“What a pair we make,” Henry said. “Two injured men hunting down a wounded wolf. If my buddies from the war could see me now they’d laugh their fool heads off.”
“My ex would laugh,” Dave said. “Then she’d tell me what an idiot I was.”
“You weren’t the one driving,” Henry said. “Why would she call you an idiot?”
“Oh, no reason,” Dave said. “She always called me an idiot. Nothing to do with the accident.”
“Ah,” Henry smiled. “Gotcha.”
“What do we do now?” Dave asked. “We won’t make good time on foot. And we have no idea where the wolf went.”
“I’ve lived in these parts nearly all my life,” Henry said hefting the rifle for a better hold. “I know these woods and I have an idea where it’s headed. We need to get there before the other males run it off. Once that happens there's no telling where he'll go.”
“Lead on,” Dave said, standing up to his full height. The pain surged through his body and he doubled over. As he bent, a moan escaped his lips.
Henry laughed. “We’re a mess.”
“Yea,” Dave agreed. “Where to from here?”
“Over that ridge,” Henry pointed about a quarter mile ahead of them, “is a dried up river bed. The wolves use it a lot. We’ll have to follow it for another mile or so to the south and we should come to their den.”
“A wolves’ den?” Dave looked at the rancher sternly. “Just the two of us?”
“I’m not that crazy,” Henry said. “No. We’re going to try to catch our friendly injured wolf on his way out again. When he gets there, injured like he is, there’s likely to be a fight. The other males will look at him as being weak and drive him off. With luck he’ll come back north into us. If he moves farther to the south, we’ll have to be ready”
“How do you know he’s going to the den at all?” Dave asked.
“I don’t,” Henry said. “But I can’t just let him go and let him hurt someone. This is the only chance I have to catch him. So, this is what I’m doing.”
“And when you catch him?”
“I’ll kill him,” Henry said.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“You seem comfortable with the idea of killing,” Dave said, stretching.
“Never comfortable with it,” Henry said. “When I have to, I can. Just like in the war. You do what you have to. This is no man, detective. It’s a wolf. An injured wolf that could hurt someone. If I can prevent one person from being harmed, I am going to try.”
“So you’re noble?” Dave asked.
“Not noble,” Henry said. “Practical.”
The two of them limped toward the south. The ridge seemed to get farther and farther away as they moved toward it. Dave walked a step behind and to the side of the rancher keeping one eye on the older man and one hand on his gun. Chances were if Henry spun on him and fired, Dave would never get off a shot. He just felt better holding his weapon. He looked up at the ridge as they finally reached the base of the incline. It was higher than it had looked the first time he saw it. He stopped, looking at the steep upward slope, and wondered how he would manage it.
“There’s a path down here a bit more,” Henry said as if reading the detective’s mind. “Cuts through the ridge. The incline is a lot easier on the knees.”
“Good,” Dave said. “My knees are the only thing not hurting right now.”
“When we get back to the house,” Henry said leading the way again, “we’ll have to have a drink. Take the sting out.”
“I’m on duty,” Dave said. “Can’t drink on the job.”
“Detective,” Henry turned to him. Dave’s hand tightened on the grip of his pistol. The rancher did not seem to notice. “The truck isn’t going anywhere. It’s going to get dark soon. You really think you won’t be off duty by the time we get back?”
“We’ll see,” Dave said, realizing Henry had no idea why he had come. “For now, let’s get on with it. Where’s the path?”
“Not much farther,” Henry said. He turned back to the task at hand shifting the rifle from one arm to the other. There was a breeze in their faces and they were glad to have it. Even with the sun low in the sky to the west it produced an incredible amount of heat. They came to the path where it led up to the ridge in a gentle slope and they stopped to catch their breath before moving on.
“You ready?” Henry asked.
“No,” Dave said, never taking his eyes off the ridge above them.
“Me either,” Henry grinned. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 70
(Raven)
Ben Hunter stood on the sidewalk in front of the steps leading up to the county library. He grew up only a few blocks away and remembered spending countless hours sitting in the corners of the old brick structure reading every book he could get his hands on. He was a fanatic even at a young age. While in college, it was the campus library where he spent his time although the lighting was more sterile and never felt the same as this place.
After passing his bar exams and moving back home to start his public practice, he spent night after night inside the library researching for cases. Only after he was able to afford his own set of law books did he stop the ritual. Now everything was done on the computer. The internet was filled with data bases on law and web site after web site could be searched for information pertinent to any case he worked on. He missed the intimacy of holding books in his hands.
One last look at the faded bricks and he started climbing the stairs to the thick oak double-doors. Passing over the threshold he was transported back to a more innocent time. Nothing had changed. Fifteen, maybe twenty years, and it all looked the same. He smiled slightly and approached the librarian’s desk.
“May I help you?” the young woman asked.
“You may,” Ben said. “I am looking for a young woman who is said to spend a lot of time in the library here. She is, I am told, a bit younger than you appear to be and tends to wear mostly black clothing.”
“You must mean Raven,” the librarian said.
