by Jeff Carson
“Not bad. Not bad at all.” She looked at him and winked. “What? You here for Sarah?”
“No, just a little business.”
She nodded at the news and winked again.
Wolf sniffed in response. On one occasion in eighth grade he’d attended a party and twisted a glass bottle that had spun and landed on her. The rules of the game stated that they enter a closet for two minutes, and just like Vegas, what happened in the closet, stayed in the closet. And what happened in the closet that night had traumatized him for at least a year.
Since that eighth grade party, he’d been cornered by Jan Olson numerous times, and every social interaction with her usually ended with Wolf feeling violated.
“You waiting for Walter?” Wolf asked, talking about her teenaged son from an unknown father.
Jan pulled out a smoke and nodded.
“Well, see ya,” Wolf said and walked away, pushing memories of sharp fingernails groping the bare skin of his crotch out of his mind.
He walked inside. The lights overhead seemed to hum louder tonight, as if working overtime at the end of the day. He pulled off his hat and unzipped his jacket, letting the dry warmth burrow into his under clothing.
The air smelled like pizza, and Wolf’s mouth watered.
Just like the day before, no one sat at the desk in the narrow anteroom, but he heard the murmur of voices, and then laughter coming from around the corner and down the hall.
He stepped toward the hallway, stopping when the floorboards creaked, and then he shook his head and walked. He’d launched himself off a cliff today, there was a murderer on the loose, and most importantly he had a bag of fried chicken in the car and he was hungry as hell. He was going to crash this meeting—in and out—even if it meant upsetting Sarah.
Thinking this as he walked under the flickering tubes of light down the hall, he was surprised when he reached the doorway of the interior room and the people inside seemed to chat freely, as if his approach had been unnoticed. He stopped, his curiosity winning out over his hunger.
“…down the slope on his face,” someone said.
The group laughed, loud and unreserved with one another’s company.
Wolf craned his neck a few inches to look in and saw the back half of Sarah.
“So,” Sarah said. “You aren’t going to go back to telemarking anytime soon, I take it?”
“No. Screw that,” the same young man said. Wolf recognized the voice, but couldn’t put a face or name to it.
There was a few seconds of silence.
“Okay,” Sarah said. “Let’s talk about what’s going on at home. Like always, you don’t have to share, but I encourage you to. We’ve taken the pledge, and nothing leaves this room. Nothing leaves this group.”
Wolf swallowed, feeling a pang of guilt.
“So let’s start with—“
“Ahem,” Wolf cleared his throat and knocked on the doorjamb. “Uh, sorry.”
Sarah gave Wolf a facetious smile. Her eyes sparkled, and everyone else in the room seemed to have the same happy look. Now he really felt like an intruder. She was dressed in a tight white shirt tonight with worn jeans. A simpler outfit she couldn’t have worn; better looking she couldn’t have been.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Wolf twisted his hat in his hands and stepped inside. “Hey Chris, Todd, Lisa, Walter.” Wolf made a pained face at a pimply girl in her late teens. “I’m sorry I don’t know you.”
“I’m Bridget.”
“Hi, I’m David Wolf. Sorry to break in here. I was just on my way by…”
Sarah pushed her chair back and stood up.
“…and I need to talk to Chris.”
Sarah looked over at Chris in surprise, and Chris looked over at Wolf.
“It’ll be quick,” Wolf said.
Chris stood up quietly.
Wolf nodded at Sarah, ignoring her suspicious frown, and walked out down the hall. Chris followed, and then Wolf waved him around the corner to the front room.
“Hi Chris, I just needed to ask you a few questions, and it couldn’t wait.”
“Okay,” he said. “What? Is this about my dad?”
Wolf narrowed his eyes. “Why would you ask that?”
Chris shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Wolf stared at him for a beat, trying to read him with no luck. “What were you doing Saturday night?”
Chris popped his eyebrows. “I…was over at Walter’s most of the night”—he pointed a thumb over his shoulder—“and then I just went home.”
