by C. E. Nelson
Dave wanted to believe that his deputy was right and that the killer was now dead, but he didn’t. What made him a good cop was that he could combine facts with what his gut told him was right, and his gut told him that Whitehead was not his man. That meant he now had a deputy on administrative leave when he needed all the help he could get, and a killer still on the loose, a killer he was no closer to catching.
His phone buzzed. “Yes Ms. Thiel?”
“I am surprised I could get you sheriff. Seems most of my calls to you are going unanswered.”
“Well, you know how the reception is up here in the woods,” replied Dave.
“Yes, I do,” she replied, her tone telling Trask she wasn’t buying his excuse. “At any rate, I hear congratulations are in order?”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You have captured the killer.”
How had she known about Whitehead? Dave could only assume it was Danny working on his politics. “If you mean the man that was killed earlier, we are not at all sure that he was the killer.”
“Can you prove he wasn’t?”
“No, but..”
The woman cut Dave off. “I will have a statement for you to release to the press shortly. We must put this behind us as quickly as possible.”
With her last words the line again went dead before Dave could tell her that any statement now would be a mistake.
Trask yelled “Shit!” and threw his phone to the ground.
Chapter Twenty-six
He watched the others sort their tackle and rig lines for the next day as he did the same. The Sentry had large hands, strong hands with full fingers, but he deftly tied the knot attaching the jig to the eight-pound-test line. He held the jig in his hand and wondered how many hundreds of them he had tied. This needed to stop. He hung the jig from a guide on the rod and reeled in the slack in the line until the tip of the rod begun to bend before leaning the rod against the wall behind him.
The voices had been absent for the last two days. He was concerned that perhaps he had done something to offend his ancestors but now they were back. At first he thought it was just the wind, but he could see no branches moving outside the window. The sound built inside of him, rising to the high-pitched whistle of a teakettle before it blossomed into what sounded like a thousand people screaming. He wondered why the others couldn’t hear them; hear the screaming of their ancestors. He shook his head, trying to make the screaming stop, but the sound seemed to pulsate inside his head.
He watched the others for a moment more before walking outside and then down to the shore. The night was hot, sticky, and the mosquitoes found him before he had gone twenty feet. He didn’t notice their pinprick bites. He put his hands to his ears trying to block the screams but they only seemed to intensify. The Sentry closed his eyes wondering how much more he could take. He felt dizzy, nauseous, falling to his knees. Were the spirits trapped inside of his head? What did they want of him?
And then the screaming stopped. The Sentry opened his eyes and looked to see an eagle drifting effortlessly above the pines, the sudden silence almost as deafening as the screaming only a moment before. He held and then released a deep breath, unsure of what had just happened and what would come next. And then his grandfather spoke. He told his grandson that the screaming he heard was the sound of his ancestors calling out in pain, calling for justice. It was time again.
The Sentry returned to the cabin to see that most of the others had already gone to bed and wondered how long he had been outside. He closed the tackle box and then went to his bunk. His roommate wasn’t there so he lay on his back and closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep when his roommate came in. He rolled on his side, facing the wall; he was in no mood to talk tonight. Soon the steady sound of his roommate’s breathing told him he was asleep but the Sentry would wait another hour until he was sure that everyone in the cabin was quiet.
The maintenance shed was several hundred yards up the road that led to Half Moon. The trip was not easy in the dark on the rough road, and he nearly stumbled twice, but he did not want to use a light and risk being seen. He pushed aside the sliding door at the front of the corrugated steel building and peered inside. The building smelled a mixture of gas and oil and dead fish. With the yard light above the door he was able to see the ATV to his left, the small cart used to haul supplies and equipment around the camp still attached to it. He quickly detached the cart, used his small LED flashlight to see that the machine had keys and was almost full of gas, and put the ATV in neutral before pushing it across the rough earthen floor of the shed and into the night. He continued to push it up the road for several hundred more yards until he sensed an opening in the woods to his left, the intersection with the logging road he was looking for. A quick check with his light told him he was where he wanted to be. While he doubted anyone would have heard him start the machine from behind the maintenance shed, he was certain no one would hear it now.
He did not hurry as he rode down the trail, not wanting to hit a fallen tree or deer or bear that happened to be using the trail. Besides, the trail was full of small valleys and potholes that could send him flying if he hit them too fast. The night remained warm and he found the ride was doing little to cool him after he had pushed the ATV. He wiped sweat from above his eyes with the back of a hand he kept in front of his face to ward off any unseen branches. It took him nearly an hour to travel the eight miles to where he stopped. With the thick brush of summer he could possibly have gone farther without being heard by anyone in the camp ahead but he was not in a great hurry, it was not yet midnight. He got off the machine, put the keys in his pocket, and felt for the knife on his hip. Time to move, the voices were getting louder.
The Sentry reached the cabin a little before midnight. It was the one closest to the trail, and he crouched beside it, peering around the corner at the trail that led toward the lodge. There were lights on in the cabin but he could hear no voices. He backed up and stood to peek inside the window that faced the trail. He looked through the screen to see light from the main room entering the open door of a bedroom. He assumed the bunk was below the window because he couldn’t see a bed. No way to know if someone was asleep there but it seemed unlikely with the door open and the light on in the main room.
