by Jeff Carson
The howling of the wind grew louder as he stepped nearer the precipice.
Reaching the wall, he leaned forward and shone the flashlight downward. Moths flitted through his beam, riding on a steady wind that climbed up the cliff.
Craning his hand out, he pointed the beam down and failed to see the shore below. He remembered seeing this cliff from the boats on the lake, and knew the drop was straight down and higher than the house was tall, which made the drop at least thirty feet in his estimation.
Upon closer examination, he saw a dock jutting out into the water with a bobbing fishing boat moored to it, which looked like a miniature bath toy from this height.
With a start that raised his pulse, he sensed someone behind him and twisted around. Sweeping the flashlight back and forth, he saw nothing but the vacant rear lawn of the house.
“Shit,” he said.
His history with cliffs was clearly playing with his mind.
Another look at his cell phone confirmed that there was still no reception. The screen showed 9:09 p.m., and he was now longing for home. Sarah had said this morning that she would come to stay at his house again tonight, and he had the sudden itch to get the heck off this lake and back down to Rocky Points.
He looked down at Kimber Grey’s home, still lit brightly but obscured somewhat by the trees from his angle, and then he headed back across the lawn.
In the corner of his eye he thought he saw movement towards the house. He jabbed the flashlight beam toward the spot, and could have sworn he saw the corner of a drape shift in one of the windows.
“Hello? Anyone in there?”
His heart pounded a steady clip in his ears.
He took a deep breath and marched toward the back of the house, flashlight beam locked on the spot, but the fabric in the window remained unmoved.
“I’m with the Sheriff’s Department! Mr. Heeter?”
He let his eyes wander across the other windows, thinking that if the person inside suspected they’d been spotted they might go look from another vantage.
“Hello? Sluice County Sheriff! Mr. Heeter? I’m here to talk to you!”
Wolf flicked the beam to the next window, careful to aim it in the small crack between the two drapes.
Nothing.
He stood stock-still, quietly mouth breathing.
There was no movement or sound.
He flicked off the flashlight and stood silent for three full minutes, listening to the pulsing whoosh of fish-scented air cresting the cliff behind him. Between gusts he heard crickets chirping in the surrounding woods and nothing else.
If there was someone inside, they were determined to stonewall him, and he had no business making them do otherwise. Defeated by either the person inside or his own imagination, he walked around the house and back up to his awaiting SUV.
He got in and started the engine. Flicking on his headlights revealed drapes still drawn and a door still closed.
Wondering if his imagination was running wild, he reversed out and started forward. Then he slammed on the brakes, because the geode rock he’d placed back on the front porch wasn’t there.
With his pulse skyrocketing, he shut off the engine and jumped out. Keeping his hand on his pistol, he pulled his flashlight and pointed it forward, carefully walking to the front porch again.
Inside the long grass near the wood deck entrance, violet crystals reflected his flashlight beam back at him.
He bent down and picked up the geode, studying the ground around it. Numerous blades of grass were flattened and bent. Someone moving toward his SUV? Or were they his own footsteps from earlier? He swept the beam back and forth and decided, no. He’d gone to the left, to the side of the house. These depressions led to the road. And besides, he wasn’t going mad. He’d put the rock down before leaving.
He followed the trail of disturbances to the gravel drive. The earlier rains made it easy to spot a few rocks and pebbles kicked out of place. He also spotted a single footprint, though only a partial, so he was unable to gauge its size.
He shone the light into the forest and listened, feeling ridiculously exposed.
“Is anyone there?” he asked, not expecting an answer and not receiving one.
He turned full circle, pulled his pistol and shone the light through each of his windows into his vehicle.
Heart still walloping, he got inside and drove back down the hill, crawling at under ten miles per hour and keeping a close eye on the forest. The trees were too dense to see anything, however, and he would have to stay curious for the time being. He wasn’t about to go traipsing through the woods after an unknown person who could or could not have been armed.
At the base of the hill he looked left at the T-Junction. His dash clock said 9:15. He sighed and took a left back towards Kimber Grey’s.
When he went down the road and pulled in front of her house, he was surprised to see her squinting against his headlights, standing halfway up her porch steps as if expecting his return. He made a wide loop and pulled up with his driver’s-side window down.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded once with an expressionless gaze.
“I was just up at your neighbor’s, and thought I saw someone up there. I think there was definitely someone up there. They went off into the woods.”
She lifted her chin and looked into the trees.
He waited for her to say something, but she remained silent.
“You … get any alarms on your motion sensors?”
“If I do, I have a pistol and a rifle. Don’t worry about me, Sheriff.”
He studied her calm expression and then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.” He shifted into drive. “Well … be careful.”
As he drove away up the steep incline, he studied his rearview mirror, and saw Kimber Grey keep a motionless vigil on her steps until she disappeared out of sight behind the trees.
Who was this woman?
Kimber Grey was a woman who’d survived for twenty-two years on her own, he reminded himself, and she’d survive another night with or without him. He hoped.
