Revenge (A Travis Mays Novel)

by Mark Young

  “I’ve got to ask you, Frank. I heard you and Tommy argued a lot. Did things ever get physical between you and him?” He saw Frank’s hands clench, forearm muscles bulging.

  “You think I could have hurt my own son?” His voice, low and terse, sounded menacing.

  “I’ve got to ask, Frank. I know there was some conflict.”

  “Jessie tell you that? That I might’ve killed my son?” He sounded angry, hurt.

  “No. She didn’t say anything like that. Just mentioned you and Tommy argued a lot. About the casino, religion, stuff like that. Maybe there was something you two argued about that might shed light on what happened.” Travis knew he sounded lame. He dreaded raising this issue, but it needed to be dealt with now. Before Steele and the other others started poking around.

  Frank clenched his teeth, jaw muscles rippling. “You ever have kids, Travis?”

  “No.”

  “Since you are such an expert, let me tell you about parents. No matter how proud you are of your kids — someday, someway, somehow — they will do something that will disappoint you. Might even hurt you. Something that you know deep down will do them harm.”

  “Like working in a casino?”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. That’s just a symptom. I’m talking about what really makes someone tick. What does a person hold on to when everything is on a downward spiral?”

  “You mean religion? God?”

  Frank nodded, grasping the photo on the desk as if somehow this might connect him to the past. “Tommy was very strong willed. That’s what made him a good attorney. That’s also what made him a real pain. Like his old man.”

  “That sounds like a good thing. People might call it determination.”

  “Yeah,” Frank said, “Unless your direction has no purpose, no substance. Then, you can have all the determination in the world and still be headed nowhere.”

  “I take it you and Tommy traveled in different directions?”

  Frank tried to smile but the effort seemed to hurt. “Like two boxers at a prize fight. And we’d go at it over those differences. I said things I wish I could take back now. It only made him more bullheaded. Drew us further apart.”

  Travis shifted against the cabinet.

  “Now my boy is gone.” Anguish on the man’s face made Travis cringe. This father’s torment seemed to fill the room “To answer your question … No, I could never harm my son.”

  Travis focused on the darkness outside. The night seemed lighter. Moonlight sparkled on the river like flecks of diamonds cast upon black velvet.

  “I know you didn’t harm your son. We’ll find out who did.” He pushed off the cabinet. “Maybe we should get going.”

  Frank rose to his feet, still staring at the photo. He reverently picked it up, taking it with him as they walked toward the door.

  Outside, a chilly night made him draw his coat tighter. He heard an owl shrieking in the distance, lonely and haunting, a sound meant to startle prey down below.

  Frank trudged slowly toward his car, moving at a tired gait, shoulders hunched forward. “See you in the morning,” he said, without looking back after giving Travis directions to Pete Axtell’s trailer. “Get some shut-eye.”

  Travis waited until Frank drove off, listening to the night sounds around him. Again, he heard the owl’s call. It was as if the bird raised the very question troubling both men.

  Who? Who killed Tommy?

  Maybe tomorrow they’d find a clue.

  Chapter 12

  Selway River, Idaho

  The rider savagely kicked the Appaloosa on both flanks, whipping the horse’s blanketed white rump with the reins. Startled, the animal high-stepped into the swollen creek and clambered up the far bank. Once across, horse and rider followed a narrow game trail paralleling the rushing stream.

  Brian Wyatt swatted at a fly on his neck and leaned back in the saddle. Heat from the mid-afternoon sun seemed to fuel all his anger pent up inside.

  He glanced at the forest around him. For almost a century his family vigorously protected this land, an inheritance handed down through generations from father to son. Surrounded by the Bitterroot National Forest, his family faithfully sheltered these lands from civilization’s encroachment. All these years, they ruled and protected their ranch. Never giving an inch. Even when government agents came poking their noses into family business.

  Never giving into pressure. Almost a family motto. He must not break tradition.

