by Jeff Carson
Well, if Gary Connell were at the ranch, Wolf would tell him they’d been in a fight, and leave it at that. Wolf didn’t have the heart to hurt the man by telling him his son was a monster.
Wolf was out of the southern end of town now, so he hung a left on the unpaved county road to the ranch. He could feel the truck careen a little sideways in the mud as he rounded a bend, so he coasted to slow down.
The rain was still heavy, but the sky was lightening ahead, and he even saw a patch of blue sky for a brief moment.
It was the blue of Sarah’s eyes. Sarah. The thought of her made his heart skip. She was probably back from her latest stint in rehab. What was Wolf going to see in those beautiful blue eyes this time? A brightness he hadn’t glimpsed in years? Would she have an interest in life again? Or would it be that same lazy, defiant look he’d seen take root in her eyes over the last six years?
He hoped it was the former. He hoped it so much for his son’s sake that he dreaded seeing her. Wolf could barely remember being twelve years old, but he knew his life had been much easier than Jack’s must be right now – with a mother whose love for pills trumped any mother’s love for him, and living half the time with his grandparents, and the other half with his father.
Wolf took a deep breath. The air in the truck was suddenly feeling muggier. He hit the air conditioning button and turned the radio to the local bluegrass music, a welcome distraction. Wolf couldn’t see how things could get more complicated than they were now.
At least he wasn’t lying dead at the base of a cliff next to Jerry Wheatman. At least he could be grateful for that.
Chapter 7
Sun streamed through the clouds and glared off the windshield as Wolf drove his way up the final stretch to the ranch. The truck bumped and sloshed through new potholes and small streams that dissected the muddy road. It had held up well through the storms of the last few weeks, but it would need a new grading before fall. That would be something to take up with Gary.
Wolf crossed the cattle guard that marked the northern edge of the ranch property, and continued up the hill. Then he reached the top of a low plateau just above the meandering Chataqua River and took in a majestic view that never ceased to inspire him.
The three-hundred-acre property was part forest, part grassy meadow, and all rugged beauty. There were two separate buildings. An understated one-story, three-bedroom house with large windows to capture the panoramic views sprawled in a wide L-shape. A small red barn stood easy walking distance from the house. The multi-use barn gave Wolf adequate space to store outdoor equipment and camping supplies, garage his dirt bike and small John Deere tractor and still have a decent space for a shop. In his view, owning equipment also meant maintenance, repairs, and tools. Over the years, his shop had taken on the look of a small-town garage, albeit one that could use some major organizing.
It was a great property and a great home, though not nearly in the tip-top shape it had been when his father was living. Shortly after his father’s death, Wolf’s mother, who had never fully embraced the Rocky Points lifestyle, moved to Denver to be near her sisters. Wolf’s brother had followed suit after high school, leaving for college and becoming a journalist, returning to Rocky Points only as an infrequent tourist.
It was only Wolf, and Jack for half the week, who lived here now and had any real connection to it. And Wolf couldn’t shake the feeling that he was letting the place rot into the ground. There was always too much to be done for one man.
If he did get the job as sheriff, there would be more money—money for repairs; money for bringing in a handyman for occasional help; and money for substantial payments toward owning the property outright.
Wolf grabbed his cell phone from the center console, as driving up to the plateau on which the ranch was situated meant driving into cell reception. With all the action that had happened during the day, he looked at the screen with anticipation.
Four missed calls, one from Rachette, and three from his mother. One voice message. From his mother. Jesus.
His mother was itching to talk to him. He briefly considered not calling her, not wanting to add more drama to his day, but three attempts at calling him was a little out of the ordinary. Rachette could wait. What had her sister done to her this time?
He dialed her phone number, not bothering with the voicemail. She answered after a half ring.
“Oh, David. Where have you been?” She sniffed loud into the phone. She was crying.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
She breathed into the receiver for a few seconds with shaking sobs.
“Mom? What happened?”
She didn’t answer.
Wolf slowed the truck to a stop, wondering if he’d lost phone reception. “Mom? Can you hear me? What happened? Hello?”
“John’s dead,” she said in a tiny voice.
Wolf’s skin flushed hot and his vision swirled. He took off his seatbelt and opened the door. He stepped out, and the truck lurched forward, slamming into the small of his back. He reached over and pulled the stick into park. “What? What are you talking about?”
“He’s dead. He died this weekend.”
Wolf stared in shock at nothing, not seeing the shining land moist with the passed rainfall, now bustling with birds. He let out a long breath.
“I guess Friday night, they are saying,” she said.
“Who is saying? What happened?”
She sniffed and then let out another string of sobs.
“Mom. What happened?”
“He killed himself.”
Chapter 8
Wolf stirred his fourth cup of strong coffee and glanced at his watch. Almost one in the morning. The computer screen was the only light in his darkened study besides the slivers of moonlight entering the open blinds.
Wolf stretched his arms high, yawned, and re-read the email.
Hey Bro, what’s happening? How are you doing man? How’s Points? How’s Jack doing?
