Tracer

by Dustin Stevens

Confusion continued to play across Drake’s features. Kept the words in his mind from finding his mouth.

  “I know,” Cherie said. “I’m sure you’ve seen all the stuff on the news, in the papers, about Post Traumatic Stress, about Traumatic Brain Injury.

  “And believe me, those things exist and are very serious. Everything you’ve heard is true, times a thousand.”

  “But not Lukas Webb?”

  “But not Lukas Webb,” Cherie said.

  “He just returned a few weeks though. How many times have you been able to meet with him?”

  “Three times. We were scheduled for a total of eight, but before this happened I was going to cancel the remaining sessions.

  “He was good, just wanted to get on with his life.”

  Drake ran a hand over his face and leaned back in his chair. Looked behind the counter where the two girls built his sandwich.

  “You look shell shocked,” Cherie said.

  This time, the sheepish smile was his.

  “That obvious?”

  “I am a trained psychiatrist.”

  Drake raised his eyes in concession. “It’s just, I came over here with a whole slate of questions to ask you, but none of them seem very relevant at the moment.”

  “I figured as much,” Cherie said. “That’s part of why I wanted to meet you here. It’s much easier for me to be blunt than in the office.”

  “Yeah? Did you have to pull the cloak-and-dagger thing with the janitor too?”

  A laugh burst out of Cherie, followed by her hands covering her mouth. “Herb pulled the old Silent Messenger routine again, huh? I swear he lives for that sort of stuff.”

  “He’s pretty convincing at it.”

  Cherie smiled and shook her head. Said nothing.

  Drake smiled for a moment as well. Let it fade as he worked to process her words.

  “You’re being on the up-and-up with me here, right? His family has retained me as his lawyer. I know medical records are protected under patient-doctor confidentiality, but it would help me tremendously to see what kind of mental stress he was under at the time of the incident.

  “Better for both of us to avoid a court order.”

  Cherie spread her hands out in front of her. Shook her head from side to side.

  “Look, I wish there was more I could tell you, I really do. Truth is, I’m just as stumped as you are. Lukas Webb had a glowing service record and clean bill of health.”

  “And there’s no way he could have hidden something from you? Slipped it by somehow?”

  A momentary cloud passed by Cherie’s eyes.

  “Every week I see somewhere between fifty and a hundred soldiers. Some are fresh off the boat from foreign soil. Some have been retired for twenty years.

  “I have seen every ailment, physical and mental, that a man can go through. Believe me, if he was hiding something, he deserves an Oscar for his performance.”

  The words rested with finality between them a moment. There was no mistaking the bit of venom laced throughout.

  “I meant no disrespect,” Drake said. “Just trying to figure out how this could have happened.”

  Cherie stared at him a long moment. Allowed the fire to dim behind her gaze.

  “Sorry. It’s just, since the shooting, I’ve been going over things in my mind a hundred times, trying to figure out if I missed something. Why he did it.”

  “Any insights you’d like to share?” Drake asked.

  A slow, sad head shake was Cherie’s response.

  “All I can tell you is, whatever reason he had for doing it wasn’t connected to his time in the service. That boy’s mind was right.

  “If he walked into a room and opened fire that night, it’s because they damned well deserved it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  There was a time when Holt Tierney oversaw every aspect of the ranch himself.

  Payables. Shipping and receiving. Vaccinations. Branding.

  Everything.

  Over the years, one by one he relinquished control over bits and pieces.

  Payroll was the first to go. Followed soon thereafter by billing. Then shipping.

  Age and success combined to push him to the fringe of his own operation. He was no longer the man with his hands on the reigns.

  Instead, he became the man holding the purse strings.

  Just fifteen minutes into his ride, Holt could already feel his backside starting to knot up. A lifetime spent in the saddle had turned his pelvis and lower back into a piece of driftwood.

  Twisted sinew, dried and hardened into place.

  It didn’t take long for the old aches to come running back. Remind him why he had started handing off tasks in the first place.

  Despite his physical discomfort, this morning it was a necessary evil. He had given the ranch hands an extra paid day off under the guise of a Christmas bonus. Told them all to enjoy it with their families.

  Not to even think of returning until Wednesday morning.

  Every last one had accepted the bit of good fortune without question. Even marveled to one another at how the old man was softening in his old age.

  No one suspected it was because he wanted them all away for the day.

  This was the closest thing to a covert operation a rancher would ever perform. He didn’t need any extra eyes around to see it.

  Just after lunch, Holt rose from the table and told Bernice he was going for a ride. Long familiar with his pains, the news surprised her, drawing token opposition.

  Holt squelched it without much trouble.

  Even managed to do so without having to resort to misogyny.

  Dressed in work jeans, flannel, fleece vest and overcoat, he smashed a battered grey Justin cowboy hat down on his head. Went to the barn and saddled up.

  Amanaka, his favorite trail horse from a lifetime together, was more willing than he was for the ride. An Appaloosa standing twelve hands high, she took the lead from pure muscle memory. Carried him down the trail without having to even think about it.

  It was the exact reason Holt had always favored her, even now despite her age. Sure-footed and even tempered, never once had she spooked. Tried to buck him. Ever disagreed with his commands.

