Poaching Grounds: A gripping psychological crime thriller (Carolina McKay Thriller Book 4)

by Tony Urban

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “I’m surprised you didn’t opt for The Coffee Pot,” Carolina said, longing for the smell of bacon grease and the attitude-laden wait staff.

  Instead, Hank had taken her to Sustenance, a pretentiously-named bistro where they sat on a second-story patio overlooking much of Millpine. Despite the day’s heat, a gentle breeze kept things comfortable.

  “Figured a change of pace was in order,” Hank said. But she knew the reason. He didn’t want the world’s oldest busboy giving him shit again.

  Hank sipped an iced tea which she’d watched him sweeten beyond recognition, dumping in packet after packet of sugar. She opted to stick with her standard - Diet Coke - as they discussed things over lunch.

  “You never struck me as the bistro type,” Carolina said.

  Hank leaned back and the small, metal chair upon which he sat creaked, stressing the welded seams.

  “People can change, you know,” he said.

  “I used to doubt that,” she commented.

  “Do you still feel that way?”

  She considered it. Thought about losing her job, her downward spiral into pills, her lengthy stint in rehab. And then the cases she worked while drugged out. How she didn’t get more people killed was a mystery. Now she had a second chance, but did she deserve it?

  “I’m undecided,” she finally said.

  “It’s good to keep an open mind,” Hank said, just as a busty waitress in a low-cut blouse delivered their meal. Suddenly it made more sense why Hank chose the place.

  No bacon here. Not even burgers and fries. Carolina couldn’t pronounce most of the items on the menu and had ceded power to Hank, who’d ordered them both something called The Farmer’s Market.

  Carolina had been expecting a sandwich on bread or maybe a bun, but this was wrapped in a green tortilla and looked about as appetizing as dandelion.

  “Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asked Hank, mostly ignoring Carolina who considered making a plea for real food but remained mute.

  “No, hon,” Hank said, “I believe we’re good.”

  She gave a cheery grin before skipping back into the restaurant. Carolina noticed Hank watching the waitress’s ass sashay away beneath her pencil skirt and shook her head. Men were the worst.

  Or maybe this meal was the worst. She tried to unwind the wrap to see what was inside, but the further she got, the worse it looked. “What is this?” she asked Hank who’d already taken a bite from his.

  “It’s good. Just eat it.”

  “My mother used to tell me that when she made brussels sprout soup. She was a goddamned liar. I demand information.”

  Hank washed his food down with his liquid diabetes. “Grilled zucchini, squash, onion, mushrooms, sprouts, sun dried tomatoes…” He trailed off. “I’m missing something.”

  “Clearly,” Carolina said. “Good taste for one.”

  “Feta cheese,” Hank said and took bite number two.

  “Dear God. People eat this voluntarily?” She raised the concoction to her mouth, sniffed it, then took a skeptical nibble, getting little more than the wrapping. It tasted like week-old salad. “Uck. What’s this wrapped in? It tastes like--”

  “Spinach,” Hank said through a mouthful of food.

  Elven would love this shit, Carolina thought. “Whatever happened to bread? When did bread go out of style?”

  Hank, apparently over her toddler-esque inquiries, changed the subject. “I heard you got shot back in Baltimore. How’d that go down?”

  She nodded, her hand instinctively going to her shoulder where the bullet had ripped through bone and muscle and ligament and gave her a lifelong reminder of her bad decision. “Don’t really want to talk about it.”

  He nodded, seeming to understand. Even though he was a prick, he was still a cop. And her not being a team player didn’t make her any less of one either.

  “But it was over that crazy cult shit, right? That, um, Zarchi family, right?” he asked, approaching her not-wanting-to-talk-about-it in a different way

  “They weren’t a family,” she said. “Just an assortment of fucking weirdos and assholes that happened to collide.”

  “But they--”

  She didn’t want to get into this. Not with Hank. Not with anyone. Thinking about them made her feel like vomiting and exploding and maybe even crying all at once.

