He tried to recall faces, to remember if he’d ever seen any of those guys before, but the only thing he was pretty sure about was that they were not Manceford County cops, as had been the case with the older deputy who’d come calling at his house. The truth was that he still didn’t know anything about his attackers. It might easily have been one cop with some buddies, or just a leg-breaking squad for hire. There’d been no badges flashed or anyone yelling “Police officers. Freeze!” at him. So if they were all cops, then this thing was a whole lot bigger than Manceford County.
35
Cam cleaned frick up and removed the Hollywood spiked collar, making sure she hadn’t been injured in the melee. Then he’d put both dogs out back to patrol the yard. He’d had to use some steel wool to get the Suburban’s paint smears off the left front bumper. His cleanup wouldn’t withstand examination by a good forensics team, but a casual look would show no damage or marks. The rear bumper showed nothing except a slight deformation in the standoff bar, and he couldn’t do anything about that. He’d cleaned the. 45 and reloaded it, and he’d washed his hands in paint thinner and then orange sand soap to get powder residues off. Then he carefully vacuumed the pickup truck to get the dog hair out of it. Thinking defense, he slipped a big three-ball trailer hitch, angled high, into the receiver at the back of the truck, and then called the sheriff.
As usual, the sheriff was in uniform when he arrived at Cam’s house. Cam handed him a cup of coffee and then they sat down at the kitchen table while Cam told him what had happened earlier. The sheriff nodded at the end of Cam’s recitation.
“We had a disturbance call at that warehouse area just after twenty-two-thirty,” he said. “By the time the responding units got there, both vehicles involved were gone. The gate guard verified the part about their snatching him up at the gate.”
“He wasn’t hurt?”
“No. Shook up, scared, but not hurt. They pushed him down in the backseat and told him to close his eyes and be still. That’s what he did. Said the two guys on the left side got swatted pretty hard when you hit the doors. He was fixing to climb out over the guy in back when you shot the glass out of the windshield. Thought that was a good time to get back down and stay down. They stopped about a block away from the scene and rolled him out on the street and then took off.”
“Minus the doors on the right side.”
“Presumably, although they were not found at the scene.”
“Anyone see me?”
“Not really. All the truckers could talk about was that dog.”
“She evens the odds right out,” Cam said.
The sheriff grinned then. He loved dogs, especially police dogs. “I don’t understand how they got past the two responding units,” he said. “Suburban missing its doors, no windshield. And our people were on-scene within five minutes.”
“If they were the two I saw, they were faster than that,” Cam said. “But look: I was summoned there via a text pager. How did that happen?”
The sheriff sipped some coffee. “I don’t know. I got my pagers from the evidence locker. Throwaways. Got four of them.” He looked over at Cam. “I still have all four.”
“So someone in evidence control must have run his mouth,” Cam said.
“People talk about me and what I’m doing all the time,” the sheriff said. “But you’re sure these weren’t Manceford County people?”
“They weren’t Manceford County cops, I know that,” Cam said. “But, I don’t know that they were cops at all.”
The sheriff nodded. “There’s the rub. You didn’t take the first warning, now we get this shit. Guys with baseball bats and guns? People who’ve obviously operated as a team before?”
“I’ve got more,” Cam said. He then told him about catching up with Marlor, their little talk on the front porch, and what Marlor had said he was going to do. The sheriff listened in silence, an expression of growing disbelief on his face.
“And you just let him do it?”
“He told me he was going to kill himself, but not when or how.”
“Why didn’t you just arrest him? Bring him in? Get him a shrink or something?”
“Per your instructions, Sheriff, I can’t arrest anybody. Besides, I didn’t necessarily disagree with his plans.”
The sheriff gave him an exasperated look but then nodded slowly. “And he admitted to doing the two shitheads but denied the bombing?”
“And I believed him. If I were on the stand right now, I could say that it was a dying man’s testimony. He had no reason to lie.”
“And he thought cops were the ones who gave him the lead to those guys?”
“Yes, sir, but he wouldn’t reveal where the e-mail came from. Said he didn’t know and didn’t care.” He told the sheriff about Marlor’s comment regarding the cat dancers.
“What in the hell is that all about?”
“I have no idea, but I think that’s my next step. Get out of Dodge for a while and go see what I can find. You’ll have to decide what to do about Marlor.”
The sheriff sighed, finished his coffee, and got up to put the cup in the sink. “Man,” he said.
“I also told Jay-Kay Bawa, that computer consultant,” Cam said. “She may or may not feed back to the feds.”
The sheriff came back to the kitchen table and sat down. “They haven’t said a word since ATF took over the bombing investigation,” the sheriff said. “Not even the random evidentiary question.”
“If I go out to the western counties, shouldn’t I be back in full status?” Cam asked. “I could end up needing local backup.”
“If those guys were cops, and from out of the county, who could you trust out there?” the sheriff asked. “Plus, if I put you back in full status, everyone here would know as soon as the first little old lady in payroll said something.”
