David Wolf 01 - Foreign Deceit

by Jeff Carson

  Rachette and Baine nodded.

  “It was a real soaker,” continued Wolf. “A couple inches dropped in a few hours. At least, that’s how it was in town.”

  “I’d say this trail got about the same amount,” said Rachette, seeing Wolf’s line of logic.

  “What?” Connell walked over, bent down next to Wolf and hocked a spit on one of the footprints. “Whatcha got, Columbo?”

  Wolf glared at Connell and stood. “There are three sets of footprints here. Made after the rainstorm, which was two days ago, which puts the placement of these footprints right at the time Jerry Wheatman went missing. Which means we’re probably looking at Jerry Wheatman’s tracks—“

  “And two people he was with,” Rachette said quietly.

  “What? How do you know that? Those could be anyone’s shoe prints. Could have been that Wheatman went up by himself and decided to see if he could fly. Then two other, completely unrelated, people come up for a hike, don’t see a thing, then just head back down.” Connell shook his head and started walking up the trail. “Good try. I’m heading up.”

  “Then where’s Wheatman’s car?” Wolf asked.

  Connell stopped and frowned. “What?”

  “Wheatman’s car would still be sitting in the parking lot down there if he came up by himself. Rachette, Baine, take casts of all three of these. If you come across any prints pointing the other way, cast those, too. Catch up to us.”

  Wolf started after Connell, and Connell turned and set an even faster pace up into the trees.

  Chapter 4

  Another twenty-five minutes into the hike, Wolf came around a bend to find Connell sucking greedily on his water bottle at the base of a rocky incline.

  Wolf found it an odd place for Connell to stop, considering it was just below the top of the hike. Apparently Connell had abandoned his race to the top.

  Connell held out his water bottle to Wolf.

  Wolf frowned at him and shook his head with a small laugh. “No thanks, I’ve got my own. What’s going on? The top’s right there. Why’d you stop?”

  Connell shrugged as he took another long gulp. He finished and let out a long burp, pointing to the top. “After you, Sheriff.”

  Wolf gave Connell a long look and started up the incline. It was steeper than any part of the hike so far, and Wolf gripped the warm granite outcrops to keep his balance.

  “You’re not sheriff yet, you know,” Connell called from below.

  Wolf sighed and turned to Connell. “I know that, Connell. Believe me, I know that. Now should we keep going?”

  Connell didn’t say anything at first, just staring at Wolf. Finally, he smirked and repeated his earlier reply, “After you, Sheriff.”

  Wolf shook his head and scrambled up the rest of the trail, wondering what the hell that was all about, and suddenly more aware of his surroundings.

  As Wolf summited the final incline, a wind bore into him, threatening to peel the Stetson off his head. He took it off and relished the short-lived breeze as it wicked the sweat off his closely cropped hair. He closed his eyes and let the warming sun and cooling breeze comfort him for a few seconds after the grueling exertion of the hike.

  The breeze stopped, and the air went quiet and still. The sudden plunge into silence snapped his attention back to the present and where exactly he was. He whipped his head to look behind him.

  Connell was still standing at the base of the incline below, still drinking from his water bottle. He was either sulking or contemplating something pretty hard. Wolf couldn’t tell which.

  Wolf relaxed a little and looked at the high plateau he was now on, which marked the end of the line for the trail. Ahead was a flat slab of rock, and to the left was a gradual rise into a dense pine forest, then the top of the mountain a hundred or so feet above that. And to the right was the source of Wolf’s suddenly stiff breathing and quickened pulse—a forty-foot sheer cliff. He could see a thin trail far below.

  Wolf scanned his watch. It was now 10:45; it had been about forty-five minutes they’d begun hiking. Their pace had been brisk, and the men below would be even faster. But the route was circuitous, and Wolf estimated they wouldn’t be in view below for at least another fifteen minutes.

  Wolf surveyed the area. The rock outcrop he stood on was large and expanded out in front of him. At some point in the last few thousand years, a mammoth chunk of rock cleaved off and tumbled down to his right, leaving a near vertical cliff face and a field of big boulders below. Wolf knew it was steep. The rock-climbing route up the face was given a grade of 5.11, considered difficult to all but the most skilled climbers.