  She took a deep, calming breath and looked at the file she had open beside her plate. On top was the list of names the game warden had supplied.

  “We still have three poachers. Who do we visit next?” she asked, trying to regain composure.

  Hank let it go that time and took the list, skimming it. “Well, we don’t need to bother with George Buchanan or Teddy Laslow.”

  “Why?” Carolina asked.

  “They’re both dead.”

  “Both?”

  “They were buddies. George never could hold his liquor, and Teddy had shit eyesight and wasn’t supposed to drive at night. Bad combination. George steered ‘em right off Shade Ridge, down a sixty-foot ravine.” He made an explosive gesture with his hands. “Both died on impact, or close to it.”

  “Okay, what about the last guy? Ernie Warneck. Is he dead too?”

  Hank took another swallow of tea. “No. He’s alive enough. World might be better off if he weren’t, though.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ernie Warneck lived in a run-down trailer park community, so full of shitheap vehicles, decrepit mobile homes, and stray animals that Carolina felt like she’d teleported home to Dupray.

  The road through the park was riddled with enough potholes that Carolina felt like she’d undergone a spinal adjustment by the time they reached Warneck’s trailer, which was second from the last on Poplar Lane.

  A small, rusty tricycle sat in what passed for a lawn, nearly buried in eight-inch-high crabgrass and weeds, while an uneven ramp led to the front door.

  Soon after Hank knocked, a woman answered. She was tall, athletic, and in her twenties. Blonde hair was pulled up in a sloppy bun and glasses hung around her neck from a granny chain.

  She sported a large mole on her lip, but it didn’t detract from her above-average looks. Instead, it added enough zest to be called a beauty mark, although Cindy Crawford she was not. Carolina couldn’t help but think of how she fit the profile of the killer’s taste in victims.

  “He ain’t home,” Felicity, the woman at the door, answered after Hank asked to speak with Ernie.

  The owner of the tricycle, a knee-high boy wearing nothing but Spiderman briefs, came running up to Felicity and tugged on her jeans. Chocolate was smeared across his face, and he wore a grin that revealed a mishmash of teeth as his mother picked him up and sat him on her hip. He waved to Carolina, and she surprised herself by smiling and waving back.

  “Your husband--” Carolina got out before she cut her off.

  “He’s my daddy,” Felicity clarified. “My mom passed a while back, so he came and moved in with us. Figured he’d drink himself dead otherwise.”

  This place, and that comment, sounded more like Dupray than anything else Carolina had encountered in Hopkins County.

  “Do you know where we can find him?” Carolina asked.

  “At the Broken Spoke,” Felicity said. “He closes the place down unless they kick him out.”

  Entering the Broken Spoke, it was apparent there was a theme to the bar. The first thing Carolina noticed was the country music blaring from the old-fashioned juke box in the corner. She had no clue who the artist was, but the twang in the singer’s voice made her think the song must be at least forty years old.

  The bar was dim to the point of being depressing, with the only light cast from wagon wheels that had been transformed into chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. She supposed the dreary atmosphere could be a plus, though. It was dark enough to cover up the unattractive features of the lonely patrons, with the help of some liquid courage, of course.

  It smelle
d of peanuts, leather, sweat, and sawdust, the latter of which was strewn across the floor apparently to soak up spilled drinks and tobacco spit. A middle-aged woman tended to the patrons from behind the bar. She was short, with a button-up, plaid, western-looking shirt, and she was even pretty if you squinted. But she also looked like a gal who took no shit from anyone.

  Carolina was headed the woman’s way to inquire about Ernie Warneck’s possible presence when she felt Hank’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Over there,” Hank said, steering her toward a booth in the back.

  Carolina spotted a man in his forties with a crisply shaved head and goatee hanging off his chin. He sat beside a woman who looked old enough to be his mother, and the two were in the midst of a heavy and nauseating make-out session.

  Hank cleared his throat and pulled Ernie’s attention. His lovestruck face shifted to sour and off-put. He adjusted the tank top on his shoulder and turned up his nose in a piggish sneer.

