Trouble in Action

by Susan Y. Tanner

Wolf sighed. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Sucks, man.”

  Without bothering to correct his language, Wolf agreed. “Yeah. What about you guys? Everyone okay?”

  “Except Adam. Dusty kinda roughed him up so I kinda roughed Dusty up a little.”

  “Dusty’s got a few years on you, Case, and a few pounds. That might not have been wise.” Not to mention Dusty had a whole lot of mean on him.

  “Nobody messes with Adam. Not his fault his uniform didn’t fit too well. Dusty thinks he’s a bad ass but he ain’t so bad.”

  As long as he wasn’t toting a gun, Wolf thought. And the possibility was still in his mind but nothing he could prove or question Dusty about. Yet.

  “Stay out of his path.”

  “Planning on it.”

  But Wolf could hear the unspoken as long as he stays out of mine.

  * * *

  Kylah dropped her duffle bag inside Wolf’s front door. She didn’t necessarily agree that she’d be safer with him than at her hotel room. She did however accept that this was where she wanted to be. She wasn’t sure how it had happened so quickly nor was she happy that it had. But things were as they were.

  Trouble certainly seemed content for them all to be in the same place at the same time. He made a leap for the center of the comfortable leather sofa where he curled into a ball. She suspected he was asleep before she had time to find her bearings.

  Wolf flipped on some lights and hefted her duffle bag. “Damn, woman, what’s in here?”

  “Tee shirts, jeans, and boots.” Her uniform.

  She watched as he stepped into the short hall and the room she already knew to be his. She heard the soft thud of the duffle bag on the natural wood floor.

  When Wolf emerged, he walked straight to her and pulled her into his arms. His hug felt like coming home. “Let’s sit on the deck while Trouble naps. I’ve got some things to share with you.”

  As they passed through the kitchen, Wolf opened a drawer and a cabinet, coming away with the opener and a wine glass. He handed both to Kylah so he could grab beer and wine from the fridge. He held the back door open for her.

  On the way from her hotel, she’d listened as he talked about Logan and Audra, their on again, off again romance through high school and college before she’d finally married Grant, who’d been in the drama club with her, always leading man to her leading lady. One of the many things, Wolf said, that ate at Logan throughout his own relationship with her. Jealousy, Kylah had thought, was an ugly thing. And a high school romance was never easy, even one strong enough to carry into college. “They were crazy in love,” Wolf had said finally, “emphasis on crazy. The last time they broke up she took his boat to the middle of the lake and sank it.” Kylah had a difficult time reconciling the dark-haired sophisticate with the passionate girl Wolf described. She supposed that gave her some insight into the scene between Logan and Audra at the reception.

  The sky was deepening to purple as she sank into one of the rocking chairs that faced the woods behind Wolf’s house. There was half acre or so of yard between deck and woods and Kylah caught her breath at the sight of fireflies dancing over the close-cut grass. “Oh, how beautiful!” She looked up to find Wolf staring down at her.

  She took the glass of wine he offered and tucked a strand of hair behind one ear, self-conscious that she’d shown a little girl’s pleasure at the sparks of flickering light.

  “Yes,” he said softly, still staring at her. “Beautiful.” He took the chair beside hers. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “So am I,” she admitted.

  “And I’d be happy if that was all we had to talk about.”

  As much as she felt the same, she sensed he needed a sounding board, and not just about the death of a woman he’d known forever and the grief of the best friend who’d loved her just as long.

  She waited while he stared out at the woods, occasionally taking a sip of his beer.

  “I’ve been a lawman a long time. Les has been one even longer. What’s happening has all the earmarks of a serial killer. Les is convinced.”

  “You’re not.” It wasn’t quite a question.

  “I’m also not not convinced,” he admitted. “Two women dead. Both reenactors. Both in uniform. Both killed by antique weapons. With no ties between them save those facts, it has all the earmarks of a serial killing.”

  “But?”

