by Jeff Carson
MacLean turned toward the door and stopped. “Oh yeah. And I’ve decided to add a few more pictures to the mix. I’m not going to show them to you now, but I can describe them if you like?” He raised his eyebrows, and when Wolf kept silent he continued. “They’re of you and that dead serial murderer woman. A few pictures of you and her coming into your house, and then a few of you two coming out the next day. All within the time period of your investigation. Good stuff.”
“I’m out.”
MacLean stood straight. “What?”
“I’m out. I’m officially out of the race, as soon as you fulfill your end of the bargain. I’m out.”
MacLean’s laugh boomed in the dark space, and after making a show of forming his hat he wiped his eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t care. Any sympathy I had for you or your deputies is long gone, and I think the voters of our new county need to know what kind of fraud you really are.” Pulling his thumb and forefinger down the corners of his silvery mustache, he turned and walked to the front door.
“I’ll be releasing what I have to Renee Moore,” Wolf said, “from Channel 8, down in Denver. The FBI will also be interested in what I have to say.”
MacLean stopped and turned. “What are you blabbering about? What do they have you on, there? Percocet? Hydrocodone?”
Wolf lifted a finger and pointed it toward a manila envelope laid conspicuously on the otherwise bare coffee table. “That’s yours.”
MacLean walked over and looked at it.
“That’s right.” Wolf smiled. “I have an envelope for you now.”
“What is it?”
“Pick it up.”
MacLean picked it up and pried it open. With a frown he pulled out the single sheet of paper. “What the hell is this?”
“My demands. I admit my handwriting is less than stellar, but I’ve been barely conscious for almost four weeks now, and when I’m awake I’m usually pretty buzzed on pain pills and scotch. And since I can’t get up to use my printer, I had to write it.”
MacLean shook his head with impatience and reached into the envelope. Burying his hand to the elbow, he pulled out a USB memory stick.
“My Deputy Baine, you’ll want to keep a good eye on that guy by the way, tracked down your friend Ms. Gail Olson. He brought her into the station and had a little chat with her, and you’ll see he’s a persuasive guy with his technical and legal jargon, and the way he uses cuss words. He had her spinning, and then shitting her pants, and then spilling everything, about how she was coerced by you to first seduce Deputy Rachette, then to carry out a drug transfer with him in the pre-arranged place and time, where we all know your photographer was in waiting. It’s all there on that USB in your hand, the interrogation video, her confession that she took your payment, everything.”
There was a thwack as MacLean dropped the USB into the envelope. His eyebrows slid down and one side of his mouth turned up. “Bullshit. It’ll be her word against mine.”
“And expunging her record? Did you go through the official court procedures for that? Or was it you and your pal, Lieutenant Bentman in the Ashland PD records department, who made that deal happen off the books?”
MacLean’s eyes darted back and forth.
Wolf lifted his eyebrows. “You and Bentman will be looking at hard jail time for that little move. Gail Olson put us onto that track. She told us about that little carrot you hung on the stick in front of her in addition to the two thousand dollar payment. Again, it’s all on the video.”
MacLean blinked. “Touché.” He looked at the crumpled piece of notebook paper and frowned. “And what’s this chicken-scratch say? Because I can, in fact, not read a single word of it.”
“That’s just saying that once you’re sworn in as Sheriff you’ll hire deputies Rachette, Patterson, Wilson, Yates, and Baine into the department at their current rank or higher. I’ll be adding names to that list as I see fit in the coming two weeks, and the employment contracts will be looked over by my associate Margaret Hitchens. When I get the word that all has been done, I’ll continue to hold myself back from releasing this information.”
MacLean shoved the paper into the envelope and dropped it to his side. With a puff of air from his lips he looked at Wolf. “You’ll continue to hold back from releasing this information?”
Wolf nodded. “And I’ve already told Deputy Rachette you had a change of heart about the photographs, and you’ll have to tell him the same as soon as possible. He doesn’t know anything about you setting him up, and I don’t want him to know. That would only cripple your and his relationship going forward, and cripple his ability to do a good job for the department. But, as far as I’m concerned, you owe him. You owe him big time. So you’d better tell him something that makes him feel off the hook for good, like he never even made a mistake. I don’t care how you do it, just do it.
“Deputy Baine, however, can’t un-learn what he’s figured out about you. But he’s agreed to keep silent about our counter-investigation into your activity, of course, I’m sure it will cost you in the terms of his employment.” Wolf raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, but you reap what you sow there.”
MacLean’s chest heaved as he wiped his nose. “And what about you?”
“Me?” Wolf’s eyes glossed over. “I have to take some time to mend things.”
“Well, no shit. I mean after that, what do you want from me? You clearly don’t want Sheriff, so what do you want? Undersheriff? Money? What the hell?”
Wolf dragged his eyes back to MacLean. “For now, I’d like you to go into my kitchen, go into the cabinet to the left of the refrigerator, and pour me a scotch.”
MacLean stood still, his eyes hardening.
He locked eyes with MacLean. “And then I’ll let you know.”
MacLean bit his upper lip, and with a shake of his head he marched into the kitchen. A few seconds later he slammed the bottle next to Wolf and stormed to the front door.