“Ah, yes,” Ben said. “That is the name I was given. Do you, by chance, know if she is in the library at this time?”
“Is she in trouble?” the young woman asked.
“Trouble? No. No,” Ben shook his head. “Actually I am hoping she will be able to help me. I have some questions only she might be able to answer. Is she in the library?”
“She probably won’t help you,” the librarian said.
“And why is that?” Ben asked.
“Well,” the woman leaned forward, “Raven doesn’t really like people. I think she comes here to avoid people. She’s a little odd.”
“Yes, well,” Ben said, his patience wearing thin. “I will just have to take my chances. Is she here or isn’t she?”
“Isn’t,” the woman said matter-of-factly, with a noticeable change in attitude.
“She isn’t?”
“No.”
“Oh,” Ben faltered. “Well. Uh, can you . . . or rather, do you know when she might be in again?”
“She might be in soon,” the librarian smiled then let it fade. “Or she might not.”
“You have no idea?”
“She usually comes in every afternoon,” she checked her watch, “in about half an hour. Some days she comes a little later, some days earlier and occasionally not at all.”
“You’re saying she might be here in a half hour,” Ben said. “Or she might not?”
“That’s what I said,” she said.
“Do you mind if I wait?”
“It’s a public library,” the woman said. “Knock yourself out.”
Ben moved away from the desk and found a place to sit where he could see anyone entering the building. While he waited he pondered the fact that the librarian’s tone changed the moment she mentioned Raven’s name and grew steadily worse through the rest of the conversation. He wondered why. He wondered if there was some history b
etween the two women, a man perhaps. He wondered how long he would have to wait. After about twenty minutes of sitting and staring at the door, Ben’s eyelids fell heavily downward, his chin sank into his chest, and his body sagged in the chair.
He came awake with a start to a tapping on the side of his foot. He opened his eyes and quickly locked his gaze on the eyes of a young woman standing just in front of him. He realized she had kicked his foot to wake him. He checked his watch to see how long he had been asleep. He wondered if there had been a shift change and this was the new librarian. Looking up and down he took in her entire appearance.
The woman, just a girl really, had pale, smooth skin. Her hair was unnaturally dark; a shiny black that could only come from coloring. Her fingernails and lipstick were both deep reddish brown. Her eye shadow made her eyes look sunken. The clothing was layer upon layer of black. The many different materials gave her a ragged look. Ultimately, Ben focused on and found it difficult to look away from her eyes; a brilliant light blue, hauntingly clear, stunningly beautiful. He caught himself, looked away, only to be drawn back, staring into those eyes again. He knew the young woman before him had to be Raven.
“Sandra said you were looking for me,” she said. Her voice was soft and Ben almost didn’t hear.
“Sandra?”
“The librarian,” the young woman hooked a finger over her shoulder.
“Oh, yes,” Ben said. “And you’re Raven?”
“Who are you?” she responded.
“I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” Ben pulled himself out of the chair, brushing his clothes smooth as he did. He extended his hand, saying, “My name is Benjamin Hunter. I’m an attorney and I’m hoping you can help me.”
He stood in front of her with his hand held out expectantly. She stood opposite him unmoving. She made no motion to take his hand. She showed no sign of interest. At least, Ben considered, she did not appear to be getting ready to run out the door either. He let his hand fall to his side and calculated his next move. There was an awkward silence between them. The young woman broke first.
“How am I supposed to help you?” she asked, not out of interest so much as a challenge for Ben to explain himself.
“Well,” Ben said. “My client tells me you know him and might be able to help identify him.”
“Identify him?”
“Yes.”
“Is he dead?”
“It’s kind of complicated,” Ben said.
“Complicated?” the woman said. “Either he’s dead or he isn’t.”
“My client is not dead,” Ben said. “But I don’t know that he is the man he claims you know. You are the woman he calls Raven?”
“My friends call me Raven,” the woman said. “I don’t know who the man you’re talking about is. So, I don’t know what he might call me.”
“His name is Allan Tuttle,” Ben said.
“Allan?” Raven repeated. “I don’t think I know an Allan.”
“What about a Jack Bolder?” Ben asked.
“The writer?” her eyes brightened.
“You know him?” Ben’s heart sank.
“Yea,” she said. “He comes in here a lot. I haven’t seen him in a while though. You said he’s a client of yours. Is he in trouble?”
“I don’t know,” Ben sighed. “It’s . . .”
“Complicated,” Raven said. “I know. Listen, you came here to ask me something so why don’t you just get it over with and ask?”
“Well, I need you to look at two photos and tell me if you know either of the men pictured,” Ben said. “I do need to warn you one of the pictures is not pleasant.”
“You mean one of them is dead,” she said.
“Yes,” he nodded.
“Show me,” she said.
Ben took an envelope from his inside pocket and pulled out two photographs. He set them on a table nearby, arranging them side by side. He pointed to the first saying, “This is my client. The other is the man he is accused of killing.”
“I don’t know the dead guy,” she said. “But the other one is Turtle.”
“Turtle?”
