by Tony Urban
The joke was on her, though, because he didn’t care what any of them thought. The Wolf cares not about the opinions of sheep.
But she wasn’t finished. “Your deformities…” she spat the word, “don’t make me feel sorry for you. They make me sick. And so does that stupid man bun, and the beard you’ve been growing. You might think it makes you look like Brad Pitt, but it makes you look like a hobo. It’s unprofessional. That alone would give me just cause to terminate you.”
Carlene pointed a pink-tipped finger at him. “So don’t you ever talk back to me again. Got it?”
He tried to stare her into submission, but it wasn’t working. Finally, he averted his eyes. “Yes. I understand. I apologize.”
A smug smile crept across her narrow face. “I’m glad we’ve established who’s in charge around here.”
He watched Carlene sashay out of sight, arrogant, entitled. At her exit, he stepped fully into the kennel room, trying to tamp down the fury raging inside him.
Mitch unleashed a cross between a yell and a bellow. As soon as he did, the animals went silent, frozen, and transfixed in their kennels.
Even the dogs sensed his power. But Carlene, she was so blind that she couldn’t comprehend it. Didn’t she see him transforming? Didn’t she know what he was becoming?
His eyes spied a metal bucket sitting on the floor and, in his fury, he kicked it. The pail flew across the room, smashing into a crate of disposable wipes.
Ready to get on with his day, he headed toward the exit but stopped at one of the last kennels. A hulking Saint Bernard sat inside, so big he nearly filled the cage. His front leg was bandaged from a recent surgery, and he stared at Mitch with curious, watchful brown eyes.
Mitch twisted his face and snarled at the dog. It whimpered and backed away, pressing itself into the rear of the kennel, showing Mitch the respect and fear that he deserved. Mitch smiled, satisfied with himself.
A side door to the kennel room popped open. He turned, expecting Carlene back for round two and this time, this time he was certain he’d rip her to shreds. But what he saw changed his mood completely.
A woman toting a cat carrier stepped into the room. Inside was a timid black and white cat, obviously female from the scent. His eyes trailed up the woman and he was mesmerized. She was exactly what he needed.
She had blonde hair, was younger than he was by about a decade, and wore glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she looked like the most delicious thing he’d ever set eyes on.
She glanced around the room, confused, then she noticed him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I think I made a wrong turn.”
He cleared his throat, twisting his face away from his scowl and to a smile. “Where are you supposed to be?”
“I’m dropping my cat off to be spayed,” she said. “They told me to bring her to intake.”
He smiled wider, revealing his teeth. He quickly closed his mouth, self-conscious that his fangs would show and scare her off. “You should have taken the second right, not the first,” he said.
She tittered, nervously. “I could get lost in a paper bag.”
“It’s okay, what’s your cat’s name?” he asked.
“Oh,” she spilled a self-conscious giggle. “It’s Jelly Jam.”
She was too cute for her own good.
“How about I take you and Jelly Jam where you need to go?” he said, holding his hand out to escort her back.
The door down the hall opened and Carlene stepped in, observing Mitch and the woman with the cat. “I heard a commotion, is everything okay?” Carlene surveyed the room and spotted the bucket that was now deeply dented.
“I slipped a moment ago. The floor was wet. Must have just been mopped,” he said. “And now I’m helping this lovely young lady find her way.”
Carlene looked at the woman, dubious. “Is that so?”
The blonde nodded. “It is. My dad always said I had a terrible sense of direction.”
Carlene approached the young woman and took her by the arm, steering her away from Mitch. “Then let me take you.”
Just before they were out of the room, Mitch spoke up.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said.
The woman turned and stared at him, quizzical.
“About your cat,” he said. “Doctor Cadbury is a gifted surgeon.”
The woman smiled, bright and wide. “Thank you. I’m Leigh, by the way.” She offered her right hand to shake, and Mitch paused. He grabbed it with his left hand, slightly awkward for most, but he was used to it by now.
