Shadow Dragon

by Horton, Lance

  “Yes, I tell her.”

  “Thanks,” Kyle said. He was about to hang up when Miss Vera spoke again.

  “Mr. Kyle?”

  “Yes?”

  “Your mother, she says you will be coming back to Dallas soon. Is this true?”

  Kyle frowned. He had hoped to avoid the subject. “I don’t know, Miss Vera. I … something’s come up at work. I’m going to be out of town for a while.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Don’t tell Janet, all right? I promised her I’d let her know as soon as I decided.”

  “Okay, Mr. Kyle.”

  Kyle sighed as he hung up and looked at the envelope in the passenger seat. He could already imagine Janet’s response when he told her he hadn’t turned in his notice.

  In an effort to improve his mood, he pulled out a Jimmy Buffett CD and stuck it in the stereo.

  His love of the music had begun innocently enough when Angela, whom he had just started dating at the time, had invited him to a Buffett concert. She had just begun her residency in the emergency room at Parkland, and a bunch of the staff members there were big fans. They had invited her and Kyle to go along with them. Kyle hadn’t really cared for his music and wasn’t interested in going, but Angela had talked him into it.

  It wound up being one of the best times he could ever remember. It wasn’t just a concert they attended; it was a miniature Mardi Gras. People had dressed in Hawaiian shirts and grass skirts, sailor uniforms, bikinis, and countless other wild costumes. For three hours, they sang and danced and drank and acted like children, laughing and tickling one another. And after the concert was over, the people kept it going out in the parking lot. He and Angela had joined in, buying a bottle of homemade sangria from some hippie-looking kid with a cooler full of the stuff. They drank straight from the bottle as they danced the night away. Later, when they finally made it back to Angela’s apartment, they made love for the first time. From that moment on, Kyle had been hooked. He had become a bona-fide Parrot-head overnight.

  He thought about calling Angela to see if she had gotten the flowers yet, but he knew she was in the middle of her shift and he didn’t want to bother her while she was working.

  “Son of a Son of a Sailor Man” began playing. Normally, it conjured up thoughts of better times to come: the warmth of the sun on his face, the salty tang of the ocean air, and him at the helm of a thirty-foot sailboat making his way down the Baja Peninsula.

  But this morning, his disposition remained as gloomy as the weather.

  CHAPTER 3

  Montana

  Kalispell was a pleasant-seeming town of about twenty thousand. Situated in the middle of the Flathead Valley, it was surrounded by the jagged peaks of the Rocky Mountains to the north, east, and west and by Flathead Lake to the south. In spite of the overcast day, the entire valley seemed aglow, buried beneath a blanket of dazzling white snow.

  Deputy Clayton Johnson, who had picked them up at the airport, prattled on about the valley, filling them in on all its finer points, including the fact that Flathead Lake was the largest natural freshwater lake west of the Mississippi. The deputy was a lean fellow, with a high-pitched voice and thinning hair beneath his western-style hat. He seemed as friendly as could be, like a real-life Barney Fife.

  They turned onto Main Street. The street had been recently plowed, with four-foot banks of dirty snow lining each side. Clayton pointed out the shopping mall and the First National Bank building, which housed the FBI’s Resident Agency office on the second floor. For the most part, Main Street retained the quintessential look of small-town America. Two-and three-story brick buildings lined each side of the street, housing drug stores, law offices, bookstores, gift shops, and even a few small casinos.

  The center of town was marked by a circular rotunda, which Main Street split around like an island in the midst of a stream. In the middle of the isle was the Flathead County Courthouse, a chateau-like four-story, yellow-brick building. On its northern face, a large, square tower with pointed spires rose above the snow-covered spruces ringing the rotunda. The scene looked like something from the front of a Hallmark Christmas card.

  Across the street to the west was the Flathead County Justice Center, a modern, three-story, brown-brick, and mirrored-glass building that housed the county sheriff’s offices and detention facilities. Several news vans were already parked out front, antennas and satellite dishes sprouting from their roofs. A handful of reporters and camera crews huddling in their coats were camped out on the salted steps, filming introductory pieces and waiting for any signs of activity from inside.

