“Three guys, all of them racist Rambo wannabes. Two are in prison, one’s holed up in a fortified hollow in the mountains. One of the jailbirds is released, and two weeks later, the other one busts out. And a few days after that, the mountain man’s murdered, and his shed full of weapons and bomb-making ingredients gets cleaned out.”
I heard a ruminative grunt. “Meffert here. Let me see if I follow you, Agent Kidder. You thinking Satterfield busted out of prison to team up with Stubbs? Start some kind of race war?”
“Could be,” Kidder said. “But these Far Right nuts are always talking big about race war. Never quite happens, but they keep hoping. They could be starting a new militia group. Lotta those folks are pissed off by the way that latest Bundy thing turned out—the takeover of that wildlife refuge out in Oregon. I don’t know what these guys are up to, but I do think the timing is important. Satterfield never made an escape attempt in more than twenty years—is that right, Agent Meffert?”
“That’s right,” said Bubba.
“But then, two weeks after his buddy gets out, bam! Satterfield busts a move.”
“Could be. Oh, sorry—Steve Morgan, TBI. But then what about Shiflett? You think Satterfield and Stubbs turned on him? Why would they kill their buddy?”
“Decker, KPD SWAT team. Maybe they wanted some of his stash, and he didn’t want to share. Maybe they wanted to blow up a black church, and he got cold feet. Wouldn’t be the first time bad guys turned on one another.”
“This is Dr. Brockton,” I chimed in. “Shiflett had his driveway monitored, and he’d booby-trapped the gate, with a shotgun rigged to a trip wire. And he died of a broken neck.”
“Go on, Dr. Brockton,” Price nudged. “Connect those dots.”
“Shiflett was killed by somebody standing right behind him. Somebody he knew and trusted. Somebody he let in. The killer was strong, and he’d been trained to kill. Could’ve been either Satterfield or Stubbs. Or both.”
“No, it couldn’t. This is Brubaker, by the way.”
“Couldn’t what, Pete?” asked Price. “Couldn’t be both? Couldn’t be either—as in somebody else altogether?”
“I’m saying it was Satterfield. Only Satterfield.”
“Why?” Price persisted.
“Because Shiflett stole Satterfield’s prize possession.”
“This is one very confused Meffert here. Stole what?”
“You told us yourself, Agent Meffert,” said Brubaker. “Satterfield comes up with the perfect way to get revenge on Dr. Brockton. Chain him to a tree, torture him, feed him to a bear. But then Satterfield makes a mistake. He brags about his bright idea to his buddies, and then one of the buddies—Shiflett, the dumb shit—has the nerve to use the idea himself. Squanders the brilliant, magnificent plan on some pissant little foreign kid. Steals the precious gem that Satterfield spent twenty long years honing and polishing. To someone like Satterfield, that’s unforgivable. A killing offense.”
“Meffert here. Brubaker, you’d’ve made one hell of a preacher,” Bubba said.
“How’s that?”
“’Cause right now, you’re makin’ a believer out of me.” I heard Meffert breathe deeply. “Well, shit, folks,” he said. “I guess I got to pay a call on the charming Mr. Stubbs now. And I guess I’d best take a bit of backup with me, in case he’s keepin’ bad company.”
CHAPTER 31
STILL RATTLED BY THE CONFERENCE CALL— especially by Brubaker’s reminder of how implacably Satterfield hated me—I decided to stretch my legs and get some air. Peggy gave me a searching look as I passed her desk, but I waved her off. “I’ll be right back,” I said. “I just need some air.” Ducking into the stairwell, I headed down to the bone lab. Just as I reached the door, I heard what could have been a war cry from one of my Arikara Indians, if my Arikara had not all been dead. The whoop was followed by a “Yes! Hell, yes!” in what seemed to be Miranda’s voice. On drugs. Specifically, the drug called ecstasy.
Peering through the small window in the door, I saw my assistant jumping and waving her arms, in the exuberant, awkward combination of movements she called her Happy Dance. She capped the dance with a series of exaggerated pelvic thrusts, which I devoutly wished I had not witnessed. When I opened the door, the metallic rasp caught her attention and she looked in my direction, frozen, her hips still thrust forward. “Keep it down,” I said. “Some of us are trying to nap.” I waved a hand vaguely in the direction of her contorted torso. “By the way, a chiropractor might be able to help you with that.”
