by Mark Young
He assumed Creasy carried a gun.
Wyatt considered whether this man sensed what was about to happen. He’d made it very clear in the phone message he wanted Creasy to call, not just show up at the ranch. He lived alone here, but anyone might drive up. One of the neighbors. One of the hired hands he used to work the cattle.
He tossed the brush into a bucket at his feet, his hands finally free. Creasy watched him closely, a smile playing across his lips. Wyatt stood with his hands to his side, struggling to find some courage to finish this thing.
He played for time.
“A letter from that attorney arrived here warning me he’d scheduled a hearing in a few weeks. A complaint about me violating the terms of the water rights agreement.”
The other man shrugged. “Sounds like your problem, not mine.”
Wyatt clenched his fist. “If the cops start poking around and see this guy was filing a complaint against me … and they realize he turned up dead. Don’t you see? They’ll start suspecting me.”
“Again,” Creasy said, shifting his stance, “that’s your problem, not mine.”
The moment had come. He started to reach for the gun.
“Surprise,” Creasy yelled. Wyatt froze as he saw the man holding what looked like a gun. At least until he looked closer.
He stumbled backwards.
Wyatt saw an odd weapon in Creasy’s hand.
A second later a thousand volts of electricity struck his chest. As he lay jerking on the ground, his muscles twitching helplessly, he saw Creasy move forward. A moment later, Wyatt’s world turned to darkness.
Creasy slung the unconscious man over the back of the Appaloosa. Wyatt would be out for some time after the injection. He’d saddled up the horse to help him carry the load where he wanted to end this thing.
Let the beast do the work.
He found a trail leading to a mountain ridge above the ranch. It took about thirty minutes in the dark, flashlight in hand, for him to find the spot he sought. He used the time to mull over the connections between Wyatt and himself, intersections in their lives where investigators might put them together. He’d made contact with Wyatt after learning of the problem the rancher had with Tommy White Eagle. Disposable cell phones, purchased with false identification, had always been their communication link. And the money transfer — made to a third party account under an alias to an offshore account — had been moved several times since Wyatt wired the money. Each account — opened in countries where bank secrecy was sacrosanct — immediately closed after each transfer.
The cops were going to run into one blind alley after another.
He finally reached a spot overlooking the Selway River. He positioned the unconscious man with arms outstretched, palms up, and legs pushed together. He slowly withdrew a gun.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The first shot echoed through the valley, followed by two more blasts.
Brian Wyatt lay dead.
Chapter 39
Lochsa River, Idaho
Travis turned off the road and parked, engine running. He turned on the interior cab light and read the instructions once more. He’d passed Lowell a few miles back looking for a gravel road leading from Highway 12 up the mountainside. Frank said it was exactly five miles east of where the rivers merged.
The Lochsa River was a silver ribbon in the moonlight to his right. He studied his notes and flicked off the light. Nearly three hours after talking to Frank, here he was sitting in the dark trying to find Jessie’s cabin. “Well, Sam, I think the road is just ahead. How about I send you in first when we get there. Soften her up for me. Deal?”
Sam gave him a dog smile and a soft bark of understanding.
“Thanks, pal. You are man’s best friend.”
He found the turnout to the cabin a half mile further. The truck’s headlights swept the gravel road, a dense forest on each side. There were deep ruts and he had to drive slowly. Frank warned it would take some time to reach the cabin once Travis left the highway.
As he drove, Travis thought about Jessie — an enigma, a puzzling mystery he barely understood. Why was he drawn to her? She posed a threat to his way of life. And yet he could not shake her from his mind. Is this what a moth felt as it became drawn to a fire?
He’d grown accustomed to his purposefully sheltered world. It was safe, simple uncomplicated. Just himself and Sam. He’d managed to create a shield — a buffer from the rest of the world — by living alone, living in the cabin on the edge of nowhere.
Until she came barging into his life.
Jessie — enticing him into this murder investigation, into her life, into her world. Once again he found himself walking between the living and the dead.
He felt himself floundering. He knew very little about her. And she seemed angry at him most of the time, expecting more than he could offer. Yet Travis caught himself thinking about her when they were apart, replaying in his mind the few times they’d spent together, the way she looked at him.
Sam barked, yanking Travis back to the present. He saw a light cutting through the darkness, a yellowish beam gleaming through curtained windows. As he drew near, the shape of a cabin emerged in the headlights and he saw Jessie’s VW parked in front. He slid his truck alongside, killing the engine and flicking off the headlights. Darkness engulfed him.
He saw a crack of light as the door opened. Jessie walked out onto the porch, silhouetted by light from the cabin. He could not read her expression, the light behind her darkened Jessie’s face.
Oddly, he felt like an intruder. As he opened the driver’s door, Sam leaped over his lap with a bark and dashed toward Jessie. He saw her reach down and pat the dog. Good. Sam breaking the ice for him.
“I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.” He closed the door and leaned on the hood. “You mind?”
“Come on in.” Noncommittal, she turned and walked back into the cabin, Sam padding behind her. She left the door open.
