by Kyla Stone
He knew what they wanted, what they were here for.
Adrenaline kicked his heart into high gear. He missed his NVGs, or night vision goggles. He missed the M4 5.56x45mm carbine he’d carried in the 75th Ranger Regiment along with his optics. Not to mention his plates and tactical gear. An M203 grenade launcher wouldn’t be bad right about now, either.
At least he had the AK-47. The semi-automatic rifle had heft. It was intimidating as hell. And the pistol sat snug in its holster at his back.
He reminded himself that shooting civilians like fish in a barrel would be a quick pass back to prison. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200 dollars.
A part of him knew he should just slip away, disappear before things escalated to violence. And yet, it wasn’t in him to back down.
He planned to leave at first light, but there was no way in hell he’d let them drive him to it. Or allow them to think they had.
Let them come. Let them see him. Let them understand that he was not afraid.
That when he left, it would be his choice, not theirs.
He didn’t much care whether these numbskulls lived or died, but he wasn’t going back to prison. For however long he continued to breathe the oxygen of this damned planet, the choice would be his. He wouldn’t be caged again. He’d rather go out in a spray of bullets.
Eli waited, crouched between two trees with an excellent sightline to the driveway. Pine needles scratched his cheek, damp leaves beneath his boots, the scent of pine strong in his nostrils. The smells were overpowering after the years of want.
The vehicles pulled close to the house, revving engines, tires spitting gravel. Brights on. Aggressive and posturing. They were making a point.
Doors slammed open. A half-dozen men poured out. They gripped crowbars. A few carried hunting rifles. Burly men. Tough men. Men who lived off this hard land and survived.
Eli despised them, but he did not underestimate them.
On one knee, breath even, his heart rate steady, he watched. The men approached the front door of the house close together, swaggering in a pack. Five men. One woman.
He was outnumbered. They had weapons. He wasn’t going hand-to-hand with them. You didn’t bring a knife to a gun fight. If it was a gunfight they wanted, he’d give it to them.
A dark thrumming energy filled him. Blood and violence. Misery and pain. The choice was theirs.
He rose and lifted the rifle, the stock seated against his shoulder, finger on the trigger guard. He bladed his body to remain behind the cover of the tree trunk. “Get the hell off my lawn.”
13
ELI POPE
DAY TWO
Eli kept his grip on the AK-47. His gaze as cold and hard as a snake. He did not feel fear. Not this night. Not after eight years of prison, where you were either predator or prey.
Eli Pope was a predator.
“Lower your weapons, nice and easy.”
Startled, several men started to whip around.
“I wouldn’t do that. I’ve got a rifle aimed at your backs.”
They froze in place, weapons half raised. One man swore. “Damn it!”
“Wouldn’t move if I were you. Not until you lose those weapons.”
They cursed, furious, but they obeyed. One by one, they dropped them—a couple of tire irons, two rifles, and a revolver. One gray-haired man still clutched his pistol.
Eli shifted his aim. “You’re in the open. I’m not. How do you think that’s going to go?”
“Johannes,” a woman said.
The man released the pistol and turned around. One by one, the others did as well.
Eli took a step out from behind the tree.
Forced to turn to face him, they squinted against the glare of the headlights. Eli saw them clearly while he remained a shadowy silhouette.
His gaze swept across the group. Fear opened in the men’s faces. That terrible flash of understanding—it was Eli who held the power of life and death; they were the powerless ones in this equation.
Eli watched them, never losing sight of their hands. As an operator, he’d patrolled environments where insurgents mixed with the civilian population. Hands hid weapons. Hands telegraphed their next move before they made it.
He wouldn’t put it past any of them to be incredibly stupid and try something.
A grizzled man in his early seventies stepped forward. Whisps of white hair clung to his bald, liver-spotted pate. He wore hunting gear with a camo bandana tied around his forehead.
Johannes Heikkinen. An old-timer, the Finnish owner of a fishing charter in Munising. He lived in a fishing shack on the shores of Superior for half the year. For thirty years, he’d played poker every Thursday night with Eli’s father at the Driftwood Bar.
Johannes spoke with a smoker’s rasp. “The Broken Heart Killer.”
The media nicknamed him the Broken Heart Killer because he had supposedly discovered Lily with another man, then killed her in a rage.
The truth was, he and Lily were not lovers like the media portrayed them. They’d slept together that night, after he’d seen his father and visited few friends at a bar—the DNA evidence had proven that.
Lily was a hard person to say no to. But he hadn’t loved her. Had never loved her. And he hadn’t cared who else she slept with.
In the hours after he’d left her house, Lily had been assaulted, beaten, then strangled in her home. A gold half-heart locket had been placed on her stomach, a lock of her own hair left inside.
Eli had not killed her. He had not left the ‘broken heart’ locked behind as his signature. But no one was interested in the truth.
Eli smiled, now. Flat and empty. “Leave now and I won’t shoot you.”
One warning for his dead father’s sake. For the time Johannes Heikkinen sat him at the table when he was nine years old and taught him the game. When to fold, when to call a bluff, when to go all in.
That was a long time ago. Another life. Another universe.