  “Look at ’em,” Lewis muttered. “Like a bunch of vultures.”

  When they saw a county vehicle passing by, they all turned, cameras zooming in. Several followed them around to the back of the building, where they pulled into the sally port. As the large doors slowly rolled down, reporters and cameramen scampered up, filming as they shouted out questions.

  “I tell you … this town’s never seen anything like this before,” the deputy said, shaking his head.

  They entered through the booking area past the holding cells and continued to the administration area up front.

  They turned down another hall, and the deputy led them into one of the offices. “Sheriff … the FBI men are here.”

  Looking out the window across the room from them was a tall, broad-shouldered man. He stood motionless like a statue. Long black hair trailed across the back of his collar.

  The man turned around slowly. Kyle was surprised to find he was a Native American.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, his deep voice like the grinding of stone on stone. “I am George Greyhawk.”

  Kyle had often thought that Lewis was an imposing man. Lewis was big and strong and had a deep voice, but Sheriff George Greyhawk defined imposing from the way he stood perfectly erect to the penetrating steel-gray eyes above his sharp, aquiline nose, not to mention the powerful timbre of his voice. It was as if he had been chiseled from the bedrock of the nearby mountains.

  Lewis stepped forward to greet the sheriff, who was several inches taller than him. “Agent Lewis Edwards,” he said. “And this is Kyle Andrews, victim specialist.”

  “Aay, you must be the boys from Seattle,” said a man with a thick, northeastern accent as he rose from a chair across from the sheriff’s desk. “How you doing?” He wore black jeans and a dark blue ball cap and a shirt with FBI stenciled on the front. Kyle guessed him to be about five foot six or seven at the most, but with a stocky build. He had thick, dark brown hair and a bushy mustache that helped to hide his badly stained teeth.

  “Tony Marasco, Kalispell office,” he said as he offered his hand. “I’m told you boys are taking the lead on this.”

  “That’s right,” Lewis said. “So what have we got?”

  “Just got here a little while ago myself,” said Marasco. “We were waiting on you.”

  Kyle stood back, taking a moment to scan the room while Lewis sat in the remaining chair in front of the desk. It was something he often did in victim’s homes to get a sense of the people he was dealing with. On a bookshelf behind the sheriff’s desk was a black-and-white picture of a striking, young, Native American woman with long black hair. She reminded Kyle of Cher when she was younger. She stood behind a tall boy of nine or ten, her arms wrapped around him. Even at such a young age, the boy’s strong jawline and broad shoulders left no doubt that it was George Greyhawk.

  The wall to the left was adorned with plaques and certificates of commendation from the department, while behind him was a large map of the Flathead Valley. Curiously, Kyle noted there weren’t any items indicative of his Indian heritage on display.

  Marasco picked up two manila folders from the desk and handed one to Lewis. Kyle looked on over Lewis’s shoulder as he opened it. Inside were copies of the crime-scene photographs, evidence log, and other information on the men.

  “We’ve got at least three dead so far,” said the sheriff. “The rem
ains were discovered around 6:15 this morning by an electrician repairing downed power lines. The site is about halfway down Hungry Horse Reservoir, just off Graves Bay.” He pointed at the map on the wall behind them. Hungry Horse Reservoir was a long, thin lake between two mountain ranges to the northeast of Kalispell. About halfway down the reservoir, Kyle found the quarter-moon-shaped bay.

  “How long is the reservoir?” Lewis asked.

  “It’s about fifty-five miles from the dam to the Spotted Bear Ranger Station at the other end,” said the sheriff. “We arrived on site about 8:45. The snow was so deep we had to use the Forest Service snowcats to get there.”

  “Any idea what happened?” Lewis asked.

