by Jeff Carson
Rachette shook his head and looked down the slope.
Vickers took another sip of water. “Look. I’m serious, here. I want to know how you think Wolf could not be responsible for murder. If not him, then who?”
Rachette wondered just what angle Vickers was taking. Was he reporting back to Gary?
“Fine. Keep quiet.” Vickers put his bottle in his backpack, shouldered it, and walked away. After a few feet, he came to a halt. “I keep hearing about how great this guy Wolf is. The truth is, I’d sure like to believe the great stories, and I’d sure like to work with a guy like that if I’m going to live out my career in the Sluice County Sheriff’s Department, which I plan on doing. I, for one, like it here. Just like I know you do.” He kept walking.
“Sergeant Vickers.”
Vickers stopped and turned his head halfway.
Rachette took a sip of his water and decided it couldn’t hurt to talk. “Tuesday night at the Beer Goggles Bar. Wolf was sure he saw a needle mark on Jerry Blackman’s neck. Was there? Were there drugs in his system?”
Vickers turned around and nodded. “We found some sedatives in his system.”
“Why would Wolf do that to the guy? Secondly, Wolf pointed that out to me. Why would he point out the needle mark on Blackman’s neck? And Wolf also found some large footprints and tire tread marks that led to the back of the bar. It looked like someone, a very large someone, backed a truck up and unloaded Mark Wilson’s body.”
Vickers narrowed his eyes. “Why didn’t Wolf mention any of this to us?”
“I don’t know, maybe because earlier that day his house exploded. Almost killing his son in the process. And he had all the reason in the world to believe Connell was behind that. He saw a flash inside the door, and he was suspecting arson, which was confirmed by the fire investigators by the way. So why the hell would he go telling his theories to Connell? And who’s to say you didn’t know about the explosion, too?”
Vickers stared for a few long seconds and raised his eyebrows. “Do you know about how Gary was going to raise the rent on Wolf’s property?”
Rachette hadn’t known about that.
Vickers softened his expression a little. “From what I’ve gathered from Gary, Wolf was pretty furious about not getting the Sheriff job and threatened Gary after he tried to offer Wolf a job. Gary reacted a little harshly, telling him he was going to have to raise the rent, which he says he wasn’t going to do.” Vickers shrugged. “So Wolf rigs the house to blow. Out of revenge or whatever.” Vickers stepped closer and cocked his head. “Didn’t Wolf’s father build that house? And now he was getting run out by Gary?”
Rachette shook his head. “No. Listen.” Rachette looked vacantly at the approaching helicopter. “What about the big ex-Navy SEAL guy Gary is hanging out with? The Chief of Security for the mining company, or whatever he is? Young, that’s his name. Those were Young’s boot prints at the stabbing. Young drugged Mark Wilson and Jerry Blackman out back of the Beer Goggles bar, and then planted the knife on Blackman.”
Vickers dropped his gaze and scraped the dirt with his boot. He looked up and shrugged. “Who’s Young?”
Rachette glared at Vickers, then looked away as he felt his face flush. Rachette realized he’d never actually seen the ex-Navy SEAL in question.
Vickers stared and nodded gently. “I know it must be hard to see your mentor unraveling in front of your eyes.” He held up his hands quickly. “Or maybe he just didn’t do any of this, like you said. But let’s look at what the facts are telling us. He just came back from a harrowing experience, bringing his dead brother back from overseas. His ex-wife just gets out of rehab, and she’s dating some other guy instead of him. And to top it off, he doesn’t get appointed to Sheriff, a job he wanted more than anything in the world? A job his father used to have before he was killed in the line of duty? Hell,” Vickers ripped off his hat, slapped it on his leg, and squinted into the sun. “I’d snap if I was him, too. Sure as shit I’d snap.”
Rachette’s mind swirled as he looked into the trees below. Connell. He’d seen the murderous intent in Connell’s eyes as he strangled Rachette against the garage wall.
Rachette nodded and stepped forward. “All right. We’ll see.”