  “It’s the attempts on you. They almost fit the pattern but not quite. They were … clumsy … for lack of a better word. The revolver being fired at you. The trip ropes put up when you were on horseback.”

  “And if Audra was killed because the shooter missed me, that’s clumsier yet.”

  “Exactly. Maisy McGuire was killed by a heart shot. Deadly accurate.”

  Nothing clumsy there, she thought. “So … two people, then, not one?”

  “It’s a thought we can’t ignore.” He hesitated. “But even that doesn’t make sense. Les could find absolutely nothing in Maisy’s past that would make her a target. But what about you? Have you ever been threatened by anyone? Had to deal with a stalker at any point? I know that’s not uncommon in the entertainment business.”

  That was easy to answer. “Nothing like that. And, the thing is, most people never actually see stunt people. To the audience, the actors and actresses are us up there. Sure, most people know doubles are used, but during the action unfolding on the screen they never think of that, so we’re not true Hollywood, not part of the star scene.”

  “I can see that.” Wolf sounded relieved. “I had to ask. I have to know I can keep you safe.”

  “Without locking me in a closet?” she returned dryly.

  “Something like that,” he admitted.

  Wolf stood and took her by the hand, pulling her to her feet. He took her wineglass and set it on a low table before wrapping his arms around her, tucking her tight against his chest. “Let’s finish that wine later.”

  She laughed. “I need a shower.”

  “Good. I do, too. I’ll wash your back, if you’ll wash mine.” And, with a quick kiss, he loosened his hold enough to take her hand and tug her back inside and down the hall.

  * * *

  Wolf woke to the warmth of Kylah’s body against his, his phone ringing, and a black cat staring him in the face. Without loosening his hold on Kylah, he reached across to the bedside table and grabbed his phone.

  “Yeah.”

  “The special agent assigned to this case caught a flight this way but he’s in Oregon so it’ll be late before he makes all the connecting flights. In the meantime, he asked for something I should have thought of myself.”

  Wolf glanced at his clock, wondering why his alarm hadn’t gone off. Damn, Les Mitchell. Not nearly time, that’s why. “What’s that?” The sheriff didn’t miss much but apparently the FBI thought he had.

  “We need to know if any artifacts are missing,” Les said.

  Yep, Wolf agreed, that was a miss, for both of them. But not a huge one. Knowing what weapons were out there wasn’t a clue to knowing who had them. He told the sheriff as much.

  “And with the event shut down, I’m not sure how much it will help to know if something else is missing,” Les agreed. “Not much window of opportunity now for a serial killer to make use of it.”

  Wolf couldn’t argue with that but, “Any lead is better than the one we haven’t got.”

  Les grunted agreement. At least Wolf took it for agreement.

  “Well, whether we get anything or not, it’s something that needs doing and I’ve got an idea on how to go about it. I’m calling the two lead unit commanders and asking them to personally hold a weapons inspection first thing this morning. I’ll accompany one. I need you to go with the other. Meet me at my office in half an hour.” He broke the connection without waiting for Wolf’s reply.

  As he laid the phone aside, Wolf looked down at the woman in his arms. Leaving her before daylight was not how he planned to start this day.

&nbs
p; Six hours later, he looked around at the tents, still marveling at the amount of time and money these reenactors put into their passion for recreating the past. Both of the unit commanders had done exactly as asked, passing the sheriff’s instructions to their officers to help carry out. Every reenactor had been cooperative in searching their belongings and verifying that every weapon they’d brought to the site was still safely in their possession.

  After all weapons had been accounted for to the unit commander the sheriff had accompanied, Les joined Wolf.