“I’m Doctor Mitch,” he said. “And it was so very nice to meet you, Leigh.”
“The pleasure is mine,” she said, as Carlene huffed with impatience. Leigh quickly turned around and let herself be led away.
When the door closed, Mitch brought his hand to his nose and sniffed it, relishing her scent.
And he knew she would be next.
Chapter Seventeen
Banging at the door woke Carolina from a less than restful sleep. Her mind had been wandering most of the night, thoughts about the case, the situation with Hank, and how others viewed her. And, of course, Frijole and his damned smorgasbord of drugs. When she had finally fallen asleep the worries infiltrated her dreams, causing a stir of panic that she couldn’t place or even remember.
When she opened her eyes, she was already filled with anxiety and hadn’t even started the day yet. It was times like this when she missed the Oxy the most. It calmed her, reassured her. When she took it, she knew everything would be all right. Every worry she’d ever had vanished in the wake of a few little pills. They’d made everything so much easier.
It seemed so unfair that she had to give them up. But she also understood she’d been spiraling out of control, taking dangerous risks, making awful mistakes. She was better without them, but that didn’t mean she missed them any less.
It was similar to the way an abused wife still longed for her husband when he was finally out of the picture. You didn’t miss the bruises or the emotional abuse, but you still longed for that presence that had been such a constant in your life.
The banging outside the room continued.
“I’m coming. Just stop pounding at the fucking door,” she yelled, her words hoarse and clumsy from just waking up.
She’d never been a pajamas kind of girl and wore just a V-neck t-shirt and panties. Her files were on the nightstand and her jeans from the previous day lay on the floor next to the bathroom. She yawned as her bare feet stepped on the carpet and she tried not to think about the last time it had been shampooed. Or what might be living in the fibers.
Rather than get dressed straight off and allow the knocking to continue, she went to the door and gazed through the cloudy peephole. She saw Hank, his hand raised, ready to batter the thin steel again. Before he could, she opened the door.
He stood there, staring for longer than she cared to tolerate, and his obvious leering made her self-conscious. She pulled her shirt down, trying to cover her crotch, but doing that only stretched the v neck further, putting her cleavage at max capacity.
“Get in here,” she said, and he shuffled inside, still ogling. “Turn the fuck around and let me get dressed for Christ’s sake.”
He grinned, obviously pleased with this start to his day. “As you wish, McKay.”
She grabbed the jeans off the floor and sniffed them. Clean enough for her. She stepped into them and hopped, pulling them up. “I thought we were meeting at the diner.”
“So did I until you no-showed.”
“What time is it?” she asked, buttoning her fly.
“Seven thirty a.m.,” he said.
“Fuck me. I charge extra for getting out of bed before ten.”
She looked at him to make sure he wasn’t sneaking a peek. His back still turned, she saw the flesh on the nape of his neck bunching up like it was a loose fit. The gone to seed thought she’d had the day prior returned.
She peeled
her shirt off and tossed it onto the bed, then went to her bag and fished out a different model. It was of the same cut, but didn’t have grease stains from last night's dinner. She found her bra on the edge of the bed and slid it on, clasping it in the back.
“I’ve asked the game warden, the one who caught the poachers, to meet us for breakfast,” he said.
She tossed her fresh shirt over her head and pulled it down. “I’m surprised you’re that on the ball,” she said.
“You might think me inept, but I have my ways,” he said.
“Alright, you can turn around. But if you’ve pitched a tent in your trousers, I’m gonna kick you in the dick.”
Hank turned around, a half-smile on his face. He held his hands up as if to let her assess the situation. She took a downward glance, then looked back up into his face.
“You’re lucky.”
Chapter Eighteen
The diner was far busier than the day before, which blew Carolina’s mind. The fact that people would be up this early, on purpose, was insane. She liked breakfast as much as, if not more than, the next person, but she’d never get out of bed at seven in the morning for it.