He was considering whether he should go on to the next cabin when he heard voices coming down the trail from the lodge. He took a chance to look around the corner of the cabin and saw two men step up on the deck and enter the cabin. The Sentry moved back around the side of the cabin and stood with his back against it, listening at the bedroom window. The men were talking and laughing, one man much louder than the other, but both certainly drunk. The Sentry smiled. Drunken men fell into a deep sleep. This would make it easier to move through the cabin without being heard. He decided to wait until they were asleep and slid down to sit in the damp grass.
The Sentry felt good about what he had planned but now the voices in his head were shouting at him. He could not make out what they were saying but took it as a warning. As he listened to the men inside the cabin he became uncertain about his plan. It was now past one and he was becoming concerned about getting back to his own bunk before being discovered as missing. He also realized he had no idea of how the cabin was laid out inside, meaning he would have to use his flashlight to find his way and risked running into something and making noise. He did not want to disappoint his ancestors but he decided that this night would not work. He stood to leave and listened for a moment more, angry that he would not be able to do what he had been sent to do, when he heard the loud man inside tell the other to go to the lodge and get ice.
The Sentry quickly moved to the corner of the cabin. In a moment a man pushed open the screen holding a bowl in his hand and began to walk down the path toward the lodge. The ancients were again showing him the way. The Sentry looked to the stars, said a short prayer of thanks, and then silently stepped up on the deck, hand on his knife. He would only kill one tonight, but it would be enou
gh. The time was right.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Lee Strom stood unsteadily on his feet as he swirled the half inch of Jack Daniels in his glass. It was late, he didn’t need anymore to drink, but he was on vacation and it would be such a waste not to finish his drink. So he brought the glass to his lips, opened his mouth, and leaned his head back as far as it would go.
The cool liquid never made it to his stomach. While his head was still tilted back a hand grabbed the curly blonde hair on the top of his head while another brought a razor-sharp blade across his throat. The killer held the head for a moment as blood pulsed from Strom’s neck and then let the body drop to the floor. He wiped the blade on back of Strom’s shirt and then turned to leave the cabin just as Strom’s roommate entered with a metal bowl.
“What the hell?” shouted Ralph Billings trying to take in what he was seeing. Billings had two sons, now both in their early twenties. When they were younger he had signed them up to take Tai Kwan Do, often coming early to watch the end of their lesson before taking them home. Billings had become interested and, at the urging of his sons who would become junior Black Belts, he signed up to take lessons. He never achieved black belt status in the years he participated but the repetitive lessons from those classes would save his life tonight.
The killer rushed at Billings, his knife held low. He saw the knife blade flash and swung the metal bowl at it almost as a reflex, knocking it to the side but not out of the killer’s hand. The killer crashed into Billings and they both fell backwards out the screen door onto the porch in front of the cabin, the killer on top of Billings. The killer raised his knife above Billings who, seeing the knife come at him, rolled on his side causing the killer to lose his balance. The killer, still straddling Billings, caught himself with the palm of his free hand and pushed himself back to his knees, again raising his weapon, when there was a shout from the cabin next door. The killer jumped up and dashed from the porch into the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-eight
It was faster to cut across the lake in a boat than drive all the way around. It was still dark and Dave was an uncomfortable passenger as Meline piloted the boat at nearly full throttle across the calm water, Dave bracing for the collision with a rock or log that never came. As they approached Allens Lodge, the glow from all of the lights made it difficult to see that there was a hint of morning in the eastern sky when they pulled up to the dock. Dave expected help docking the boat from any of the several men standing there, but they only watched as he reached out to grab a cleat. Danny jumped out with the rope in back and quickly had that tied off as Dave handled tying to the cleat nearest the front.
“Mr. Allen is waiting for you,” said a deep voice.
Dave turned from the boat to face the man who had spoken. He recognized him as Paul Reed, a guide he had met with Allen earlier in the week. Reed had short, thinning red hair and close-set brown eyes that were tired and angry. He was only about five foot nine but Dave could see even in the dock light that Reed was powerfully built under his blue Allens Lodge shirt. “Lead the way.”
Dave and Danny followed the guide up treated timber steps to an expansive cedar deck filled with red cedar Adirondack chairs and matching side tables. Reed pushed open sliding glass doors of an impressive log-sided building that Trask assumed had to be the main lodge. Inside the air smelled of wood and cigars. The oak-paneled recreation room they entered had high ceilings crossed with rough pine timbers. Massive antler chandeliers hung from the timbers with bearskins and deer head mounts with huge racks on the walls. There were several large flat-screen televisions with tables and chairs positioned nearby as well as a large assortment of arcade games, pool tables, dartboards and other forms of entertainment. An antique oak bar with several taps and a significant assortment of alcohol behind took up most of the wall on the left. Although Dave was certain the bar was not usually open at this hour, three men were leaning on the bar nursing drinks as the trio walked through.
