by M. K. Coker
“That’s profiling,” Walrus said gruffly, cuffing him as he went by. A phone ringing made him stop. “If that’s Laura, tell her I’m on my way.”
Laura wouldn’t be calling her unless Walrus had turned off his cell—or lost it, which he’d been known to do. Karen snatched up the receiver. “Sheriff Mehaffey here.”
“Didn’t answer your cell.”
Larson. Frowning, Karen pulled the cell phone out of her pocket. “It’s dead. Sorry. It’s been a busy day.”
“Make it busier,” he told her. “Got a hit. Fingerprint.”
That would be on Mountain Man’s pocketknife and the putative murder weapon. Karen stuck her tongue in her cheek. “Name?”
“Connor.”
That threw her off for a second. But the name was common enough. “First?”
“Archibald. Hell of a tag.” He paused. “Mehaffey?”
No one used Archibald unless they wanted their nose bloodied. “He went by Chee, not Archibald,” she managed. That brought Walrus up short and Marek’s head around.
Larson’s tone flat-lined. “You knew him.”
She held her deputy’s shocked gaze. “Yes, I did. A long time ago.”
“Robbing the cradle?” Larson asked.
Like Marek, Chee Connor was four years her junior. Marek would have gone to school with him, in the same grade, up until high school. “No, nothing like that. What’ve you got on him?”
“Faxing now.”
Almost with his last word, the fax machine revved. That must be a record. She tilted her head at Marek, who got there one Blunnie step ahead of Walrus, and snatched it up. Then he stared at it as if it were written in Greek.
“Chee fell off the radar years back,” Karen told Larson.
“Any family?”
Karen rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “I’m on that. I’ll get back to you.”
For once, Karen hung up before he could. And she snatched the fax from Marek, while Walrus crowded her. Two Fingers, looking off balance, waited.
One felony arrest. Dealing opioids. Just like Kyle Early. The rest, a very long list, were misdemeanors. But they told of a life on the edge. Trespassing. Driving without a license. Failure to appear. Vagrancy. Lots of those. Mostly in California. Point to Akio Miles. It had become a crime to be homeless. Chee had done time in Nevada for his felony arrest. That had been a couple years back. Nothing since then.
Walrus looked stricken. “Geez. That’ll kill Laura. She’d always hoped...”
That he would come home again. Apparently, he had.
Two Fingers went to stand beside Walrus. Not touching. But there. “This is Mountain Man?”
“I hate to say it, but it makes sense.” Walrus’s mustache quivered until he gnawed on it. “Connor’s father was Laura’s dad’s first cousin. Eldest son of an eldest son. Never got over the family losing their lands to the county. Connor Creek, you know? Geez.” He sank heavily into his chair. “Chee spent a lot of time with Laura’s family, off and on, when his father was in the drunk tank. How do I tell her?”
“You don’t. I do.” Before he could protest, Karen picked up her landline and called her best friend—as a child, at least. Until she’d returned to Reunion from Sioux Falls a couple years ago, they’d only maintained the polite fiction of friendship. Of late, it’d been real again, and it had felt good. “Hi, Laura. It’s Karen.”
“Walter?” came the immediate and predictable reply.
“Fine. Physically. Laura... it’s about Archibald Connor.”
After a very long pause, she asked, “Chee? Is he... is he dead, then?”
Karen wished she could say yes, because that hurt, while sharp, would be quick and clean. “No, he’s living in Grove Park. Or was, he—”
“Mountain Man? He’s Mountain Man?” The alarm in her voice went five-bell. “I’ll be right there.” Before Karen could stop her, Laura hung up. “She’s coming.”
Walrus rubbed his bald pate. “Always was his defender. She’ll go for your throat.”
But when the other Twin Tower of Reunion—Karen’s high school basketball partner—arrived through punched doors and with a full head of steam, Laura Connor Russell flew straight for her husband. She topped him by a couple inches, but it was hard to say who hugged whom or who took and gave comfort most. Probably both. Karen felt sorry for them, but she was also envious of the relationship, the kind where nothing else mattered, appearances be damned.