The dash clock read 9:20.
He flicked on his high beams and kept his speed just south of unsafe through the woods, thoroughly ready to get off this lake, back to the Chautauqua Valley, and into his warm bed, preferably coiled with Sarah’s warm body.
When he finally got to the County 74 junction, his phone still had no reception.
The dash clock read 9:31.
Damn it. As he drove along the northern edge of the lake east, he knew now was the best time to stop at the marina bar to ask questions. Its parking lot was packed and it looked hopping judging by the people milling on the deck. The crowd meant it would be a bad time get answers, but tomorrow morning—Sunday morning—would be worse.
They would have a landline at the bar, the same one that had transmitted the mystery call to Kimber’s father all those years ago, and he could call Sarah from there. Hopefully she was still at his house.
He pressed the gas, taking the gravel turns with a little more slide.
Chapter 20
Patterson ignored the hand caressing the inside of her knee under the table and answered the question. “I went to the University of Colorado. In Boulder.”
“Oh, you’re kidding! I went to grad school in Boulder.” Scott Reed’s father smiled. “That’s where I got my Master’s in Aerospace Engineering. Scott threatened to go there back in the day, but as you know he ended up at Metro State.”
Scott’s caress abruptly stopped. “And my father hasn’t let me hear the end of it since.”
His father shrugged and took a sip of his wine. “Nothing’s wrong with Metro, son. It’s not CU, but … nothing’s wrong with Metro.” His tone said otherwise.
Patterson and Scott sat across the table from his parents at the Red Ruby Café, which was a jeans and T-shirt kind of place off Main with some of the best American cuisine that money could buy.
Scott had chosen the venue, but his father
had chosen the seating arrangements, making sure, quote, “I have a view of the televisions.”
“So, how’s work going with you, Scott? The, uh, snow cat running well?” his father asked, his eyes rising to the TV screens again.
Scott’s breath looked to be quickening, and his face was turning red behind the water glass pressed against his lips.
Patterson figured it was her turn to reach over and place a hand on his leg, so she did.
Scott looked into her eyes and his face relaxed.
“You two are so good together,” his mother said, beaming at them.
Patterson smiled. “Yeah. We are.”
The waiter came over, providing a welcome distraction. “Here are your appetizers.”
“The wings here are the best in Colorado,” Patterson said, feeling her face go red as she remembered she’d already said as much when they’d ordered the food. Damn, she was nervous, and Scott’s father wasn’t helping the situation one bit. The man seemed to feed and grow stronger on discomfort, and every word out of his pompous mouth made sure there was plenty of discomfort to feed his cruel spirit. It was amazing that Scott was related to this man at all.
If it had been her father across the table, she’d have stood up and shook a fist in his face right now, told him to be nice or go home. Underhanded, passive-aggressive behavior wasn’t tolerated in her family. Her and her three brothers had grown up using far less subtle tactics to communicate. In fact, she’d once thrown a beer in her brother’s face at a restaurant much like this one.
Smiling to herself at the sudden memory, she picked at her food.
When the awkward silence became too much to bear, she cleared her throat. “You know, Scott has written a novel and he’s working on a second.”
“Oh my goodness.” His mother set her beer down. “Are you serious?”
Scott gave Patterson a rueful glance and nodded. “Yeah. I am … I have.”
“Oh really?” his father said. “What’s it about?”
Scott wiped his fingers with a napkin. “It’s a mystery about a man who’s an avid outdoorsman. He comes across a murder victim in the woods and …”
Scott let his sentence die, because his father set down his drink and straightened, looking past them as if he’d just seen something terrible.
“God damn it! Another strike out. They paid way too much for that asshole. I’m sorry, son. What’s it about?”
Scott picked up a chicken wing. “Forget it.”
“No, I want to know. Have you found a publisher yet?”
Scott ignored him.
“John,” his mother said in a whisper.
“What? I’m asking about his book.”
Scott threw his napkin on the table and scooted his chair back. “We’re going to take off. It was good seeing you, Mom.”
Patterson looked up in shock at Scott as he left, then across the table. His mother was slack-jawed and his father was concentrating on a hot wing with indifference.
“Oh no, Scott,” his mother said. “John, tell him not to go.”
Scott was already gone, swerving his way around tables in the bar and heading to the door.
Patterson wiped her hands and stood up. “Ummm, I guess we’re going.”
“It was nice to meet you,” Scott’s father said with a quick smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
His mother’s lower lip quivered and her eyes welled up. “I’m sorry.”
Patterson had no response for that, so she scooped up her rain parka and purse from the back of the chair and nodded. “It was nice to meet you.” She stepped quickly through tables toward the front door. “Asshole,” she said under her breath.
Scott was outside the front windows waiting with his back turned.
Making the final push to the door, she stopped dead in her tracks when she realized she’d seen and caught eye-contact with Sarah Muller, Wolf’s ex-wife.
