by Jeff Carson
Van Wyke flinched at a bright flash to his right, and a slapping noise behind him at almost the same instant. Just as his mind registered the sharp crack noise that had come from the same spot, something hit Van Wyke in the face, and he watched in stunned confusion as the illuminated screen of a cell phone twirled off his jawbone to the ground in front of him. When he heard a loud bonk against the car behind him, he twisted just in time to see Darnell’s head bounce off the rear door as he collapsed into a heap.
“Darnell? Darn—”
An angry zip of air next to his cheek froze him in place, and a spark on the dirt followed by a loud whining ricochet sent him diving to the ground for cover. A split second later he felt a stinging punch in his side, then his shoulder. And then his chest exploded in unimaginable pain.
He opened his eyes, and his vision swirled like he was a teenager who’d drunk too much wine. Blinking, he saw a figure out of a science-fiction movie coming at him from the trees. A dark apparition with a protruding single lens for a face, an eerie red glow within.
No. It was a person with a silenced rifle and a night-vision scope on their head, he told himself. He blinked again and tried to raise his gun, but to his surprise there was no feeling in his arms. He swallowed and gagged on coppery blood. Gasping, he grunted, trying to ask who was there.
Another punch of pain in his chest, and he lay still this time. He knew the life was ebbing from his body, and it was a sensation like falling from a great height, only there was a sickening dread. An unimaginable sense of regret.
He saw two legs step near and then the person rolled Darnell over. Digging in his jacket. Pulling out his wallet. The legs stepped toward him, and then he felt himself shift this way and that, never seeing who was doing it, because his vision had gone out.
The dread lifted.
The regret disappeared, along with everything else.
Chapter 26
Running on fumes from five hours sleep the night before, Wolf took a sip of coffee and a bite of his chocolate-glazed donut, hoping the two would react inside his body to give him some energy. With heavy eyelids, he looked up at the clock on his office wall—8 a.m.
He looked at his cell phone for the third time in as many minutes, and there was still no missed call or text message from Sarah. It was … what was it? It was disconcerting, he thought. She hadn’t answered his late call last night, nor responded this morning. He wanted to think she was sleeping in, but she never did that.
Had he stood her up? Had she been there at his house, waiting for him all night and then left after he didn’t show up? If that was the case, then why not leave a note for him?
There was a double tap on his office door.
“Come in.”
Patterson poked her head in. “Still no answer at Heeter’s place at Cold Lake, or his place in Ashland.”
“All right.” He stood up and his knee cracked, sounding like a dry stick snapping in two.
“Sir,” Patterson said. She scratched the back of her neck, avoiding eye contact with him. “I need to talk to you. About last night.”
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out with a little too much enthusiasm. It was not Sarah. It was Margaret Hitchens.
“It’s your aunt,” Wolf said. “I can talk to her later.”
“No, no … please. Take it. We’ll talk later. It’s nothing.”
He narrowed his eyes, sensing it was clearly not nothing. The phone wriggled again and stopped. “Tell me. What is it?”
She rolled her eyes. “I … last night I was out with Sarah … I mean, I was out with Scott. And his parents.”
He crossed his arms.
“Anyways, long story short, it sucked, but that’s not the point. On the way out, I saw Sarah.” She closed her eyes. “Shit, I shouldn’t be shoving my nose in other people’s business.”
“You saw Sarah.” Wolf waited for the small jolt in his body to dissipate. “So what?”
“She was with a guy. Some big dude with fancy clothes on. Name was Carter Willis. I went up and introduced myself.”
Wolf nodded, controlling his breath. “Yeah?”
“And … I don’t know. Aren’t you two dating?”
He stared at her, considering the implications of the question. Were Sarah and Carter acting more than friendly with one another?
“Not really,” he said.
“Oh. I thought you guys were. I guess … I don’t know. Never mind.” Patterson shook her head and walked out his door.
“Hey,” Wolf called.
She turned.
“Thanks.”
“Of course.”