  “Afternoon,” Hank said to him.

  Ernie didn’t address either of them, instead turning to the woman who had just been sucking his tongue.

  “Deloris, go fetch some more beers.”

  Deloris, who looked as if she had fewer IQ points than teeth, obeyed without protest, sliding across him, and giving him a wink as she straddled him far too long. It wasn’t only gross to watch, but sad and pathetic. Then again, Carolina supposed everyone deserved some love. She just didn’t want to see it. Or think about it.

  As Deloris passed Carolina, she flashed a gummy smile and muttered, “Heya,” before heading to the bar. With her gone, Ernie finally turned his attention to the two new arrivals.

  “What do you want?” Ernie asked, reaching for a mug of beer, and taking long swallows.

  Hank slid into the booth across from Ernie. Carolina, assuming the vinyl seating hadn’t been wiped down in decades, chose to stay standing.

  “How about you start by telling me where you were the night of June first? ” Hank said, tenting his fingers.

  “Was that a Sunday?” he asked.

  “No,” Carolina said, inserting herself into the conversation. Ernie looked at her as if she was something he had scraped off the bottom of his boot.

  Then, the man tapped the table with his knuckles. “If it wasn’t a Sunday, then I was right here. I’m their best customer. You can ask Juanita if you don’t believe me.” He pointed a gnarled finger at the bartender. “And if my word and her word aren’t good enough, the sky has eyes.” His gaze went to the ceiling where there were outdated security cameras mounted in each corner.

  “If we give you three more nights, will your answer be the same?” she asked.

  Ernie belched and spat up a mouthful of foam. Some of it dribbled out of his mouth, trickled down his chin, and got lost in his goatee fuzz. “What’s this about? Why are you coming at me?”

  “You heard about all those murders,” Hank asked.

  The man nodded. “Who hasn’t?”

  “The bodies were found up on your old poaching grounds.”

  Ernie snorted, derisive. “Shit, that was more’n a year ago. I gave all that up.”

  “Which? Poaching deer or killing women?” Carolina asked.

  Ernie’s brows knitted, life coming into his dull eyes for the first time since their arrival. “What business is this of yours, bitch?”

  He went to pick up the beer, but Hank grabbed his wrist and pulled him over the table. He shoved the mug away. As it careened off the table, Carolina hopped out of the way, letting it shatter next to her. She felt the splash of warm beer at the hem of her jeans.

  “This lady is a friend of mine,” Hank growled. “She’s working with the sheriff’s department, so you better show her some respect.”

  Ernie leaned back in his booth, looking like he just sucked on a lemon. He peered up at Carolina, a little humbler. “Poaching,” he said. “Now when I want red meat, I get it from the grocery store, like everyone else.”

  Carolina took out the photos of the murdered women, the ones taken when they weren’t slaughtered and left to rot in the forest. “Look at their faces. Their hair. They look a lot like your daughter, don’t they?”

  Ernie looked at the images, fear crossing his face. “My Felicity? Is she--”

  “She’s fine,” Carolina said, seeing Ernie’s lip quiver. “But she fits the pattern. And if we don’t catch whoever is doing this, she may very well be next.”

  “What am I supposed to do about it?” he asked, but there was no fight in his voice anymore.

  “When you were still poaching, did you ever go out to Silver Gap with anyone else?”

  Ernie darted his eyes back and forth, running his mind over whatever memories still existed in his head, memories that hadn't been washed away by an ocean of booze. “Teddy Laslow went with me a few times. He’s the only one.”

  Carolina remembered the name as being one of the dead poachers on their list. “No one else?”

  Ernie shook his head. “It’s not exactly a team sport.”

  “Did you ever see anyone else out there?” she asked.

  “Aside from the warden?”

  “Yeah, aside from him,” she said.

  He thought, the rusty wheels in his head turning painfully slow. Then, “There was this one guy,” Ernie said. “I saw him hiking with his dog a couple times.”

