by Jeff Carson
Luke and Wolf left the gore in the home office and walked back through the house to the kitchen—to the first display of death they had encountered.
Standing on the tile floor, they studied the old woman on the ground. She had a neat hole in her forehead and a bigger exit wound in the back of her head, exposing the insides of the skull.
“They must have broken in from the garage, but they had to have stepped around her, and then shot her,” Luke said. “The spatter is toward the refrigerator, or basically toward where they came in from.”
“Which means what?” Wolf asked.
“I don’t know. I’m just talking. I’d rather talk than just sit here staring at her.”
“Let’s call the locals,” Wolf said.
She nodded, but didn’t reach for her phone, so Wolf took his out and dialed the Delta PD. After a brief conversation he hung up.
“How about we head back into the—”
Luke’s phone rang in her pocket and she pulled it out.
“Yeah.” She glared at the wall of the kitchen as she listened.
“Good. Stay there until I get there, which will be”—she looked at her watch—“in about two hours, give or take.” She listened for a few more seconds, then held up a finger to Wolf and walked into the other room.
Wolf watched her go around the corner, and her voice dropped in volume so he couldn’t hear. She spoke quickly, in a flurry of mumbling.
After a few seconds, Wolf walked after her, his curiosity piqued. When he rounded the corner she was all the way across the room, shoulders rounded, finishing a terse whisper into the phone.
“Then get Shaw to come do it,” she said loudly, and then turned around and rolled her eyes at Wolf as if he could empathize with the stupidity on the other end of the line. “But I don’t want that woman left alone for a second. I have reason to believe she’s in danger. I’ll be there soon.”
Luke hung up the phone without waiting for a response and looked at Wolf.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Mrs. Richter is all right?”
Luke nodded.
Wolf turned back to the kitchen. “What do you say we step outside to wait for these guys?”
“Haven’t heard a better idea all year,” she said and walked past him, through the kitchen, and out the garage.
Chapter 29
The Delta Police Department ended up storming in with five vehicles blaring their sirens. Wolf and Luke greeted them, told their stories, describing their actions and what exactly they’d touched, and then stood outside in the drizzle, talking to the local chief named Bradley Van Wyke.
“And why were you here?” Van Wyke asked Wolf.
Van Wyke was a tall, heavy man, as many men who played offensive line in college were during, and after, their football years. Closely cropped hair poked out under his cowboy hat. With a flash Wolf remembered the last time he’d seen him—just over two years ago at a law-enforcement conference in Durango. Van Wyke was the same now as before, with a brown handlebar mustache that looked to be kept for weekends riding a Harley-Davidson. His eyes were wide and locked open with tiny dots for pupils. Coupled with his jerky movements, it looked like the chief was hopped up on adrenaline after seeing the dead bodies inside, and probably would be for the next few days.
“I’m afraid we can’t talk about why we were here, sir,” Luke said, answering before Wolf had a chance.
Van Wyke scowled down at Luke. “Oh, really?” He shook his head and looked over at her shiny black Tahoe. “I suppose it’s a matter of national security.”
“Something like that.” Luke didn’t blink.
“Bullshit.” Van Wyke turned to Wolf. “Come on, Wolf. You gonna play me like that?”
Wolf sighed and slid a look to Luke. “I was involved in a shooting the other night. We suspected Wade Jeffries might have had something to do with it. We were just checking in with his family, and we found them like this.” He shrugged. “End of story.”
Van Wyke tilted his head and glared at Wolf, then at Luke.
“Wade Jeffries has been MIA in Afghanistan for a year, hasn’t he?” asked Van Wyke. “It was big news around town last year.”
Wolf nodded. “That’s the interesting part.”
“Huh.” He frowned at Luke, then at Wolf. “So, what the fuck?”
“We’ll keep in touch,” Luke said.
Van Wyke ignored Luke and locked eyes with Wolf.
Wolf looked down at Luke and then back to Van Wyke. “Thanks, Brad. Keep us in the loop, eh?”