Wolf nodded. “What time? From when to when?”
“I don’t know, like five to…midnight?” Chris looked Wolf in the eye. “Why?”
“I just need to know,” Wolf pointed out the window at Jan Olson’s Chevy. “So if I were to ask Mrs. Olson right now, she’ll say that you were there on Saturday night? All the way until midnight?”
Chris shrugged. “I don’t know. Yeah. I don’t know if she was asleep or not when I left.”
Wolf stretched his neck and took a deep breath. “What about this morning? What were you doing?”
“I don’t know, nothing?” he shrugged. “Just slept in and then came into town and had some food.”
Wolf straightened and glanced out the window. “Thanks. That’s all.”
“That’s it?” Chris asked.
Wolf nodded and gave him a soft look. “Hey. I was…if you ever need anything, you let me know, okay?”
Chris closed his eyes and nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”
Wolf watched him leave around the corner and down the hall, and then he put on his hat and went back out into the parking lot.
Jan’s Chevy was now puffing smoke from the cracked window as well as the exhaust pipe.
As Wolf neared the door clicked open again.
“Change your mind?” she asked.
Wolf smiled and slowed to a stop. “I just needed to ask you a question.”
“Shoot,” she sucked a drag and propped her foot up on the inside of her door and bounced her legs open and shut.
“Was Chris Wakefield at your house on Saturday night?”
She blew smoke out of her nose. “Yeah. Why?”
“What time did he leave to go home?” Wolf asked.
“I don’t know,” she threw the cigarette on the ground toward Wolf.
Wolf stepped forward and squashed it with his boot.
“I think he left after midnight,” she looked at the smoldering butt and smiled, as if satisfied that she’d made Wolf do something for her. “I remember hearing him leave. Remember him pulling out of the driveway, the lights blazin’ in the window, waking me up.”
“And it was after midnight? How do you know?”
“Because the man next to me said, What the hell is that kid doing with his goddamn lights on? It’s after midnight.” She curled her lip, stroked the inside of her knee, and stared at Wolf.
Wolf nodded and looked back to the window of the building, for no other reason than to look away from Jan Olson.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You are welcome,” she said.
Chapter 24
Wolf sat on his barcalounger, leaned all the way back, socks off, and chewed the last bite of his fried chicken. The old speakers of his analog stereo played soft country music – some song about being laid back, blue jeans, an old truck, a back road, a cold beer, and skinny dipping. Wolf sipped his second Newcastle, feeling the warm buzz from the beer soothe his body, and longed for an old beat up truck and a warm summer night on a back country road. With a woman.
He wiped his greasy fingers on his jeans, picked up his phone, and decided since crawling inside the stereo was out of the question he’d do the next best thing. Besides, he needed to talk to someone. His mind was churning with ideas and dead-end thoughts.
Staring at the phone screen, he marveled at the twists of fate that had alphabetically placed the name Kristen Luke directly above Sarah Muller in his phone contacts.
He pushed the name and put the phone up to his ear.
“Hey, handsome,” Luke said in a mock-throaty voice.
“Hi. How’s it going?”
Luke fumbled the phone for a few seconds, and then came back on. “Oh, okay. Can’t complain here.”
“Am I catching you at a bad time?” he asked.
“No. I pushed pause on the remote.”
Wolf chuckled. “Ah. An adventurous Monday night?”
“How do you know I’m not sitting here cuddling with a man?”
“Are you?” Wolf asked.
“No.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a beat, and Wolf realized it was nice to just have Kristen Luke’s companionship every once in a while.
“You just calling to hear me breathe?” she asked.
“No, actually. That’s just a perk. I need to run over a case with you.”
The phone scratched a little, “Okay,” she said, clearly interested. “Have at it.”
Wolf told her about the two murders – the strangling of Stephanie Lang, the shooting of Matt Cooper, the red X’s found at both scenes made with the same lipstick, the chase that led to Wolf plummeting off a cliff, the sex tape, and Charlie Ash allegedly blackmailing the mayor in order to secure votes for a construction firm.
