shaking his head.
He’d done it again. Making things tough for Dave Meecham was the last thing he wanted to do. He scrambled to repair the damage. “I apologize, Agent Ellis. Sometimes the coyote speaks from my mouth before I can chase him away.”
Ellis frowned.
“My grandmother used to say that,” Frank said. He looked at Novak. “She was Paiute. The coyote is a trickster and never very polite.”
Novak nodded, his face solemn with understanding. Ellis looked from Frank to Novak, confused.
“Lieutenant Dewey and I have worked closely together in the past. He hoped I might find something that had been overlooked, and it so happened that I did.” Frank told them about finding the dead burro, retracing the trajectory, and finding the empty shell casing and explained why he thought the killer had probably wrapped his feet.
“Yeah, that makes sense.” Novak gave Frank an appraising look. “Nice piece of work, Flynn.”
“The way I worked it out wasn’t in the report I sent over to Dewey.”
“Maybe you ought to keep better notes.” Meecham was grinning. It broke the ice.
“While we’re at it, why do you think the killer was a tall person?” Ellis again.
“I looked for a good place to take a shot, near where I found the casing. There was a natural indentation in the caprock, a perfect place to lie down and wait. Only thing is, I kept slipping backward down the rock. Then I discovered a couple of indentations in the sand. I figured they were made by feet attached to a body tall enough to fit the hollow just perfectly.”
“In fact, the only physical evidence is the shell casing and the note,” Ellis said.
“It’s just a theory. The way I see it, the shooter was on foot. Did the killing and hiked cross-country to the pinyon pines on Hunter Mountain.”
“How far would that be?” Novak wanted to know.
“Six, maybe seven miles.”
“Why would he walk when he could drive?”
“You been up there?”
The agents shook their heads.
“It’s open country. A car’s easy to spot; the dust plume coming up from the road can be seen for miles. And as you know, driving a car’s like wearing a big identification tag: make, model, color, plates, all that good stuff. A man walking cross-country doesn’t throw up dust, and if he’s wearing khaki or camo, he’s damn near invisible.”
“You’re telling us that the killer escaped on foot across open country.” Ellis looked skeptical.
Frank stared into the space between them, letting the silence gather. “There was a famous California road agent called Black Bart. He held up stages, took the money, and left behind poems. Frank scrunched up his eyes: “ ‘I’ve labored long and hard for bread, / For honor and for riches, / But on my corns too long you’ve tread / You fine-haired sons-of-bitches.’ ” Frank made a point of not looking at Ellis’s silky blond hair. Bart didn’t kill people, a major difference, but he took a lot of money.
“Wells Fargo posted big rewards, put on extra guards, but after every holdup, Bart just disappeared. Finally, Wells Fargo sent James B. Hume, their chief of detectives, to catch the man who robbed Wells Fargo and got away with it. Hume was the former sheriff of Hangtown, gave the town its name. Now you guys’ll like this.” Frank grinned. “Hume ran Bart down in San Francisco by tracing a Chinese laundry mark. It was a first-class piece of detective work using forensic evidence to catch a crook.”
“What’s the point here?” Novak looked impatient.
“Well, Bart was proud of his work. He told Hume how he’d gotten away with all those robberies. Everyone assumed he had a horse tied out of sight so it wouldn’t be identified, but nobody figured a man would be fool enough to rob a stagecoach on foot. They were wrong. That’s what he did. Hit the stage and then hiked cross-country over some pretty rugged terrain, places a horse couldn’t go. He usually made it back to some small town where he was already a registered guest at one of the local hotels.”
“So you think our man might have done the same thing?”
“Why not? Hide a vehicle in the high country and drive out after things have calmed down. There’s a hell of a lot of Mojave Desert and not much in the way of manpower to patrol it.”
Novak looked over at Meecham. “What do you think of Frank’s theory, Dave?”
“Makes sense.” He looked thoughtful. “Doesn’t explain why he leaves notes, though.”