  “Not yet,” said the sheriff. “Four men were staying at the cabin. Two nights ago, there was a big storm. Power to the cabin was knocked out. It appears at least two of them went out back to start the generator. From there, we aren’t sure what happened. But one of the men’s severed head was found in the living room, and another’s arm was found in the snow out back. After we called in the search-and-rescue dogs, we dug out in front of the generator. We found a flashlight and another hand. The decapitated man was Steve Haskins. From the fingerprints, we were able to identify the two other men as James Darrell and Jasper Earl.”

  “How did you know the men were from Seattle?”

  “From the luggage in the bedrooms. Their wallets were left along with the cash and credit cards.”

  “Was a report taken from the repairman?” Lewis asked.

  “Yes, the deputy that took his statement said he had no reason to suspect him.”

  “I heard he pissed his pants when he found them,” Marasco added with a smirk.

  “We’ll want a copy of the statement,” Lewis said.

  The sheriff nodded.

  “What about the fourth man?” Lewis asked.

  The sheriff flipped through a few of the pages in front of him. “Larry Henderson,” he said. “We don’t know what happened to him. We’re still searching for him and any other remains. The truck and the snowmobiles they rented were left out front. He couldn’t have gotten far on foot.”

  “Sounds to me like a poker game gone bad,” said Marasco. “I used to see this kind of shit back in Jersey. You get a bunch of drunk wise guys bustin’ each other’s balls. Then suddenly someone snaps, and boom—you got fuckin’ dead people everywhere.”

  “Unless he had help,” Lewis said to the sheriff, ignoring Marasco’s comment. “What sort of condition was the road in before the storm?”

  “It had been plowed recently,” said the sheriff. “A four-wheel-drive vehicle could have made it, but they would have had to have left before the storm hit. It doesn’t fit with the estimated time of death.”

  “What about the evidence?” Lewis asked.

  “It’s all going to the lab in DC,” said Marasco. “Including the body parts. I’ve already talked to the coroner.”

  “Good,” said Lewis. “Make sure we get copied on everything.”

  “You got it.”

  Kyle knew that when he returned to Seattle, he would have to explain to the families what had happened to their loved ones and why they couldn’t claim their remains yet. It was not something he looked forward to.

  “Any evidence of weapons fire?” Lewis asked.

  “Just one from a shotgun,” said the sheriff. “We removed pellets from the fireplace.”

  “Any other weapons found?”

  “Not yet. And nothing that would explain the dismemberment.”

  “Is it possible they were mauled?” Lewis asked.

  “Not as the cause of death,” said the sheriff. “Haskin’s head was severed clean. Same for Earl’s arm. According to the coroner, the bones didn’t show any signs of fracturing or splintering, or any abrasions that one would expect to find if the arm had been hacked or sawed off. He says the arm was severed by something like an ax or a sword or a machete. Darrell’s hand did appear to have been bitten off, but we think that occurred postmortem.”

  “What about these?” Lewis asked, pointing at a photograph of scratches on the hardwood floor.

  “We think those were caused by whatever they used to decapitate the vic.” The sheriff reached across the desk and flipped to the next picture. “The ceiling is open-joist construction, with logs about eight inches in diameter. There are also scratches around that beam there. We think they might have looped something over, like a chain, and used that to hold them up.”

  “Torture?” Lewis asked.

  “Maybe,” said the sheriff. “Or just to bleed them out before they packed out the bodies.”

  “Jesus,” Marasco muttered. “I ain’t never seen nothing like that, not even in Jersey.”

  “So the bodies were taken and moved somewhere,” Lewis said. “Either by someone strong enough to carry it by himself, or there were several people involved.”

  It didn’t make sense to Kyle, and he ventured to ask about it. “What would anyone want with the bodies? If you’re trying to make it hard to ID someone, wouldn’t you get rid of the head and the hands instead of the body?”

  “Unless they were interrupted and scared off before they were finished,” Lewis said. “Or else someone was trying to make a statement.”

  “Could have been drug dealers,” said Marasco. “Salt Lake’s also running a list of all the known cults and white supremacist groups in the area. Homeland Security wants to make sure these guys weren’t whacked as part of some terrorist plot. And it’s a pretty fucking long list. I think there’s more wackos in the woods out there than in all of Jersey.”