Eli’s gaze shifted to the rest of them. Scott Smith was in his fifties, the surly owner of the Shell gas station on Cedar Street. Eli had bought gas, ice, and bait from the man since he was six years old.
Elmer Dunn was a grizzled hunter and the owner of a handful of rustic cabins he rented to fishermen and hunters on thirty acres outside of Munising, near Alger Falls.
The fourth man was Tim Brooks, co-owner of the Northwoods Inn with his wife, Lori. Eli had spent plenty of nights drinking at the Northwoods Bar with a few buddies and talking sports with Tim, who’d often bartended while his wife ran the hotel.
Eli had spent the evening before Lily was killed at the Northwoods Bar.
“This is your warning,” Tim said. “Leave and never come back. Or we will be forced to make you.”
A woman said. “It’d be our sincerest pleasure.”
Eli knew Dana Lutz, too. In her mid-forties, her bleached-blonde hair was pulled back in a bun, her toughened features pinched with anger, fine lines radiating from her eyes. She ran snowmobile tours in the winters.
A man moved out from behind Dana. At first, Eli didn’t recognize the full black beard or the heavy gut, but the broad face and faint Native features were familiar.
“Gideon Crawford,” Eli said.
“Go to hell, Pope,” Gideon said.
Once, they’d been friends. Played high school football. Got stoned together at beach bonfires after the prom, after losing State, and when Gideon’s high school sweetheart had been tragically killed in a boating accident.
Pure hate blazed in Gideon’s eyes. Eli didn’t need daylight to see it. It emanated from the man in radioactive waves. Eight years ago, Gideon Crawford had been Lily’s new boyfriend, the one who had supposedly stolen her from Eli.
Gideon Crawford would have good reason to hate him. Jealousy and grief were a potent mix. And he’d been there that night at the bar, along with James Sawyer and Cyrus Lee.
The last night before Eli’s whole world went to hell.
Suspici
on flitted through his mind. Was Gideon the one who’d framed him? Or maybe it had been Tim. Tim Brooks was Gideon’s uncle. They could have done it together. Or hell, all of them.
“You don’t belong here,” Gideon said.
“This is my father’s house. I have every right to be here.”
“This isn’t your home anymore more, killer,” Gideon said.
“Law says it is,” Eli said evenly. It was a lie, but he guessed they didn’t know the ins and outs of probate. He guessed correctly.
“Don’t matter to us what the law says, we know who you are,” Tim Brooks said. “What you are. What you did.”
“Far as I can tell, it’s still a free country.”
Gideon scowled. “It’s not free, not for you.”
For a half a second, Eli faltered. The muzzle of the AK-47 lowered slightly. It took him aback—how easily people could turn on you; how little it took.
They all loathed him. His old friends. The townspeople who’d known him his entire life. Their hatred was a physical thing, a weight he couldn’t shake off, no matter how he wished it. No matter how much he pretended he didn’t care.
Something released inside him. A tightness wound like a fist. He let out a breath.
He knew better than to lower his weapon. One iota of weakness from him, and they’d be on him like a pack of wolves.
A noise registered. The low rumble of an approaching engine. A pair of headlights swung into the driveway.
The engine cut off. A car door opened. Boots hit gravel. “Stop!” The voice was loud and commanding, a rich baritone booming through the still night.
The men flinched and turned. Gideon and Tim took a few steps back, nursing their wounded pride.
A figure approached, silhouetted against the headlights of the Sheriff’s office patrol truck, a shotgun pressed against his shoulder. Not aimed at anyone yet but ready and willing.
His gaze flicked to Eli, eyes narrowing at the sight of Eli Pope holding a weapon on the good citizens of Alger County.
“Arrest him,” Gideon said. “He drew on us!”
“From where I’m standing, I see an awful lot of weapons on the ground. Looks like y’all came here looking for trouble. Shouldn’t be a big surprise that you found it.”
Eli might have laughed if the situation wasn’t so serious. Vintage Jackson.
“Pope threatened us.” Dana pointed a finger at Eli. “He should be arrested. He should be charged with—”
Jackson’s voice remained calm, but the edge was sharp as steel. There was no give in it, no weakness. “Near as I can tell, you trespassed onto his land with the intent to attack a man in his own home. If I’m making arrests, it’ll be you folks.”
“Jackson,” Johannes said. “He’s got no rights to be here. Make him leave.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. And you can’t either.”
Gideon spat on the ground. “We’re just doing what everyone knows is the right thing.”
“I’m the law,” Jackson said evenly. “And I say to stand down.”
“This isn’t right,” Gideon said. “He can’t be here. He’s a murderer—”
“Everyone leave. Now.”
“Come on, Jackson—”
Jackson Cross swung the barrel of his shotgun toward Gideon. “Last warning. If I have to bring you in, that’s a second offense, Crawford. You’ve got that drunk driving charge on your record. You sure you want to do this?”
“What about our weapons?” Tim asked, combative. “I’m not leaving my pistol for this psycho to steal.”
“Get out of my sight before I arrest the lot of you for trespassing.” Jackson glanced at Eli. “Mr. Pope will allow you to retrieve your possessions and retreat.”