“You leavin’ already?” Van Wyke didn’t wait for an answer. “Yeah, fine. I’ll keep you informed. Not for this suit”—he kept eye contact with Wolf and thumbed in the direction of Luke—“but for the best quarterback I ever sacked. Twice.” Now Van Wyke looked at Luke and bounced his eyebrows. “In one game. Yeah, I’ll keep you informed.” He tipped his hat, “Ma’am,” and then walked away.
…
They drove the whole hour and twenty minutes back to Glenwood Springs like they had most of the way to Delta—in silence.
Wolf took advantage of the lull to listen to his voicemail—a message from Patterson calling as per his request—and then typed out a message to Rachette and Patterson that said, Rachette, as you were. Patterson, I need you at the station in thirty minutes.
A few seconds later they responded with their own texts and Wolf sat back and zoned out on the passing rapids of the Colorado River.
“You want me to drop you off at your car first?” she asked just before they reached town.
“No, I’d rather stick with you, if you don’t mind,” Wolf said.
She shrugged, showing no sign of annoyance, and exited a different ramp at Glenwood Springs. She headed south through back streets and then, for the second time of the day, they were parked in front of Bernadette Richter’s house.
“I’ll just stay here, if you don’t mind,” Wolf said preemptively.
She looked over and creased her forehead. “You don’t want to come back in?”
“Nah, I’ll leave the FBI work to you. Besides, our partnership is supposed to be secret, right?”
She nodded and exhaled. “Thanks. I’ll be a few minutes.”
Wolf nodded, and watched her through the streaming droplets of water on the windshield.
She hopped the tiny picket-fence gate, walked with a quick stride up through the yard, and then skipped two steps at a time up the wooden stairs to the front porch. She moved like a ballet dancer with a gun, Wolf thought.
Wolf took out his phone and hit the number.
“Hello?”
“Hey. How’s it going over there?”
“Good,” Patterson said in a chipper voice. “How are things going with you? Any progress?”
“Getting there. On that note, are you back at the station?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get on a free computer.”
Wolf heard her soft breathing and then the squeak of a chair.
“Okay,” Patterson said. “Just a second, booting up.”
“Great.” Wolf looked up at the house. Luke was inside the open front door, shadowed against the brightly lit interior of the house. He could see Mrs. Richter smiling up at her, and then the door closed slowly, swallowing them both inside.
Wolf looked at the perfectly manicured lawn, now soaked in the rain, and at the trimmed rose bushes, the clean soil of the garden on the side of the house, the mailbox with the flag up, and the fresh outside paint job.
“Okay,” Patterson said. “I’m on.”
“I need you to check on someone,” Wolf said.
Chapter 30
Wolf was still on the phone when Luke left the house a few minutes later. She shut the door behind her, trotted down the wooden steps, jogged the path, and jumped the small gate again.
“Ah, it’s getting cold out there,” she said as she slid up into the driver’s seat. “Oh, sorry.”
Wolf held up his phone. “No problem. I’
m on hold.”
“What?” Patterson said into his ear.
“Yeah,” Wolf said into the phone. “Just let me know, I’ll wait.”
“Ah, okay, just a second,” Patterson said.
Luke drove down the street toward the commercial center of Glenwood Springs, and Wolf listened intently as Patterson rattled off the information she’d gathered.
Wolf listened in silence for a few minutes, only grunting to spur Patterson on. When he was satisfied, he said goodbye, hung up, and put the phone in his pocket.
Luke turned onto Grand Avenue, and headed north toward the FBI field office.
“Hey,” he said looking out the window like he’d just seen something. “Can you pull over? Behind those buildings, in the back alley?”
“What?” She frowned. “Why?”
“Trust me. I think I saw something.” Wolf sat back and gripped the ceiling bar.
Luke shook her head and hit the brakes. “We gonna bust a drunk?”
Wolf kept his intent glare out the window.
She took the next right and then turned in the alley behind the retail shops that lined the main street in town.
