by Andy Straka
B0045JL4M0 EBOK
Straka, Andy
* * *
COLD
QUARRY
A Frank Pavlicek Mystery
ANDY
STRAKA
ISBN 978-09841317-6-1
Copyright © Andy Straka, 2010
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.
NOTE:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents cither are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design e-book edition: Mayapriya Long, Bookwrights
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For Bernice Lucille Presnell Straka,
and Orville and Blanche Presnell,
who never forgot the mountain South.
Praise for the Novels of Andy Straka
Cold Quarry
“Frank Pavlicek is a breath of fresh air in the field of private eye fiction—witty, sharp, and flesh-and-blood real. It’s a delight to see him back in action in Andy Straka’s compelling third installment in the the series, Cold Quarry.”
—Jeffery Deaver, New York Times bestselling author of The Vanished Man and The Stone Monkey
“I couldn’t put it down! From a single act of murder—a falconer lying dead in the lonely woods of West Virginia—to the highest stakes imaginable in a post-9/11 world, Andy Straka delivers more pure suspense in this book than anything else I’ve read this year. A book this good, and this original, helps remind me why I started reading mysteries in the first place.”
—Steve Hamilton, Edgar Award–winning author of North of Nowhere and Blood Is the Sky
“Cold Quarry is like the falcons in flight Andy Straka writes so knowledgeably about: soaring, observing, feinting—and then slicing through the sky for the kill. … An intriguing series featuring the likable Frank Pavlicek and the ancient sport of falconry.”
—C. J. Box, author of Savage Run
“Using falconry as his starting point, Andy Straka has created an intriguing series set in the hills of western Virginia. Cold Quarry is his third novel about Frank Pavlicek and he just keeps getting better.”
—Margaret Maron, Edgar Award–winning author of Slow Dollar
A Killing Sky
“A quickly paced and satisfying novel.”
—Newport News Daily Press
“Andy Straka has learned something about writing from falconry. His storytelling is as sharp and strong as talons, and once he’s got you in his grip, he never lets go. A Killing Sky is sure to confirm his status as one of the rising stars of the mystery genre.”
—Rick Riordan, Edgar Award-winning author of Cold Springs
“Andy Straka soars to wonderful heights with his latest Pavlicek tale.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Expert plotting, three-dimensional characters, and a plausible story make A Killing Sky soar. … Straka wisely uses Frank’s interest in falconry as a bonus to his solid private detective novel, providing us a good history and knowledge of the sport. By studying birds of prey, Frank has a more astute knowledge of the way humans prey on each other, which Straka expertly weaves into this enjoyable mystery.”
—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
A Witness Above
Nominated for the Agatha, Anthony,
and Shamus Awards
“A gripping combination of sleuthing and falconry lore.”
—Albemarle magazine
“Aside from good writing, an interesting plot, and the unusual aspect of falconry, it’s nice to see someone come along with a new P.I. who is not drowning in wisecracks. Andy Straka has managed to avoid the more obvious clichés of the genre while continuing to pay homage to the conventions of it. This was a goal that many of today’s P.I. writers have failed to achieve. Straka should be proud.”
—Robert J. Randisi, Founder, The Private Eye Writers of America
“An exciting investigative tale [with] an entertaining story line.… The plot never slows.… Frank [Pavlicek] is a strong character. … Andy Straka has introduced a winning new sleuth whose love of falconry adds uniqueness rarely seen in private investigator novels.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Straka paints a detailed picture of the modem South, which has still not completely escaped its turbulent past. The descriptions are apt, the dialogue is fast-paced, and the plot will keep the reader guessing to the end”
—I Love a Mystery
“The writing is smart and interesting, the dialogue and settings are good … comes [close] to capturing the Robert Parker Spenser formula. The P.I. is a literary man with a hands-off love interest and a semimysterious sidekick.”
—The Mystery Reader
“Quirky character, romantic hobby, twisty plot. … Straka writes a good novel. He sees and shows the detail. His writing style is clean, at times lyrical. … Chances are [he] has a winner.”
—C-Ville Weekly
Contents
Acknowlegements
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks are especially due to Genny Ostertag, my editor at NAL, whose suggestions, as always, have helped turn this into a much better book. And to my agent, Sheree Bykofsky, for her continued guidance and support.
