Revenge (A Travis Mays Novel)

by Mark Young

  Kagan nodded. “Can’t get it out of my blood. And you — a professor? Never would have figured.”

  Travis shrugged, glancing over at the other man he did not recognize. “What brings you up to my neck of the woods?”

  Tom’s smile disappeared. “I’ll let you get comfortable before we get into it. This is Special Agent Beck Malloy with the FBI.” The man was tall, dark, sporting an over-the-collar haircut J. Edgar Hoover never would have approved. Malloy shook his hand.

  Travis circled around and sat behind his desk, watching as the others settled in. “Okay, give it to me straight, Tom.”

  “To be blunt, Travis, I think someone might try to kill you.”

  Again, his stomach tightened. “Right to the point. I like that.”

  Kagan studied him for a moment before continuing. “We’ve had two murders in Santa Rosa within days of each other. I think they’re connected.”

  “Connected how?”

  “You worked with both men. The first victim was Steve Kirkpatrick, that AUSA down in the city.”

  “Yeah, I knew Steve. We worked together on several cases.”

  Kagan nodded. “The other victim was one of our own. Tim Heard.”

  “Tim murdered? How?”

  “Sniper. Same caliber, same M.O. Hit both of them from a distance. No witnesses. No evidence to speak of.”

  “You handling the investigation?”

  Kagan shook his head. “Not at first. But now, since we see the connection, they’ve thrown both cases on my desk.”

  Travis glanced toward Malloy. “And the FBI?”

  Kagan and the agent exchanged looks. “We cross-indexed everyone working with Heard and Kirkpatrick over the years,” Kagan said. “Your name kept popping up.”

  “You already told me that.”

  Kagan leaned forward. “I understand you’ve been loaned out to work on a homicide case in Idaho? A Tommy White Eagle?”

  He frowned, nodding.

  “And one of the people involved in that investigation is Special Agent Lafata, right?”

  Travis looked from Kagan to Malloy. “Yeah, Lafata’s involved. What’s this got to do with your investigations?”

  “You may not know this, Travis, but you and the two victims worked together. Lafata supervised bureau agents working on that last case you worked. The one where a witness was murdered.”

  “Lafata was a supervisor?”

  Malloy shifted in his chair. “Yep. He never interacted with the investigators in the field, but he monitored the case and worked directly with Kirkpatrick. His name didn’t come up on the radar until we cross referenced all the names and Michelle Scarsbourgh. Then bells and whistles started going off.”

  Travis slammed his open palm on the desk. “I knew I’d seen him somewhere. We had a meeting once in the federal building in San Francisco. Everyone remotely involved in that case showed up. All the locals, prosecutors, FBI and a number of other federal agencies. Lafata was in that meeting, but he never spoke.”

  Malloy leaned back. “Not his style. He’d rather sit back and pull everyone’s chain. At least until the Scarsbourgh case.”

  Angry, Travis tried to slow his breathing. “What do you mean?”

  “When that woman turned up dead, Lafata took a lot of heat from Washington and the SAC for pushing the case and endangering a witness. For forcing Kirkpatrick to send that women back in to get more evidence.”

  “Lafata was the one who made that call?”

  Malloy nodded. “And that’s why he got transferred to Idaho. A disciplinary move. He screwed up several other times before, and losing that witness was the last straw for the bureau.”

  “So why did the FBI send you up here?” Travis said, staring at Malloy.

  The agent glanced at Kagan before answering. “I don’t work out of California, Travis. I … work out of Washington D.C. On special assignments.”

  Travis saw the two men exchange glances. “Are you the man Kagan worked with on that conspiracy case a few years ago? Those white supremacists traveling around the country robbing armored cars?”

  “That’s where Kagan and I first crossed paths. Since then, we’ve kept in touch. When Tom came across the connection to Lafata, he gave me a call. D.C. sent me out here to investigate.”

  “You think Lafata’s dirty?”