“Holy crap,” she said. “I recommend bringing in the FBI on this. I can leave first thing in the morning and be there by breakfast.”
“No, sit tight. Besides, I’ve already brought in the FBI. I’m talking to her now.”
Luke huffed into the phone, clearly nonplussed.
Wolf took a long pull of his beer and set it down. “Well?”
“I’m thinking,” she said.
Wolf sat and waited.
“The X thing,” she said.
“Yeah. The X thing. Does that ring any bells with you? You ever encountered another killer who left that mark?”
“No,” she said. “I can’t say I have.”
Wolf finished his beer and walked to the kitchen.
“No doubt it’s a message of some sort, but to whom?” she said. “Law enforcement? A particular person?”
Wolf flipped his beer bottle into a recycle box, dug into his brand new refrigerator, and pulled out another.
“I’ve been thinking about that, too.” Wolf popped off the cap with the opener and walked back to the chair.
“If it’s not clear now why that X is showing up, then it’s because you don’t know the reason the killer is putting it there.”
Wolf took a sip and smacked his lips. “That’s a brilliant assessment. I’m glad I’ve brought the FBI in on this. Thanks, I’m—“
“Shut up, I’m serious. I mean…you have to start digging into the past of the killer, which means you have to dig into the past of everyone involved.”
Wolf set down his beer and sat back with closed eyes. “Yeah.”
They sat in silence.
“Sorry. I know I’m not much help. I’d be better if we came up there.”
Wolf took another sip.
“How’s Jack?” she asked.
“Good,” Wolf said, still thinking about where to start the next morning. What was the next move? Maybe Lorber would wake up and find a crucial piece of forensic evidence that cracked the case. In the meantime, just like Luke had said, he had to start digging in the pasts of anyone and everyone he could think of being involved – Stephanie Lang, Matt Cooper, Wakefield and his son, Charlie Ash and…
“—David? You there still?”
“What?” Wolf asked.
“I said, is Jack the wettest skier on the mountain up there, or what?” She chuckled, clearly proud of herself for using Jack’s slang term in a sentence.
Wolf sat up. “That’s it.”
Luke went quiet. “What is? What? What did I say?”
Wolf leaned forward. “Look, I gotta call Jack. I’ll talk to you later.”
“I expect a briefing tomorrow,” Luke said. “I’m not gonna be able to sleep tonight thinking about this. I’m serious, I’ll come up and help. I’ll bring a couple of good agents. You just say the word.”
Wolf nodded. “All right. Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Wolf hung up and called Jack.
“Hey dad.”
“Hey buddy. I have a quick question for you.”
“Where are you?” Jack ignored him. “At your house?”
“Yes. I am,” Wolf said, struggling to keep patient. “What are you doing? You at your mom’s?” Which, ever since Sarah had broken up with Mark Wilson meant, you at your grandparent’s house?
“Yeah,” Jack said, and then he sounded like he was eating something.
“Did you go skiing today?” Wolf asked.
“Of course.” He had quite a mouthful. “Went after school. It’s sick up there right now.”
“Listen, I have a question,” Wolf said, knowing he was talking to the right person. “Who are the best skiers in town?”
Wolf sat in his home office, which was a freshly painted room with thick carpet. He sat on a pleather swivel chair from the consignment store in town and stared at the glowing computer screen, which sat on a fold-out plastic table.
It took him a second to find the webpage for the Lake Tahoe Police Department, and then another second to scroll down and find the number.
Wolf twisted open the blinds and stared out the brand new windows, thinking they held the heat inside much better than the old windows. Outside the pines were bathed in moonlight, their undersides pitch black pools of shadow.
“Lake Tahoe Police Department,” a bored sounding man’s voice said into the phone.