Author Deborah Prum, former NSIS Agent Bob Brackett, and falconer Lee Chichester kindly offered their expert input on the manuscript as well. I’d also like to thank Ed Clark of the Wildlife Center of Virginia for his ideas; Officer Mike Pridemore and the Charleston, West Virginia Police Department for letting me ride along on patrol; Joan McClanahan, Nitro city recorder, and Bryan Casto of the Nitro Fire Department for pointing me in the right direction and supplying information about the history of the town; and Doug Gellman of Blue Ridge Mountain Sports for providing information about handheld GPS systems.
Last but not least, my family deserves the greatest thanks for putting up with the long hours and preoccupation of a novelist husband and father. Writing may be a solitary pursuit, b
ut it is never performed in a vacuum. Their love and support make it all worthwhile.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Charleston area residents will observe that I have taken a few minor liberties with West Virginia geography, and with a few locations, in particular through the creation of the fictional KBCX television station and Balthazar Hotel. As always, all names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Prologue
There is a light that sharpens the hunt during darkest winter, a delicate radiance belonging as much to the earth as to the sky. After dawn, it clings to the trees like some corporeal messenger. Remember the stark reality of cold possibilities, it says, black memory, the frozen echoes of hollowed-out veins beneath the ground.
The old man remembered.
“Ee-lo-y-lo-y-lo,” he cried. Neither the earth nor the sky offered an answer; Elo was gone.
The man faced the gathering of a gray emptiness above, straining for a glimpse of his falcon, but saw nothing: no dot above the horizon swelling with approaching speed; no twirling air dance to materialize on the wind. There’d been no response to his whistle either. His gyrperegrine must have jumped the ridge, caught sight of a mallard maybe on the state-land pond on the far side of the slope. The faint telemetry signal from his receiver appeared to be coming from there.
Other sounds seem to come to him on the wind. Footfalls? Motors? Or just a distant highway? For a few moments, the old man had the distinct impression he was being watched. Something to do with Elo? Something to do with the illness that had affected his bird not so long ago?
No, he decided, pushing the thought from his mind. This time, at least, he was dealing with nothing more than a falcon off on a lark.
He pictured the duck again, high wheeling as it took to the air over the pond. In his mind’s eye, he watched Elo overtake the slower-flying bird. The falcon, falling in its lightning stoop, would have jackhammered the bigger bird with its talons, ending the mallard’s life instantly, then would have broken away to recover from the force of the strike, before swooping down again to gather in its prey from the air.
The falconer was sorry he might have missed the show. Not sorry to have missed the killing part, because he’d seen enough of it in the past, but sorry to have missed the culmination of the bird’s graceful exit from his stoop. Sorry his sixty-seven-year-old hip, the one he’d injured in Korea, had begun to bother him again. Sorry because he understood whenever you allowed a captive falcon to fly free, if the wrong circumstance developed, the bird’s bond to you could break without warning. It had happened to him before.
“C’mon, Chester, ya idiot. Let’s get it goin’,” he said out loud to himself.
He willed himself uphill through a stand of burdocks that stuck to his clothing, fighting against the weariness, ignoring the troublesome doubt that the prostate cancer he had already beaten once might be attempting to book a return engagement.
There was snow today along the ridgelines running back from the river. Not much, just a dusting. Damn hard drought. The pond beyond the slope might be dried up or frozen, in which case there would be no ducks there, only dry yellow reeds stuck like frozen hair to its icy surface.
This was not the terrain for a longwing hunter. They’d started a half mile away where the forest had been cleared and opened to an adjoining acreage of pasture. Here, the trees closed in, cutting his bird’s line of sight.
With a grunt he crested the hill and stepped up into a cold slap of wind. He took in the scene on the other side.
More forest. A sharp-topped rock of a hill rising into the distance above a slushy brown puddle, a pitiful excuse for a pond. He put his hand to his brow and scanned the sky and the tree line once more, looking for Elo, but all he saw were a pair of mourning doves, dropping to alight in a distant bracken.
B-deep, b-de-e-ep.
Good news. The signal from the telemetry receiver sounded loud and clear. Wherever Elo had gotten himself to it must be on this side of the hill. The old man tweaked the dial on the unit then held the yagi aloft like a personal television antenna to see if he could get an exact bearing.
There, straight into the trees toward the peak. With a gloved hand he wedged the receiver beneath his arm, pulled his whistle to his mouth, and blew a haunting note.
The wind gusted as if in response, but still no sign of his bird.
“Ee-lo-y-lo-y-lo. …” he bellowed at the top of his voice and waited.
Nothing.
He sat still, scanning the trees and listening. Then he noticed a flash of silver white, boulders and fallen spruce beyond a bank. The stream, or at least what remained of it. He stumbled down the rocky slope, stopping for a moment to break off a length of fallen limb to use as a walking stick. The air was thick with the smell of pine and moss.