‘Maybe he’s playing with us, like Bart,” Frank said. “The ‘eye for an eye’ stuff was in Long Beach. The range master stuff was out here. Ready on the left for one guy. Ready on the right for the other.” His mouth turned down in a perverse smile. “I imagine he caught them by surprise, though.”
Ellis frowned. “You think this stuff is funny?”
Novak broke in. “Then it’s ‘Ready on the firing line.’ Right?”
Frank nodded. “Then it’s ‘Commence firing.’ He’s letting us know he’s not through.”
Meecham glanced up at the clock on the opposite wall. “Let’s eat.” The agents nodded in agreement. “You guys like Mexican food?” They nodded again. “Great, we’ll go over to Ralph’s. Frank and I’ll be along in a minute.” The agents filed out into the hallway.
•
“What’s this about the coyote speaking through your mouth?” Meecham asked.
“I made it up. I guess I was taking advantage of Novak’s good nature. He seemed like a nice guy who might respect other cultures, especially Native American cultures, so I blamed my smart mouth on being part Paiute. You know, Coyote made me do it.”
“I think there’s more coyote in you than meets the eye.” Meecham made a wry face. “We didn’t look very good in there.”
“You’re right, Dave. Won’t let it happen again.”
“Take a seat.” Meecham gestured vaguely at the battered chairs in front of his desk.
Frank sat.
“Next week, I’m going to Washington, D.C.”
“You told me, Chief.”
“There’s a couple of things that need doing while I’m at the conference.”
“Okay,” Frank said.
“I want you to represent the BLM at the opening of the Sand Canyon Game Reserve. We’ve been invited along with California Fish and Game and U.S. Fish and Wildlife—and God knows who else.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s going to be a big event.”
Frank’s expression was stony.
Dave Meecham returned the expression. “I don’t like these canned hunting outfits any more than you do, but people in the valley are excited. It means a few more local jobs. And it means tourists with big bucks. The Chamber of Commerce in Lone Pine is happy as hell. Same goes for Bishop.”
“Right. Welcome, rich assholes. Hate your guts but love your money.” Frank sneered.
“Damn it, Frank, that’s what I don’t want.” Meecham’s voice was steely. “These people are going out of their way to make sure everything is squared away with the right agencies. Our office has been invited for a tour of the facilities. I’ve been invited. You’re going in my place. As senior ranger in Ridgecrest, you’ll be representing the bureau while I’m in Washington,”
Frank was swept with a wave of guilt. Dave Meecham was more than his colleague and boss; he was a friend, and he was entrusting Frank with the reputation of the BLM, the Ridgecrest office, and his own reputation as chief district ranger.
“Okay, Dave, and I’ll make sure the coyote shuts up.”
Dave Meecham’s shoulders sagged as the tension dissipated. He leaned back in his chair, looking tired.
“Anything else?” Frank asked.
“Hold the fort. Sand Canyon is the big-ticket item. Fish and Wildlife will be on them about the introduction of exotic species. The new owners bought out the old Circle Cross ranch and arranged to take over the grazing leases for hunting.”
Frank raised his eyebrows.
Frank choked the coyote into silence.
“There are two things for us to be concerned about. The lease land has abandoned mine sites, some marked, some not. There’s a couple of uncovered shafts near the mouth of the canyon that I know of and a sign warning about old mines, but that’s it. The Sand Canyon people have promised to cover them. Check it out, and check on the other sites. The U.S. Geological Survey maps show three mines near the mouth of the canyon on BLM land. Making the area safe was part of the lease agreement.”
Frank nodded. “Consider it done.”
“Another thing. You know where the petroglyphs are up in Dead Indian Wash?”
Frank frowned in mock thought. “You mean Deceased Native American Paiute Wash?”
“That’s the place.” Meecham smiled. Frank’s sense of the absurd never failed to amuse him. “They are to understand that the area is off-limits to shooting. The petroglyphs are not to be defaced by chingaderos shooting them up.”
“Can I tell them that? No chingaderos.” Frank asked, looking innocent.