“Right here.” Wolf pointed out the windshield toward the back door of a building.
She stopped. “Here?”
Wolf got out, and Luke shut off the engine. There was no traffic in the secluded back alley. Tall old oak trees blocked the road from most of the rain. There was a low hum from a heating unit on the back of the building, which had a blue-painted door that read Monty’s Leatherworks in white stenciling.
Wolf crouched and put his hand on his pistol, then shuffled toward the door.
Luke came up next to him, and pulled her pistol. “What’s going on?” She kept her eyes on the door, and then double took at the sight of Wolf aiming at the side of her face.
“Drop your gun,” Wolf said in a calm voice.
She turned a fraction, and Wolf pushed his barrel closer. “I said drop your gun, now.”
“What the fuck …” She crouched down slowly and set her gun on the cracked asphalt.
“Stand up and put your hands on the hood.”
She stood straight and faced him. “No.”
“Do as I say, or I’ll shoot, and then I’ll tell the whole story to your special agent in charge, Ms. Richter.”
Luke’s skin flushed and she swallowed.
“I know everything,” Wolf said. “Now, please, don’t make me shoot you in the leg, and get up against the hood.”
She shook her head and clenched her teeth, then walked to the hood and assumed the position. “Go ahead, have at it.”
Wolf lifted his left arm out in a stretch, and the bruise pulsed. Thanks to the information gleaned from Patterson, he now knew Luke was a second-degree black belt and trained in other martial arts. She was clearly no pushover, and he needed to be careful.
She had been watching him over her shoulder, a sly smirk playing on her face.
“Don’t try it,” he said. “I’ve got a hair-trigger setting on this thing.”
He held the pistol in his right hand and placed his left hand on the inner thigh of her right leg, working his way down to her ankle. Her muscles were firm, the fabric of her pants warm. He moved to the left leg, feeling it tense under his fingers.
She kicked across and back with her right foot, connecting squarely against the inside of his left bicep.
Wolf jumped back, and her fist breezed past his face less than an inch away. Pain seared through his arm to the point where his vision blurred. He could feel a warm trickle of blood running from his stitches down his arm.
Wolf stood still and aimed at her head, feeling the warmth under his bandage grow. “Last warning,” he said. “Next time I shoot.”
Her face was impassive. She didn’t blink or make a sound. Just turned around and spread her legs again.
Wolf walked up fast and pressed the barrel of his gun against the back of her right thigh, and checked her left leg from top to bottom. Then he checked her waist, and up underneath her breasts.
“Turn around,” he said, stepping back.
She did, and he wasn’t prepared for the hate in her eyes. She glared, like he had just violated her on the deepest level.
He didn’t care.
“Take off your jacket,” he said.
“I’m not—”
“Take off your jacket.” Wolf returned her glare.
She unzipped her parka and opened it, then pulled it off her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Underneath she wore a white long-sleeved button-up blouse that was somewhat see-through.
Wolf studied her skin under the shirt. He could see the brighter white line of her bra against the fabric, but the sleeve was loose, and the material and dull light kept her arm hidden underneath.
She followed his eyes, and in a quick move ripped open her shirt. “There, you get a good look?” A button bounced off Wolf’s arm and onto the ground at his feet. He was now looking at her breasts, which were covered with a thin white bra, and her taut abdomen, which was smooth and muscular.
“Take off the left sleeve,” he said.
She looked down at her arm and pulled her eyebrows together. “What?” A moment later she widened her eyes. “You think I was there? Shooting at your son?”
Wolf nodded to her arm.
She pulled the sleeve and revealed her thin, muscled arm, and displayed it for Wolf in a twisting motion. There was no bandage, no wound.
Wolf turned around and walked to her SIG and picked it up, holstering his own gun. When he turned around, he found her unmoved, her upper body still exposed to the chilly air.
“You can put your shirt back on now,” Wolf said.
She didn’t move, but her defiant glare lowered and melted into a distant look. “I’m not involved in this,” she said quietly.