Vickers put a firm hand on his shoulder. “We’ll shoot first, and then we’ll see.” He nodded his head with eyebrows high. “I’m in charge now, and that’s an order. I’m not going to jeopardize more lives on your defiant hunch. You got that, Deputy Rachette?”
Rachette ducked his shoulder and walked away.
Chapter 31
Sweat slid down the side of Wolf’s cheek as he walked on the fine rocky soil of the valley floor. He stopped in the trees near the edge of a clearing, wiped his forehead with his bare forearm and pulled his wet camo tee shirt away from his skin.
It was humid, and dark clouds were popping straight up into tall towers in the southwest.
The cone of rock he’d known as Pyramid Peak – a steep geological formation hundreds of feet high, with no trees, and millions of years old – was close now, looming high above the pines just to the north.
He took off his backpack and crammed a nutrition bar in his mouth, then took a quick gulp of water and stood still in the freshening breeze. Wolf could smell the strange aftershave-like scent again, this time closer.
He stood dead still. “It’s David Wolf. I’m here to see you.”
There was no sound except the wind breathing through the tops of the trees, and the long chattering of a treetop squirrel.
Wolf set down the water and held out both his arms, palms up.
The voice came from behind him. “Turn around slow.”
Wolf did.
The first thing he saw was the muzzle of a rifle. The wood stock of it was tucked into the armpit of a dirty brown tee shirt, like how a little kid would hold a toy rifle. But the man holding the gun wasn’t playing. The hammer was cocked, his finger was white on the trigger, and the muzzle wasn’t twitching a millimeter.
Wolf looked the man in the eye. “Sir, it’s David Wolf. Do you remember me? I’ve been here a couple times with my father. Daniel Wolf.”
His eyes narrowed. “David Wolf?”
A waft of breeze hit them, bringing with it a faint thumping sound.
The pulse grew louder and the man tilted his head with a raised eyebrow, then looked to the southwest at the helicopter trolling in the distance.
Wolf didn’t move. He didn’t need to look. By the sound he knew it was searching near the ditched motorcycle, miles away. Instead, he studied the familiar man before him.
It had been seventeen years since he last saw Martin Running Warrior. His skin was rougher now, looking like deeply tanned, well-worn leather. His eyes were dark coffee, wide and alert. Silver, straight-hair, wet with sweat around his ears, peeked out from underneath a dusty gray cowboy hat that had a band of turquoise beads around the crown. Wolf recognized the man’s scent after all these years. It was a strange mixture of sage, pine, and sweat.
Wolf also remembered that rifle from seventeen years ago — a Winchester with engraved silver plating where the shoulder stock met the barrel. It looked well cleaned and oiled.
Martin flicked a glance towards the helicopter as the sound faded, then tilted his head again. “What’s my Navajo name?”
“I don’t remember.” Wolf watched him narrow his eyes. “I just remember what it means. Running Warrior.”
The man relaxed and lowered his rifle, then un-cocked the hammer, shaking his head. “its Hashké Dilwo'ii” He leaned forward, emphasizing the syllables.
Wolf nodded.
Martin scoffed and glared at him. “There is nothing worse than forgetting who you are.” He turned and began walking toward Pyramid Peak. “I take it you aren’t here for a refresher course.” He gestured in the direction of the faint drone of the helicopter. “I take it you are looking for a place to hide.”
Wolf followed close. “I need help, and I need to use your phone.
I’m in a bit of trouble.”
Martin stopped and looked him up and down for a second. “You look just like your father.”
Wolf nodded. “Thanks.”
Martin’s house was a large shoe-box design made from decaying wood. The corrugated metal roof was pieced together from smaller scraps of all shapes, sizes, and shades of rust hues. No perimeter fencing or landscaping surrounded the house, but a cloud of old tools, machines, and bones seemed to clearly mark where Martin had decided his property ended and nature began.
Behind the house was a tall outcropping of granite and, beyond that, the tall Pyramid Peak cinder cone.
There were no roads entering into the property, and Martin looked like he didn’t have a car, but there was an ATV under a tree covered by a tarp.