She’d rather suffer through a stale granola bar and get a couple extra hours of sleep even if it meant sacrificing fresh pancakes and bacon. But since she was up, at least there was bacon.
The waiter was the same guy from the day prior, though it seemed he’d taken the night off from drinking. But he was just as slow.
Sid Kingsley joined her and Hank at the table. The game warden was a short, strong-looking man in his late fifties. Broad shoulders and muscular arms strained the material of his flannel shirt. Carolina thought his choice of warm weather clothes was odd. But it fit the rugged outdoorsman mystique, just like the bushy gray beard the man sported.
Sid sipped on a coffee and grazed from a pile of scrambled eggs as they conversed. Hank had elected for waffles and gravy, whereas Carolina had gone with two orders of bacon - extra crispy. She dredged a piece of it through maple syrup and ate as she peppered Kingsley with questions.
“The area where the bodies were found, is that a usual hiking spot or place where people camp?”
He shook his head. “No. Not at all. It’s state land so anyone is free to use the woods for recreational purposes, but Silver Gap is far off the highly-trafficked areas. That whole section is miles from any mapped trail.”
“What about hunters? If that area, Silver Gap,” she jotted that down in her notes, glad it had a name other than woods, “doesn’t get much in the way of tourists, I suspect it’s a good place to bag a buck.”
Hank gave her a sidelong glance as she sucked sticky syrup off her thumb.
“I suppose you’re correct, in theory,” Sid said. “But even during the official hunting season, which does not begin until after Thanksgiving, it’s too remote for the vast majority. You have to be real determined to get that far off the beaten path.”
That made sense. And it meant the killer knew he could come and go at will. “Did you patrol it regularly? For poachers, I mean?” Carolina asked.
Sid shook his head. “I don’t make a habit of it. Too hard on the truck.”
“Have you ever busted anyone else out there over the years?”
He chewed down a mouthful of eggs, considering it. “That exact spot? No. In the general vicinity? A few. But you have to remember that Silver Gap and the surrounding forested land comprises approximately four thousand, four hundred and twenty acres. That’s far more ground than the entirety of Millpine proper.”
Carolina chugged down half a glass of Diet Coke, holding a finger up when Sid was done talking. Hank cleared his throat, ready to jump in, but she slammed the cup down before he could.
“We’re gonna need their names. Anyone and everyone that you’ve had contact with who has been in proximity to the dumping grounds. Even the slightest interaction, poaching or not, could be crucial to this,” she said.
“Not a problem,” Sid said, reaching to his side. He pulled a laptop from a large duffle bag on the empty chair next to him, then set it on the table. “The database is all online now. It should only take a minute or so.”
As Sid typed away on his laptop, Carolina eyed an uneaten sausage on Hank’s plate. He was busy masticating his last bite of waffle with the speed that a cow chews cud. She was about to ask him if he was going to eat the link when a busboy in a blue apron and grease-spotted white shirt arrived.
The busboy set a brown bus box on the table next to Hank, then grabbed the sheriff’s plate, sausage still awaiting consumption, and dropped the lot of it in with other dirty dishes.
Hank craned his neck toward the busboy who wasn’t a boy at all, but rather a man in his late fifties with thinning gray hair fashioned into a combover.
“You should let a man finish his meal before collecting his dishes,” Hank scolded.
“You finished, miss?” the busboy asked Carolina. She nodded, watching the confrontation go down. He took her plate and turned to Hank. “Maybe the county sheriff has more important things to do than feed his face. Like catch a killer.”
Hank gritted his teeth, but he didn’t respond. The busboy grabbed his tub and pulled it away, knocking over Hank’s half-full cup of orange juice. Hank caught the cup before it could spill, but not before some juice splashed across his pants.
As the man left, Carolina leaned into the table, placing her hand on her cheek, amused with the show. “A real man of the people, aren’t you, Hank?” Her smile grew wide and unapologetic.