Who was this guy? One thing he knew: If Carter Willis was a gay former colleague of hers, then Wolf was a billionaire.
He sighed and looked at his phone again. Against his better judgment he called back Margaret Hitchens.
“Hey, how’s it going, Sheriff?”
“Hi, Margaret. Fine. What’s happening?”
“Are you around?”
Wolf leaned to the side and peeked through the open blinds of his window, then ducked back when he saw Margaret’s face pressed against the window of her real-estate storefront office across the street.
“No.” Wolf pulled his chair over and sat down out of sight.
“Oh, I thought you were there.”
“What’s going on?”
“Oh, I wish you were there. I have great news.” There was a rattling in the background, and then the sound of a door slamming shut.
“Well I’m not, so what is it?”
“Geez, you wake up on the wrong side? Never mind, let me help your mood. Because of your ineptitude with a lasso, you’ve helped your campaign.” She was breathing hard.
“Oh. Good.”
“Oh good? That’s all you have to say?” There was the sound of a door opening and closing in the background, and hurried footsteps.
Wolf took the phone away from his ear and hung up.
Margaret burst into his office with phone in hand.
“Good morning, Margaret. I’m glad Tammy is just letting you in whenever you want now.”
She stopped and put her hands on her hips. “She knows how to treat your campaign manager. Maybe you could learn a thing or two. You know, the employees in this building are counting on us, too. No one wants to work for that asshole, MacLean.”
“Really? I hadn’t thought of that. Sit.”
“No thanks. Move.” She came around the desk and grabbed his computer mouse. “Have you seen this?”
Wolf marveled at this sixty-year-old woman’s vivacious hunger for winning; and watching her in action, he was suddenly more grateful than ever that he’d employed Margaret Hitchens for his campaign manager.
Employed wasn’t the right word, Wolf thought. He hadn’t employed Margaret Hitchens, because he wasn’t paying her a dime, and he had had nothing to do with her working for him in the first place. It was more like she’d stepped forward and recruited him. She had demanded she run his campaign, and had vowed—with a look in her eye that had made Wolf swallow—that he would win no matter what.
She clicked the mouse and stood back. “There.”
Wolf leaned forward and watched a shaky video of him failing at lassoing a calf, and then failing again. The video cut, and then he was failing again.
“Yeah. I’ve seen this first hand.” Wolf snatched up his empty coffee cup and walked to his door.
“You’re missing the best part.”
Wolf paused and looked back.
A deep male voice bellowed over the speakers. “David Wolf for sheriff. He never gives up in a fight. Never fails to finish what he’s started. Never …”
Wolf shook his head and walked into the hallway, poured himself a cup of coffee, and walked back into his office.
Margaret was standing now, arms folded with a disappointed look. “David, I turned this into a commercial, put it up on Channel 17, and then up on the local for Ashland, and now all the news channels are showing
it this morning. Look at the number of views on this YouTube video. That’s like two views per capita of Byron and Sluice counties combined!
“It’s perfect. MacLean comes barging in with his photographers, and ends up making you the star.” She shook her head in astonishment. “Oh, the irony. I wish I could have seen his face when that commercial came on. I bet he laughed. Thought we were kicking ourselves. And I bet he’s shitting his pants now. It’s perfect footage, showing exactly the type of man you are. And right before the debate.”
Wolf took a sip, feeling a fish wriggle in his gut at the thought of speaking in front of a large, sweaty audience with cameras pointed at his face, being broadcast to thousands of homes.
“Are you done? I kind of have a lot of work to do today, with eight dead bodies showing up at the lake and all.”
She frowned. “You have eight bodies, but you have a debate that can make or break your future tomorrow night. Don’t you forget that.”
“Yeah.” He set his cup on the desk. “How could I forget?”
She softened her look and walked to him, placing her wiry hands on his shoulders.
“I know you’re nervous. But the more you know that packet I gave you front and back, the more relaxed you’re going to be. The more confident in front of the cameras you’ll be.”