  “Whoa there, professor,” Malloy said. “It’s one thing to make a bad call and get transferred. It’s quite another to say an agent is dirty. All we know is two men connected to the Scarsbourgh case have been murdered, and you and Lafata are on the short list. You both may be the next targets.”

  Malloy stood up. “I’m up here to make sure both of you stay alive until I can figure out what’s going on.”

  Kagan leaned toward the desk. “And I’m here to try to solve these murders and to make sure you knew what’s happening. Unless something new comes up, I’ll be heading back to California after we meet with Lafata.”

  “Not until I buy dinner for you guys. Let me grab a coat and we’re out of here.”

  Chapter 37

  Palouse, Washington

  Travis’ watch showed 10 p.m. as he drove down Main Street in Palouse. He made a left hand turn onto I Street, his house a few blocks up the hillside. As he drove into the driveway, he heard Sam barking from the backyard — sounds of a half-wild dog, used to running free all day through the national forest. The dog hated to be fenced in. His bark was a canine’s way of scolding Travis for abandoning him.

  Travis knew how Sam felt.

  He carried a large cardboard box inside, filled with information Ares dumped on him at the last meeting, and set it on the kitchen table. He continued on through the house until he got to the back door. He unlocked it and the door slammed open as Sam bounded in, the dog’s tail signaling forgiveness.

  He opened a can of dog food, dumping its contents on a bed of dried kibble. As the dog chomped down dinner, Travis sat down at the kitchen table and began sorting through the files. He tried to concentrate on the documents, trying to work his way through the information as quickly as possible. He hoped to be headed back to Idaho sometime tomorrow.

  Thoughts of the two murders in Santa Rosa kept imposing themselves on him. He tried to make sense of Lafata’s connection to this whole mess. Pieces to the puzzle floated in his head but he couldn’t force them together to form a cohesive pattern.

  Other questions vied for attention.

  The sniper shooting at them outside Frank’s office — related? Who was the shooter aiming at? Based on the two killings in California, the sniper in those murders appeared to be a good shot. The shooter in Lapwai missed. Intentional?

  He thought of the weapons at his cabin. Since leaving SRPD, he still felt undressed when he was not wearing a weapon strapped to his belt. Now, he wished he’d followed up on getting a concealed weapons permit here in the Pacific Northwest. At the time, he thought those days of having to pack a weapon were behind him. Teaching was not that dangerous. Maybe he’d get Frank to deputize him and authorize a CCW so he might carry a concealed weapon. He glanced at his watch, thinking about Frank and Jessie. He picked up the phone and dialed the number where Jessie was staying.

  An unknown woman’s voice came over the line.

  “This is Travis Mays. I was trying to reach Jessie White Eagle.”

  “Just a moment.”

  Jessie’s voice filled his ear. “Travis?”

  “Hey, finally caught up to you. Where you been hiding?”

  “I’m not going to sit around waiting for you guys to call. I do have a life.”

  “You didn’t go back to Three Rivers, did you?” That would be the first place the killer might check.

  “Noooo. They let me take a few days off.” She sounded exasperated. “I took care of a few things. Why the third degree?”

  “I’m just concerned. Tried to reach you several times but no one answered.” He waited for a response. Only silence. “Have you heard from your dad?”

  “N
o.” Again, silence. Finally, she spoke. “Where are you calling from?”

  “My place in Palouse. Just finishing up with school business. If everything goes well, I’ll be back at the cabin tomorrow night.” He thought of telling her about the murders in Santa Rosa and Lafata’s connection, but decided he’d keep his mouth shut. No point giving her more to worry about.

  “Let me know when you’re back in the area. I … I have a little information for you.”

  “Can you tell me now?”

  “It’ll wait. See you when you get here.” He listened to the disconnect tone humming in his ear. He dialed Frank’s number and heard the man’s voice after the first ring.

  “Hey, how’s it going, professor?”

  “Not well, Frank.” He laid out the information Tom Kagan and Beck Malloy divulged that afternoon. “This thing with Lafata has me stumped.”

  “That’s a puzzler, for sure.”