Wolf wondered how many visitors Martin had on his property per year. Probably countable on one hand.
Martin led him inside the small building, sat him in a chair, and slapped down a steaming plastic plate of dark brown meat stew piled on top of potatoes.
Wolf sat motionless at the tiny kitchen table, his mouth watering at the aroma of the food. He looked at Martin’s empty hands.
“Eat. I’ve got plenty more.” He dug in his small refrigerator that sat on the flaking linoleum floor, pulled out one of many Tupperware containers, and poured some into a pot on the gas stove. “I was making lunch when I heard you coming.”
“Heard me coming?” Wolf raised an eyebrow and dug into the stew. It was elk.
Martin turned on the stove and stirred his stew, ignoring the question.
The large rectangle space was adorned with various Navajo works of art. The obvious attention to interior decoration was a stark contrast to the utilitarian junk-pile look of the exterior. A cast iron wood stove was the centerpiece of the tiny house. A cot topped with folded blankets of Navajo design squatted in one corner, and a bookshelf adorned with stacks of books in another. It looked to be filled exclusively with survival and Native American publications.
Wolf felt self-conscious in the presence of the man. Other than knowing he himself was one-eighth Navajo -- Wolf’s great grandfather being full-blooded -- his knowledge of the Navajo Nation was limited. Years ago his father had brought him to Martin a few times for that very reason; to teach him about his heritage.
Since then, he’d forgotten most of what he’d learned. He realized that was another reason for wearing the ring he found on his father’s armoire. Guilt. Wearing the ring felt like he was keeping the connection. But, he knew, wearing the ring was an action that didn’t take any real commitment on his part.
Wolf’s stomach sank as he thumbed his left pinky, realizing his father’s ring was gone.
He tried to think back to when he had it on last. It could have been anywhere. But probably near the motorcycle, probably pulled off his finger when he changed from his motorcycle gloves to his winter gloves.
“What’s wrong?” Martin sat down and took a fork full of his own plate.
Wolf rubbed his finger. “I uh…lost my father’s ring.” He picked up his fork and took a bite.
Martin took a sip of water. “Important to you, was it?”
Wolf nodded. “It was actually a Navajo design.”
Martin paused and raised his eyebrows. “Really? Silver, was it?”
“Yeah. It was.” Wolf glanced at him. “Why?”
“It was probably made by the Atsidii.” He pointed through the wall to the north, waited, and then rolled his eyes. “The Silversmith.”
Wolf shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
Martin got up and went to his bookshelf, then returned with a bracelet. He held it in front of Wolf’s face. “Did it have this marking?” He pointed to a square engraving on the inside of the bracelet. “This was his mark.”
Wolf reached out and rubbed the mark. “Yes. It did have that. And it had another engraving.”
“What did it say?”
Wolf squirmed in his chair. “I don’t remember the Navajo words. But I know it meant ‘I Love You.’ Then there was a year - 1985.”
Martin stared at him a beat. “Ayóó'ánííníshní. That is what the engraving said, if it said I love you.”
Wolf kept eating. “Was the Silversmith’s mark? Why do you say was? Is the Silversmith dead?”
Martin swallowed a mouthful of food, then snarled his teeth. “No. The Silversmith lived here many years ago, then sold his land and left with his family.” He said it with such contempt, it looked like he may spit on the table.
Wolf straightened. “You seem upset about it.”
Martin ate a few bites, breathing heavily through his nose. “He sold the land to the mining company, so they could rape it.” He glared at Wolf.
“The Connell-Brack Mine to the north?” Wolf raised his eyebrows. “He owned all that land?”
Martin shook his head. “Not that land. He sold his land. To the south.”
“Wait, what do you mean? Are you talking about the land just east of the highway? East of Cave Creek Canyon, with the old run-down house on it?” He thought about his conversation with Dennis Muller.
Martin continued eating. “Yes. That is the land.”
“But there’s no tailings. No mine entrances, no pits. That land is untouched except for that old house.”