A fire crackled and popped in the fireplace as he entered. It was a modest cabin, simpler that his own, but much neater. Two cots, one table, and two chairs comprised all the furnishings. The floors and walls built with planked pine, knotted and aging. Electricity was the only modern convenience. No water or bathroom that he could see.
“Very … rustic,” he said.
“Meets my needs,” Jessie said, standing with her back to the fireplace. “Sound familiar?”
He felt out of place. “I just wanted to see how you were doing before heading to my place. And you mentioned some information for me?”
“So this is really about the investigation. Right? Not how I’m doing.” Jessie challenged him from across the room. Was she angry?
“No. Seriously. I’m concerned about you. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay. That’s all.”
Her eyes searched his. “I don’t mean to come off like a ….” She stopped, wrapping her arms around herself. “It just seems like everything is setting me off right now. Tommy. The shots fired at us. And then I find out about the murders in California.”
He nodded. “I understand. Sorry about not telling you. You want to sit down and talk, or do you want me to go?”
She smiled. “No. Stay. We need to talk.”
For the first time, he noticed an easel in one corner of the room. He saw several paintings on the wall, and a cloth draped over a number of other canvases.
He sat down in one of the chairs and pointed toward the art work. “Whose paintings?”
She sank down the chair next to him. “How do you like ‘em?”
He eyed them for a moment, stood and walked over to one hanging above the fireplace that captured his attention. Two rivers meeting and becoming one. “Hey, I know where this is. Just below Three Rivers where you work. Right?”
She nodded.
It was as if he could walk inside that painting, as if the artist managed to capture nature in all its colors and subtleness. Breathtaking. “This is really good.�
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Jessie beamed. “Thanks. This is my work, Travis. This is what I live for.”
He looked at her, surprised. “I had no idea. I thought —”
“You thought what?” She laughed.
“I had no idea what a great artist you are. I’m impressed.”
“Nice save, Travis. You were going to say you had no idea I could do anything but shoot the rapids.”
“No, really. I guess I just …”
“Save yourself and leave it alone.” Still laughing, she patted her knee, drawing Sam’s attention. “Sam, tell your owner to keep his mouth closed. He’ll live longer that way.”
Travis settled back in the chair and gazed up at the painting. “I’d like to see your other stuff.”
“Later. We should talk. Tell me more about what happened in California.” Seriousness spread across her face, vanquishing her laughter.
Travis felt the mood in the room change. “I don’t know how much your father filled you in on everything.” He began to tell her about Kagan and Malloy and the murders in California. About his contact with John Ares. She let him talk, her face somber and attentive. As he spoke, he realized he had not shared like this with anyone before. It had all been locked inside. He found himself talking about more than facts of the case. He began sharing his thoughts and feelings, everything but what lie behind the case in California he walked away from years ago. He skirted the details around Michelle’s death. She sat and listened without interrupting.
Finally, he finished his monologue of painful history, all except the details that really hurt. In silence, he watched her staring into the fire. The crackle and pop of the wood resonated with warmth.
Finally, she stirred. Turning to look at him, Jessie said, “Tell me about Michelle Scarsbourgh.”
He felt himself tense, those words bringing back everything he’d fought to suppress. The look on her face told him that this was pivotal to their relationship. If their worlds were ever to co-exist, now was the time for honesty.
He took a deep breath and began.
Chapter 40
Lewiston, Idaho
Clay Lafata closed and locked his office door. The tiny FBI office offered a view of the Snake River and its confluence with the Clearwater. A boat blasted its horn a few hundred yards away. The vessel passed beneath a bridge — a steel connection between the two cites of Lewiston and Clarkston — as it churned a path on the Snake
He started walking toward the stairway. Frank White Eagle, with Tom Kagan and Beck Malloy tagging along, left Lafata’s office an hour ago for dinner. He promised to catch up with them for a beer. He could really use that drink. The murders of Kirkpatrick and Heard rocked his world, and the agent knew their killer might be coming his way.
Michelle Scarsbourgh.
He thought he’d heard the last of that name after the Bureau banished him to this border town office as payback for his mistakes. His biggest mistake — forcing Kirkpatrick and the others to send that woman back inside.
Michelle paid the price for Lafata failing to heed Travis’ warnings. Lafata used the chain of command to shelter himself from day-to-day operations. Quietly, he exerted pressure on those supervising the case when the need arose. The case was too important to the Bureau for Lafata to leave it unattended. Kirkpatrick passed on all the heat Travis generated about making that woman return to danger. But in the end, they forced Travis to walk that lamb to slaughter.
Travis never knew Lafata made that final decision. Until now.
In a way, Lafata regretted his harshness to Travis about the Tommy White Eagle case, but just seeing that man after all these years brought memories hurling back. Lafata’s failures, his disciplinary sentence, his humiliating transfer to this tiny office. Plummeting from the heights of the San Francisco office to this hick town on the edge of nowhere. If he’d been able to pull off that case without any screw-ups, he knew he was bound for D.C. He’d paid his dues, and knew that case — before Michelle was killed — would be the ticket to elevate him to a SAC into one of the major cities of his choice.