  Travis saw Sam had finished his meal and curled up under the table, lying across Travis’ feet. “Lafata was the one who gave you the background on me in California?”

  “Yeah. But he never mentioned he’d worked with you.”

  “To be accurate, we never directly worked together. But he should have at least acknowledged we were connected to the same case. Instead, he just kept hinting at my past. Never telling me anything.”

  “Lafata’s a different kind of bird.”

  “Yeah. I keep wondering if he’s some kind of crook. I can’t bring myself to trust him.”

  “Trust is something to be earned.”

  Sam stirred at his feet.

  He wondered if Frank might be aiming that statement at him. “Just wanted to pass on what I learned today. See if it made any sense to you. I should be back at the cabin tomorrow night.”

  “Good. We’ll dive into this when you get here. Until then, watch your back.”

  Watch his back. He knew from SWAT training that if a sniper zeroed in on your back it was all over. He’d never see it coming.

  He hung up the phone and returned to the files.

  Six hours later, a glow to the east announced a new day approaching. The dawn light made him feel tired as he finished reading the last document. He made a few final notes before packing up the material.

  He’d finish this in his office, make a few calls, and wrap this thing up by noon.

  The dog rose and looked up expectantly. “Come on, Sam. Time to go to school.” To heck with McPeters. He’d sneak Sam in the back way and hide him in the office. They’d start for the cabin right from school and save an hour’s traveling time.

  A man sauntered from the Palouse Market on Main Street and watched the truck roll by. A man and his dog. How country. He recognized Travis Mays as the driver. He sipped a cup of fresh-brewed coffee, watching the truck continue west until it stopped at Division Street. The driver signaled a left-hand turn, turned and disappeared from sight.

  No hurry. He knew where to find his target. He’d finish this coffee and then continue the surveillance.

  The coffee drinker slid into the driver’s side of the van and began following the same route taken by Travis. South on Highway 27 to Pullman and left on Stadium Way to the campus. He was beginning to know this area pretty well. The stop at the restaurant last night — watching the cop from Santa Rosa and the fed dining with Travis — made for an interesting evening.

  He’d let his boss know the details about those dinner guests and Travis’ telephone conversations later. He found the connection to California very interesting, a fact he suspected the boss already knew. But he must pass on everything and let the man use what he wanted.

  Creasy always did.

  Chapter 38

  Selway River, Idaho

  Sweat made Brian Wyatt’s undershirt cling to his chest. He fingered a handgun lying on his lap. He never thought of killing a man before tonight. All that was about to change. One pull of the trigger and his problem would die.

  The cops couldn’t prove anything. Another hunting accident in the woods. An unidentified shooter leaving the body behind in a national forest. He’d mulled the plan over ever since the letter came warning him of the pending hearing. He must make this problem go away before investigators made the man talk.

  Once this man — this problem Wyatt needed to take care of — slipped and called himself Creasy. Odd name. Creasy talked about himself in the third person. Wyatt guessed all killers were a little loose in the head.

  Dampness from the sweat made him think about changing his shirt. Creasy might sense fear in Wyatt, somehow smell an odor of fear drenching his clothing. No. Only animals really seem to alert to fear. They either smelled or sensed it, like horses knowing when they carry fearful riders. Maybe people somehow telegraph it by the way they sit, or the way they jerk on the reins, or sit in the saddle. Or that they intended to kill another person.

  Creasy was not an animal. Just a killer.

  This letter, lying on his desk, came to Wyatt from the hands of a dead man. As if the murdered man lie taunting him from the grave. A blasted hearing to determine whether his family violated waterways to the Selway. As if the government — and the Nez Perce, for that matter — had any business telling his family how to use their own land.

  He remembered a state park ranger mistakenly wandering onto their property when he was a boy. His father damned the creek into a small lake, then stocked the pond with fish considered endangered. The man told his dad they’d have to tear the dam down. His dad pointed a rifle at the ranger and told him to stay off his land and never return.