The hinges shrieked, and a shaft of light burned into Wolf’s retinas, and then the door slammed shut.
As the sound of tires crackled into the distance outside, Wolf reached over and picked up his phone. There were nine missed calls from Rachette, Margaret, Patterson, Burton and his mother.
He ignored them and pushed the voicemail button for the hundredth time.
“Hi, David. It’s me.” Sarah’s voice was timid, full of tension. “I need to talk to you. Call me back. Okay?”
Need to talk to you.
Wolf closed his eyes and lowered the phone. He cursed the political game he’d been roped into over the last few months, because it was so clear to him now—Sarah was dead because of that game. If he hadn’t been so pissed off about Chama’s visit that night, Wolf would have answered this very phone call. He would have helped her. She would be alive.
Wolf reached over and picked up the bottle of Glenlivet 18 year he’d gotten from Burton on his fortieth birthday. A twinge of pain arced up his back as he twisted the cork, but the paper seal gave way and the stopper slid up with a squeak and then popped.
He poured a few fingers in the water glass and scrolled to Jack’s phone number. Wolf swallowed and stared at it, once again pulling forth the fuzzy memory.
He knew it was a memory now, but for weeks Wolf had thought it had been a bad dream. One of many of late. But now he was certain. Through the haze of pain killers and agony of healing wounds, Wolf had only recently realized Jack had not been once to see him. And he wasn’t answering his phone calls, either. And then the truth had settled on him like a pile of rocks.
It hadn’t been a bad dream. It was a memory.
After one of Wolf’s hip surgeries in the county hospital, Wolf had cracked his eyes and Jack had been there waiting for him. He had gotten up from his cloth covered chair, stood next to Wolf’s bed, leaned over so close Wolf could smell his son’s breath, and Jack had said those words.
“It’s your fault she’s dead.”
And then his son had left.
Wo
lf’s breath caught at the vague recollection, and then he gritted his teeth and pressed Jack’s phone number.
After a single ring it went to voicemail.
“This is Jack, you know what to do.” The crack in Jack’s voice on his voicemail greeting had the simultaneous tone of confidence and self-consciousness.
Wolf inhaled and shuffled the right words in his brain, and then the beep sounded in his ear.
“Hey, Jack.” His voice wavered. “It’s dad.”
After a few breaths, he screwed his eyes shut, then opened them, staring at the ending credits of The Rifleman as they flashed on the TV screen. He pushed the call end button and dropped the phone on the bed.
“One of these days you’ll answer,” Wolf mumbled to himself. “I’m not giving up.”
With a numb motion he took a sip of the warm liquid, feeling the burn slide down his throat. Sloshing a dollop onto the cart table as he replaced it, his body sank into the hospital bed as if he was pulling five g’s in a fighter jet.
As his eyelids drooped, he saw Sarah’s beautiful blues, and her wide smile. Then he saw Jack next to her with a big grin of his own. And then their image swirled and vanished.
Wolf would find justice for Sarah and his shattered family.
Through this whole ordeal, at least Margaret Hitchens had been right about one thing.
“I never give up,” Wolf said, closing his eyes.
THE END.
Sign up for Jeff Carson’s new release newsletter and be the first to find out about new David Wolf novels (which are always discounted for the first 48 hours). Just sign up at the following link:
http://www.jeffcarson.co/p/newsletter.html
As a thank you for signing up, you’ll receive a complimentary copy of Gut Decision: A David Wolf Story about Wolf’s harrowing first few weeks in the department as a rookie deputy.
If you enjoyed Cold Lake I would appreciate it if you would help others enjoy this book, too. Here’s how…
Lend it. Lending is enabled for this book, so please feel free to share this book with a friend. They just need a Kindle, or a free Kindle reading app for their other smart device.
Recommend it. Please help other readers find this book by recommending it to friends, readers’ groups, and discussion boards.
Review it. Please tell others why you liked this book by reviewing it either here at this Amazon link or at Goodreads. It doesn’t have to be much. Amazon requires a minimum of only 20 words. Your thoughts on the book go a long way with helping others know if they’ll like the book, and a long way helping my efforts as a self-published author. If you do leave a review, please let me know with an email to [email protected] so I can thank you personally. Otherwise, thank you very much for your support.
David Wolf Series In Order
Gut Decision (A David Wolf Short Story) – Sign up for the new release newsletter at http://www.jeffcarson.co/p/newsletter.html and receive a complimentary copy.
Foreign Deceit (Wolf #1)
The Silversmith (Wolf #2)
Alive and Killing (Wolf #3)
Deadly Conditions (Wolf #4)
Cold Lake (Wolf #5)
Smoked Out (Wolf #6)
Sign up for the newsletter and keep up to date about new books (which are always discounted for the first 48 hours) and receive a complimentary copy of Gut Decision by clicking here -- jeffcarson.co/p/newsletter.html.
Read on for an excerpt of Smoked Out (David Wolf Book 6) …
Chapter 1
Two thumps ripped Wolf out of his sleep.
Or so he thought. The silence in his ranch house living room was absolute save the ticking clock. The walls flickered in the darkened space as muzzle blasts puffed out of an actor’s revolver on the muted television.