  Water — and in particular, this creek — became the Achilles heel threatening everything his family worked toward. Today, everything depended upon who controlled this water. The government and other interests fought to pry control from Wyatt’s hands. In the distance, he saw where the Selway River joined the Lochsa further to the north. He felt like a king looking over his forested kingdom, a fiefdom threatened by invaders seeking to tear it from his grasp.

  Thieves armed with an agreement — a piece of paper government forced down his throat — between governmental entities, businesses and ranchers.

  And the Nez Perce tribe.

  Trouble arose over this very creek, whose water his family dammed years ago higher up in the mountains. And now, a project he’d slaved over for ten years was about to collapse because the government wanted him to release all that water.

  He kicked the horse in anger.

  Shifting in the saddle, he felt a crumbled brochure for the Three Rivers Development in his back pocket. Thousands had been printed and distributed to anyone interested in the development. Potential buyers were beginning to phone in, despite the plunging real estate market, to put their name on the list. And now, he and other investors anxiously waited for the county to give final approval. Unsettled water rights issues might kill the deal.

  A long ride should settle the fury that whirled around in his chest.

  Four hours later, Wyatt still seethed inside. He wheeled the horse around and rode toward the ranch house along the river. The sun set just as he reached the barn. He turned the horse loose in the corral, after pulling off the blanket and saddle, storing them in the tack room, and giving the animal a quick rub down.

  A red message light blinked on his phone as he entered the office. Pressing the play button, he listened to a gravelly voice giving him a call back number. He dialed, staring out the window.

  The same voice answered.

  Wyatt cleared his throat. “Got your message. What’s up?”

  “A slight complication. The cops are asking around about the … problem I took care of.”

  “Yeah. So? You were supposed to talk to the problem, not make him disappear.”

  The other man continued. “One guy’s father, Frank White Eagle, won’t let go. He’ll keep pushing until he gets some answers.”

  “Don’t give me any details. Not over the phone.” Wyatt’s voice rose. “You took this further than I wanted. Now fix it. Permanently.”

  “It won’t be traced back. You’ve got my word.”

  “Your word?” Wyatt struggled to control himself. “You already gave me your word this matter would be taken care of … quietly. Now the cops will be breathing down my neck because of your stupidity.”

  The voice coughed. “So what’d you want? An apology?”

  “What I want is for you to make this go away. And then for you to disappear.” Wyatt gripped the phone. He detested men like this one. An amoeba had more brain power than this moron. “And don’t call here again.”

  Wyatt slammed the receiver down. He hated incompetent people, especially when their failings came back to haunt him. Because of this man’s blunder, Wyatt’s neck might be stretched out by hangman’s noose. Here in Idaho, hanging was still an option in the courts for murder. He’d looked it up when the news came about Tommy White Eagle’s death. Just wanted to know how bad things might get if they caught him. Well, hanging was one of those options.

  Wyatt sat down heavily in a chair. It was too late to roll back the clock. To undo
what he had put in motion. He only meant to protect his family and the land. But now — he might lose everything. Even his life.

  Bitterly, he thought how this came to be. Uncle Sam gouging the family’s pocketbook year after year, demanding higher and higher taxes, while ranch income steadily declined.

  Their financial salvation depended upon this development.

  Now, a few protected fish jeopardized the entire project. The dammed up water — around which the entire development depended — allegedly obstructed natural migratory patterns of salmon and steelhead. They used terms like ‘destruction of natural habitat.’ Hah. His family toiled on this land and protected these natural habitats for decades. And now — when they really needed just a fraction of the land to keep things afloat — an agreement loomed in Wyatt’s face, hammered out by politically-influenced outsiders. An agreement that directly affected his family’s financial survival.

  He would make sure the family survived no matter the cost.

  Creasy replayed his conversation with Wyatt — made an hour ago — in his mind.

  So that arrogant rancher thinks I’m stupid.

  He’d learned long ago never to underestimate his enemy. Bitter experience taught him everyone became his enemy sooner or later. Only one person had been his friend, and that person lay six feet underground.