Sarah was one of those women that always demanded a second look. She was stunning, with electric-blue eyes, thick true-blonde hair, and a figure that made men stop and stare every time. But that wasn’t what had halted her. It had been the large man next to Sarah stroking her leg under the table, an action clearly visible to Patterson since the bar table was so tall and Patterson was so short.
Wasn’t she dating Wolf again? she thought.
Sarah’s eyes widened with recognition and her leg whipped to the side, and then the man’s hand grabbed air under the table. The man followed Sarah’s eyes to her.
Sarah looked like a frightened animal, but the man was cool and confident.
Patterson’s blood was already boiling with the botched dinner and the father from hell, and before she could think about it she was right next to them, thrusting out her hand.
“Hi Sarah,” she said.
Sarah reached out a timid claw and gripped her fingers.
Patterson shot her glare at the other man, thrusting her hand toward him. “And you are?”
He smiled and swallowed her grip with his. He squeezed with increasing pressure and Patterson met every foot-pound of force.
“I’m Carter.”
“Carter who? Don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
He let go and his smile vanished. “Carter Willis. I didn’t get your name.”
He was a good-looking man, but if he got up from his chair, Patterson was sure there would have been slime on it. He was dressed impeccably, polished platinum jewelry on his wrists peeking out beneath a crisp expensive shirt and blazer. A politician or important businessman, if Patterson had to guess. Perhaps too muscular for something as simple as that, though. The man was dangerous-looking, she decided.
“Your name?” he persisted.
Patterson ignored him and eyed Sarah, who was stirring her drink with a plastic straw.
“See you later.” She turned without waiting for a response from Sarah and marched out the door.
“Who was that guy with Sarah?” Scott said in greeting as she got outside.
It was cold on the sidewalk, a steady pin-pricking drizzle blowing in from the north, so she burrowed against Scott and wrapped an arm around him.
“I don’t know. Some asshole.” They turned their backs to the blast of weather and walked to her car.
She looked up at Scott and her heart broke for him. His eyes were vacant, his face expressionless and sagging, his walk slow.
“I want to go back to my place,” she said, determined she was going to make this man feel good the rest of the night.
He nodded.
She burrowed deeper against him as they walked, shaking the image of Carter Willis’s groping hands out of her mind.
Chapter 21
Bass pumped out of the brightly lit Tackle Box Bar and Grill.
Wolf walked across the parking lot and a couple of young men stared at him from a darkened nook near the trees, clearly hiding something in their hands behind their backs.
Wolf sniffed the air. “Marijuana is legal now. As long as you’re not driving, I don’t care.” He continued past them and down a wooden plank entryway, which hovered a few feet above the shimmering water.
Boats creaked on small waves generated by the cold, crisp wind that had replaced the rain and clouds.
The door wrenched open before Wolf could reach for it, and loud music and a couple dressed in weathered denim poured out. Walking arm in arm with unlit cigarettes dangling from their mouths, the couple stopped short. The man stepped to the side and held the door for Wolf.
“Sheriff,” the man said.
“Thank you.” Wolf stepped into the humid room. It smelled of fried bar food and beer, stale cigarette smoke, and yet more marijuana. The jukebox in the corner played an eighties hair-metal song and two women who were probably roadies back then danced in front of it while their boyfriends played pool.
Hair, leather, and chains were the overriding theme of the twenty-plus patrons inside the bar.
He walked to the counter and a younger man with a ponytail and h
emp necklace greeted him with a raised chin. “Sheriff?”
“Hello. I’m looking for someone named Maureen McKenzie. Worked here twenty-two years ago. Do you know her?”
The man nodded. “Yeah. She owns the place. She’s in back.” He thumbed towards a doorway behind him.
Wolf nodded and then reached down to pat his pocket when his phone began vibrating. It was going nuts.
He pulled it out and looked at it, seeing that he’d been granted a tiny sliver of cell reception, and now two voice messages and a text message were coming in.
Wolf looked at the text message. It was from Rachette.
Call me immediately. Found Parker Grey!
Wolf’s pulse jumped. Looking at the voicemails and seeing they were both from Rachette, he skipped listening to them and called instead.
As the phone purred in his ear, he turned and studied the inside of the bar. A few people averted their eyes. At the sight of his badge and gun, the mood had shifted to somber impatience. People wanted to get back to using the F-word loudly, drinking their fourth or fifth or tenth beer before they got back in their cars and drove on the dirt roads to their houses.
“Hello, I’m Maureen,” a husky voice came from behind him.
“Hey!” Rachette’s voice exploded in his ear. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you!”
Wolf turned around and held up a finger to the heavy-set red-headed woman. She frowned, shook her head, and walked away.
“What’s going on?” Wolf asked.
“We found Parker Grey. I’m on my way up to you right now. Where are you? I thought there wasn’t any cell reception at her house.”
“You found him? Where is he?”
Rachette’s voice broke up.
Wolf walked away from the bar and retreated to a quiet corner without speakers. “Where is Parker Grey?”
“I didn’t catch that. Where are you?”