Meecham cocked a warning eye.
“Okay, boss. I’ll stick to the English and just say fuckers.” He raised his hand in anticipation of Dave’s irritation. “Not to worry. I’ll deliver the message about the petroglyphs with professional discretion.”
Dave Meecham considered his friend. They had worked together for eight years. Frank had been with the BLM for nine. A veteran with a degree in American studies, he’d hired on as a historian. The military background and penchant for solitude routed him into becoming a ranger. Meecham had come into the BLM from another law enforcement service, the way so many had. He’d been with the Border Patrol first, and then opted for the Bureau of Land Management when it incorporated an enforcement arm. Meecham was close to retirement, but he didn’t talk about it. In many ways, Meecham and Frank were the odd couple, but the job and the love of the land had made them an effective team.
“Yeah, I know you’ll handle it. Oh, and the preview is in a week, opening day three weeks after that. Most of the law enforcement types will skip the opening day shootout, unless they’re carrying the flag for one of the departments. Too many people. My guess is that everything will be shipshape; otherwise, they wouldn’t have invited us.” He ran a hand through sandy hair. “Okay, let’s eat,” he said, rising from his chair. “See if those boys can take Ralph’s hot sauce.”
3
•
Seth Parker had lived above the Hendricksons’ garage for more than two years, longer than anyplace else since taking his disability discharge from the army. The studio apartment felt like home. He would miss it, but time was running out. He wasn’t going to die with soiled pants in some VA hospital. He’d go out with a bang, not a whimper—and he wasn’t planning on going alone.
At first, the diagnosis had hit him hard. It came without a warning, but now he considered it liberation. Having absolutely nothing to lose enlarged his thinking and made him giddy with the freedom of possibilities. In the short space of three months, he had accumulated several Internet followers. Mostly wannabes, full of electronic chatter, unwilling to take that first irreversible step from talk to walk. The first one was always the hardest.
There were a couple of exceptions in the mix of losers and crazies, though. Ray in Texas understood exactly what was required of members in the MDG. He’d even posted a photograph of a kill he claimed was his. Thus far, Parker had been unable to verify it in the newspapers. The dead hunter, a great picture of him hanging from a barbed-wire fence, might have died as the result of a genuine accident. There were so many hunting accidents you could pick and choose.
John was another matter. He’d met John at the thousand-yard range on Bear Valley Road, east of Victorville, and he could shoot accurately, an essential skill for unit members and not easily acquired. As yet, John knew nothing about target acquisition, evaluating the terrain, and evading detection, essentials to becoming an effective sniper, but he was an eager pupil. More important, he was the perfect disciple. John had been lost, drifting without purpose. Now he had been found—by Seth Parker. Parker had brought about John’s transformation from a self-indulgent rich boy to a man who had discovered the satisfaction of a purpose-driven life. The righteousness of their cause was simple: justice for the innocent, an eye for an eye—or a lip for a beak. The removal of the commercial fisherman’s lips had caused quite a stir. As he had explained to John, they were balancing the scales, taking up the slack in the cosmic justice department.
Of course, the game itself held a magnetic fascination. There was an electric thrill when the quarry could shoot back. The risk of death made for real hunting, not simple slaughter. It was also what made combat soldiers tick, the absolutes of life and death held in balance by the skill of the participants.
MDG was more than an acronym, a mere mind game. It was the word made flesh, the embodiment of purpose. Besides, the camo-clad, swaggering pseudo-men, who loved the wars they didn’t fight in, needed a touch of reality, something that could shoot back. MDG would ensure that their life experiences were more inclusive.
When they first met, Parker had qualms about John’s physical attributes—or lack of them. He questioned whether his new follower would be up to the demands of the game, but John succeeded in laying Parker’s doubts to rest. He went on a regimen of diet and exercise, lost the puffy baby fat that clung to his short, tubular body, and achieved a modest degree of fitness.