Finally, Laura pushed away, dashing tears, and went for Karen’s throat. “You’re wrong. Chee can’t be Mountain Man. He’d never hurt anybody.” When she got silence from her audience, her shoulders slumped. “Okay, yes, he killed people. In combat. And that does something to guys. I know that. He’s got PTSD. The Army admitted that, at least, before they kicked him to the curb. But Walter tracked him for me, and he’s never been violent. When Chee was locked up in Nevada, I tried to contact him. But he wouldn’t answer my calls, my letters. And now...”
Karen decided that her friend was starting to absorb reality. “Tell me about him. I mean, all my memories are from when Chee was still a mop-haired kid, always trailing after us, wanting to be a part of whatever we were doing. We ran him off most of the time.”
Laura’s mouth twisted. “Remember we called him dirtbag, because he was always getting dirty? Or Peewee Chee because we looked down at him from our great height? Or Chee-bacca when he’d bawl if we left him eating our dust?”
Karen winced. So much for taking the high road with the wolves. “Kids are cruel.”
“Believe me, I’m well aware,” the elementary-school teacher said dryly. “When Chee came to live with us, he had no clue how to do so many things we just... knew. Mom really got on us, to help him, not mock him. He’d had it rough. Not violence. Just neglect after his mom died when he was eight. Dead poor, really. His father, Ham—short for Hamilton, I believe—could barely hold a hammer, much less his liquor, after she died. Chee lived with us when he was drying out. Months at a time. Ham died just before Chee went into the military at eighteen.” Laura gave Karen a tight smile. “Following your lead.”
Except he was enlisted, not an officer. Karen had been ROTC and a college grad. Bosnia had been her war—and while she’d been in the line of fire a few times, she’d never been in combat per se.
“Connor knew Ted?” Marek asked.
Laura bit her lip then nodded. “Chee was raised as a wild thing, practically, living in the trailer park but spending most of his time in the woods, ones that he felt were rightfully his own. That is, when he wasn’t living with us. He and Ted were tight. He often said he wished he were an Indian.”
Two Fingers said, “Funny how that works. You tried to make us all white with your boarding schools, your laws that we couldn’t do our sacred dances. Now you’re all trying to be Indian, claiming to be Cherokee princesses.”
That had been said lightly, in jest, but it backfired. Though Laura looked like she’d walked straight off the boat from Ireland, Karen knew that was only part of the story.
With an amusement that had been lacking in her green-as-Ireland eyes, Laura smiled at Two Fingers. “I actually do. Truly. Documented. Mixed-blood daughter of a Scotsman and Cherokee woman. No princess, though. Family ended up in Oklahoma after surviving the Trail of Tears, got their land taken by a swindler, and decided to hightail it up to Dakota Territory. A daughter of the family married the first Archibald Connor, a hunter and trapper in our fair woods. Their grandson lost the woods when the county took them back in the 1940s—by nefarious means, according to family legend. The documents say back taxes owed.”
“Same thing,” Walrus muttered.
“When did Chee start to go wrong?” Karen asked.
“Not for a good long time,” Walrus said. “Chee—or just Connor as he preferred by then, as he said Chee was just too cheesy—came to our wedding, all dressed in his Army finery. He’d passed boot camp with flying colors, and the girls swooned. I was half afraid Laura would decide to ki
ss her cousin, not me.”
“Oh, he was dashing, but really more like a little brother. A little too close even for us backwater Connors.” Laura patted her husband’s beefy arm. “I’d been worried that growing up as Chee had, with little structure, would put him at odds with his superiors. Instead, he was promoted. Lots of accolades. Then... I think it was his third deployment. Iraq? No, I think that was Afghanistan. He came back after that with a shoulder injury, and... well, he was on prescription meds. They were going to ship him off again, and he went a little crazy. Next thing I know, he’s out. Dishonorably discharged. That just about killed him. Three tours. Brutal, brutal years. And they trashed him like garbage.”
