The Naked Edge

by David Morrell

  “When this is over, I'll tell you.” Taking refuge in his protector's role, Cavanaugh distracted William from present fears by projecting him into the future.

  2

  They stayed within the forest, moving southward along the edge of the smoldering meadow.

  “You think the sniper might still be on that ridge?” William kept glancing in that direction.

  “He might have risked staying, in case we get careless when help arrives. It's better if we don't step into the open.”

  When the sirens stopped, Cavanaugh turned toward the silence. Through a gap in the trees, he saw scattered, burning timbers: all that remained of the lodge. To subdue another burst of fury, he focused on movement within the smoke, relieved to see that five of his horses had survived. They gathered nervously near the one that had been killed. Sickened, he shifted his gaze toward the countless bullet holes in his car, its windows starred, some of them shattered. Thinking of Angelo's body inside it, he felt his fury intensify.

  Immediately, the horses bolted as a highway patrol car, dark chassis, white roof, flashers on, emerged from the lane. Even at a distance, Cavanaugh detected the shock on the face of the uniformed driver when he saw the damage.

  Then a forest-service fire truck emerged, and its occupants looked stunned, also.

  They managed to move the van that was blocking the lane, Cavanaugh thought. A further idea struck him: Or maybe some of the gunmen drove it away.

  With Jamie watching the trees behind them, he led William and Mrs. Patterson around the southern curve of the forest and only then stepped into the lane, the trees still shielding them from a sniper.

  At almost the same time, a highway patrol car came around a curve, the driver slamming on his breaks at the sight of them.

  “Set down your weapons,” Jamie warned William and Mrs. Patterson as she and Cavanaugh put down their own.

  “Let him see your hands are empty,” Cavanaugh emphasized.

  The state trooper, a captain, had his fingers on his holstered pistol as he got out of the car, but then he gave Cavanaugh a closer look. “Aaron?”

  Cavanaugh had used his legal name when he'd bought his property. If an enemy who knew him only as Cavanaugh had hoped to track him down by searching through land records, the effort would have been useless.

  “Nice to see you, Garth.”

  The trooper looked surprised. “My God, with all that soot and dirt on you, I didn't recognize you.”

  “We had a little trouble.”

  “So I hear. On the radio, the first officer to get here told me your place looks like a war zone.”

  Garth had a solid build from weight lifting. He was tall, with strong cheekbones and a dark mustache. He spent so much time outdoors that his face had the grain of weathered wood, his tan emphasized by the green of his uniform and trooper's hat. Like any expert police officer, his eyes were constantly alert, even off duty when he, Cavanaugh, and Jamie sometimes ate dinner together in Jackson.

  Those eyes were very alert now. “Jamie, is that blood on your shoulder?”

  “Yes, but it isn't mine.”

  Cavanaugh thought angrily of the blood spatters inside the Taurus after Angelo was shot.

  “Lillian . . .” Garth frowned at Mrs. Patterson. “You're wavering. Come over to the car and sit down.”

  With an unsteady hand, she pushed gray hair from her face. Dirt streaked her apron. “Thanks, Garth. It's been a long afternoon.”

  “You'll find four dead men in the western edge of the meadow,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Dead? How?”

  “Shot.”

  “Who pulled the trigger?”

  At this point, Cavanaugh would normally have requested a lawyer to make sure that he didn't say something that became misinterpreted. But he had one of the best attorneys in the country standing next to him.

  “I did,” Cavanaugh said. “You'll find a fifth body in my car, or what's left of my car. One of the other guys pulled that trigger.”

  3

  Mrs. Patterson's late husband, Ben, had been a Wyoming state trooper who died in a shootout with a gang trying to hijack a truck filled with pharmaceuticals. Known as Lillian to every officer assigned to Teton County, she was interviewed first, then escorted back to the waiting room at the highway-patrol barracks ten miles south of Jackson.