“Do the paperwork. Put it in your safe. Give me back my creds and my tin. If someone calls in, say the right thing. I’ve got my own weapons.”
The sheriff smiled. “Feeling naked, aren’t you?” he said. “Been a cop your whole working life. You let Marlor kill himself because you weren’t sure of what you were without the badge and the ID.”
“Maybe,” Cam said somewhat defensively. “But I also thought that what he said he was going to do made sense. It seemed like… justice.”
The sheriff shook his head. “Justice is what the system metes out,” he said. “Marlor admitted to kidnap and murder. It’s not up to us to say how that plays out. It’s up to us to bring him in and let him face trial.” He frowned. “In a way, your letting him do that is not a whole lot different from the cop-if it was a cop-who told Marlor where those mopes were.”
Cam felt his face flushing. “Well then, Sheriff,” he said, “if that’s how you feel, good luck with your problems-all of them. I think I’ll go take that world cruise now.”
The sheriff waved his hand. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot,” he said. “You know that technically, legally, I’m right. Morally, personally, well… I don’t know what I would have done with that poor bastard under the same circumstances. I know what I’d preach about it. But…”
Cam waited. The sheriff was well and truly stuck. Normally, he would have been running to the feds or at least to the SBI with this problem. The feds weren’t an option, not as long as they were keeping him at arm’s length until they were satisfied that the Manceford County Sheriff’s Office was squeaky-clean. But in the meantime, he was probably the only asset the sheriff could put in play, especially outside the county.
“All right,” the sheriff said. “You hit the road for points west. I’ll get Surry County to retrieve Marlor’s body. See what you can find out about the dancing cats or whatever it was Marlor was babbling about. Call me at home, tell me where you land, I’ll FedEx your stuff. I’ll do the paperwork myself tomorrow morning.”
Cam nodded. “And I’ll use Jay-Kay Bawa as a conduit if I need information from the various LE databases,” he said. He hesitated. “I
still think you should go see McLain, tell him what you’re doing.”
“He won’t return my calls,” the sheriff said.
“Call him again. Say you want a meet-on your turf-or he can watch the evening news and get your message that way. The feds hate that.”
The sheriff gave him an appraising look. “Damn, Lieutenant, you’re getting slippery in your old age. Tell me this: You still trust Kenny Cox?”
Cam was surprised, but he nodded. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure he isn’t part of this. He’s too smart to get into vigilante work.”
“Ninety-nine?”
Cam thought about it. He couldn’t quite define what his reservation was. “Kenny screwed up, got burned by Judge Bellamy, hated her, and made no bones about it. Everybody knows that. Plus, he thought that electric chair was positively wonderful. Plus…”
“Yeah?”
“Kenny’s one of those cops who live for the edge. He likes being a cop and he likes chasing the bad guys. It’s his whole life. That’s why I don’t think he’d jeopardize any of that by doing vigilante stuff.”
“Unless he was getting a little jaded, maybe?”
Cam shrugged. “I don’t know. We all get bored occasionally. Kenny could get that way. I just don’t believe he’d act on it. Probably why he spends all his off-duty time chasing women. He can get as much or as little excitement as he wants.”
“Okay, because I think I need an inside man as well as an outside man. I want to fold him into what you’re doing. I’ll also talk to McLain. If he has anything on any of my people, he’ll have to show me.”
“You want me to go through Kenny?”
“No, I want you to come to me, exclusively. But if I need to move assets in your direction, I’ll use Kenny. In the meantime, write me up a statement on what happened tonight. Mail it to me at my home address. You taking those dogs with you?”
“Absolutely,” Cam said.
“Great idea,” the sheriff said. “No question about whose side they’re on.”
36
Finding White Eye Mitchell turned out to be easy. Cam drove out to Pineville, county seat for Carrigan County, and rented a cabin. He used his personal credit card to pay for it, so Jaspreet and her tigers would know where he was. He took one day just to settle in and tried some trout fishing, which gave the sheriff time to send his credentials and badge. The following day, he checked in with the Carrigan County Sheriff’s Office and told them he was looking for Mitchell. The man was known locally as one of the backcountry guides who took clients out into the Smokies. One sergeant said that Mitchell was in his late sixties, maybe older, possibly part Indian, part who knew what, but not someone they considered a problem. They’d even used him a couple of times to help search for missing hikers. That said, no one in the Sheriff’s Office could tell him how or where to find the man. He supposedly lived up on the edge of the park, but beyond that, no data. They suggested a tour of the roadside gin mills in Carrigan and perhaps Cherokee County and in the towns up on the margins of the Indian reservation. “Just ask around,” the sergeant recommended. “Eventually, the word will get to him, and more than likely he’ll find you.”