“Hi, this is Sheriff David Wolf of the Sluice County Sheriff’s Department, in Colorado. I’d like to speak to Chief Gunnison.”
“Sorry, he’s gone home,” the man said. “Is there a message?”
Wolf exhaled. “How about a cell number? I need to speak with him today. It’s very important.”
The man chuckled. “Sorry, Sheriff. I’m sure you understand I’m not at liberty to—”
“Chief Gunnison has critical evidence that will help to expose a killer that’s filling up our morgue with dead bodies. I need to talk to him now, not tomorrow.”
“I wish I could help you, Sheriff.”
Wolf took a deep breath. “What’s your name?”
“John,” he said.
“John? Listen, John, either give me the phone number I need or you’re going to be charged for obstruction of a federal investigation involving a double murder that I believe originates in your jurisdiction. You can either give me his phone number, or I can call the Truckee FBI field office and have them send down an agent to get the information I need, and your department can foot the bill for the interstate invest—“
“Okay, okay. What did you say your name was?”
“Wolf. Sheriff David Wolf of Sluice County, Colorado.”
Wolf held his breath, wondering if his opponent was calling or folding his hand.
“Okay. I’m transferring you to his cell phone,” he said. “Will that work? Sir?” He may as well have spit onto the phone’s receiver.
“If he answers that will work. If not, I’ll call you back and I’ll need to speak to someone else.”
“Well, let’s hope to God he answers.”
The phone line clicked and then it began ringing.
“Hello?”
“Chief Gunnison?”
“What?” It was a demand, not a question.
“This is Sheriff David Wolf from Sluice County, Colorado.”
“Oh, hi. What can I do for you?” Gunnison had a deep voice that boomed loud in Wolf’s ear.
“I need to speak to you about a death that happened in your town two years ago.”
“Uh, okay. Wait a minute.” The phone rattled a little bit and Wolf could hear footsteps and then a door closing. “Who are we talking about here?” Gunnison asked.
“A woman named Cynthia Ash.”
Chapter 25
Charlie Ash’s home was situated on a vast tract of flat land, smack in the middle of the valley floor six miles to the north and east of Rocky Points. The front of his house faced west toward a treeless grassland filled with flowers and cattle in the summer and herds of elk stomping through wind-crusted snow in the winter. A few neighbors populated the horizon, but so far away that on a night like this, they were blobs of light rather than imposing structures.
The rear of his house facing east was a decent-size snow-covered lawn that butted up against a wall of virgin pine forest that extended for miles along the valley floor to the north and south.
Charlie Ash was worried about the rear.
He had been sitting in the pitch dark of his house for over two and a half hours now, ever since the sun went down. He wasn’t going to be snuck up on. He wasn’t going to be taken out.
Built to offer close to a three hundred-sixty degree view of his surrounding land, his home office had a semi-circular cluster of windows facing the west, and an identical yet opposite cluster facing the east. To see those final few degrees of view to the north and south, he had to press his face to the glass.
He was doing this now, feeling the cold window against his nose as he searched for movement outside.
The snow surrounding his house was bright yellow, reflecting the halogen floodlights he’d turned on at sundown. Beyond them was dark blue snow and black forest. And nothing else.
Ash switched his pistol to his left hand and wiped the sweat off his palm, and then walked across his darkened office to the other set of windows – a movement he’d done countless times now on roughly ten second intervals for the last two and a half hours. It would have been deemed ridiculous behavior to an outside observer, but he knew what was coming. It was a sure thing. The only way he’d be able to protect himself would be through vigilance, and standing his ground when the time came.
His house was big, and had five outside entrances, of which two were vulnerable and there was nothing he could do about – except for this. He could make sure he saw it coming, and then he was reasonably confident it would be simple enough to take up position behind a statue or a piece of furniture or a wall and just shoot when the time was right.
He reached the rear windows and looked outside again. The darkness of the old growth forest was absolute. No matter how hard he peered, details eluded him any further than fifty feet into the pillowed boughs of the pines.