  However one got to the top, whether climbing or hiking, and with what level of fear they stood, the top offered a magnificent view to those who braved it. Bright flecks of light shimmered off the metal corrugated roofs and windows of tiny buildings on the distant valley floor, like diamonds in the sun – their town of Rocky Points, Colorado. Surrounding the town below were seas of green meadows and darker green carpets of pine trees as far as the eye could see. Some of the rolling mountains jutted into the sky so high that there were no trees on them. Those that weren’t swallowed in storms at the moment gleamed with red, gray, and brown streaks of rock with the occasional white vein of snow that survived the summer.

  Two of these treeless peaks were jagged with rock spires, looming over the town below. Underneath the peaks, a maze of grass- and flower-covered ski slopes were carved out of the dense trees. A web of steel ski lifts stitched the sides of the two mountains, and a network of condominiums and luxury mountain retreats pooled at the bottom of them.

  Wolf stepped forward onto the flat and took a deep breath. He wiped the bead of sweat sliding down his face and jammed his hat back onto his head, wishing the breeze would pick up again.

  The clouds to the south were dark green. Lightning flickered from within and the air shook with a constant rumble. It was only a matter of time before the skies would open up. Until then, it was going to be downright hot.

  Something made Wolf look back toward the trees on the left. He had seen something before. He was sure of it.

  “What?” Connell yelled from below, seeing Wolf’s change of focus.

  “I think I found something,” Wolf said. He walked over to an oval discoloration in the rocky soil near the tree line. He bent down to inspect his find. It was a darker patch of soil covered with bright green metallic flies. They burst into a buzzing cloud as he waved a hand.

  Wolf heard the shuffles and grunts of Connell below and immediately stood back up, stepped over the spot, turned back toward the cliff, and bent back down. There was no way he was going to leave his back turned to Connell with a forty-foot cliff a few paces away.

  Connell charged over the rise at a flying pace. “What? What the hell do you think you found now?” He sucked in air through his clenched teeth and spit off the cliff edge. “Fuckin’ Hardy boy.” There was a renewed rage in his voice.

  Wolf ignored him and eased a fingernail-sized piece of yellow spongy material from the confines of the slightly darker dirt, and then looked at Connell, who was gazing at the town in the distance.

  Wolf stood and listened. The ponderosa pines were still. Wolf was thankful for that as he steeled himself for what he needed to do next.

  Focusing on his footing, and giving Sergeant Connell a wide berth, Wolf made his way to the ledge. Though the rock shelf was virtually flat, Wolf shuffled carefully forward.

  Connell shook his head and chuckled. “After you.”

  Wolf looked to the cliff, and back at Connell. That’s when Wolf saw it—an unconscious widening of Connell’s eyes, and then the façade of a cool expression—a terrible poker face that Connell’s small brain had never been able to control all the years Wolf had known him.

  Wolf’s pulse quickened as he looked up at Connell with narrowed eyes.

  “What?” Connell glanced at the trail below with a lazy expression. The officers were nowhere in sight.

  C
onnell walked toward Wolf slowly.

  Wolf studied the scene unfolding in front of him with a surreal interest, as if outside his body. Suddenly, Connell’s strange act at the base of the final climb made sense. Connell’s cork was set to pop.

  “Well? Do you see him?” Connell was now a few feet away and steadily walking forward, his eyes focused behind Wolf.

  Wolf planned the next few seconds of his life and then looked toward the cliff edge.

  Connell’s movement was lightning fast, but Wolf knew it was coming, so he didn’t hesitate.

  As soon as Wolf turned away from Connell, he brought himself down into a crouch. The full force of Connell’s two-handed shove just missed sending Wolf over the edge. Instead, Connell’s palms bounced off the side of Wolf’s ducking head, ripping hair and sending Wolf’s hat flying over the precipice.

  As Wolf reached the low point of his squat, he lunged back toward the tree line, brushing past Connell’s legs as he ran the short distance to the trees.

  Before Wolf could fully turn around, Connell was already on him, his massive muscular frame coming with outstretched arms, ducking into Wolf’s abdomen.

  Wolf had a slight height advantage, but Connell was a shorter and squatter rhino that would have no trouble tossing him ten feet in any direction given the right leverage.

