by Jeff Carson
Wolf noticed that she looked slighter than usual, which was a usual twig-thin to begin with. He got in the truck and turned to Rachette. “Why don’t you run in and make sure Bill really isn’t here?”
Rachette ran in past Ruth.
Wolf waved Ruth over.
She swayed over, concentrating hard on each step.
“Are you doing all right, Ruth?” Wolf asked.
She nodded and sighed. “Oh, you know. Ever since Ed died, I’m just countin’ the minutes.”
Rachette came back out of the building. He ran over and jumped in, jostling the truck.
Wolf looked at him, and Rachette shook his head. Bill was apparently in Frasier for the day.
“You take care of yourself, okay?” Wolf said, reaching out the window and patting Ruth on her bony shoulder.
Ruth nodded absently and returned to her shack.
Wolf started the truck back up and turned onto Main Street.
Rachette leaned toward the side-view mirror. “Jesus. She’s not looking too good.”
“Yeah, we’ll need to keep an eye on her. And we need to keep up with Bill. To ask him about Julie when he gets back.”
Rachette nodded. “So, what’s the plan? Off to be the bearer of shit news?”
“Yeah, off to tell the Wheatmans.”
“Fun stuff.”
“Yep. Fun stuff.”
Chapter 6
It took Wolf and Rachette two hours to get to the Wheatmans’ home, tell them the horrid news about their son, console them little to none, and return to the office building on Main.
Wolf and Rachette stood in the vast doorway of the department squad vehicle garage and stared into the deafening deluge of rain. Lightning flashed and a crack of thunder followed immediately, but Wolf didn’t have the energy to flinch. He was whipped—physically and mentally. The day had thrown a lot at them. At him.
Wolf knew there was going to be more to come. What kind of aftermath could he expect with Connell? What was Connell going to tell people when he got back from the hospital trip he was on now? What was Connell telling people right now? What should Wolf tell people about it? Wolf felt like he’d missed the boat on some right action he should have taken after the fight. But what that action was he couldn’t figure yet. He was trusting that he and Connell were in this thing together, and that they were going to deal with it like men. Maybe that was putting way too much trust in Connell.
“Been quite a good day.” Rachette said taking a pinch of Copenhagen and throwing the can to Wolf.
He caught it, relented to the urge, took a pinch and threw it back. The tobacco juice burned the cut inside his lip, which was now swelling, but the warming sensation of the nicotine was instant, a welcome feeling that counteracted the pain blossoming everywhere else in his body.
I have to quit this stuff.
The wind swirled inside the door and sprayed them with mist from the downpour.
Rachette spat onto the frothing puddles. “Are you going to tell me what the hell happened up there or what?”
“I’m really not sure what happened.” He was still running through options for how this was going to play out.
“You are going to get the job next week, right? I mean, that’s pretty much a done deal, right? We can’t have that guy as sheriff.”
“It’s not up to me,” Wolf said.
“Yeah, but ... come on. That guy has been pretty much abusing the rest of the department for the last few months. I saw him slap Baine the other day.”
He looked at Rachette and raised an eyebrow.
“I’m serious,” Rachette said. “The guy is a crazy meathead.”
“And you didn’t report this to Sheriff Burton? Baine didn’t?”
“Yeah, right.”
Of course they didn’t. It was an unwritten code of conduct for men in uniform worldwide—you didn’t rat out a fellow deputy.
Wolf stretched his neck with a grimace and looked at his watch. 3:39 p.m. “I’m heading home early today.”
“I don’t blame you. Go get some rest, and you might want to ice that cheek.”
Wolf felt his bulging cheekbone. “Yeah, good idea. If Burton comes round looking tell him he can call me. And let me know what comes of the evidence, and especially let me know if Julie Mulroy shows up.”
Rachette scoffed and held out his hands. “Of course. What am I, an idiot?”
“Eh, no comment.” Wolf got in the Explorer, fired it up, and drove out into the pounding waterfall of a rainstorm.