Wolf tightened his lips into a line and nodded.
“Pop quiz. What are you going to say about the pension issue?” she asked.
Wolf eased past her to his seat and pulled himself on the wheels to his desk. “That I like pensions.”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay. Okay. I’ll let you get to work. Just study that damn packet.” She looked around the room. “Where is it?”
Wolf pulled his desk drawer open, took out the packet of papers, showed it to her, and dropped it back in.
She pointed at him. “Study it, David. Two days, today and tomorrow. You have two days to study.”
He nodded. “Yep.”
“So are you ready for the good news now?” She clenched her fists and her face shook with a wide smile.
“There’s more?” Wolf looked at his watch and stood. “Look, I’ve got a situation meeting in five minutes.”
“Senator Chama wants to talk to you. Tonight.”
“I thought he was all for MacLean.”
“He was. Until this.” She pointed at the computer. “I’m telling you, this video is spreading like wildfire through beetle-kill trees. He called me this morning after they aired it on Denver News.”
“And he wants to meet me tonight? On a Sunday night?”
She shrugged with a chipper face that made Wolf want to bend over the trashcan.
His phone rang and he looked at her with raised eyebrows.
“Yeah. All right. I’m outta here. Chama’s coming here tonight at six p.m. So be here, or I’ll murder you and throw you in the lake.”
Wolf picked up the phone. “Sheriff Wolf … Hi, Mr. Frehauf. I was hoping you could meet me today to talk for a bit…”
Margaret waited with folded arms until Wolf finished. He hung up and walked past her. “I’ve got a meeting, Margaret. I’ll see you later.”
“Six o’clock.” She followed him down the hall. “Don’t forget!”
Chapter 27
Wolf stood at the front of the situation room with a pen in hand, waiting for his five on-duty deputies to take their seats around the large rectangular table.
As they sat, slits of morning sun came in through the blinds and lit up swirls of steam rising from their coffees. Along with caffeine, each deputy had a stapled packet of paper with them—the photocopied report Burton and Wolf’s father had compiled on the case twenty-two summers ago.
“All right,” Wolf said. “Let’s go over what we’ve got.”
“We’ve got a sick bastard killing people,” Baine said with a humorless chuckle.
“Let’s talk about the father.” Wolf wrote Parker Grey’s name on the board.
“He’s dead,” Rachette said.
“I still want to talk about him.”
“He fits the bill as the killer,” Wilson said. “We’ve got Katherine Grey’s testimony on video that he came back with blood on his clothing. And then,” Wilson pointed at Wolf with a pen, “your father and Burton tracked down that psychiatrist in Grand Junction, and confirmed his diagnosis. Schizophrenic, with psychotic tendencies. The doctor said he told Parker Grey that he could legally put him in the loony bin, because of the murdered-squirrel story he admitted to. The doctor said Parker Grey was potentially a danger to himself or others. Prescribed him anti-psychotics.”
“Where’s that psychiatrist now?” Wolf asked.
“Dead.” Wilson said. “Natural causes.”
“Yeah, there’s just that one big problem,” Rachette said. “We found the father’s body with the other victims. So that means it wasn’t him.”
“Just because we found the father’s body doesn’t mean he’s exonerated,” Patterson said.
“Agreed,” Lorber’s voice barked out of the laptop in the center of the table. “Thanks to the cold water of the lake, it’s impossible to know when Parker Grey died exactly. He could have disappeared on the fifth of July, gone into hiding and gone on killing, and then he was killed himself.”
“By someone else, years down the road.” Patterson finished his thought.
“With a bullet to the head, mind you, not the same MO as the other kills. Maybe his kills were the decapitations, and someone killed him with the gun.” On the computer screen, Lorber bit a donut.
“And dumped him in the same place as the other victims?” Wilson’s face was skeptical.
Wolf scribbled on the pen board. “Timeline,” he said. “Let’s go over what we absolutely know, and when.”