  Now he was all alone. He must kill those responsible. It was time for judgment. Time for them to pay for their sins. And he would become their executioner.

  Everyone has dirty little secrets. Those things they thought no one would ever find out about. They trusted him to help hide those secrets, always thinking they were smarter. That he would never find out the full extent of their secrets — but they were always wrong. He knew where everything lay buried. He made it his job to uncover these secrets. He chuckled to himself, thinking about all that money they paid to make them feel safe from exposure. Sooner or later, however, one of these mental midgets started thinking about what a threat he might become. Their little minds started clicking about ways to kill him. And when they got up enough nerve to whack him, they’d wound up in the grave alongside their own victims.

  One nasty circle of clients.

  Everyone underestimated his power. They never suspected he’d use all those secrets to gain his own objectives. To triumph in his own private war.

  Ignorantly, they’d paid him a lot of money to seek his own revenge. When all the dust settled, his masterpiece would become apparent to all. His life’s work. Like Creasy in the Man on Fire movie, he would ignite another man’s world with destruction. He’d become like that man in the movie — a lily-white Denzel Washington. Unlike the movie, though, he had no one else to save.

  This was all about vengeance and justice.

  Creasy slipped his cell phone into a pocket, watching two men leaving Tommy’s office. He already knew their identity. Travis Mayes. Frank White Eagle.

  He followed Travis home.

  Chapter 13

  Clearwater River west of Kooskia, Idaho

  “Travis.” Jessie’s voice carried across the rumbling of the river.

  He stepped out onto the porch and saw Jessie’s yellow bug parked behind his truck. She was standing on the far bank, hands cupped, shielding her eyes from the morning’s brilliance. Sam was at the river’s edge giving her a welcoming bark.

  “Hey, lazy bones. Breakfast on me. At Lowell’s?”

  He waved back. “Be there in a few.”

  Jessie scrambled up the bank and into her car. He watched until she drove out of sight. Reaching inside the doorway, he grabbed a coat and strode toward the cabled lift.

  Sam shot him an expectant look. “Not this time, boy. Stay here and guard the place.” The dog lowered his head, his wagging tail slowing to a twitch.

  Travis hoisted himself onto the platform. As the cable worked its way across the river, he watched the dog disappear among the trees. Glancing at his watch, he realized he must meet Frank at Axtell’s trailer in a couple hours. Thoughts of the case kept him tossing and turning most of the night. He was working on two hours sleep.

  Ten minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of the only restaurant in Lowell, a mountain hamlet kept alive by passing motorists. Population, thirteen people at last count. He saw Jessie standing, arms crossed, under a sign that read ‘Ryan’s Wilderness Inn.’

  Jessie smirked. “You city folk sure like to waste the day.”

  “Your dad kept me out late.” He locked the truck and strolled toward the entrance.

  Jessie pushed off the wall. “Well, you managed to miss the rush hour. I think we can find a vacant seat or two.”

  He followed her inside. A waist-high glass counter, just inside the entryway, supported a cash register and a rack of knickknacks, greeting cards, fishing gear, and maps. The dining room spread out to his right, and beyond that, another room — equipped with a pool table and bar stool — stood empty.

  A woman yelled from the kitchen, “Sit yourself down anywhere, Jess. Be with you in two shakes.”

  A couple of customers sat around a table in the middle of the room. A man in a black cowboy hat sat at the counter, his back to them. The man turned and glared at Jessie, eying her from head to foot with a scowl. He turned back to face the counter.

  Travis tapped her on the shoulder. “There’s only a dozen people in town. How can you have a rush hour?”

  “It’s all those out-of-towners like yourself coming in here. You never know whether you can find a table.”

  He glanced at all the empty tables. “Out of towners? I live ten minutes away.”

  “Like I said. Out-of-towners.”