As he approached, he saw that the streambed here was wide, but the water itself flowed only in a narrow channel, meandering among the stones. At the rivulet’s edge there was soft sand, mud, and foam. An accumulation of encrusted debris from the last heavy rains of some time ago swelled up against the banks. Downstream showed more evidence of drought, small pools of standing water, chalk-yellow stone. He stepped gingerly along the streamside, clambering over another fallen tree trunk, and almost stepped on the first of the tracks.
It clearly belonged to his falcon, he saw, crooked in the talon and toes spread wide apart. Except something was wrong. The bird appeared to be moving in an irregular zigzag, dragging its own weight in an unnatural fashion.
The signal was stronger than ever. The stream ahead curved around a stand of high grass, and when he stepped beyond this obstacle, the old man noticed something on the ground beside the water. As through a lens coming into focus, he recognized the white underbelly, black bandit hooding.
It was Elo, lying on his side.
He rushed to his downed falcon. The peregrine was still alive, trying to move his legs, but appeared incapacitated, his whole body shuddering and a wing flopping haphazardly. The old man tried to get the bird’s attention, but Elo’s ancient eyes appeared fixated on the sky. Had his raptor been attacked by another predator? He bent over and examined the body and wings for signs of injury, perhaps a broken bone or a bleeding wound, but found nothing. No, these were some of the same symptoms Elo had exhibited before, only worse. Much worse.
“Bastards. … We better get you straight to Doc Winston again, young soul.”
He unbuttoned his hunting vest, lifted Elo and cradled him in the crook of his arm as he stood to go. A large branch breaking in the woods nearby startled him.
“Afraid it’s a little too late for that,” a familiar voice said. “Took you long enough, old man.”
The falconer turned. “Wha—what’s going on?”
“What can I say? You were right. … Sorry we have to do it this way.”
1
The ski-masked man balanced the business end of the twelve-gauge Mossberg Persuader against my temple with a shaky hand. Of equal concern, he appeared to lack the hard-won experience that might discourage him from pulling the trigger.
“You sure you want to do this?” I asked. “Seems like you’re overreacting.”
“Shut up, dick-wad,” he said.
Did I also happen to mention his limited vocabulary? That and the dark green swath of cloth covering his head and face had almost convinced me of the futility of attempting to reason further with the guy. With his free hand, he was digging in my coat pocket for my truck keys, but that was the least of my worries.
“Let’s just think about this now—”
“I said shut the fuck up!”
A few snowflakes twirled like bits of ash among the branches overhead. This peaceful winter mountain scene, I thought for one dark moment, must have made for a quiet place to die. But steam flaring from the nose and mouth holes in the
assailant’s mask snapped me back to reality. Though he juggled the keys once he had hold of them, the dark barrel didn’t move from my face. I was as concerned he might shoot me by accident as I was about his shooting me on purpose.
Ironic, because it was a supposed accident that had brought me up here to this spot in the first place.
Chester Carew had been a friend and fellow falconer, a lifetime West Virginian from Nitro, an old factory town of about seven thousand souls just downriver from Charleston. Three days before, someone had put a round from a high-powered rifle straight between Chester’s shoulder blades not far from where we were standing. The cops, I’d been told, were calling it a hunting accident, an errant shot from some yet-to-be-identified drunk or stoned poacher. I thought they were probably right—neither I nor my friend Jake Toronto, Chester’s falconry sponsor, had ever been able to talk the hard-headed old cuss into wearing blaze orange in the woods during deer season when he should have known better.
But just to satisfy my own curiosity, and since Chester’s funeral wasn’t due to begin for another three hours, I’d gotten directions from Toronto, who’d otherwise been circumspect about the whole business so far, and had taken a ride up here to this patch of ridge and fallen scrub oak to have a look around.
“This isn’t even your land,” I said, hoping to distract the gunman. Funny how a piece of weaponry like his could alter the equation between two people.
“Never said it was.”
The acreage was posted and technically now belonged to Carew’s estate until it passed through all the vagaries of probate to the old man’s widow. The police had left vehicle tracks the size of tractor treads and a shredded trail of crime scene tape to lead me toward where Carew’s body had been found. Mr. Ski Mask had popped into view just as soon as I, unarmed and not expecting him, topped a small knoll near the actual scene. At first, I thought he might be one of a group of teens out playing paint ball or something. Until I laid eyes on the shotgun he leveled in my direction, that is. He was obviously not too keen about me being here.