Patterson raised her pen. “Nick Pollard goes missing twenty-two years ago.”
Wolf wrote that.
Rachette cleared his throat. “And we’ve got the phone call coming from the Pumapetrol gas station down the road the night of the fourth. Call went out at 9:39 p.m. according to the phone company records from twenty-two years ago. Burton and your father found Nick Pollard’s blood on the receiver of that phone. So I think that we can definitely say Nick Pollard died that night, sometime before 9:39 p.m.”
“Not necessarily,” Patterson said. “He went missing that night. His blood was put on the phone at 9:39. But died? He could have been wounded, and some girl was helping him. She gets his blood on her hand, calls Parker Grey from that payphone at the gas station ... and then Parker Grey comes and picks her up.”
The room went silent.
Baine scrunched his face. “Why?”
“I’m just saying. We don’t know what happened. All we know is, there’s Nick Pollard’s blood on the phone, and when the phone call went out.”
Wolf sipped his coffee and turned back to the board. “All right. We’ve got Nick Pollard: missing twenty-two years ago. Parker Grey: missing two days later, on the sixth of July. Katherine Grey: she bolts a day after that, on the seventh of July, supposedly goes back home to Tennessee, which no one has been able to confirm. James Trujillo’s body is in with the others—he went missing six years ago, last seen in Alamosa, Colorado. What else do we have on him?”
Baine held up a finger. “I talked to the Alamosa PD. James Trujillo’s grandmother reported him missing six years ago. She’s since deceased, and there are no other next of kin. They stopped looking for him before they started, because the grandmother was apparently on all sorts of medication, and they thought he just left on his own accord.”
Lorber’s voice croaked through the speakers. “But we now know he was stabbed fifteen times, slit from the stomach to the neck, decapitated, and then thrown into Cold Lake in a plastic bag.”
The room went silent.
“Thanks, Doc,” Rachette said. “Maybe you could sing it next time?”
“The point is,” Wolf said, “we know that whoever is responsible for these grisly killings has been doing i
t at least up until six years ago.” He turned to Wilson and then Rachette. “How we doing on those missing-persons database searches.”
Wilson held up a hand. “Real slow. I’ve got no other confirmed IDs.”
“None of the DNA samples are done,” Lorber said. “But I do want to say, the timeline of Nick Pollard’s death is looking to be a lot earlier than six years ago. The decomposition has been stalled, but his body is nowhere near as pristine as James Trujillo’s. And neither is Parker Grey’s. I’m going to start testing, using Trujillo’s body decomposition at six years, and I’ll be able to extrapolate when the others were killed give or take a few years. But nothing definitive.”
Wolf paced in front of the room. “Okay. Thanks, Doc. The fingerprints on the phone? We’ve triple-checked those, right?”
“Still no match in any database,” Patterson said.
“And,” Baine chimed in, “where the hell is Pollard’s truck? That thing just vanished off the face of the earth back then. It’s gotta be in the lake.”
Wilson shook his head. “They ran sonar around the entire perimeter of the lake back in the day. Never found anything.”
“Then they didn’t look deep enough,” Baine said.
“And how is someone going to dump a truck deeper into the lake?” Rachette scoffed. “You can only get it out so far, and they checked already.”
“I don’t know, jump it off one of those cliffs?”
“Pfft, those cliffs aren’t over the water. They’re over land.”
“So someone took the plates off, scrapped it, sold it, painted it, whatever.”
“Then I guess you have your answer,” Rachette said.
Baine sank back in his seat, glaring daggers at Rachette.
“Pollard’s yellow Toyota pickup truck.” Wolf wrote it. “Good question. And here’s another. What if Parker Grey was killed on the sixth? Where’s his truck?”
Wolf scribbled that question on the board.
Patterson cleared her throat. “Like Rachette said, they scoured the edges of that lake. It doesn’t look like Parker Grey’s truck or Nick Pollard’s pickup are in there. But we could get the sonar guys to do another lap.”