Through the altercation, Eli stood in stony silence. He did not move, he did not back down. He watched and said nothing.
The group reluctantly dispersed. Within a minute, they had retreated to their vehicles. The trucks tore up the grass of the front lawn as they peeled out.
One by one, they roared down the empty road back toward Munising.
Eli waited for the sounds of the engines to fade to silence. Then he turned to face Jackson Cross.
14
ELI POPE
DAY TWO
Crickets churred in the weeds. Stars shone bright overhead. The night was chilly but not freezing. It was the middle of May, but summer was still a ways off this far north.
Jackson dipped his chin. He dropped the shotgun to his side. “Eli.”
Eli lowered his rifle. “Been a long time, friend.”
Jackson didn’t flinch. He was too strong to shrink easily, made of tougher stuff than most gave him credit for. His boyish face and quick easy smile made others underestimate him.
Eli knew better. This man was no country-bumpkin cop. No idiot. Though he had his blind spots. Always had.
One of those blind spots had been Eli himself. Until it wasn’t.
“Not your best idea to come back here,” Jackson said.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“’Suppose you’re right. Still.”
Eli said nothing.
“You seem different.”
“Prison changes a man.”
“I suppose it would. Like war.”
Jackson, of course, had never been to war. Not like Eli. Two tours in Syria. One in Afghanistan. Time spent in hellholes no one here could possibly imagine.
In some ways, war was like prison. Or prison was like war.
Either way, it deadened you. Siphoned little bits of your soul, whatever made a person human. When you came home, if you came home, you were hurt deep down, all the way to the marrow, so that nothing could touch it, not even love.
“It’s been a long time.”
Eli said nothing. A dozen memories flitted through his mind. Two boys laughing. Long summer days spent fly-fishing. Snowmobiling through deep winter woods. He pushed them out.
“You have the right to file a complaint. A trespassing charge—”
“I’m not pressing charges.”
Jackson rubbed his jaw. A sign of nervousness. A tell he hadn’t been able to shake since he was seven years old, and he and Eli had faced off on the playground for the first time.
They stood in the gravel driveway, darkness surrounding them, bats flitting and diving above the tree line. Neither of them moved; they might have been circling each other, wary as wolves, each analyzing the other for weakness, for chinks in the armor, the best method of attack.
Eli flashed him a hard smile. “Why are you here?”
“To see an old friend.”
“You were never good at lying.”
Jackson snorted. “No, I suppose not.”
“I’m busy. I have work to do.”
“I can’t protect you from the townspeople,” Jackson said. “I can put a watch detail on your house, but we’re already understaffed.”
“I haven’t asked for your protection.”
“This is only the beginning. They’ll come after you again. And they’re liable to do worse next time.”
Eli looked up at the oil-black sky and felt the starlight from stars a million years old shining down on him. Open sky. Endless space. An expanse he never thought he’d see again. “Let them come.”
“Eli.”
“What do you care?” The words came sharp and vicious.
To his credit, Jackson kept his head high. “My job is to protect this county and everyone in it.”
“You aren’t here to protect me—you’re here to check on me. Make sure I haven’t killed some other girl yet. Isn’t that what you’re afraid of?”
Jackson swallowed. Even in the half-darkness, with the headlights blurring his shape—the truth was evident in his face.
Like the others, Jackson believed in his guilt. He believed his best friend had killed his on-again, off-again lover, the woman they’d both known, but Jackson had loved.
The sharp stab between Eli’s ribs surprised
him. He’d thought he was numb to pain, dead to sorrow. Yet it threatened to carry him away on a red tide, to drown him like Lake Superior.
“I came to ask you a few questions,” Jackson said.
“As law enforcement, or…” Eli couldn’t say “as a friend.” They were no longer friends. Not after the arrest, the trial, the conviction.
“In a professional capacity.”
“Speak, then.”
Jackson eyed him warily, like he could read his mind. Once upon a time, he probably could have. “I’m investigating a homicide.”
Eli stilled.
“It’s someone you know.”
Eli didn’t rise to the bait. He waited, watchful and wary for the trap he felt coming.
“Yesterday, Amos Easton was murdered.”
His mouth went bone dry. “Lena’s father.”
“And Lily’s father,” Jackson said.
Eli blinked. “Of course.”
Jackson was silent for a minute, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, as if he struggled to contain his anger. Eli didn’t begrudge him for it. Jackson had pined for Lily since he was twelve years old. No one had been more devastated at her death.
Except for her older sister, Lena. A memory flashed through his mind—Eli holding Lena, her shoulders quaking as she wept in grief and horror. Her tears hot on his bare chest, her long chestnut waves in his face, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon in his nostrils.
He braced himself. “When?”
“The medical examiner puts the death between four and six p.m. on May seventeenth.”
“Who did it?”
“That’s what I’m investigating. Lots of folk are pointing their fingers your way.”
“I was incarcerated behind concrete walls and barbed wire. Not to mention the dozens of armed correctional officers watching my every move. And the cameras. You can check.” He narrowed his eyes. “You already have.”
“You have a motive,” Jackson said.
“But no opportunity.”