Straightening up and rushing to me, she flung her arms around my neck. “I got it, Dr. B! I got it!”
“Can you get rid of it? A double dose of antibiotics, perhaps?”
“I got it,” she repeated, unwinding herself and stepping back. “The FBI job!”
“Miranda, that’s . . . great,” I said, wishing I felt as happy as I was supposed to. “Congratulations!”
“It was your phone call, or e-mail—or whatever it was you did or said or sent that you keep pretending you didn’t. I’m sure that’s what tipped the scales. So thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. Me and my big mouth, I thought. “When do they want you to start?”
“January second—two months! Can you believe it?”
“Of course I can believe it. They’re lucky to get you.”
She gave a slight frown. “There’s one condition attached to the offer. It’s contingent on my finishing my Ph.D.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Inter-esting. And how much did you say you’ll be depositing in my Cayman Islands account, the day you defend your dissertation?”
She raised not one but both middle fingers at me. And both corners of her mouth, in the biggest smile I’d ever seen.
“ONE MOMENT, DR. BROCKTON,” SAID THE PROVOST’S secretary. “He just walked in. I’ll transfer your call now.”
I heard a double beep, followed by the electronic ring tone and then by the provost’s voice. “Hello, Dr. Brockton,” he said coolly. It had been years since he’d addressed me so formally. “Looks like you’ve been trying to reach me for quite a while—I see half a dozen notes on my desk saying you called.” He paused briefly. “All of them within the last thirty minutes. Is there a crisis in Anthropology?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. My graduate assistant has a job offer from the FBI Laboratory.”
“Well, I can understand how that might throw you for a loop,” he said with exaggerated cheerfulness, “job offers in anthropology being virtually nonexistent.”
“Not funny,” I snapped. “This is the best Ph.D. candidate we’ve ever had. She’s a huge asset to our forensic program. She runs the osteology lab and the Body Farm donor program. I don’t want to lose her.”
“Then don’t. Put her on staff. A lab tech or instructor or something.”
“Won’t work,” I said. “I’ve got to be able to offer her a tenure-track job.”
“You can’t. UT policy is very clear on that. We don’t hire our own Ph.D.s—not until they’ve held a tenure-track position at another university first.”
“I need an exception to the policy,” I said. The phone went dead. “Hello?”
“I’m still here,” he said. “I’m just thinking about this. Let me see if I have this right. You’re asking us to trample on a policy that’s crucial to our academic strength and integrity . . .”
“Well, I wouldn’t necessarily call it ‘trample’—” I began.
“I would,” he snapped. “And yet you don’t want to do this institution the simple courtesy of showing up to accept an award, at a ceremony that would be a big boost to our reputation?”
“Oh, come on,” I protested. “You’ve got to help me out.”
“No,” he said. “Actually, I don’t.”
And then the phone went dead for real. The university provost—my dean’s boss; my boss’s boss—had just hung up, ending the call, and ending my hopes.
CHAPT
ER 32
IT MUST BE STRANGE TO BE MY NEIGHBORS thought. At the end of my driveway, where I’d ambled to pick up the morning paper, I waved at the FBI agent in the black sedan that was parked across the street. He raised an index finger an inch off the steering wheel—an extravagant gesture, in my experience with these guys—and I considered pushing my luck and striking up a chat.
To give the agents their due, most mornings—weekdays—I was in my truck when I picked up the latest edition of the News-Sentinel. Pausing at the end of the driveway, I would open the door, lean out—hanging practically upside down to snag the paper, like some modern-day cowboy leaning from his saddle—and snag the plastic bag, giving it a vigorous shake to remove most of the morning’s dew before straightening up, tossing the paper on the passenger seat, and closing the door. Then I would turn onto my street, make my way to Cherokee Boulevard, and wind along the foggy Tennessee River, an FBI car behind me, as the street curved uphill, away from the water, and toward the main artery of Kingston Pike. A mile east on Kingston Pike, I’d take a right onto Neyland Drive, following the river once more, wondering if the agent behind me was able to take in the beauty of the wispy fog spooling downstream, the herons wading and flying along the shore, the occasional tree trunk gliding along like some ghost ship or botanical submarine, its periscopic branches peering out from the secret emerald depths.