And Laura had called Karen to see if she could do anything, if she had any connections. She’d contacted a military defense lawyer who’d said, basically, that PTSD might grant Chee another hearing, but it would be costly, and he’d never had a case successfully appealed. That had been before public backlash had turned the tide and PTSD came into the lingo.
Leaning back against her husband, Laura swept a hand through her red hair. “I know you have to look at him. I get that. But what reason would Connor have to kill Bunting?”
That was a stumper. But Karen had at least an idea. “I think he may have been living a fantasy... of having a family. There was this woman and her boy, and—shit. Ted.”
“I beg your pardon?” her friend said in her best teacher-on-the-playground voice. Why did people say that when what they really meant was: you’d better beg my pardon for your language. Right now.
“Just a minute.” Hoping this brainstorm hit the jackpot, unlike the last, Karen rushed up the stairs, nearly taking out a late-leaving legal clerk. She rushed to the judge’s chambers, where she stopped herself at the door. Calm, collected, she knocked and was granted entrance.
Without preamble, she said, “We have Mountain Man. It’s Archibald Connor.”
“Ah. I see. A pity. I saw far too much of his father in my court. Do you need a warrant, perhaps?”
“No. I need to see the will.”
He raised his brows. “Because?”
“Connor. Was he the trustee for Bobby’s inheritance? Not Conway?”
The judge unlocked a drawer in his desk and pulled out the will. After a moment, he said, “Yes, I believe you are correct. Connor, at least. But the first name starts also with C and is quite short, so...”
“Chee. C-H-E-E.”
“Very good. Yes. ‘I do appoint and nominate Chee Connor to be trustee of said properties until said minor comes of age.’ The rest, I believe, is outlining various scenarios. I can only believe that this was meant as a draft, awaiting a better hand.”
But the hand he’d been dealt had come up death. At least he’d written the will beforehand.
The judge steepled his fingers. “Speaking of the said property, as the current trustee, perhaps future trustee, as well, you might like to know that I am reviewing all relevant applications for return to the trailer park.”
Thank God for Marsha Schaeffer. “Thank you, Judge.”
“You know very well whom to thank. I believe you had a hand in her plea. But as justice and charity align in this respect, I find myself inclined toward magnanimity.” Seeing Karen fidgeting, he inclined his head. “Go. Find your killer.”
Karen fled back downstairs, to be grilled. By all but Marek. And he was the one who said calmly, and correctly, “Chee Connor was named as trustee of the trailer park.”
“Right. Ted knew he was back. He would have asked Connor first before making the will. And that means Connor knew that there was a will, or supposed to be one, even if not yet written. What if Bunting approached him, used the will as leverage, to get a piece of that park?”
“That’s a motive,” Marek finished.
A heated argument looked to ensue, until the phone rang. Karen snatched it up, hoping it was Larson again, with more forensics. But it wasn’t.
“I’ve seen him. Mountain Man. In the park.”
Karen had to backtrack. The voice was familiar. Barely. “Mr. Biester?”
“Yes. Sorry. I... I just ran back so I could call. I think we can set a trap for him, if you want.”
She wanted.
CHAPTER 40
Hunched down near the top of the trail that led to the abandoned encampment, Karen cursed the rain gods. Silently. If the storm hadn’t prevented helicopter backup, they’d have Connor, and she wouldn’t be trying to squat in the woods because she’d be swept down into the creek along with the runoff if she sat down. The moon, playing tease, kept flirting with them, on and off.
Marek shifted beside her, even more uncomfortable, she guessed, because of his bad ankle. Biester, on the other hand, seemed to not even notice. Why had she agreed to this?
Because she wanted it done. Impatient. That had always been the tag on her. She liked to think of it as being decisive. Now? Just stupid. If Connor was back in the woods, he would likely still be there in the morning. Of course, the whole plan to snare him was based on the cover of night, which thankfully, came much earlier than it had in the dog days of summer.
“The whole thing about a snare,” Biester had told them as he outlined the strategy at his residence, “is that you place it where the animal will be—on their regular trail.”