“I know. But you think your brother is,” Wolf said.
Luke slipped on the sleeve of her blouse and bent to pick up her FBI parka.
“Is it you who takes care of her?” Wolf walked slowly back to Luke. “Mows the lawn, trims the bushes, cleans her house, takes care of the mail?”
She nodded, slipping her jacket on. “Yeah. My brother doesn’t do shit. I’m the one who takes care of her. She’s completely gone, completely helpless, and my brother just ignores her.”
Wolf stopped in front of her. “She remembers you.”
“That’s about all she can do, nowadays. It’s so strange,” she said in a quiet voice, “that she remembers me.”
Wolf flipped her pistol around and held it out handle-first.
Luke looked at it, then up at Wolf, and took it.
“We need to talk,” Wolf said.
She nodded, holstering her pistol.
“I’m hungry.” Wolf stepped to the passenger door and got in.
Wolf watched through the mirrors as Luke moved slowly around the rear of the SUV with the enthusiasm of a death-row inmate’s last walk. She finally rounded the Tahoe and climbed in without saying anything, fired it up, and drove.
Chapter 31
Special Agent Kristen Luke had been hurt three times by men in her life. Her father had made the first emotional cut, leaving when she was in high school to join the Bozeman PD in Montana. She’d never gotten a reason from him for leaving his wife, daughter, and two sons. And she’d never gotten an explanation from her mother. And as far as an apology from her father in the eleven years since he’d left? She’d never gotten that either.
Her father had hurt her first, and probably the deepest. At least that’s what she thought nowadays, now that she was in her mid-thirties and had had plenty of time to sulk about it. But at the time, immediately following his disappearing act, she’d pretended like she didn’t care. She’d pretended to others and to herself. Which led to a phase in her life that she commonly referred to—to herself rather than out loud to anyone else other than her best friend, Linda—as the slut period.
In her first year in college at Bould
er, she’d found herself more than willing to allow the young men in the dorms into her pants. She figured that if they had the guts to ask, or make a move, she was obliged to “give it up.” Though it repulsed her to think about it now, she remembered feeling secure when a drunk guy had groped her with his warm hands. It had made her feel wanted. Classic daddy-doesn’t-love-me syndrome.
In the end, it wasn’t one of the drunken hormone bags in the dorms who had hurt her, who had been the second man in her life to shake her to the core. It had been an honest-to-God madman on campus. The kind of thing you hear about on the news that makes you say “holy shit”, blink, and then flip the channel, because it’s just too bad to think about any more than that.
She’d been on her way home from the library late one night, when a man with a red ski mask had jumped out of the bushes and attacked her on the lawn of the Geology building. For thirty of the worst seconds of her life, she’d kicked and screamed, and was overtaken and beaten into a quiet haze she could scarcely remember then or now. Luckily, two tennis-racket-wielding seniors were walking by after a late match and saw it happening. When the blur of evil was off her and gone, and she woke up in the hospital the next day, she found out that the guy hadn’t raped her. At least that had been something. But he had stripped her naked, and pulped her face to the point she couldn’t see out of one of her eyes for two weeks. That was something, too.
That something, her second mental torment, triggered the beginning of what she referred to as the lesbian period of her life. She knew it was a misnomer. Sure, it was a drastic change of lifestyle that she’d undergone after the attack, but not so far that she actually made out with other women. In truth, that image repulsed her now, as it had then. Instead, she’d just dressed the part, wearing baggy flannel and corduroy, cut her hair butch, and done anything and everything to repel members of the opposite sex.
For the remainder of her college career she kept a stiff-arm against males. And for the remainder of her college career, she built a strong fortress around her brittle, shattered inner self. Starting with martial-arts training four nights a week in her sophomore year, she gradually became stronger inside, as well as out, and by the time she was done with college, she was a brown belt in karate, had majored in law enforcement, and felt the most self-assured she had been since her father left those few short years ago.