Martin pointed with his fork. “You don’t see it, but they are raping the land from underneath. I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire mountainside collapsed today.”
Wolf narrowed his eyes and looked at Martin. “Really?”
Martin continued eating with his head down. “They will come after me next with an offer, and when they do, I will make them a counter offer with my rifle.” He chuffed through his nostrils and kept eating.
Wolf was suddenly a little claustrophobic. He looked out the window, wanting to be outside, surveying the surroundings for Young, and to keep an eye on the helicopter.
Martin looked at him and nodded his head to the wall. “Take my rifle. My cell phone is on the counter. You’ll have to climb the rocks behind the house for reception. I’ll be there when I’m done.”
From the rock outcropping behind the house, Wolf could see three hundred and sixty degrees. To the southwest were the two tall peaks. In between him and the peaks were a few lower rocky hills and miles of dense forest that he’d just travelled through.
On the other side of the peaks were the 2Shoe Ranch and a jet-black sky that flickered with lightning within. The helicopter was gone, probably grounded because of the storm.
To the west was the highway. Wolf could see a few silent cars in the distance weaving their way north into Cave Creek Canyon.
Wolf squinted and studied the expanse of forest below. He couldn’t see any movement, but that didn’t mean no one was there.
He swiveled north and gazed at the countless layers of blue mountains in between him and the furthest point he could see, which was probably a mountain in Wyoming. The highway strung its way through the low valleys into the distance, straight past the Clover Mine — Connell-Brack Mining Corp’s flagship gold mine opened over fifty years ago by Wallace Connell, Gary’s father — one of six they owned in the western United States.
Wolf could see clouds of dust rising from the trees.
He squinted, looking at the vast interweaving of dirt roads, tailing piles, and different huge dump trucks driving the maze. The operation was immense.
Wolf knew that Clover Mine’s operations were strictly underground — not surface mined with a vast open pit like the Cresson Mine he’d seen outside of Cripple Creek to the south.
Wolf squinted. He couldn’t see the old run-down house Martin and Dennis had now both mentioned from here. It was out of sight, just on the other side of the slope to the north. One thing was for sure, there was a heck of a lot of distance between the mining operations and where the old house was, though. If the Clover Mine had extended to it, it had to have covered miles underground.
Wolf sat down facing south, keeping some rocks between
him and the forest below just in case Young was taking aim at that very second. He took out the cell phone and called Rachette.
“Hello?” The voice sounded very faint, but Wolf could hear the urgency in Rachette’s voice just the same.
“Hey. It’s me.”
Silence. “Hi Mom, look I’m kind of busy right now.” A pause. “What? Hold on just a second.”
Wolf could hear his ragged breathing and footsteps crunching in his earpiece.
“What’s going on? You all right?” Rachette mumbled.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Just let me know where you guys are.”
“I don’t know.” His voice was louder than it needed to be. “Fine, Mom. Fine.” Another pause, then his voice lowered. “I’m with Vickers, we found your motorcycle, and we found an ATV.”
“It’s Young’s. He’s after me.”
Rachette sounded like he was trying not to move his lips. “Where are you right now?”
“I’d rather not say, just in case. Where are you guys going?”
“Uh-huh. Yes.” There was a full ten seconds of rustling and wind rushing into the phone. “Sorry. We’re basically going to set up a perimeter around Gary’s ranch. They think you’re coming after him. Gary came and gave us a big speech last night. Vickers is heading the search up, and he keeps telling everyone to shoot first. Talking about how dangerous you are.”
Wolf nodded, thinking.
Rachette’s voice was loud. “All right Mom! Easy!” Another pause. “Hey.”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t kill Connell, did you?” Rachette’s voice was almost inaudible.
“No. It was Young. And Gary. They set me up.”
“ItwasyourknifefoundatthesceneofMarkWilson’sstabbing.All right! Bye, mom. I love you too. I have to go. Okay. I know. Bye.”
Wolf stared at the phone, then glared into the forest below. “Damn.” He pecked out a text message on the ancient phone.
“You get bad reception?” Martin was standing behind him.