John’s money was an added asset. John had purchased a .50 caliber M107 sniper rifle. Very expensive, but with the infusion of John’s money, the MDG could afford it. John thought the heavy round would do spectacular damage. Parker had reminded him the weapon was designed to take on lightly armored vehicles. John had replied that using the .50 would provide a wonderful object lesson. Under the bland exterior, John was very angry. Parker recognized the signs. He knew all about suppressed rage.
At first, they had just talked about their operation, developing a philosophy, a rationale that not only sanctioned the taking of human life but even required it. On the other hand, Parker knew that the real attraction was in the danger, the hunt for game that could shoot back. Then the diagnosis changed everything. Seth Parker had been gripped by a sense of urgency.
His first kills had been personally satisfying but relatively anonymous, providing no object lesson. The newspaper and television accounts reflected befuddlement. The killings were described as motiveless. Then the television reporters took to referring to the victims’ deaths as sad, even tragic. Parker knew better.
His efforts had been misunderstood even when he killed the redneck who trained his pit bulls by tossing them litters of kittens and live puppies. The media didn’t seem to get it. He was making things better, not worse. The families and neighbors of these violent men had lived in constant fear. They must have been swept with gratitude, or at least relief, at the removal of the source of brutality.
Violence done to animals was a precursor of violence done to human beings.
The fisherman had been his first signature killing. His death had made things much clearer and made the Sandman a celebrity. The lipless face of the man who had mutilated the pelicans had generated far more than a thousand words. The note had added just the right touch, “An eye for an eye.” Everybody believed in revenge, and it added a hint of mystery. What had the victim done to deserve death at the hands of the Sandman?
The news anchors and anchorettes couldn’t stop talking about it. The public had something new to be afraid of, a new vicarious thrill. They’d been handed a story that had universal appeal, controversy, and condemnation.
When Parker had posted the pictures of his most recent kills on the Web site under his nom de guerre of the Sandman, John had been quietly ecstatic, eager to participate. Parker suspected that John’s motives were no
t completely pure, but he knew that his own motives were mixed. Although he thoroughly hated cruelty and the destruction of innocent things, he’d thoroughly enjoyed killing the man who’d mutilated the pelicans, especially the coup de grâce.
He replayed it in his head over and over again. You shot me! It always came as a surprise. Up close and personal was very different than a kill shot through a scope. Using the .22 provided maximum effect, minimum mess. Cutting the lips off the pelican man had been difficult and disgusting, but it was a stroke of genius. He was famous. His cause was becoming famous. That was the important part.
He looked over his apartment in preparation for the final tidying up. First, remove items that could lead directly to his identification. That would come soon enough, but by then, it wouldn’t make any difference. Parker opened the gun safe where he kept his Model 70 Winchester Featherweight and the Colt Woodsman. He owned only two weapons, all he needed. One for distance, one for close up.
The Model 70 was pre-1964, a beautiful weapon. He loved the straight-grain walnut stock, the luster on the wood, the smoothness of the polished action. He couldn’t bear to paint the stock or remove the sheen from the brilliant bluing of the metal. It had been his father’s. Now it was his, the same rifle, but outfitted with a much improved telescopic sight. It was far from the very latest sniper setup but absolutely first rate. Besides, it was the shooter that counted. One shot, one kill. Uncle Sam had spent a lot of money on his training. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.
He slid the rifle into a padded case and tucked the Woodsman into a soft leather inside-the-belt holster, invisible to others while he was wearing a hangout shirt or light jacket. Time was hurrying along, and he must hurry with it.
First he had to drop off Orpheus and Eurydice with John. They were his breeding canaries. Eurydice, the female, didn’t sing, but she was the cause of song in Orpheus, and she had begun to construct a second nest. Parker slipped the solid partition into place between the two sections of the breeding cage. Orpheus could be quite aggressive. Parker hoped the move wouldn’t disrupt the nesting ritual. He cherished hopes for canary chicks within a month. He refused to think about his condition when he thought about the birds.
Shadows of Death Page 2