With a slow breath he tried to blank out the throbbing pain in his limbs. Every time he woke the pain seemed to have multiplied anew from the previous conscious moment; of course being drugged up on Percocet and a smattering of other pain pills, adding doses of scotch to the cocktail of medication, made it hard to remember previous conscious moments.
This must be what it’s like to have Alzheimer’s. How many times had he repeated that thought in the last few days? What day was it?
He craned his neck as crunching footsteps approached his front door outside and then there was a knock that echoed in his skull.
He cracked his lips and peeled his tongue from the top of his mouth. “Come in.”
There was no response.
“Come in!” Pain shot through his pelvis.
The knob turned and the doorway burst with light that assaulted his eyeballs.
“Mr. Wolf?”
“Yeah.”
“My name is Special Agent Cumberland with the FBI.”
Two men were silhouetted in his open doorway holding square ID wallets in his direction. He laid back and closed his eyes, staring at their after-image burned into his retinas. “I’ll have to take your word for that. Come in.”
“This is the Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the Denver Field Office Steven Frye. We’re here to ask you a few questions.”
Wolf reached over and grabbed the handle of the oversized plastic cup of water and sucked from the straw. He was vaguely surprised it was so full, cold, and rattling with ice. He drew a blank when trying to remember who had filled the bottle for him. It could have been any number of people who came in and out of his house as of late. Probably the big nurse.
“Open those shades,” one of the agents said.
His living room brightened and Wolf tried to straighten in his reclined hospital bed, sending another bolt of pain from his pelvis up his spine. He broke into a sweat and pulled off his sheet, and the relatively cool air caressed his skin through the damp gown.
Fumbling at his sides for the bed controls, he found the plastic box next to his leg cast and pushed the incline button.
As the bed whirred one of the agents stepped in front of the television. He was tall and wide, and filled out his suit with muscle underneath. Holding mirrored sunglasses in one hand, his badge wallet hung in his other.
“Let me see those badges and IDs again.”
The big agent looked at the other and then they both handed over their wallets.
Wolf studied their authenticity. The badges were real, and the ID cards looked real enough. Cumberland was the tall guy in front of him, and the ASAC Frye was the other guy to his left that he’d yet to look at in real life.
Both men had military cuts in their pictures and no-nonsense blank facial expressions. They wore white dress shirts and black ties cinched on muscular necks.
When Wolf looked up, the two men were identical in dress and presentation to their IDs. But from each other they were different in every way. Cumberland was tall and imposing, while Frye was short and wiry. It looked like Cumberland had to endure a grueling physical routine to hold his shape, and Frye looked like he had to eat to hold his.
Wolf handed the wallets back. “What questions?”
Cumberland tilted his chin up. “We need to ask you about the night Sarah Muller and Carter Willis were murdered. Straighten up a few things.”
“Straighten up a few things? What’s there to straighten up?”
Cumberland clenched his fists and spread his hands while gazing around Wolf’s living room.
It was a reflexive move for the big man, Wolf thought, like the agent was trying to contain anger.
Agent Frye cleared his throat. “What were you doing the night of Sarah Muller’s and Carter Willis’s deaths?”
Wolf took a deep breath. “I was out having a drink.”
“With a woman who was a suspect in your murder investigation up at Cold Lake, correct?” Frye asked.
“At the time she was a person of interest.”
“Until what time were you two having a drink?”
Wolf shrugged. “I don’t know. Nine-thirty? Ten?”
“You’re not too sure about this because?”
“I l
eft under extenuating circumstances.”
Frye blew air from his mouth. “And I guess what you mean by that is that you were in a fight with a man named Carter Willis, knocked unconscious, and dragged out of there by this woman of interest in your murder investigation?”
“Something like that.”
Cumberland squeezed his hands into fists again.
“Did you hear that that woman of interest, Miss Kimber Grey, a.k.a. Rachel Grey, has just committed suicide at County Hospital?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Ah. Well she did. So there goes your alibi right there.”
“Actually, you don’t have your facts straight. I don’t think I was having drinks with Rachel that night. I think it was her twin sister, Hannah Kipling, whom I pulled off a cliff and killed. So, actually, my alibi was long gone before Rachel offed herself.”
Frye smiled without teeth. “So you have no alibi for your whereabouts for the rest of that night. We talked to the bartender at the Pony Tavern. You were dragged out of there at closer to nine p.m., so you had the whole night ahead of you to recover from your fight and take care of whatever you needed to take care of.”
Wolf ignored the bait.
“You’ve got motive like nobody else,” Frye continued.
“What’s this guy here for? To stand and flex? You mind moving away from the TV there, Hulk?”
Cumberland’s face darkened, and then he turned and poked the off button.
The flat screen squeaked as it rocked back and forth on its stand.
Frye smiled again, this time displaying his teeth, which seemed to glow. Clearly a fan of whitening agents. “We’ve been checking on your recent movements, specifically before the murders of your ex-wife and Carter Willis. Turns out you and Carter had a little run-in at the Antler Lodge, the restaurant on top of the Rocky Points Ski Resort?”
“Is that a question?”