  The smell of winter filled Holt’s nostrils as they walked along.

  Pine needles dropping to the ground. Icy crystals whipped about the air. Fresh cow manure.

  The afternoon was cold and still. Weak sun reflected off the snow.

  The only sound was Amanaka’s hooves crunching through the snow.

  Holt took the ride slow and easy until he was out of sight of the house. In the off chance Bernice was watching, or anybody else stopped by, he didn’t want to raise suspicion.

  The moment they crested a ridge and dropped from sight, he nudged Amanaka with his heels. Pushed her up to a light jog. Set a course through the back fields.

  A half hour after leaving the house, he found what he was looking for.

  Crouched in the back pasture was a small barn. Low-slung and without paint, the building itself was barely noticeable against the forest behind it.

  What did stand out was the cluster of cows gathered tight. Large black blobs that came into focus the closer Holt drew.

  Holt pulled Amanaka back to a walk and approached from the east. Swung out around towards the front of the barn.

  Nodded as he saw a faded Ford Bronco parked out front.

  “Right on time.”

  He rode on to the corner of the barn and slid down from the saddle, a practiced move he’d done a thousand times before.

  Winced as his feet hit the ground.

  Holt tied Amanaka up to the post out front and headed inside to find a large, bear of a man already at work.

  Brent Greeley stood as Holt entered, nodded. At full height he was exactly between six and seven feet tall. He weighed north of three hundred pounds. Wore jeans with just a thirty-eight inch waist.

  Forty years ago his enormous bulk made him an All-American for th
e Griz. Even made him a fair bit of money blocking for the Kansas City Chiefs.

  In the time since, it made his life as a large-animal veterinarian much easier.

  “Holt.”

  Holt walked across the straw covered floor of the barn. Extended a hand. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Friendship doesn’t end with retirement.”

  Holt nodded. Sensed a bit of gravity on the big man’s features.

  “Sorry I’m late, had to go slow to make sure Bernice didn’t get suspicious.”

  Greeley nodded. “She doesn’t know?”

  “No,” Holt replied. Shook his head. “I hate like hell hiding it from her, but we can’t take any risks right now.”

  “Does anybody know?”

  “Just you, me, and McIlvaine.”

  Greeley nodded again. Turned back to his work.

  On the ground at his feet was spread a tarp several feet square. Atop it were over a dozen small vials. All were filled with a milky solution, mixtures of red and white.

  A cardboard box holding row after row of clear vials sat off to the side.

  A second box of unopened syringes sat beside it.

  “How many have you gotten through so far?” Holt asked.

  “Fifteen,” Greeley replied. Flicked at the end of a syringe with his finger. Nudged a single drop of blood out with the plunger.

  Inserted the needle into another vial. Pushed ten cc’s of blood into it.

  He and Holt both watched as the blood swirled into the vial. The contents became cloudy, ribbons of red still visible.

  “Any news yet?” Holt asked. Kept his gaze aimed at the vial.

  “Not yet,” Greeley replied. “It takes up to twenty minutes for the organisms to agglutinate. Won’t know anything until then.”

  Holt grunted. Watched as Greeley put the vial down with the others.

  “Looks like we’ve got fifty head outside,” Greeley said. “How many you got total?”

  “About five thousand.”

  “So that’s one percent right here,” Greeley said. Nodded. “Awful small sample. You think that’ll be enough to do it?”

  Holt shook his head. “It’ll have to be.”

  Another nod was the only response.

  Greeley bent at the waist and scooped out a handful of syringes. Extended a small clump to Holt. Extracted a black Sharpie from his back pocket and extended that as well.

  “You start on one end, I’ll keep working on the other?”

  “Sounds good,” Holt agreed.

  “We need to draw out between five and ten cc’s. Best way is to grab up a handful of the skin behind their neck and go right in.”

  Holt nodded. He’d drawn enough blood from cows over the years to know the procedure.

  Still, Greeley was doing him a favor. He wasn’t about to act ungrateful.

  “When you’re done, be sure to mark the syringe with their tag number in case we do find anything.”

  “Got it,” Holt said. Took the syringes. Split off in the opposite direction of Greeley and began drawing blood.

  One at a time the two men worked their way inward. Every ten minutes or so one of them would make a trip for more syringes. Drop off the ones they had used.

  Each time he returned, Greeley inserted the drawn blood into the vials. Laid them out in careful rows atop the tarp.

  The entire process took just over a half hour. Both men moved methodically, saying nothing.

  Despite the cold, Holt could feel sweat start to form in the small of his back. Beneath his moustache.

  He ignored it as he worked on, his mind racing, trying to piece together what would happen if one of the vials showed positive.

  If more than one tested positive.

  Once they were completed, both men stood in silence. Stared down at the samples lined up.

  Greeley hung an oversized spotlight from an exposed beam overhead. Flipped it on. Squinted as harsh fluorescent light bathed the room.

  Waited long enough to let his eyes adjust before checking his watch and starting with the first samples he’d drawn.

  One at a time he lifted the vials and inspected them under the light. Content that a sample was negative, he marked it with his pen. Moved on to the next one.