But today was Saturday, so I did not need to head to campus at daybreak. Today, I could relax at home—not that relaxing was something that came easily these days. And not that being at home was any great treat, either. Home was merely where I slept—or where I mostly failed to sleep, these days.
Today’s newspaper was half buried in the leaves—maples, mainly, though with a fair number of tulip poplar and a smattering of Bradford pear—that had accumulated over the past several weeks. The leaves had gotten so deep that it was difficult to tell where my driveway left off and my lawn began. It must be annoying to be my neighbors, I amended. I glanced skyward, saw abundant blue through the scattering of stubborn leaves still clinging to branches. The day was bright and crisp; cool, but not cold. A perfect day to rake.
I ventured across the street, approaching the unmarked car that screamed “law enforcement,” and the tinted window slid down. “Good morning,” I said.
“Morning,” replied the agent, a clean-cut, close-cropped, strapping young man I didn’t recognize.
“I’m Bill Brockton,” I said, offering my hand.
“Travis Joyner,” he said, reaching across his chest to give me the requisite manly vise grip.
“Thank you for watching my back,” I said. “My front and sides, too. I suspect this isn’t the most interesting assignment, but I appreciate you.”
“All part of the job,” he said, a study in politeness and impenetrability, as if his personality was wearing reflective sunglasses.
“Can I bring you anything? Coffee? Tea? A bowl of oatmeal?”
“No, sir, I’m fine. Thanks just the same.”
“Well, if you need anything—water, a restroom, whatever—just knock.”
“Thank you. I’ll be fine.”
So y’all are trained to hold your pee? I considered asking, but he didn’t strike me as a guy who’d see the humor in the question. “All right, then. Oh, I’m thinking about raking up some of these leaves, so the city doesn’t decide my property’s abandoned. That’s okay, right? It’s not a big risk for me to rake leaves, is it?”
“Rake away,” he said. “You just pretend I’m not here.”
“Right. Of course. I didn’t even know it was you till you rolled down the window. Have a good one.”
I turned back toward the leaf-covered driveway—I knew it lay just to the left of the mailbox—and I noticed that the mailbox was open, and a large manila envelope was curled inside. Strange: I had collected Friday’s mail when I arrived home that evening, and it was far too early for the Saturday mail delivery. I pulled the envelope from the mailbox and looked it over. No return address; no address of any kind, in fact, not even mine. I felt a surge of fear—I’d once received a sinister missive from Satterfield in this way—but I fought back, scolding myself for being paranoid.
I strolled back to the FBI agent’s sedan, and the window slid down again. “Agent Joyner, did you see who dropped this off?”
He nodded. “A kid on a skateboard—nine or ten, maybe. Friendly. Waved at me, but didn’t talk. Turned at that next corner.”
I felt relieved. Something from a neighbor, then—an American Cancer Society fund-raising packet? A sheaf of petitions protesting my lackadaisical lawn care? It wasn’t even sealed; simply held closed by the two thin tabs of the metal clasp, like the delicate wings of a damsel fly. I folded them upward, side by side—wing to wing—and raised the envelope’s flap.
Inside was a quarter-inch sheaf of papers. Photographs. I smiled as soon as I saw the first one: Tyler on the soccer field, his right leg extended in a powerful kick, the ball—distorted by the kick and blurred by speed—streaking out of one corner of the frame. The second one, of Walker, was fun but not remarkable; it showed him behind the wheel of their minivan, leaning out the open window, checking the half inch of clearance between the vehicle and the mailbox. The third one showed Jenny, kneeling in the yard, her face intent as she planted pansies along their front sidewalk.
I took out my cell phone and called Jeff. “Hey, thanks for the pictures,” I said when he answered. “But who was the delivery boy?”
“What pictures?”