  Kyle nodded. He hadn’t thought of that.

  “Did it look as if the head had been moved? You know, placed in any particular position or arranged to send a message?” Lewis asked.

  “No,” said the sheriff

  Deputy Johnson stuck his head back in the doorway. “Excuse me, sheriff, but the Joneses are here. I put them in the interview room up front and got them both a cup of coffee.

  “Thank you, Clayton. Tell them we’ll be right there. The Joneses own the cabin and two others along the bay that they rent out,” explained the sheriff.

  “I’d like to handle the interview with you,” Lewis said to the sheriff. “Is the room they’re in set up to allow for observation?”

  “Audio and video,” said the sheriff. “Agents Marasco and Andrews can watch from the room next door.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Everyone stopped to get coffee except for Kyle, who poured himself a cup of water from the cooler. The sheriff led them down the hall to the observation room where a thirty-two-inch, flat-screen monitor sat on a desk in front of two chairs.

  “All we need’s a little popcorn for the show, aay?” Marasco said as he plopped into one of the chairs.

  Kyle didn’t respond.

  Marasco looked at Kyle. “What? You got nothin’ to say?”

  “I just don’t think it’s appropriate,” Kyle said.

  “Appropriate? It’s a fucking joke. Look, you VS guys might have to tiptoe around with the families of the vics and all, and that’s fine—I understand. But don’t be all high and mighty with me. You deal with it your way. I’ll deal with it mine.”

  Kyle nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Aay, forget about it,” Marasco shrugged.

  Kyle cracked a smile in spite of himself. The guy sounded like someone straight out of a mob movie. “So what brought you here?” he asked. “You don’t exactly strike me as the Montana type.”

  “You think?” Marasco stopped when he saw Lewis and the sheriff enter the room on the monitor. “I’ll tell you later.”

  They watched as Lewis and the sheriff greeted the Joneses. Bill Jones was a heavyset man, with broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and white hair. He had chubby cheeks and bright blue eyes. Even in winter, his weathered face was well tanned. He wore Timberland boots with jeans and a green and black flannel shirt over a thermal undershirt and held a faded denim baseball cap in his ha
nds. There was a stricken look on his face.

  Audrey Jones was a pleasant-looking lady with light brown hair laced with streaks of gray. She also wore jeans and a thick red sweater with a snowman embroidered on the front. Unlike her husband, she appeared to be more relaxed.

  Lewis pulled out his notepad, made a few notes, and then said, “Mr. and Mrs. Jones, first, I want to thank you for coming in today. I know this must have been a shock to you, and we appreciate your cooperation.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Mrs. Jones replied.

  “Now, according to our information, you own the cabin in which the murdered men were found.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Jones answered. “We own three cabins along the lake. We rent out two of them to tourists. During the summer, Bill takes them on fly-fishing trips. During the winter, we rent them out to skiers and snowmobilers.”

  “Did they reserve the cabin in advance, or was it rented out recently?” Lewis asked.

  “It was reserved in advance,” Mrs. Jones replied. “I handle all the bookkeeping for the business, and I made the reservations. I want to say that James reserved it sometime in early January. I have all the records on the computer. I’ll be happy to get you the exact date if you need it.”

  “Yes, any specific information you can provide us with will be helpful,” Lewis said. “Now, you mentioned that James made the reservation. Were you familiar with Mr. Darrell?”

  “Oh, yes, James has rented that cabin from us the last three or four years. He brings some of the guys from the body shop with him each year.”

  “Body shop?”

  “Yes, he owns an auto-body repair shop in Seattle.”

  Lewis nodded. “Were you familiar with any of the other men staying with him?”

  “All of them except one had stayed there before. He was a younger man. I believe his name was Steve. Steve—”

  “Haskins,” Mr. Jones finished for her.

  “Yes, that was his name.”

  “Did you see the men when they arrived at the cabin?” Lewis asked

  Mrs. Jones shook her head, and her husband spoke again. “I—” He paused to clear his throat. “I showed them to the cabin and helped them to get settled in.”