  Holt watched through the first handful before walking to the edge of the barn. Resting his boots on the bottom rung of fence. Leaning his elbows against the top.

  A lone heifer spotted him and ambled over. Nudged the tips of his fingers hanging down with her nose. Licked at the remains of fried chicken grease from lunch on his fingertips.

  A smile traced his lips as he watched her. Felt her oversized tongue rub like medium-grit sandpaper against his skin. Smelled her hot breath in the space between them.

  The moment was short lived.

  “Hey, Holt,” Greeley called.

  Holt’s eyes slid shut as he ignored the heifer, turned.

  “Yeah?”

  Greeley held up a single vial, the small glass implement tiny in his massive paw.

  Even from where he stood, Holt could see puffy red globules floating through the viscous liquid.

  “We’ve got another one,” Greeley said. No tone or inflection at all in his voice. Nothing more than a matter-of-fact statement.

  The information hit Holt like a shot to the solar plexus.

  Still, he fought to remain impassive.

  “Just the one?”

  “One,” Greeley said. Nodded. “But this is an awful small sample size.”

  “Yeah.”

  Greeley lowered the vial back into position. “Number Three-Nine-Three.”

  Holt nodded.

  “Any idea where it’s coming from?” Greeley asked.

  “No.”

  “Any idea what you’re going to do with it?”

  Holt stared at the vial lying alongside the others and nodded.

  Said nothing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rink was waiting by his truck as Drake pulled up.

  He didn’t even come to a complete stop before Rink wrenched the door open. Climbed inside and slammed it shut.

  Gave no indication that he’d even noticed the cold outside.

  “Thanks for setting this up,” Drake said.

  “Thanks for everything you’re doing,” Rink responded.

  Drake nodded. “Where to?”

  “South through town, left on Bear Run Road.”

  The county seat of Ravalli County, Hamilton was home to right at forty-five hundred people. Most of them worked one of three places. The hospital. The sawmill. The local ranches.

  Drake nosed the truck south. Past the Dairy Queen. Past Hamilton High School.

  Small shops and boutiques lined the streets of downtown, the truck passing through almost as fast as it had entered. Just six minutes after leaving the hospital, they were headed west on Bear Run.

  “Stay on this for about five miles. I’ll point out the place when we get there.”

  “Alright,” Drake said. “So what are we walking into again?”

  Rink smirked and lifted a mesh ball cap from his head. Ran a hand back over his hair.

  “I wouldn’t say we’re walking into anything. They’ll treat you just fine, same as they did me a couple days.”

  “They being?”

  A long sigh slid from Rink. “They call themselves the Home Guard. All former military. The place we’re going is a little hole in the wall that they gather at.”

  “So, militia?” Drake asked.

  “No,” Rink said. Glanced to Drake. Shook his head. “Most true militia are anarchists. Hate the government, want to be left alone.

  “These guys love America, support the government...”

  “They just have serious misgivings about the direction both are headed,” Drake finished.

  “There you go,” Rink said.

  Drake drew in a deep breath. Watched as a coyote emerged from the woods up ahead and ran parallel to the road. Darted back into the brush without so much
as glancing at them.

  “How do you know about them?” Drake asked. “You were never in the military.”

  “No,” Rink agreed. “A couple of them stopped by the hospital a few nights ago to visit Lukas. They’d heard on the news what had happened, wanted to pass along their support to the family.”

  “And you were there.”

  Rink nodded. “I was. It was late, maybe two or three in the morning. Sara was asleep in the chair, but I stepped outside and we talked a bit. They told me where to find them.”

  Drake nodded. Processed the information. “And they were okay with you being there?”

  Rink’s eyebrows rose. He looked out the window. “I don’t know that I’d say okay, but they conceded it, since I was there to help.”

  “What did Sara say about us going here?”

  “Not a fan. At all,” Rink said. Dropped his voice a bit lower. “But she’s conceding it for the sake of her brother.”

  Drake nodded. Kept his attention aimed at the road.

  Outside, the world was an exact replica of every day from the month before. His body still wasn’t quite used to the bitter cold, but it was growing familiar with the monotony of the winter landscape.

  Grey skies. Early nightfall. Temperatures that never crept above thirty.

  Wind that refused to stopped blowing.

  “If you don’t mind my asking...” Drake said.

  “Lukas coached me,” Rink said. Tossed the answer out before the question was fully asked.

  Drake suspected he’d been expecting it.

  “Was the head guy the entire time he was in college. My coach the full length of my career. When he went off to the Army, I took over for him.”

  The story made sense, though Drake felt there might be something he was leaving out.

  “Good guy, I take it?”

  “Very,” Rink said. “The Crew would have, will, like him, when he’s come through this.”

  Drake nodded. Debated offering some words of support. Decided against it.

  Rink was never one to need it.

  “So, you and Sara...?” Drake started.

  His question was cut off by Rink pointing at a rusted metal mailbox. “Turn here.”

  Drake let it drop and turned in. Took his foot off the gas and allowed the truck to idle down a narrow two track lane.

  Branches pushed in tight from either side. Could be heard smacking against the truck.