…
The SUV’s wipers wrenched back and forth at the top setting, still not affording Wolf much of a view out of the windshield. Lightning spliced the sky in all directions; with thunder so close it shook the vehicle.
This storm and his inability to see what was coming more than a few feet ahead seemed to parallel his life at the moment.
Wolf mused on how there was a good chance he would run into Gary Connell when he got home. After all, Gary Connell had every right to visit his own ranch, and often did so unannounced. What would Wolf tell him? Hey, sorry, I just beat the crap out of your son because he tried to kill me.
Wolf didn’t know if he had the heart to do that to Gary. Unlike his son, Derek, Gary Connell was one of the sweetest men Wolf had ever known. Following the death of Wolf’s father, and the family’s ensuing financial ruin, Gary Connell had stepped in to buy the ranch and rent it back to the Wolfs, for nothing.
Wolf would still be living rent-free on the ranch if not for his pride. In the end, Gary had been a good enough man to realize he needed to respect Wolf’s wishes—that he had to take monthly rent payments from Wolf. Not that the great Gary Connell needed the money. That wasn’t the point. The Wolfs paid their own way. They always had, and always would.
Something occurred to Wolf. Could Derek Connell have been willing to kill Wolf because of Wolf’s relationship with Gary? Was that it? Connell was jealous and had decided that terminating Wolf would set things right?
The thought was jolting, and, for a split second, Wolf allowed a tiny vibration of sympathy for Derek Connell to enter his mind. Then Wolf thought of plunging off the cliff and, as quick as it came, the sympathy was gone.
Well, if Gary Connell were at the ranch, Wolf would tell him they’d been in a fight, and leave it at that. Wolf didn’t have the heart to hurt the man by telling him his son was a monster.
Wolf was out of the southern end of town now, so he hung a left on the unpaved county road to the ranch. He could feel the truck careen a little sideways in the mud as he rounded a bend, so he coasted to slow down.
The rain was still heavy, but the sky was lightening ahead, and he even saw a patch of blue for a brief moment.
It was the blue of Sarah’s eyes. Sarah. The thought of her made his heart skip. She was probably back in town at this point. What was Wolf going to see in those beautiful blue eyes this time? A brightness he hadn’t glimpsed in years? Would she have an interest in life again? Or would it be that same lazy, defiant look he’d seen take root over the past six years?
He hoped it was the former. He hoped it so much for his son’s sake that he dreaded seeing Sarah. Wolf could barely remember being twelve years old, but he knew his life had been much easier than Jack’s must be right now—with a mother whose love for pills trumped her love for him. Life as a twelve-year-old that had him staying half the time with his grandparents, and the other half with his father.
The air in the truck was muggy and suddenly stifling. He hit the air-conditioning button and turned the radio to the local bluegrass station, a welcome distraction.
At least he wasn’t lying dead at the base of a cliff next to Jerry Wheatman. At least he could be grateful for that.
Chapter 7
Sun streamed through the clouds and glared off the windshield as Wolf drove his way up the final stretch to the ranch. The truck bumped and sloshed through new potholes and small streams that dissected the muddy road. It had held up well through the storms
of the past few weeks, but it would need a new grading before fall. That would be something to take up with Gary.
Wolf crossed the cattle guard that marked the northern edge of the ranch property, and continued up the hill. Then he reached the top of a low plateau just above the meandering Chautauqua River and took in a majestic view that never ceased to inspire him.
The three-hundred-acre property was part forest, part grassy meadow, and all rugged beauty. Once through the arched wooden gateway, the road continued straight ahead through a grass field a couple of hundred yards to a roundabout in front of two separate buildings: an understated one-story, three-bedroom house laid out in an L-shape with large windows to capture the panoramic views, and a small red barn that stood easy walking distance from the house. The multi-use barn gave Wolf adequate space to store outdoor equipment and camping supplies, garage his dirt bike and small John Deere tractor, and still have a decent space for a shop.