  “I phoned your son-in-law to let him know you can leave now,” Garth said. “He'll soon be here to drive you to your daughter's place. Your family's eager to see you.”

  “I'll wait with you in the front hallway,” Jamie told her.

  William was the next person taken to the interview room. Twenty minutes later, he came back, the satisfied look on his face indicating that, while he might not know anything about guns, he knew how to conduct himself with law officers. Now that he was in lawyer mode again, his torn, filthy suit somehow looked dignified.

  Jamie went next. Cavanaugh had taught her to answer police questions directly but never to provide more than what was asked and never to attempt to deceive.

  Then it was Cavanaugh's turn. The room had harsh lights, plain walls, two chairs, and a small desk. Focusing on minutiae helped keep his emotions in check.

  “Want some coffee?” Garth pointed toward a carafe and some Styrofoam cups on the desk. A tape recorder was there, also.

  “I could use the caffeine,” Cavanaugh said, pouring a cup. His watch showed that it was half past ten. But now that his adrenaline had dissipated, he felt as if it were four in the morning.

  “Ready?” Garth asked.

  “When you are.” The stench of smoke radiated from Cavanaugh's jeans and shirt. His neck and arm hurt. His back felt bruised where the bullet had struck his armor. But at least his legs and chest felt lighter, relieved of the heavy vest.

  Garth pressed buttons on the recorder. “This is Captain Garth Braddock. The interview is with Aaron Stoddard.” He gave the place, time, and date. “Tell me what happened.”

  While waiting, Cavanaugh had taken the opportunity to get his narrative in order. Only after concluding his description, did he allow his emotions to show. “I haven't the faintest fucking idea what's going on.”

  “We found your sniper.”

  Cavanaugh leaned forward. “Is he answering questions?”

  “It's a hard to get answers from a corpse. Somebody shot him four times in the face.”

  Cavanaugh took a moment to adjust to that, finally saying, “That explains the four pistol shots we heard.”

  “Fragmentation-type ammunition. Mutilated his features enough that even people who knew him would have trouble identifying him. His teeth were so damaged that comparing them to dental records will be useless. The question is, who did that to him?”

  Cavanaugh thought about it. “The only available candidate is someone on the assault team. But that doesn't make sense. Did he have ID?”

  “No.”

  “Did you send his fingerprints to the FBI?”

  “Couldn't. The tips of his fingers were cut off.”

  Cavanaugh took a longer time to adjust to that.

  “The four men you killed,” Garth said.

  “Was forced to kill.”

  “Their fingerprints got a really quick response. Those men were fresh out of prison. Within the past six weeks.”

  “Six weeks?”

  “I can't imagine how they came to be together. They served time in four different penitentiaries. Pennsylvania. Alabama. Colorado. Oregon.” Garth slid a sheet of paper across the table. “Recognize any of these names?”

  Cavanaugh studied them, hoping, but finally had to say, “No.” He grasped at a thought. “Four different prisons? They must have known each other before they went to those prisons.”

  “Not according to their criminal records. There's no indication they ever crossed paths before. But they did have one thing in common. Armed robbery. Gang shootings. Rape. These were really violent guys.”

  “Before everything started, I think I saw them and
the rest of their friends at the Moose Junction gas station.” Cavanaugh said. “They didn't handle themselves like street criminals. They weren't wired and jittery and unfocused. These guys had stillness and control. They looked like operators.”

  “But their records indicate they were street criminals. So how, all of a sudden, did they get to be . . . ‘Operators’ you called them? Unusual word. I don't often hear it. That car of yours. When I got a close look at what was left of it, I found bullet-resistant windows, armor plating, tires within tires . . . Tell me again what you used to do for a living.”

  “I was in the security business.”

  “The bodyguards I see around here—”

  Cavanaugh hated the word.

  “—are usually hired by entertainers and sports stars on vacation. Mostly for show in a quiet community like this. To remind us how important they are. But you never fit the profile of the thugs some of those celebrities use for bodyguards.”