Cam piled the shepherds into the truck late that afternoon and dutifully made said rounds, bought more barely touched beers than he had in a long while, and struck out across the board. Only one bartender said he recognized the name, and none of the locals had seen Mitchell for a long time, especially now that fall had arrived and with it the end of the heavy tourist season. Cam told everyone he talked to that he was staying in the Blue Valley cabins off Route 16, that there was no trouble, and that he only wanted to talk to Mitchell. He got back to the cabin just before 11:00 P.M., brought in some firewood from the front porch for the woodstove, let the dogs run around for ten minutes, brought them back in, and hit the sack. The other cabins appeared to be empty, which was no surprise, given the season and the altitude.
The next morning, he was awakened by a low growl from Frack, who was standing in front of the cabin’s single wooden door, hackles up. Frick was trying to see out the front windows, but the outside shutters were still pulled closed. Cam checked the time and saw that it was just after 7:00 A.M. He got out of bed and pulled on jeans, boots, and a shirt over his long johns. Then he found the Peacemaker, checked the loads, and quietly ordered both dogs to sit. He opened the front door and found a swarthy, gray-bearded man sitting in one of the wooden rockers with his back to Cam. He was wearing one of those black mountain-man slouch hats Cam had seen for sale in some of the saloons the previous night, a sheepskin-collared denim jacket, jeans, gloves, and intricately tooled boots with, the tops of which were covered in deerskin. The man looked sideways at Cam, revealing why they called him “White Eye.” His pupils were a disturbing silver color, reminding Cam of animated ball bearings.
“You lookin’ to talk to me?” the man asked in a gravely voice.
“You Mitchell?” Cam asked.
The man nodded once. “Let me gather up these dogs,” Cam said.
“Ain’t no need,” Mitchell said. “Dogs don’t bother me none. And I ain’t carryin’, so you can put that hog leg away, you want to.”
Cam hefted the. 45 and then stuffed it into his belt. “Come on in, then. We’ll get us some coffee.”
The man got up and walked through the door, following Cam. Both dogs stared at him, and he stopped and put out both hands, palms down, in their direction. Frick came over first and sniffed cautiously, then Frack. They seemed very interested in the scent of his jacket. Mitchell sank down into a squat and deliberately bared the back of his neck to Frack, who sniffed again for a good fifteen seconds, established his dominance, and then walked away. Frick came closer and did the same thing, running her nose over the back of his head and hair before she, too, walked away and sat down next to Frack in a corner of the room. Cam could see that they were both watching Mitchell, but there was no longer any tension in their pose. The mountain man had, for the moment anyway, completely disarmed them.
Cam got the makings for coffee going and invited Mitchell to take a seat at the table in the single room, which doubled as a living room and eating area. Mitchell took off his hat and coat and put them on the floor. He was whip-thin and his gray-white hair was shiny with oil and pulled into a tight ponytail. His clothes smelled of wood smoke, but they were clean. Cam got out two mugs and sat down at the table. The gun in his belt pinched his belly, but he ignored it. He rubbed his own growing beard, wondering if it would ever get as expansive as Mitchell’s. It was certainly going to be as gray.
“I’m a lieutenant in the Manceford County Sheriff’s Office,” he said, trying not to stare at those ball bearing-like eyes. Mitchell nodded. His hands were down on the table and bore signs of the outdoors.
“I need to know what a cat dancer is,” Cam said.
Mitchell regarded him for a moment. “Why you askin’ me?” he said.
“A man told me I should ask you,” Cam replied. “A man called James Marlor. You know him?”
Cam saw no flicker of recognition in Mitchell’s eyes at the mention of Marlor’s name. “Nope,” Mitchell said calmly.
“Well, he’s dead,” Cam said. “Killed himself. Lost his wife and daughter in a holdup that went bad back in Manceford County.”
Mitchell blinked, looked away for an instant, but didn’t say anything.
“Before he killed himself, he caught up with the two holdup men who had killed his family. Caught up with them, took them prisoner, and then put them in a homemade electric chair and fried them.”
Mitchell’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “Sounds right,” he said.
“Well, officially, we cops take a dim view of citizens doing that kind of shit.”
“Officially,” Mitchell said.
“Yeah,” Cam agreed.
“What’s that all got to do with me?” Mitchell asked.
Cam hesitated. He didn’t know this man, or what his relationship had been to James Marlor, if any.
Or to rogue cops who were not from Manceford County. The coffee smelled ready. He got up and poured them both a cup. He decided to keep the Bellamy bombing out of it. “I caught up with Marlor. Talked to him before he died.”
“You mean before he killed hisself,” Mitchell interjected.
“Right. Just before he did that. There are certain aspects of the case we couldn’t figure out. He cleared up some of them, but he then suggested I come out here and ask you about cat dancers. He named you specifically. Made no sense to me, but here I am.”
“You watch him do it?” Mitchell asked. He was holding his coffee mug close under his chin. When he sipped the coffee, Cam saw that his teeth were in terrible shape, yellow and even black in some places. He looked right at Cam, who couldn’t help but stare. Those silvery white eyes were strangely compelling.
Cam hesitated, then told Mitchell what had happened.
“You a cop,” Mitchell said. “Ain’t you supposed to stop that kind of thing?”
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