It was a great property and a great home, though not nearly in the tip-top shape it had been when his father was alive. Shortly after his father’s death, Wolf’s mother, who had never fully embraced the Rocky Points lifestyle, moved to Denver to be near her sisters. Wolf’s brother had followed suit after high school, leaving for college and becoming a journalist, returning to Rocky Points only as an infrequent tourist.
It was only Wolf, and Jack for half the week, who lived here now and had any real connection to it. And Wolf couldn’t shake the feeling that he was letting the place rot into the ground. There was always too much to be done for one man to keep on top of.
If he did get the job as sheriff, there would be more money—money for repairs; money for bringing in a handyman for occasional help; and money for substantial payments toward owning the property outright.
As he always did, Wolf grabbed his cell phone from the center console when the house was in sight, as driving up to the plateau on which the ranch was situated meant driving back into cell reception. With all the action that had happened during the day, he looked at the screen with anticipation.
Four missed calls, one from Rachette, and three from his mother. One voice message. From his mother. Rachette could wait.
Clearly his mother was itching to talk to him. He briefly considered not calling her, not wanting to add more drama to his day, but three attempts to reach him was a little out of the ordinary. What had her sister done to her this time?
He dialed her phone number, not bothering with the voicemail. She answered after a half ring.
“Oh, David. Where have you been?” She sniffed loudly into the phone. She was crying.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
She breathed into the receiver for a few seconds with shaking sobs.
“Mom? What happened?”
She didn’t answer.
Wolf slowed the truck to a stop, wondering if he’d lost phone reception. “Mom? Can you hear me? What happened? Hello?”
“John’s dead,” she said in a tiny voice.
Wolf’s skin flushed hot and his vision swirled. He took off his seatbelt and opened the door. He stepped out, and the truck lurched forward, slamming into the small of his back. He reached over and pushed the gear stick into park. “What? What are you talking about?”
“He’s dead. He died this weekend.”
Wolf stared in shock at nothing, not seeing the shining land moist with the passed rainfall, now bustling with birds. He let out a long breath.
“I guess Friday night, they are saying,” she said.
“Who is saying? What happened?”
She sniffed and then let out another string of sobs.
“Mom. What happened?”
“He killed himself.”
Chapter 8
Wolf stirred his fourth cup of strong coffee and glanced at his watch. Almost one in the morning. The computer screen was the only light in his darkened study besides the slivers of moonlight entering the open blinds.
Wolf stretched his arms high, yawned, and re-read the email.
Hey Bro, what’s happening? How are you doing man? How’s Points? How’s Jack doing?
I just wanted to catch up. I know it’s been a long time since we’ve connected, but ... eh, you know how it is.
Lately things have been going well. My blog is kicking ass, and I’ve finally got everything squared away with my third book—it was picked up by Nordberg Publishing, and they are going to release it in mid-October. It’s a great deal for me. They say it’s going to be in airports everywhere. Can you believe that shit?
I was in New York a month ago meeting with them, and they are projecting some numbers that I don’t even want to talk about ... at least until I see it happen. No sense jinxing it. But I’m excited to say the least.
Italy is going well. I’m finding the life here really pleasant and great for productivity, as I’ve been writing non-stop since I got here. I’ve been hanging out with the girl who lives right above me, and have met a few people around town. It’s fun, but I miss Colorado. I’ll definitely be coming back for a little while at the beginning of the year. Then, who knows?
So how about you? I hear from Mom that you are a shoo-in for the sheriff job. Although I didn’t need to hear that from her to know that. Because you are. I can’t wait to come home and tell everybody my bro is the sheriff ... plus, I’ll pretty much be above the law. Maybe I’ll start growing some weed again, haha.
We’ll have to have a serious talk about the ranch too. If this book deal goes like they are saying, well, again, I don’t want to jinx it. But I’d like to help out buying the property so it’s back in the family.
Talk soon, brotha.
John
This doesn’t make any sense, Wolf thought for the thousandth time since the phone call he’d received from his mother.