  “I'm an unassuming guy.”

  “Obviously, you don't like being called a ‘bodyguard’.”

  No answer.

  “Are you holding back anything I need to know?”

  Cavanaugh hesitated. “Yes. I was what's called a protector. I worked for an international security firm called Global Protective Services. I used the professional alias of ‘Cavanaugh’.”

  “Professional alias?”

  “I saved the lives of people who show up on CNN and the front pages of the Washington Post and Wall Street Journal. These are the kind of people who need the reassurance of knowing they can absolutely trust me with sensitive information, that nobody'll come around later and persuade me to answer questions about them.”

  “You mean like the police asking questions?”

  “My former clients will stonewall you.”

  “It's been tried.”

  “And they'll never trust me again.”

  “Again? I got the impression you'd retired.”

  “My retirement just ended.”

  “Is that another way of saying you intend to run your own investigation?”

  “If a former client decided that he or she can't let me live with certain information, I have ways to find out.”

  “You're not a law enforcement officer. Keep that in mind.”

  “I will.”

  “I'm serious. I wouldn't want to see you in front of two grand juries. ‘Cavanaugh.’” Garth tested the sound of the name.

  “The idea was to keep my private life and my professional life separate.”

  “Looks like it didn't work.”

  4

  A state trooper came over when Garth escorted Cavanaugh from the interview room.

  “Did you find any of them?” Garth asked.

  The trooper looked at Garth, as if to suggest that they speak in private.

  “It's okay. You can talk in front of him.”

  In the background, Jamie and William listened to the trooper's reply.

  “No sign of the shooters.”

  “They were dressed as campers,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Which makes them fairly invisible around here,” Garth pointed out. “Even so, how do you suppose they got out of the area near your property so fast?”

  “When you drove me from the ranch, I noticed that the van that had blocked the lane was gone. Did any of your team move it?”

  The trooper shook his head no.

  “Some of the shooters probably drove it away. The tires were low from weight in the back, but even so, they could have driven it. As for the rest, I'm guessing a couple of cars picked them up as they emerged from the trees. Using two-way radios, they could have easily coordinated it so they didn't show themselves if there were police cars or emergency vehicles in sight. Plus, you didn't know what you were dealing with and didn't start searching until thirty minutes after the explosion. Plenty of time to get away. They could have been in Jackson by then.”

  Another trooper entered the room. “A lot of reporters and a TV crew in the parking lot.”

  “Swell,” Garth said.

  “We can't assume they're all legitimate,” Cavanaugh warned. “That hit team isn't going to fade away. They'll watch the building. They'll try to follow us when we leave.”

  “Spend the night here.”

  “There's nothing I'd rather do. But in the morning, we'll still have the same problem. Not to mention, they'll be organized by then. No, the best time to leave is when they least expect it. As soon as possible.”

  “How? And where will you go? What will you use for transportation?”

  “I already made the arrangements,” Jamie said.

  5

  In the harshly illuminated parking lot, dozens of reporters straightened as the barracks door opened. The lights from within silhouetted Garth, who stepped from the building and walked toward them. The weather had shifted, cold enough to bring frost from his mouth. Garth had no idea how the media had gotten word of the attack so quickly. If one of his officers was responsible, he swore to find out who it was and give him the worst duties imaginable. Since Jackson didn't have a TV station or a large newspaper, most of the men and women converging on him must have come from Idaho Falls (a drive-able 180 miles away) or from Casper, Laramie, and Cheyenne (much farther away—to get here this soon, the reporters would have needed to charter planes). Then it occurred to Garth that the person who alerted the media might have been somebody on the hit team. Get as many reporters and TV cameras here as possible. In the ensuing chaos, the gunmen could blend. Any of the supposed news people shouting questions at him could be a killer.