And Biester had seen Mountain Man walking away from the earth berm, which was built so that the rain was funneled around it. A smart move, really: take residence in the place everyone thought you’d abandoned for the open road. Long gone, she’d assumed. Off to collect more misdemeanors... unless and until her BOLO hit the airwaves, the websites, and the fax machines across the country.
Just as Karen was about to scream mercy and call it a night, Biester cocked his head and raised a finger to his mouth—which she could barely see as the moon was veiled. She’d heard noises ever since they’d squatted in place, so she wasn’t sure what made this one any different.
Quietly, Biester fished into his jacket and pulled out his phone. She started to shake her head, worried it would make some sound to alert their prey. Then Biester took something else out of another pocket and, with a faint click, attached it to the phone and powered it up. The display of his phone showed them a grainy but surprisingly well-detailed picture of the muck. Cool. An IR attachment. They’d be able to see Connor even if the moon was behind clouds.
Karen as much felt as heard Marek’s quick intake of breath beside her. He nodded at the IR light—the low but distinct glow of red.
An evil eye.
Mary Johnson wasn’t mental. She’d seen a light that night. Biester’s IR light.
Karen went cold. Biester had been here. Not in Sioux Falls as he claimed. The click in Karen’s head was so loud, she was surprised Biester didn’t hear it. So he’d been here, likely taking video of the encampment as evidence, but... what did that mean? Why hide it, unless he was a killer? But why would he kill Bunting? Seeing her expression, Marek turned over one hand and mimed a hovering insect.
“Drone?” she mouthed.
He nodded then pointed at the soles of his boots.
Boots?
He mouthed, “Glass.”
And that did it. The evening before the murder, the drone had taken off from the park entrance, which was clear of any glass, metal, or plastic from a destroyed trail monitor. Yet by dawn the next morning, Walrus had picked it up in his boots. With his wireless phone connection, Biester would have been able to monitor the entrance that night—perhaps he even had an alert set up for any tampering. The soon-to-be-homeless Bunting, perhaps intending to scope out new digs in the encampment, might well have destroyed the entrance camera when he’d come back from the recount—and some kind of confrontation later ensued between the two men in the park, leaving Bunting dead. It all clicked.
Anger surged through her. If true, Biester had set up a sting operation, not just once, but twice. They’d been had. He’d helped them set up a snare for Connor—within a larger trap for them. And they’d
walked right into it.
Perhaps realizing he’d lost their attention, Biester turned and looked at his frozen companions then down at what they were staring at—his camera. Potential evidence. “Shit.”
Stealth forgotten, Karen leapt to her feet and fished for her gun with one hand while extending the other. “Can we see that phone, Mr. Biester?”
The moon came out in full force—and she saw the answer. He threw the phone as far as he could. She thought she heard a plop as it fell in water. Please, God, not the creek.
Then Biester ran.
A slow-rising Marek tried to stop him and got bowled over for his pains. Karen was swifter, but Biester knew the layout better. By the time she reached the trail that led down to the encampment, she could see he’d made his way nearly to the bottom, heading for the log bridge.
“Stop! Freeze!” she yelled. “I will shoot!”
But as she stepped onto the trail to get a good shot, she slid right down on her butt.
Right into a gully washer.
Her gun skittered out of her hand to God knew where. Cursing, she saw that she’d stepped on a long piece of bark—no doubt from one of those damned bur oaks of Biester’s. Rough on one side, smooth as a baby’s butt on the other. Wait. Smooth. Gully washer.
Grabbing the bark, she flipped the smooth side down, jumped up, and jumped on. As she’d hoped, her weight and the rushing water combined to propel her down the mud-slick trail. Mudboarding. Despite everything, she felt a rush. Her luck held out until the last few yards, when she hit a rock, and the bark broke in two underneath her. Using her momentum, she launched herself at Biester’s back.
He rolled before she could grab his slick wrists and her cuffs... and she found herself looking down the barrel of a Sig Sauer.