I just wanted to catch up. I know it’s been a long time since we’ve connected, but … eh, you know how it is.
Lately things have been going well. My blog is kicking ass, and I’ve finally got everything squared away with my third book—it was picked up by Nordberg Publishing, and they are going to release it in mid October. It’s a great deal for me. They say it’s going to be in airports everywhere. Can you believe that shit?
I was in New York a month ago meeting with them, and they are projecting some numbers that I don’t even want to talk about … at least until I see it happen. No sense jinxing it. But I’m excited to say the least.
Italy is going well. I’m finding the life here really pleasant and great for productivity, as I’ve been writing non-stop since I got here. I’ve been hanging out with the girl who lives right above me, and have met a few people around town. It’s fun, but I miss Colorado. I’ll definitely be coming back for a little while at the beginning of the year, then who knows.
So how about you? I hear from Mom that you are a shoo-in for the sheriff job. Although I didn’t need to hear that from her to know that. Because you are. I can’t wait to come home and tell everybody my bro is the sheriff … plus, I’ll pretty much be above the law. Maybe I’ll start growing some weed again, haha.
We’ll have to have a serious talk about the ranch too. If this book deal goes like they are saying, well, again, I don’t want to jinx it. But I’d like to help out buying the property so it’s back in the family.
Talk soon brotha.
-John
There is no way John killed himself, Wolf thought for the thousandth time since the phone call he’d received from his mother.
Wolf was hit by a wave of exhaustion as he stood up and looked at his watch. It was finally just after one, which would have been nine in the morning Italian time, his decided calling time.
He exhaled and picked up the phone, then thumbed piece of paper with the number he’d gotten from his mother earlier. He dialed and then listened to
a series of clicks, then a long one-tone dial sound that he remembered was typical of many foreign countries.
“Pronto? Cuestura di Lecco.” The male voice sounded distant, like an old vinyl recording.
“Hello, my name is Sergeant David Wolf of the Rocky Points Police Department in the United States. Do you speak English?”
”David Wolf?” Dahveed Vowlf a young male voice pronounced it. “I am not very good with English, no. Un momento …”
Before Wolf could respond, he heard the phone clunk, as if dropped on the top of a desk. For ten minutes he heard the bustle and muffled voices of an active police station a few thousand miles away.
“Pronto? Cuestura di Lecco.” It was the same voice.
Wolf blinked. “This is Sergeant David Wolf of the Rocky Points Police Department, in the United States. Who am I talking to?”
“Yes, this is tenente Tito, sir,” he said.
“I need to speak to your superior officer right away,” Wolf said.
“Yes,” Tito said, and the phone clunked again.
Wolf used mind relaxation techniques he’d learned in the army for withstanding torture as another five minutes passed.
“Pronto? Cuestura di Lecco,” Tito said again.
Wolf sighed. “Tenent Tito—“
“Tenente, sir.”
Wolf clenched his jaw and spoke slowly. “I need to speak to your captain, to your colonel, to your general. Do you have—“
“Yes, sir. I will connect you now. Please hold un momento.”
Wolf pulled the phone from his ear. Just as he was about to throw it against the wall as hard as he could he heard another one-tone dial through the earpiece.
Wolf pushed his phone back against his ear.
“Rossi,” a husky male voice answered.
“Hello, my name is Sergeant David Wolf of the Rocky Points Police Department in the United States. Do you speak English?”
“Ah, yes. Sergeant Wolf. This is Maggiore Rossi,” his accent was thick but clearly understandable. “I am sorry we could not get in touch with you and your family sooner. It took some doing. I am very sorry for your loss.” There was warm concern in his voice.
Wolf was silent for a beat. “Thank you, sir. So you are aware of my relation to the deceased.“
“Yes,” Rossi exhaled. “Your mother told me about you. I’ve been expecting your call.”
Wolf didn’t respond.
“I found your brother,” Rossi continued, “I was one of the Carabinieri first on the scene at his apartment.”
“You told my mother he had committed suicide. That he had hung himself. I need to know details, please.”
“Yes, of course,” he said in an apologetic tone. “We were called by a person who lives at the apartamento who suspected something was wrong … a young woman who was dating your brother apparently. She called us, we went to your brother’s apartment, went inside, and found him on the floor. It was clear he had hanged himself.”
“He was on the floor?” Wolf paused. “But you say it was clear he hanged himself? That doesn’t make sense to me, Maggiore.”
A car horn blared in Wolf’s ear, from somewhere near the man Wolf talked to five thousand miles away.
“Yes. I know, it sounds strange,” Rossi said. “It was a chandelier. He tied himself to it, and then hanged himself. He and the chandelier fell from the ceiling post-mortem, and that was how we found him.”
Wolf glared at nothing. “And what was the time of death?”