Reed led them to a staircase at the end of the bar that brought them to a large conference room, its walls lined with pictures of men and women holding trophy fish and game. Dave guessed the polished oak table at the center of the room was easily twenty-four feet long and surrounded by cushioned maroon leather captain chairs. A large flat screen was mounted on the wall at the end of the room.
They passed through a door at the opposite end of the conference room, down a narrow hall, to a closed panel door at the end. Reed knocked.
“Come in!” was the impatient shout from inside.
Trask had trouble grasping what he was seeing at first. Cleve Allen sat behind a desk, easily ten feet wide and five feet across, with a top and sides of clear glass so that the drawers were visible from the outside. But what made the desk so unique was the fact that no matter how you looked at the desk, images of trophy fish, giant deer, and huge bear were scrolling across each surface, yet there seemed to be no evidence of any projection system.
Dave stood staring for a moment longer after being asked to sit and then noticed that his deputy was already seated in a stuffed leather chair in front of the desk, seemingly oblivious to the images passing by. Danny had apparently been here before, Dave thought, but why?
Allen was in a blue Allen’s Lodge t-shirt and jeans, smoking what appeared to be his third cigar based on the remains in the ashtray in front of him. His hair was messed and his eyes red.
“Where the fuck have you been? I’ve got a camp full of guests that are scared out of their minds and you take your pretty time getting here.”
Dave was silent for a moment before responding, looking at a man who obviously was used to getting his way. “Mr. Allen, in case you hadn’t noticed we have a very large county and a very limited number of law enforcement officers to cover that area. Believe it or not there are other crimes taking place in this county, including other murders, which we are investigating. My deputy and I, as well as the rest of my staff have had less than a few hours sleep in the last week, and are doing the best we can to bring all of our investigations to a close while tending to new incidents that need our attention. You’ll be a lot more help to us, and we’ll find who did this a lot faster, if you drop the attitude and cooperate. Now, we have a few questions for you.”
Allen’s eyes bore into Trask as a puff of smoke left his mouth.
Dave leaned forward in his chair and asked, “When did you learn of the incident?”
“You can talk to Reed about it. Now get out!” said Allen as he stood and pointed to the door.
“Mr. Allen, I want to know when you heard about it,” said Trask as he stood, placing his hands on the desktop.
“About two hours ago.”
“And where were you when you heard?”
“Right here. What the fuck difference does that make?” he replied as the anger in his voice increased.
“Are you always at your desk at two in the morning?”
“I’ve got a big operation. I work nights. Paul will tell you I was right here all night.”
Dave glanced back at Reed, sure the guide would now vouch for his boss, regardless of where he really was. “We understand there is a witness.”
“Yeah, we moved him to a different cabin.”
“Did you move his things?” asked Dave with an increased tone.
“Just some clothes and personal stuff he needed.”
“How many people went in the cabin after the murder?”
“Just Reed and the guest. They didn’t touch anything.”
Dave shook his head. “You let someone into a murder scene? How do you know what they touched or didn’t touch? Were all your guides in camp last night?”
“It was changeover night. They all partied with the guests and stayed to get their tips. No one left camp,” replied Allen, waving the cigar in his hand as he spoke.
“How do you know?”
Allen had reached his limit. “I have a call in to Rosemary Thiel and Representative Chambers. You’ve fucked this t
hing up from the start Trask and now you’re done. Now get the hell out of my office!”
Allen was now leaning on the desk and both men were nose to nose. Trask wanted to toss him out the huge bank of windows behind his desk that overlooked the lake.
“My deputy will need information about the deceased and his roommate – names, contact information, how long they have been here, who was their guide – as well as a list of all of the members of your staff. Now, I want to talk to the roommate,” said Dave as he stood up.
Allen chewed hard on the cigar in his mouth before standing and pulling it out. “Reed, take the sheriff to Mr. Billings, and then get Danny what he needs.”
The guide, who had been leaning on a bookcase, stood and began walking to the door. Trask and Meline followed. As Trask and Reed exited the lodge, Meline stopped in the doorway. Dave turned back and ordered Danny to tape off the murder scene after getting the information from Reed.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The sun was starting to peek through the pines in the east as Trask and Reed walked along a hosta-lined wood chip walkway to the cabin where they had placed Randy Billings.
“How do you keep the deer from eating your hostas?” asked Dave looking at the plants. His mother had complained for as long as he could remember about the deer getting the hostas in her garden.
“I think the deer have learned to stay away,” replied Reed with a smirk.
Dave guessed that meant that a few deer had their hosta snacking cut short by a rifle or bow but he decided now was not the time to get into that. They walked past two more cabins before Reed stopped and pointed to the cabin on their left, telling Trask he would find the man he wanted inside, before turning and walking back to the lodge to meet Meline.
There was nothing rustic about the cabin Dave entered. The same oak paneling that he saw in the lodge graced the walls inside, a leather couch and matching armchairs immediately to his left. A large flat-screen hung on the wall opposite, a small bar just to its left. Ralph Billings sat in a t-shirt and shorts at a knotty table facing the front door, a cup of coffee clutched between both hands, looking for answers in the black liquid.