Hank, however, did not find any of it funny and sneered. “We need to catch this fucker fast or I’m gonna lose another job.”
There’s the Hank I know and loathe, she thought. Always looking out for number one.
Chapter Nineteen
“Do you really think some poacher killed those women?” Hank asked.
Carolina climbed out of Hank’s Explorer, peering up at the sprawling factory that was various shades of gray and had no personality. ‘Zimmerman’s Paper Supply’ was painted on the side in six-foot-tall letters.
The factory was the place of employment for Andrew Leek, one of the names supplied by Sid Kingsley who’d once arrested the man for poaching. It was also the business where Stephanie Harlowe had worked in Accounting prior to her murder.
The truth was, Carolina had no idea if the killer was a poacher. Knowing the area and already being a criminal put Andrew in the ‘Suspect’ column. Adding on that Stephanie Harlowe was a coworker meant Carolina had to follow the lead. But it seemed far too simple.
In her experience, catching killers was an elaborate connect-the-dots puzzle full of zigs and zags and doubling back. But the line between Andrew Leek and Stephanie Harlowe was straight and unimpeded. It was rarely that easy.
After making their way through the manager at the factory who pointed the way to Andrew, they located the man they’d come to see.
Leek was in his early fifties, had a low-hanging paunch in the middle, and smelled of chewing tobacco and stale beer. As the man saw Carolina and Hank approaching, he spat a long stream of brown juice onto the concrete floor. Some of it splashed onto Carolina’s shoes without apology.
“A little heads-up next time, Jimbo?” Leek yelled out at his manager, who lurked behind Carolina and Hank, half-supervising, half-eavesdropping. Then Leek went on. “Fuzz comes sniffing around and nobody gives me so much as a whistle? Christ, I thought we were supposed to be like family at this fuckin’ place.”
Hank stepped in front, perhaps protective, perhaps because his ego forced him to appear in charge.
“Mr. Leek, we have a few questions for you.”
“No shit. I didn’t think you stopped by to wish me a happy birthday.”
Carolina raised an eyebrow. “Today’s your birthday?”
Leek snorted. “Fuck no. It’s called sarcasm.” He put his attention on Hank. “What retard patch did you dig this one up from?” he asked.
Carolina wanted to lob an in
sult back at the man, but Hank carried on as if the exchange never happened.
“We’re here to talk to you about your history of poaching,” Hank said.
Andrew rolled his eyes and spat again, but that time away from the others. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Whatever happened to a man repaying his debt to society, huh? That was over twenty years ago. I served my time, paid my fine, and I still have to answer stupid questions about it?”
“When was the last time you were near Silver Gap?” Carolina asked, ignoring Andrew’s complaints.
He stared at her like she was the dumbest person he’d ever encountered. “I said it was over twenty years ago, didn’t I?”
“You’ve never been back?”
“What reason would I have to go back there? They pulled my hunting license altogether. Nearly lost my right to carry, too. Now all I shoot are beer cans in my backyard.”
“Did you know Stephanie Harlowe?” Carolina asked.
“The schoolmarm-looking broad that works in the office?” he asked.
“Worked,” Carolina clarified.
“Right, I heard she was one of those dead chicks,” he said. “I talked to her once a few years ago. They had my withholding screwed up and she got it fixed up for me. But aside from that, the office types and warehouse types don’t really mix here. Like the Montagues and Capulets.”
“Shakespeare?” she asked, genuinely surprised.
Andrew grinned, revealing brown bits of tobacco embedded between his teeth and gums. “Two semesters of community college. I’m a regular Stephen Hawking.”
“Where were you on May seventeenth?” Hank asked, stepping in. It was the night Stephanie Harlowe went missing.
Leek unleashed a heavy sigh. “How the hell should I know?”
“You might want to think hard,” Carolina said. “Put those brain cells to use. Because that’s the night Ms. Harlowe was abducted.”