“Yea,” Raven said. “It was a nickname I gave him. It took a while to get him to come out of his shell. He’s rather shy.”
“So you call him Turtle because of his personality not because it sounds like his real name?” Ben asked.
“Oh,” Raven said with sudden comprehension. “Tuttle the Turtle. I almost forgot. I didn't know his name was Allan.”
“You do know him as Tuttle?” Ben asked.
“That’s how he introduced himself the first time we met,” she said. “But it’s been a while.”
“Did you ever see any kind of identification?” Ben asked. “Something that might identify him?”
“Don’t think so,” she said. “Why? I mean, he is your client. Why do you need identification?”
“There is some confusion about who he really is,” Ben said. “He has been arrested as Jack Bolder accused of killing Allan Tuttle. He swears he is Allan Tuttle and that Jack Bolder is just a penname. Mrs. Tuttle says she doesn’t know him and that her husband is dead.”
“I see what you mean by complicated,” Raven said. “But I can tell you Turtle didn’t kill anyone.”
“How do you know that?” Ben asked. “I mean how can you be so sure?”
“You have met the guy, haven’t you?” she asked. “I mean the guy jumps at his own shadow. The only reason he ever talked to me is because we came to the library at about the same time every day. It was probably six months or more before we ever spoke.”
“That doesn’t make him incapable of murder,” Ben said. “Most of the murderers I’ve defended over the years were the quiet type.”
“Yea, but Turtle is more the scared type,” she said. “I’m talking the man doesn’t even drive because he’s afraid to get behind the wheel. I gave him a ride a couple of times and he sat there looking down at the floorboard because it was the only way he could be relaxed. If you could call it relaxed.”
“Did you say you gave him a ride?”
“Yea.”
“Where did you take him?” Ben asked.
“Home,” Raven said. Understanding flashed in her eyes. “I know where he lives.”
“Can you tell me?” Ben asked.
“I don’t know the address,” she shook her head. “But I can take you.”
Ben retrieved the photos from the table and followed Raven out of the library to the parking lot. They debated the idea of Ben following the young woman but decided it would be easier for her to ride with him. They drove in silence, broken only by Raven’s soft voice giving advanced warnings of turns. After the final turn, she sat up and began examining the homes they passed.
“It’s the next one,” she said. “Up on the left.”
Ben pulled to the curb and rolled to a stop across the street from the house. He took a small notepad from his shirt pocket and jotted down the address. “You’re sure about this?”
“That’s the one,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said. “I may need you to give a statement.”
“If it’ll help Turtle,” she said.
“It may,” Ben said. He put away the notebook and drove back toward the library where they had left the young woman’s car. He had never seen the house she showed him. He did, however, recognize the address from a police report he read a few days earlier. It belonged to Sarah Tuttle.
Chapter 71
(The Fire Safe)
Philip arrived at Station House No. 7 just as one of the trucks was leaving, lights whirling and siren blaring. He pulled to the side and waited for the truck to pass. Positive no other vehicles were following, he turned into the parking lot next to the station and parked in a space reserved for visitors. No. 7 was the largest station house in the city and housed the offices of the top brass in the department. It was where Fire Inspector Frank Garcia kept his office.
Frank had been a fire inspector for as long as Phi
lip could remember and he had been a fireman for twenty years before taking his current position. He was respected by every man in the department for his knowledge and ability. His personal skills, on the other hand, were held in question by anyone who met him. Most referred to him as being a hard, angry man. Others just called him a jackass behind his back. Philip was no exception. He did not like the inspector who had worked two crime scenes connected to cases Philip was investigating.
He checked in with the receptionist who offered to take him to Frank’s office. Philip waved her off informing her he knew where it was. She smiled faintly and watched him retreat down the main hall leading to the offices in the building. The rooms where the firemen spent their time while not on call were on the opposite end of the building.
Philip glanced through doorways as he made his way through the building. There weren’t any men or women sitting behind the desks he saw. The building seemed almost deserted. The few people he passed were unfamiliar to him. One man walked by with a briefcase clutched tightly in one hand. Philip noted the man’s tense expression, but did not slow. He found a gathering of employees in what appeared to be a meeting room. Philip passed the room and rounded the corner leading to Frank’s office.
Philip entered Frank’s office finding a woman in a dark suit sitting at the fire inspector’s desk. She sat at an angle facing away from the door and did not see Philip enter. He slowed automatically seeing her there. As if sensing his presence, she turned, and stood.
“Frank, I have . . .” she started. She made eye contact with Philip. “Who are you?”
“Where’s Frank?” Philip asked, ignoring her question, his eyes locked on hers.
“Not here,” she said. “I asked who you were.”
“Yes, you did,” Philip said. He could not look away from her. “You have any idea how long Garcia’s going to be?”
“I might,” she said. “You have business with him?”
“As a matter of fact I do,” he said. “And you?”
“I have some things to discuss,” she said sitting back in the chair. She leaned back and crossed her legs. Philip’s finally broke his eyes away only to have them drift down to her legs. “You too?”
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