  Wolf sprawled his legs back and grabbed him in a headlock with all the strength he could muster, sending Connell face first into the dirt. Growling low, Connell flailed with animalistic force underneath Wolf’s body.

  Wolf kept his legs wide and stiff, pushing Connell down, and then dug into Connell’s belt holster, straight for Connell’s service Glock. As soon as Wolf got hold of it, Connell went berserk. With a vicious twist, his arm swung back knocking the gun out of Wolf’s grip, sending it flying, bouncing off the granite and into a nearby bush.

  Wolf let go of Connell’s head, pushed off his shoulders, stepped back into the trees, finally freeing an instant to pull his own gun. Wolf got a fistful of air. The first wave of real panic hit Wolf as he looked down at Connell’s hands. But they were balled into white fists. No Glock.

  Wolf stood still and locked eyes with Connell for a moment. “What the fuck are you doing?” Wolf’s voice was barely audible over the thumping of blood in his own ears.

  Connell ignored his question and stalked forward.

  Wolf scanned the ground for his pistol. It was nowhere in sight. His eyes swept his surroundings for something he could use to gain the advantage. No rocks. He cursed himself for leaving his Leatherman multi-tool in the center console of the truck.

  He looked back and saw a fallen tree—a thick branchless Ponderosa Pine log stretching horizontally like an oversized tripwire a few feet from the back of his legs.

  He turned to Connell, who was now approaching with steady small steps. Wolf shuffled backwards in retreat until he felt the wood against the back of his knees. Then he sat, flailing his arms and widened his eyes as he tipped on his rear-end in an uncontrolled-looking fall.

  Connell sensed his opportunity and charged like a linebacker, his hands outstretched, eyes focused on Wolf’s neck.

  Wolf laid back fast, grabbed underneath the log, and pulled himself under to the other side as Connell flew over.

  Connell landed with a grunt on the dirt and pine needles, and then turned to get back up.

  With all his might, Wolf lunged over the log at Connell’s rising form, and landed a head-butt against Connell’s nose with a wet crunch.

  Connell’s eyes went vacant, his thick arms stretched to his sides, and he flopped onto his back with a weak exhale.

  Wolf clamored onto Connell’s chest and slammed an elbow into Connell’s face. Then he continued, allowing a kind of ferocity overtake him that he hadn’t felt in more than ten years.

  …

  Wolf stood up, tilted his head back, and greedily sucked air through his bared teeth. After he composed himself, he bent to press his fingers on Connell’s thick neck, now slick with blood. The pulse was steady and strong.

  Sergeant Connell was going to be tough to move off the mountain. Or maybe he wouldn’t need to be moved. Maybe he’d come to and be able to walk himself down. Wolf didn’t know. Connell was alive, that’s all he knew. He would need facial reconstructive surgery; that was another thing he was pretty sure he knew. Wolf couldn’t remember how many blows he had landed, but he was glad he had stopped before killing the man. That would have … complicated whatever the hell just happened.

  A long rumble of thunder echoed from the steadily growing darkness in the south, as if in reaction to his thoughts.

  Wolf exhaled loudly, looked down at Connell, and stepped away. He walked to Connell’s Glock 22, stepping right next to his own in the process. How he’d lost it, then missed it in the heat of the moment, he had no clue. Connell must have removed it while he was in Wolf’s headlock. Bending to pick it up, he heard a voice in the distance.

  “You guys up there?” Officer Rachette said in the distance. He followed with a loud whistle.

  “Yeah! Up here!” He walked to Connell’s pistol, removed the magazine and pulled back the slide, ejecting the chambered round. Without thinking, he flung the clip and bullet off the cliff, and then tossed the Glock deep in the trees.

  The bugs ramped up their hissing, the worst of the commotion already forgotten in their tiny memories. A bird flapped past him and coasted out over the expanse—over the immense drop that beckoned him once again.

  To Wolf, the air seemed hotter and more stagnant than before. Sweat trickled down his temples, down his neck and onto his shirt collar and coppery-tasting blood coated his mouth.

  Wolf sighed deeply and walked back to the edge. His body was humming, his movements fuzzy, body saturated with adrenaline.

  Looking over the edge, he finally saw what he knew would be there—the splayed body of Jerry Wheatman forty feet below, crumpled against jagged boulders. The long drop and the unforgiving landing left little chance the boy could have survived.