  “Is it true that six men were shot—”

  “Ranch thirty miles north of—”

  “Explosion destroyed—”

  “Sniper—”

  “Helicopter—”

  “Okay, all right.” Garth gestured for quiet. “If all of you talk at once, I can't hear your questions.” The television lights glared at him, hurting his eyes. “I have a brief statement. At four-thirty this afternoon—”

  Suddenly, the front door to the barracks banged open. As Garth turned, he saw a trooper hurrying toward him, a concerned look on his face.

  “What's the matter?” Garth asked.

  Cameras flashed as the trooper motioned Garth away from the reporters and spoke in urgent hushed tones.

  Garth spun toward the reporters. “This'll have to wait. There's been a—”

  “Captain!” a trooper yelled from the front door.

  A siren wailed in the fenced-off parking area behind the barracks. Roof lights flashing, a highway patrol car rounded the building and skirted the reporters. An officer was silhouetted in the front seat as the car reached the main road and sped north toward Jackson, disappearing around a curve in this sparsely populated section of the valley. Moments later, a second patrol car followed, lights flashing, siren wailing.

  Some of the reporters raced for their cars.

  Or possibly they aren't reporters, Garth thought.

  Others stayed, demanding to know what was going on.

  “Tell us what happened this afternoon!”

  “Are these incidents connected?”

  Headlights blazing, a state police van hurried past, reached the road, and followed the three civilian cars that chased the cruisers.

  6

  Opening and closing his knife, the man who'd shot the sniper watched from a road on a bluff across from the police barracks. He was forty years old, tall and lean, with an etched face. His powerful forearms resulted from years of pounding a hammer onto an anvil, forging blades. He used various names. Currently, his devotion to knives had prompted him to choose the alias of Bowie. Sitting in his car, he used a night-vision magnifier that wasn't affected by the stark contrasts of light and darkness in the parking lot a quarter mile from him. While he listened to the sirens, he studied the sequence of vehicles speeding away: the first cruiser, the second cruiser, the three civilian cars, then the police van.

  Damned smart, Bowie thou
ght.

  He spoke into a two-way radio. “It's a shell game. The target's in one of the police vehicles. The question is which.”

  A voice from one of the pursuing civilian cars said, “I vote for the van.”

  “Or maybe the target's still in the barracks,” Bowie replied. “Maybe those police vehicles are decoys. We don't have enough personnel to follow everybody.”

  “Wait!” the voice blurted. “Ahead of us. One of the police cars is pulling to the side of the road.”

  “For God's sake, don't stop,” Bowie ordered.

  “But we need to act like real reporters. Real reporters would stop.”

  “That's what they want you to do. You'd be caught between the cruiser that stopped and the van behind you. Meanwhile, the first cruiser would get away. That must be where the target's hiding.”

  “Okay,” the voice said five seconds later, “I didn't stop. In my rearview mirror, I see the other cars—the reporters who left with us—they're stopping. Shit. The cruiser ahead of us. It's stopping!”

  “Drive past it!”

  “It's turning sideways! It's blocking the road!”

  7

  Cavanaugh crouched out of sight in the police car's back seat. Feeling the state trooper expertly skid the cruiser sideways to block the road, Cavanaugh braced himself and reminded the driver, “Leave room for them to drive around!”

  There was always the chance that actual reporters were in the pursuing car. On a hunch, the reporters might have decided to ignore the patrol car that stopped and to follow the one in the lead. If so, with the road blocked, the driver of the pursuing car would now stop and demand to know what was going on. But members of the assault team would want to get away.

  Hurrying from the cruiser, Cavanaugh and the policeman took cover behind the engine, the only place in an unarmored vehicle that would stop a bullet. The pursuing car took advantage of the space the patrolman had left and veered toward the shoulder, passing the cruiser's back fender, throwing up dust. As it sped farther down the road, Cavanaugh aimed a powerful flashlight, centering the beam on the license plate.