  The only thing missing for certain was a small-bore revolver along with its container of homemade linen cartridges. If Wolf were placing a bet, he’d put money on it being the one aimed at Kylah as she’d walked through the woods and the same one that had killed Audra. The owner, an accountant from Maryland, had reported having six of various makes and models tucked away in several places in his tent. He emerged with four stating he feared two were missing. Rechecking, he located one, but – even after several sheriff’s deputies joined in and took the interior of his tent completely apart – not the other. His face crumpled at the idea that one of his historic treasures had been used to take a woman’s life. He didn’t look afraid of being accused, clearly the thought never occurred to him that someone could think him capable of murder. When he was asked to accompany Les to the sheriff’s department, all trace of color left his face. Wolf felt sorry for him but didn’t bother to tell him it was protocol. He didn’t think the guy was a murderer but he’d learned to assume nothing, not where crime was involved.

  Les took Wolf aside before he left. “I imagine all that will come of it is him filing a stolen property report.”

  Wolf agreed. “What next?”

  “No one’s missing any of those … what did you call them … tensioners? I’ve got a deputy checking out some online sites where Civil War stuff is sold to see if there were any recent purchases that stand out. And that agent, Jemson, won’t get in town until close to midnight. Says he’ll meet with us first thing in the morning. I’ll see you then.”

  Wolf watched the sheriff walk away. Les looked old. He’d never thought of the man as old. Hell, he was getting old, too. And Audra’s death had been hard on all of them.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I find Miles Jemson to be the antithesis of movie theater characterizations of special agents. The man is not charismatic in looks or manner. He is not hero material in the classic sense. Yet, behind thick-lensed glasses, his eyes hold the gleam of intelligence as he listens with quiet respect to first the sheriff, then our own deputy marshal. Although Les and Wolf have worked in concert, each brings a different perspective, having observed and been a part of different aspects as events have unfolded. On the table in front of him are stacked several folders with reports and photographs. From the questions he asks now, it’s clear to me, at least, that he has studied them thoroughly and finds the information they provide as inconsistent and confusing as we have.

  Our surroundings are adequate at best. But that could just be me as I am no fan of metal folding chairs or cheap laminate flooring. The location, however, is most convenient. Now that the reenactment has been shut down, Sheriff Mitchell has taken over the office trailer previously occupied by the organizers. He and Wolf and Special Agent Jemson will use tiny offices in the back and this room in front for meetings of the mind. While the men brainstorm everything from the killing of Maisy McGuire, the attempts upon Kylah, and the shooting of Audra Edmunds, I turn my attention again and again to the whiteboard that covers most of one wall.

  I did notice Jemson narrow a look at it as he walked in but he didn’t comment. I can understand his lack of interest as it is crudely drawn with many x’s and lines, both solid, and dotted. The markings would make little sense to those with no knowledge of how the actual reenactments are orchestrated. From my observation, it’s much like a movie scene is laid out in conjunction with the natural obstacles imposed by the geography of the setting. My superior intellect allows me to see all the connections. However, something has snared my subconscious, something the complex working of my brain tells me I must identify and explore.

  I focus hard on the squiggle I perceive as the path of the cavalry that Kylah led across the low hills and, there, near the end I see it! A small notation. A slightly different slant to the handwriting. I must guide Wolf’s attention to that spot. A movement catches my peripheral vision as Jemson stands, paper in hand and …

  Wait! No! Stop!

  * * *

  Wolf watched in amazement as Trouble, who’d been quiet and well-behaved until that moment, hissed and yowled, leaping toward Special Agent Jemson.

  “What the - !” Jemson snatched his hand back, dropping the whiteboard eraser in the hasty movement.

  “Get that damned cat out of here, Wolf,” Les snarled.

  Jemson was looking at the hand Trouble had swatted. Not a mark on it. He turned his attention to the cat who now sat staring hard at Wolf and shrugged. “I may have startled him.”

  “No.” Wolf shook his head and said again, “No. He didn’t want you to erase what’s on that board. He sees something we’ve missed.”

  “Oh, for the love of Pete!” The sheriff all but rolled his eyes.

  Wolf stared at the board for a long moment. It was damned hard to read with different color markers used to depict different days. There was a legend at the top to help with that, but still. He looked at Trouble. “Show me.”