  Jessie picked a window seat overlooking the highway. The one-story restaurant offered a view of Highway 12. Beyond the road, he saw the Three Rivers Rafting company on the far side of the Lochsa River, its campground filled with patrons. He slid into a seat across from her. “Any recommendations?”

  “Yeah, anything that’s available.” She glanced toward the river. “How’d it go last night?”

  He lowered the menu. “We didn’t fight. That’s a good thing, right?”

  “Anything interesting? Any leads?”

  He laid down the menu and carefully smoothed the paper mat out with his hand. “Your father found an entry on Tommy’s computer. Thought I’d ask you about it.”

  “Fire away.”

  He wrote Jessie re: Problem on a paper napkin and pushed it toward her. “Two days before he disappeared he typed this on his computer calendar. Do you know what this was about it?”

  Her jaw tightened as her hand clenched the napkin. A waitress leaned over them, placing two glasses of water on the table and pouring coffee without asking before pulling out an order form from her apron. “What’ll it be sweetie?” She glanced at Travis. “And who’s this? Prince Charming?”

  Jessie seemed flustered. “Huh, oh, … Becky. This is Travis, he’s a friend.”

  A crestfallen look leaped across Becky’s face as she quickly grasped Jessie’s arm. “Oh, hon’, I just realized. Heard about Tommy. I’m sooo sorry.” She lodged a pencil behind her ear. “What’s the matter with me. I must have walked off and left my brains at home.” She leaned over and gave Jessie a hug.

  Jessie seemed to be fighting back tears. “Thanks.”

  Travis gave the waitress a smile. “Good to meet you.” He looked toward Jessie. “Maybe we ought to wait to order?”

  Jessie took a deep breath. “No, go ahead. I’ll take the usual.”

  He watched Becky return to the kitchen with their orders.

  Jessie took a drink of water, slowly lowering the glass. “This has nothing to do with Tommy getting killed.” She shoved the napkin in his direction. “I’d rather not go into it.”

  Travis sipped his coffee before responding. “This is a homicide investigation, Jessie. Everything’s going to be gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Everything.” He paused, giving his words emphasis. “The FBI will be searching Tommy’s office today or tomorrow.
They’ll see that entry and come knocking on your door. Count on it.”

  She rolled the edge of the paper placemat in her fingers. “I don’t want Dad to know.” Her eyes searched his, pleading.

  “I’ll try. But at some point he’s going to find out.”

  Becky bustled toward the cash register where a man stood waiting. She and the customer started chatting.

  The man in the cowboy hat rose, tossed money on the counter, slowly turning to face them again. His gaze seemed fixated on Jessie, a look of hate. He spit on the floor as if ridding himself of something foul-tasting and stalked toward the door, still staring at Jessie. “They let anyone in here,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Travis clenched his fist and started to rise.

  Jessie reached over, gently grasping his arm. “Let it go, Travis. He’s not worth it.”

  He sat down, fuming. “I hate racists.”

  She gave him a faint smile. “I’ve learned to ignore them Travis. My dad calls it ‘turning the other cheek.’ They have to live with themselves. I choose to rise above it.”

  “You’re stronger than I am,” he said, watching the man stroll across the parking lot. He turned and pointed to the note he wrote on the napkin. “Let’s get back to this.”

  Jessie pulled back her hand. Eyeing it, she said, “Tommy helped me with a … situation.” She glanced toward the cash register.

  Travis heard Becky flirting with the customer behind his back. He remained focused on Jessie.

  Downcast, she continued. “Joseph Baptiste — the officer you met a couple weeks ago — and I used to see each other.”

  “You mean …”

  She nodded, eying him. “Dad never knew. I tried to keep it a secret. The relationship is not something I’m proud of. It just happened.”

  “Why was Tommy involved?”

  Her eyes lowered once more. She poured more cream into her coffee, picked up a spoon and slowly stirred. “Joseph is a macho kind of guy. Tried to carry it over into our relationship but I wouldn’t put up with it.”

  “Did he abuse you?”