Wolf was hit by a wave of exhaustion as he stood up and looked at his watch. It was finally just after one, which would have been nine in the morning Italian time, the time he’d decided to make his call to maximize his chances of speaking to the right person—for said person to be on duty.
He exhaled and picked up the phone, then thumbed the piece of paper with the number he’d gotten from his mother earlier. He dialed and then listened to a series of clicks, then a long one-tone dial sound that he remembered was typical of many foreign countries.
“Carabinieri.” The voice sounded distant, like an old vinyl recording.
“Hello, my name is Sergeant David Wolf of the Sluice County Sheriff’s Department in the United States. Do you speak English?”
“David Wolf?” Dahveed Vowlf a young male voice pronounced it. “I am not very good with English, no. Un momento …”
Before Wolf could respond, he heard the phone clunk, as if dropped on the top of a desk. For ten minutes, he heard the bustle and muffled voices of what sounded like an active police station a few thousand miles away.
“Pronto? Carabinieri.” It was the same voice, this time slow with boredom.
Wolf blinked. “This is Sergeant David Wolf of the Sluice County Sheriff’s Department in the United States. Who am I talking to?”
“Yes, this is Tenente Tito, sir,” he said.
“I need to speak to your superior officer right away,” Wolf said.
“Yes,” Tito said, and the phone clunked again.
Wolf used mind-relaxation techniques he’d learned in the army for withstanding torture as another five minutes passed.
“Pronto?” Tito said again.
Wolf sighed. “Tenent Tito—”
“Tenente, sir.”
Wolf clenched his jaw and spoke slowly. “I need to speak to your captain, to your colonel, to your sheriff, to your general. Do you have—”
“Yes, sir. I will connect you now. Please hold un momento.”
Wolf pulled the phone from his ear. Just as he was about to throw it against the wall as hard as he could, he heard another single dial tone through the earpiece.
Wolf pushed his phone back against his ea
r.
“Rossi,” a husky male voice answered.
“Hello, my name is Sergeant David Wolf of the Sluice County Sheriff’s Office in the United States. Do you speak English?”
“Ah, yes. Sergeant Wolf. This is Maggiore Rossi.” His accent was thick but clearly understandable. “I am sorry we could not get in touch with you and your family sooner. It took some doing. I am very sorry for your loss.” There was warm concern in his voice.
Wolf was silent for a beat. “Thank you, sir. So you are aware of my relation to the deceased.”
“Yes,” Rossi exhaled. “Your mother told me about you. I’ve been expecting your call.”
Wolf didn’t respond.
“I found your brother,” Rossi continued. “I was one of the carabinieri first on the scene at his apartment.”
“You told my mother he had committed suicide. That he had hanged himself. I need to know details, please.”
“Yes, of course,” he said in an apologetic tone. “We were called by a person who lives at the apartamento … er, apartment, who suspected something was wrong , a young woman who was dating your brother. She called us, we came and went inside, and found him on the floor. It was clear he had hanged himself.”
“He was on the floor?” Wolf paused. “But you say it was clear he hanged himself? That doesn’t make sense to me, Maggiore.”
A car horn blared in Wolf’s ear, from somewhere near the man Wolf talked to five thousand miles away.
“Yes. I understand. I am sorry, please, my English is …” Rossi paused. “It was a chandelier. He tied himself to it, and then hanged himself. He and the chandelier fell from the ceiling after he die and that was how we found him.”
Wolf shook his head and leaned forward. “And what was the time of death?”
“Friday night, declares the coroner. And there was ...” Rossi cleared his throat. “Sergeant Wolf, we also found drugs ... cocaine? How do you call—”
“Cocaine?” Wolf stood up. “That doesn’t make sense.” His brother wasn’t the type to do hard drugs. Marijuana? On occasion he used to. But not often. That’s what made the reference to growing weed in his email a joke. John knew that Wolf knew he never did the stuff anymore. He’d watched his brother refuse it on many occasions for years. So to say he’d upped the ante and started snorting cocaine? It didn’t ring true.