  “I don’t suppose you ever learned his name,” Carolina asked.

  “No. Never said a word to him. Don’t think he even knew I was there. Doing what I was out there to do, it wasn’t like I was eager to exchange pleasantries.”

  Carolina wasn’t surprised but was anxious to find something that might be useful, considering this was their first hint of a lead. “And you didn’t recognize him from town?”

  “Nope. Didn’t really look like he belonged around here.”

  “Why’s that?” she asked.

  “He was like a hippy type. Long hair, long beard. But not messy like a biker. All…” he paused until he found the word, “groomed.”

  “What about age, body type?”

  The man shrugged. “Taller than me. Bigger than me. Younger than me, too, but not by a whole hell of a lot.”

  “How many times did you see him there?”

  “Just two or three, I think.”

  “And when was the last time?”

  “The day I got busted,” Ernie said.

  “We’ll need you to give a description to a sketch artist,” Carolina said, then remembered that Hank was there and shot him a questioning look. “You have a sketch artist, right?”

  Hank exhaled through his congested nose. “I’ll find somebody.”

  “Hey, I don’t know about all this,” Ernie said, his posture straightening as nerves shook off his usual state of drunkenness. “It’s been over a year and--”

  “Think about your daughter,” Carolina said. “Do you want to risk something happening to her? Do you want to risk your grandson growing up without his mother?”

  Although his face remained skeptical, Ernie Warneck agreed.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Nearly everyone in The Coffee Pot that afternoon was a party of two, filling up all the tables and booths, even though most of the tables were four tops. The commotion from the waitstaff rushing through the aisles, collecting dishes, and taking orders was bad enough, but then there were all the forks scratching on plates, the constant din of conversation, and the incessant cackles from Table Three. The teens at that table had no filter and no concept of an inside voice.

  The cumulative body heat in the room far overpowered the heat from the grill and ovens. There was a stench to it that wasn’t from food being cooked. It was the sweat from the obese man at Table Five. The desperation from the businessman in Booth One as he fawned over a date ten years younger. The hot air from the motormouth woman at Table Nine. He could smell her dead tooth from where he sat.

  It was all of those people. Sending waves of sick humanity over to him. None of them had
a care in the world, well, except maybe the desperate man with the too-young date. But nobody knew the predator that sat among them. They could be moments away from their demise if he chose to end them. The only reason they were still alive was because he allowed it.

  And they just went on living in happy ignorance.

  He took a deep breath, trying to block them out. On the plate in front of him was his meal. A burger and mashed potatoes. Grease trickled off the side of the bun, pooling against the watery spuds.

  He picked up the burger and sniffed it. He knew it was wrong by the aroma but thought maybe the chaos inside the restaurant was throwing off his senses. So, he took a bite, hoping for the best.

  He did not get what he craved.

  A hard char masked the flavor of the meat. He gagged and lifted a napkin to his mouth, spitting out the foulness. Then he took a sip of water, trying to swish the taste away.

  He ripped the burger in half and saw a gray pile of overcooked beef. Dry as the desert. All the life out of it.

  He was still staring at it, sneering at it, when the waitress appeared at his side.

  “Something the matter with your burger, Doc?” the waitress asked.

  He could see the damp pit marks under her arms and the thin layer of moisture that coated her forehead. Her hair was slightly askew, a few strands dangling off to the side with no rhyme or reason. Still, her eyes looked like she meant no harm and wanted to help. He looked at her hand as it tapped on a small notebook. He wanted so badly for her to reach out so he could sniff her, just to be sure she was friend and not foe.

  But he held himself back.

  “I hate to be one of those people,” Mitch said.

  “Can’t fix a problem if we don’t know about it,” she said.

  He gestured to the burger in front of him. “It’s overcooked.”

  She pulled the plate over and looked at the exposed center. She shrugged. “Maybe a bit. I can have Saul fry up another.”

  Mitch thought she was staring at his remaining hand. The hand that was now a paw used for ripping throats out and eviscerating bellies. Was she staring at his claws?