  “You’re crazy,” Les said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  All three men were up on their feet by then and Trouble leapt lightly to the chair closest to the whiteboard, the one Jemson had occupied. He turned to give Wolf a look and Wolf slid the chair closer.

  “Not just crazy,” Les muttered. “Damn near certifiable.”

  Trouble lifted himself on his hind legs, bracing one paw against the bottom ledge of the board and lifting the other to touch a place Wolf easily identified by following the line from left to right. A line intersected by a crudely drawn creek and felled tree. There was a distinct kt within a small circle at the beginning and at the end.

  “Trouble’s pointing out the end of the path the cavalry followed.” With Kylah at the lead.

  “That’s not exactly earthshattering information. Everyone who was there knows where the route ended.” And how it ended. The unspoken statement hung silently in the air.

  So far Jemson had not commented.

  “Hmmm.” Wolf didn’t stop his perusal of the markings on the board. “Trouble doesn’t waste his time.” Then he saw it. He placed a finger at one side of a tiny, uppercase A and looked at the cat. Trouble slowly lowered his paw, then his body, and sat regally on the chair. He closed his right eye in one slow, deliberate wink.

  Wolf looked at Les. “Audra.”

  “But, so what? We already knew she was there and apparently that’s right where she was assigned to be.”

  Jemson spoke unexpectedly. “The writing is different.”

  Les looked from the board to the agent, perplexed, but Wolf saw what Jemson had noted. “All of the other initials are in circles. This A isn’t.”

  “The slant is different as well. Looks like most of the rest of the notations were made by a right-handed person. This one is left-handed.”

  Wolf looked at Les. “Audra was left-handed. We used to rag her about her hand-writing in school.”

  “So?” Les repeated. “She penciled herself in. So what?”

  “I don’t think it matters she penciled herself in as much as it does that anyone coming in this office would know where she was going to be at the point in time she was killed.”

  “And?”

  Wolf studied the drawing and thought back to his conversation with Kylah and the clumsiness he’d perceived in the attempts on her. “Makes it more likely you were right, after all, Les. I was beginning to doubt the serial killer aspect. This may indicate it was another expert shot like the one that killed Maisy McGuire rather than a clumsy attempt on
Kylah that failed.”

  A rap on the door ended their conversation abruptly as all three turned to look as the door slowly opened. Grant stood on the narrow landing at the top of the metal steps – a Grant that Wolf didn’t recognize. He looked ashen, defeated, a shrunken version of himself. The way Wolf would look if that bullet had hit Kylah.

  “Grant.” Les’ voice was unnaturally soft and quiet.

  Grant’s eyes filled with tears. They glittered but didn’t spill. “I ... Audra’s purse. I think she must have left it here. It has things. Her things.” Grant fell silent.

  “Come on in,” Wolf said. “I’ll get it. Which office did she use?”

  “The one all the way at the back. I wanted her to have the biggest one. Not be bothered with all the traffic up front those first few days.”

  As Wolf walked back and began opening desk drawers, he heard Les making introductions between Jemson and Grant. He found Audra’s purse as Grant had suspected and started back down the hall, walking into the open area of the front where Jemson was asking about the whiteboard.

  “Now isn’t the time for questions,” Jemson admitted. “But there won’t be a good time. Not for this.”

  Grant shook his head heavily. “It doesn’t matter. I have nothing to go home to now. What do you need?”

  Jemson pointed to the mark Trouble had shown them. The small, uncircled A. “Can you tell me who wrote this?”

  “Audra.” Grant’s voice was hoarse. “She wasn’t supposed to take part all three days.” He pointed to a place where the a was lowercase and circled like the others. “She marked herself in the two other days.” He pointed to a couple more places. “We argued about it. Ms. West heard us.”

  “Why did you argue?” Jemson was still looking at the board.

  Grant stared at the man’s back, clearly incredulous at the question. “A woman had just been killed. Shot through the heart.” He stopped for a moment. “I was afraid something would happen to her.” He took a deep breath, then another. “And it did.”