  He laughed as he recalled the ranger scrambling out of sight. The man never filed a complaint and never came back to make sure dad complied. The pond still remained. Now, this letter arrived and threatened everything. The development, the draw to the area, the whole project.

  Years after his father passed away, he’d arranged for someone else to forcibly protect the same lake with armed force. Now he’d use a gun to take care of the threat against himself. The problem still remained.

  Water rights. Or lack thereof.

  He slowly gripped the phone and called the number he’d been given. The call switched over to a message machine. “We need to meet immediately. A problem developed. I’ll explain it face to face. Call me at this number. I’ll be waiting.”

  He killed the connection.

  Wyatt slipped the gun into a shoulder holster and pulled on his coat to hide the weapon. He’d take care of some chores until Creasy called.

  Travis was getting a late start on his way to the mountains. Everything at WSU took longer than he anticipated. Before leaving Pullman, Travis tried the phone number where Jessie was staying. Lisa Penney answered, telling him Jessie was heading up to her own cabin.

  “Jessie has a cabin?” he asked. “Where is it?”

  “She needs to be alone,” Lisa said, refusing to tell him its location.

  A phone call to Frank got him that information. Frank sounded worried. “She dropped by my place on her way to the cabin. I told her about the murders down in Santa Rosa and the connection to Lafata.”

  “I wish you hadn’t done that, Frank.”

  He heard the other man breathing hard. “Travis, she was quite upset you failed to mention it to her when you called. I think she’s feeling left out, and she’s taking Tommy’s death hard. It might be good for you to check in with her.”

  Travis hung up and finished boxing up the files for Ares. “Come on, Sam. Let’s get this delivered and get out of town.”

  The dog wagged his tail in excitement, tired of being cooped up in Travis’ office all day. Ares was still on campus, and accepted Travis’ intelligence information with enthusiasm. “Man, this’ll help tremendously. We’ll be in touch.”

  Travis hit the road fifteen minutes later. As he left the city behind, he wondered what he faced on the other end. Maybe he should have told Jessie everything, but now it was too late. Beside, it was not his style to reveal everything that turned up. He’d neve
r worked that way in the past, and he wasn’t about to change.

  Not even for Jessie.

  The mountains turned a deep purple as the sun settled beyond the horizon. He flicked on his headlights, and leaned back for a long drive. Sam sat attentively on the passenger side, head sticking out the window.

  “Well, boy. Is she going to play nice when we get there or do I need to dive for cover. Speak up, dog. She likes you. Put in a good word for me, okay pal?”

  Sam looked at him with a canine’s desire to please. If only the dog understood.

  Travis turned his attention to the road. Trouble or not, he realized he was looking forward to seeing her once again. Even when she was a pain in the butt.

  A smoky dusk darkened the mountains by the time Wyatt finished chores. He’d checked for messages several times throughout the afternoon. No one called. Creasy always returned Wyatt’s calls in the past. Maybe Creasy felt less inclined to call now that Wyatt transferred the money into the killer’s offshore account.

  Wyatt returned to the barn and began currying the Appaloosa. Brushing the horse seemed to calm his own nerves. He felt the bulge under his coat, near his armpit. The gun gave him a safe feeling.

  He stroked the horse with his left hand while his right hand rhythmically brushed the hide. He saw the horse’s ears raise a moment before he heard Creasy’s voice.

  “Here I am Wyatt.”

  Creasy stood in the doorway to the paddock, hands crossed, a heavy coat opened in front.

  Wyatt felt the gun under his coat, pressing against his skin. A long way to reach with Creasy facing him a few yards away. “You came here? I … I thought we’d meet somewhere —”

  “Where people might see us? Don’t be stupid.”

  “No. I meant somewhere quiet where we could talk alone.”

  Creasy glanced around the barn. “The only ones listening to our conversation are the animals. We are alone. So … start talking.”

  Wyatt fought the urge to reach for his weapon. He wondered if he’d be able to move fast enough to kill. Fast enough to pull the trigger and watch his problem crumple to the ground.