Special Agent in Charge.
Those dreams were over. Instead, he found himself chasing his tail here in these Idaho Mountains looking for another killer, his career as a mover and shaker only a memory. He knew what lie ahead. Someday soon, he would retire from this Podunk office knowing his lifetime of service and dreams would just float away like so much debris on the Snake River. They’d flush him from the Bureau and move on to the next bright star.
Lafata followed the sidewalk to the parking lot, pressing a button on his key chain. Lights from the bureau car he drove activated as well as a short chirp from the vehicle’s alarm system.
Lafata took two steps toward the car before his world ended.
Frank White Eagle, sitting across the dining table, started telling them a story about Travis learning to kayak the whitewaters. He saw Malloy flinch, then reach into his pocket to retrieve a cell phone.
Tom Kagan eyed Malloy. “Can’t you even take a break for dinner?”
“Look who’s talking,” he said, flipping the phone open. He covered one ear to block out restaurant noise as he raised the phone to listen.
Frank saw the agent’s face blanch, his eyes narrow and jaw clench. Malloy began speaking to the caller. “I’ll roll from here. Yeah. Yeah. I’ll handle it.” He pocketed the phone, his face grim.
Frank leaned forward. “What happened?”
Malloy glanced at both men. “A sniper just took out Lafata as he was leaving the office. Lewiston PD notified our communication center.”
Frank grabbed the check. He started to rise, then froze. “We got to get to Travis. He’ll be the next target.”
Kagan stood. “Where is he?”
“Up in the mountains with my daughter. No way to reach them by phone.”
Kagan slipped into his coat. “Malloy and I will head over to Lafata’s office, and you jam up to alert Travis. We’ll let you know what we find out.”
Frank nodded. “I’ll alert Idaho County SO, see if they can’t get a unit rolling.” He threw money on the table next to the bill and dashed for the door. He felt time was slipping from his grasp.
Every minute counted.
Chapter 41
Lochsa River, Idaho
Comforting light flickered from the fireplace as Travis struggled to tell his story. Jessie curled her legs underneath, luminous brown eyes kind and gentle as she listened intently.
The pain and hurt he suppressed all these years struggled to rise to the surface. He fought for control. “I received a telephone call from a woman who later identified herself as Michelle Scarsbourgh. I remember it was springtime, one of those perfect days. She asked if we could meet some place outside the police station. Wanted to pass on some information, but wouldn’t talk specifics over the phone. Sounded very mysterious.”
He clenched his fists, struggling to put into words how his own world crashed and burned. “I suggested we meet at a restaurant on the wharf in Bodega Bay, a little hamlet west of Santa Rosa. I started to tell her what I looked like. She stopped me, saying she already knew. Saw my picture in the newspaper a year ago for an award ceremony I attended. Some service club wanted to acknowledge me for a case I worked on. She’d read about the investigation and decided to contact me.”
He glanced down at Sam, lying on the floor sleeping. “We hit it off from the start,” he said, clasping hands together. “She was a CPA who’d been hired to keep books for a local businessman. Later, I came to understand he hired her for more than her accounting abilities. Michelle started recognizing irregularities in this guy’s accounts. Payments for products not ordered, payments to non-existing businesses, large transfer of funds to foreign accounts. In short, she’d stumbled upon a major money laundering operation with ties to one of the largest Mexican cartels. Funds derived from drug trafficking, illegal alien trafficking, and other criminal enterprises. A snake pit of criminal activity.”
“And Michelle found t
his out through the books?”
“Not at first. All the accounts were computerized. She came across another set of books that she was not supposed to see, and began to compare those financial records to those she was supposed to be keeping for the company. She suspected something was off. We started checking out the people involved, running backgrounds and surveillance, and slowly the story emerged. She became our inside contact.”
“That’s what got her killed?”
Travis hung his head. “I’m the reason she died.”
“You?”
“I talked her into going back into that hell hole.”
“What happened?”
He stood and grabbed a poker, stoking the fire. He laid another log on the blaze, watching it slowly catch fire. He sat down to face Jessie.
“She slipped us some of the business’s records on the QT and we ran it through a contact I had in the IRS. Those names and transactions started a federal chain reaction. We started getting hits on SARs from all over the country —”
“SARS?” She had a blank look.
“Suspicious Activity Reports. Banks are required to file SARs on any suspicious activities. After 9/11, the Patriot Act and other bank regulations fired up and put the banking industry under close scrutiny, forcing them to monitor and report all suspicious transactions of their clients.”
“Sounds pretty intense.”
“Right. But the banks learned quickly they had to pay attention. This was not like old times when the government pretty much looked the other way. Now the feds were deadly serious. Each suspicious transaction banks missed — a cool $10,000 per day for every day the transaction goes unreported. We’re talking millions of dollars in penalties. Anyway, the next thing I knew the entire federal government — U.S. Attorney’s Office, FBI, IRS, ICE — crawled all over us for information. Together, we formed a task force and launched an investigation into this company.”