“Friday night declares the coroner. And there was...” Rossi cleared his throat. “Sergeant Wolf, we also found drugs … cocaine? How do you call—“
“Cocaine?” Wolf stood up. “That doesn’t make sense.” Wolf internalized his thoughts. That didn’t make any sense. His brother wasn’t the type to do hard drugs like that. Marijuana? On occasion he used to. But not often. That’s what made the reference to growing weed in his email an attempt at humor on John’s part. John knew that Wolf knew he never did the stuff anymore. He’d watched his brother refuse it on many occasions for years. So to say he’d upped the ante and started snorting cocaine? It didn’t make sense.
“Yes, sir. We found evidence of cocaine,” Rossi said into the silence.
“I hadn’t heard about that. You didn’t tell my mother that.”
“Ah, yes, sir. I apologize. I wanted to speak to you about it first. Your mother was so upset. Like I said, she told me you were a police officer, and I hadn’t told her about the drugs, so I just … I just figured I would talk to you about it. There is no sense in making matters worse with this type of news.”
Wolf paced back and forth. “Okay. Thank you for that, I guess. Was this cocaine found during the autopsy?”
“No, sir. Actually the drugs were found at the scene, and residue was found on his nostrils.” Rossi said.
“What did the autopsy show?” Wolf asked.
“An autopsy was not called for—“
“No autopsy?” Wolf almost yelled. He took a deep breath and rubbed his face. The static on the phone hissed and popped as he stood thinking. “I’ll be coming over on a flight tomorrow.”
Rossi breathed hard into the phone. “I understand, Sergeant Wolf. You’ll want to bring your brother home.”
I’ll want to investigate his death. “Yes. I’d appreciate any help your … department can give me.” Wolf didn’t know what the regional department of the Carabinieri was called. Research into the operation of the Carabinieri was tacked onto his to-do list for the night.
“Of course, Sergeant Wolf.”
Wolf talked with Rossi for another few minutes arranging some specifics and then hung up.
He went to the kitchen and set his coffee cup in the sink, then stared out at the dark forest behind the house. Something about John’s death wasn’t right. Correction: everything about John’s death wasn’t right, and there was no way Wolf could learn anything useful about what happened over a rickety phone connection from five thousand miles away.
Wolf’s predicaments at home were pressing, and timely, and volatile. But his gut was telling him he had to fix this.
He imagined his mother staring sleeplessly at the ceiling of her bedroom, wondering where she had gone wrong and blaming herself for her son’s death. Thinking about her inability to instill the will to live, to persevere, in her baby son. After first losing her husband years ago, and now her son, perhaps she was even entertaining thoughts of ending it all herself.
Wolf didn’t allow these dark thoughts to linger. He couldn’t shake his conviction that none of this made sense. The email. John had been too positive, too excited about the future. Plus, he’d known his brother … really known him. He was a fighter, mentally and physically, when the situation called for it. There wasn’t a single instance in Wolf’s life that he could remember John giving up on something or backing down from a challenge. The kid had been a lifelong systematic goal-achieving machine. He ate up challenges, no matter how big, and shit them out, leaving them behind for even bigger ones. Suicide just didn’t fit.
And Wolf was going to Italy to prove it.
Chapter 9 - Tuesday
Wolf was wrenched awake by the alarm clock on his phone. He grabbed a cup of coffee and his jacket and went to the front porch. He had slept only a few hours. The sun was just lighting the sky and his breath was smoke in the bitter cold air. A few Elk were milling about in the field. They all turned his way as the screen door slammed. He held up his coffee to them and took a seat. He pulled out his cell and dialed his mother.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“So, I spoke with a Carabinieri last night. A cop from Italy. He was first on scene to John’s apartment. He’s going to help us with getting John’s body released and shipped to Colorado.”
She responded with an exhale.
“You doing all right?” he asked, immediately regretting the question. “Never mind. Stupid question.” They sat in silence until Wolf spoke softly, �
�We are going to get through this.”
Silence.
“I’m going to go to Italy to get him.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. I am.”
More silence.
“Listen, mom. I’ll keep in touch, all right?”
“You’d better.” She sniffed and hung up.
Wolf got dressed and headed into town.
…
The parents of Sarah Muller (formerly known as Sarah Wolf) lived in a vast house nestled in the pines outside of town.
Wolf pulled up the dirt road and saw it was lit inside and out in the dim early morning hour. The Mullers had always been early risers.
Venus gleamed just over the pines in the eastern sky. The sun would be following close behind, having to scale the eastern peaks first.
He rang the doorbell and heard muffled conversation inside. Sarah’s face appeared in the ornately frosted window set in the hand crafted wood door. She opened it a crack.
“Hi David.”
Her blond hair was askew, like she’d just woken up, but her sky blue eyes were clear and bright looking. Wolf couldn’t remember her looking so vital and beautiful. She wore sweatpants and a white tee shirt, both fitting snug to accentuate her perfect body, a rare place in the universe where time had always stood still.
“Hi Sarah. How are you?”
“Good,” She said.
There was a mumbling behind the door, and she looked down and then tucked her head back inside.
“Is that Jack?” Wolf craned his neck.
She leaned back and turned sideways. “Uh, no. Jack! Your dad’s here!”
He heard the faint yell reply from somewhere in the interior.