  His mind pictured the teenager slipping up top, tumbling off the edge, deafening wind rushing by his ears, and the slam into the scree field below.

  Wolf jerked back, stepped away from the edge, and looked back to Connell’s inert form. He still hadn’t moved. Wolf shook his head and rubbed a split on the inside of his cheek with his tongue. He walked away from the potential crime screen and spit blood into a bush.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Rachette scrambled up into view.

  “Found Jerry Wheatman,” Wolf answered, walking back to the ledge.

  “Yeah?”

  Wolf pointed to the edge with a somber look.

  “Oh man.” Rachette’s voice trailed off as he looked over the cliff. “Jesus.” He pulled back from the edge as he tried to imagine the helpless boy’s terror as his body plummeted toward the rocks.

  “I noticed this here,” Wolf said pointing behind Rachette toward the discoloration near the trees.

  “This?” Rachette pointed at the dark soil covered with the veil of green flies.

  “Yeah. I think it’s vomit,” Wolf said. “You can see the chunks of partially digested food.”

  “It’s puke? You think?”

  “Yeah,” Wolf said. “I do.”

  Rachette bent closer. “I guess you’re right. Okay, so what does that mean?”

  “Well, what’s in that vomit would you say?” Wolf asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Looks like a ham and egg breakfast to me. Yellow pieces of yolk from the egg, pink ham chunks, toast.” Wolf pointed.

  “Yeah, okay. Yeah it does look like that.” Rachette said. “So, what does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. This person had recently eaten breakfast. Maybe in town. Maybe someone freaked out up here after seeing Wheatman fall off the edge. Puked his guts out and ran. Or maybe he puked his guts out after pushing Wheatman off the edge.”

  “You think he was pushed?” Rachette turned, expelling a hefty black dol
lop of tobacco spit in a bush.

  “I think it’s possible.” Wolf looked into the trees at Connell who still lay motionless. “There’s not much indication of what happened up here, since it’s rock. Can’t really tell if there was a struggle or not.”

  “There could be some evidence on Wheatman’s body,” Rachette said.

  Wolf nodded and looked down. Two officers came around a corner into view on the trail far below. “How about the shoe prints? Three pairs in all?”

  Rachette nodded. “There were definitely three pairs of shoes pointing up the trail, then two pointing down. Three came up, and two … Jesus, what happened to you?” Rachette was looking Wolf up and down.

  Wolf looked down at his uniform; dust powdered the whole left side of his body. A scrape on his elbow drained blood down the length of his arm to his fingers, and his other elbow was covered in blood which Wolf knew was not his own. His jeans were scuffed with dirt, and a clump of burrs was velcroed to his leg.

  “Oh, yeah, that.” He slapped the dirt off his pants. “Give me your handkerchief, will ya?”

  Rachette gave him his ever-present handkerchief from his rear pocket.

  Wolf wiped the blood off his arm. “Sorry, I’ll buy you another one.”

  “What the hell happened?” Rachette suddenly went wide-eyed, then looked again over the ledge, then back to Wolf. “Where’s Connell?”

  Wolf huffed and nodded toward the trees.

  Rachette took a second to find Connell among the underbrush. “What the …” He swiveled his head back and forth. “Is that Connell’s blood?” He finally settled his eyes on Wolf’s forehead.

  Wolf wiped his head, putting another dark spot on the handkerchief.

  “Yeah. I think that’s from the head butt to his nose. He’s going to need some medical attention, but I suspect he’ll be able to walk his own ass down the mountain when he comes to.”

  Rachette spit again at his feet and laughed, “Holy crap. You gotta tell me what happened!”

  “Hey, watch what you’re doing, don’t spit anymore. Until we know differently, this is a crime scene. Connell and I already messed it up enough, no sense making it worse. And don’t worry about what happened here. He deserved it, that’s all you need to know for now,” Wolf said, contemplating whether or not he should come out with the truth. But something stopped him. It was unbelievable what Connell just tried, possibly in the literal sense to other people. Wolf might come out looking like the crazy one, spreading rumors about the son of an influential city council member, which happened to be Wolf’s opponent for the sheriff appointment. As much as Connell deserved to be in handcuffs, Wolf’s form of justice would have to do for now. “I don’t know what happened, other than he started it, and I finished it.”