“This packet of pictures in my mailbox,” I said. “The boys and Jenny. They’re from you, right?” His silence spoke volumes, and every page of every volume terrified me. “They’re not from you,” I said, needlessly. Cradling the phone with my shoulder, I began leafing through the pictures, and with each picture—each increasingly intimate, invasive, voyeuristic image—I felt my revulsion and panic rising. As I neared the bottom of the sheaf, I came to a series that showed each member of my family in close-up, and on each face was superimposed the crosshairs of a rifle scope. The final four images were identical, with one addition: each face was smeared with what appeared to be blood.
“Dad? Dad!” Faintly, from far away, I heard Jeff shouting, his voice tinny and distorted by the cell phone’s minuscule speaker.
“Y’all keep together, Jeff,” I told him. “Stay close to home. Tell your security detail that Satterfield’s circling. I’ll call Price, tell her we need reinforcements.”
“Shit,” he said. “Shit shit shit.”
My sentiments exactly.
CHAPTER 33
WHEN IT RAINS, SOMETIMES IT ONLY POURS. SOMETIMES, though, you need an ark.
“Doc, it’s Bubba,” Meffert’s voice drawled in my ear. “How’s it going?”
“Been better, Bubba. I just found out that Satterfield’s stalking my family.”
A pause. “Damn, Doc. I’m sorry to hear that. Really, really sorry. You got security?”
“Some. Not enough. I just got off the phone with Agent Price, at the FBI. I’ve asked her to assign more agents to us, but I’m not sure she can. Meanwhile, it feels like we’re swimming around in a fishbowl while a hungry tiger circles, planning his menu.” I desperately wanted to change the subject. “How’re you doing? Better news on your end, I hope?”
“It’s been an interesting twenty-four hours,” he said. “But ‘better’? I wouldn’t necessarily put it that way.”
“Crap,” I said. “Spill it, Bubba. What’s happening?”
“Tilden Stubbs is dead. Single gunshot to the head. Could be suicide, could be homicide.”
“Christ. Time of death?”
“Judging by the stink and the bugs, it’s been a while. The M.E. called in an entomologist to look at the maggots, figure out how long ago they hatched.”
“What’d he say?”
“She, actually. She took some samples back to her lab—some alive and wiggling, some that she put in a kill jar—”
“Sounds lik
e she knows what she’s doing,” I said. “She’ll study the dead ones under a microscope to get a better idea how developed they are, and she’ll let the live ones complete their life cycle and pupate into adult flies. That helps pin down how long ago they hatched from eggs. Generally, it takes about fourteen days to go from egg to fly.”
“Yeah, that’s just about how she explained it, too,” he said. “Based on her first look, she thinks he was killed five to seven days ago.”
I did some quick math. “Right about the time Shiflett was killed. That doesn’t shed much light.”
“Try this,” said Meffert. “Satterfield kills Shiflett for stealing his idea about the bear—I think Brubaker’s right about that—and then Stubbs finds out about the murder. Stubbs feels guilty—after all, he’s the one who introduced Shiflett to his cellmate Satterfield, right? So Stubbs starts drinking, and the more he drinks, the worse he feels. Finally he decides he’s a sorry sumbitch who doesn’t deserve to live. Puts a gun to his head and offs himself. You buy it?”
“I don’t,” I said. “Stubbs? Killing himself out of remorse? Guys like that don’t feel remorse, Bubba. Guys like that don’t shoot themselves. Guys like that shoot other people. Guys like that blame anybody but themselves when things go wrong.” I felt a surprising head of steam building inside me. “Guys like that think they shouldn’t have to pay taxes, even though they want good roads and a strong military and a well-trained fire department and plenty of Border Patrol agents. Guys like that think it’s your fault if they break their hand by punching you in the face. Guys like that—” I stopped, because I could hear that I was getting spun up, loud and angry. “Sorry, Bubba,” I said. “I tried it, and I guess I don’t buy it.”
He gave a brief laugh. “Yeah, I was starting to get the picture. Okay, so if it’s not suicide, it’s homicide. Shiflett, or Satterfield?”
“Satterfield, of course.”
“Why not Shiflett? Maybe Shiflett shot Stubbs over some kinda disagreement, and then Satterfield went after Shiflett ’cause Shiflett had killed his buddy.”
Without Mercy Page 24
