Drynn

by Steve Vera

  “I’m no forensic expert, but I’d say somebody got a little carried away with a Louisville Slugger. Among other things. You put chains on that new Two-Fifty yet?” Stan asked while Skip struggled with his jeans in the dark. “Because I need you here fast. Our crime scene is being buried under snow as we speak.”

  “Baseball bat, huh? You mean, this wasn’t an accident? We’re talking homicide here?”

  “That seems to be a safe assumption.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Skip said, reaching for the light as he hung up. Wiseass.

  Rufus Jenkins dead; go figure. He supposed he should have felt some bit of remorse or pity, but in all honesty he didn’t. Rufus deserved it. Ignoring his crumpled uniform in the corner, he pulled a thermal undershirt over his T-shirt, a Philadelphia sweatshirt over that and went to hunt down his heavy winter coat, something he hadn’t needed until tonight. Skip was from Philly, not exactly white sand and aquamarine lagoons, but it was a tropical paradise compared to Montana. It wasn’t a state, it was a frickin’ tundra. Who ever heard of a blizzard in September?

  Skip opened the top drawer of his nightstand and took out his Python .357. He was an old-fashioned kind of guy. He looked at it for a second, and for the first time in a long while, wondered if he’d need it.

  He almost got to the front door but cursed to himself, spun on his heel and went for the refrigerator. He opened it up, snatched a pint carton of Bailey’s French Vanilla, nodded his head in approval and went back for the door. He’d be damned if he was going to be drinking that dishwater Stan called coffee without his French Vanilla.

  When Skip opened the door, he stopped. He’d lived in Rolling Creek (pronounced “crick”) almost three years now, and it still never ceased to amaze him how snow could transform the world. In Philly, the snow was salted and sanded as soon as it hit the pavement. In the city, snow was a hassle. When the streets weren’t a parking lot, they were a demolition derby, and on every corner a monument of filthy, littered snowbanks to grace the landscape. In the city, snow was ugly.

  Here, it was cleansing, purifying. The fierce gales and blistering cold had yet to arrive. The snow fell heavily but gently, the epitome of a winter wonderland.

  He drank in the silence and tranquility of its whisper. Breathing deeply, he wondered what the night had in store for him, and frowned, because on a night such as this one, he would be visiting death.

  His dark thoughts were interrupted by his own smile. Slumbering inside his garage was a brand-new Ford Two-Fifty Super Chief. A gift to himself in celebration to the end of alimony payments.

  Even after three months he felt like a kid every time he stepped in, savoring the fresh “new car” smell that permeated every crevice. Although he was going on no joy ride, he was anxious to see how it would do in the six inches of snow that had already accumulated.

  Like a tank.

  Which gave him time to think.

  Rufus Jenkins had just got out of prison two months ago for throwing a fifty-seven-year-old woman down a flight of stairs, breaking her sixty-two-year-old husband’s jaw in three places and kidnapping their daughter for having the audacity to try and break up with him. And he was the one married.

  Everything but the kidnapping charges had stuck. The victim, Tammy Shaw, had wanted to drop all charges. Not because she was diluted with some warped version of love or infatuation, but because she had feared for her life, her family’s and even her friends’. Rufus, degenerate as he was, was a Jenkins, and they were something of a dynasty here in Rolling Creek. Even if Rufus went to jail, there were still his two gorilla brothers to deal with, and Rufus had a long memory. Much to his dismay, Skip had quickly discovered the pitiless hold Rufus had on this little town. There was hardly a person who hadn’t at one time or another been on the receiving end of the man’s temper.

  Undeterred, Tammy’s parents had pressed charges to the full extent of the law. It was those assault charges that had put Rufus behind bars—prison this time, and not just the local lockup.

  And now he was out. And evidently dead.

  So the big fat question was, who? Who in God’s name finally took Rufus down?

  He was anxious, but not stupid, and followed his own advice as he drove. What was another five minutes?

  Before he’d even turned onto the street, Skip could see one of St. Thomas’s two ambulances pulsing red and white into the winter night. Stan had erected a makeshift shelter over the crime scene with two wooden horses and a tarp, and was rolling with a video camera as two paramedics loaded up a body into the back of the ambulance.

  Two women stood shivering behind Stan and looked up as his truck approached. Skip hoped he was looking at his witnesses.

  “What do we got?” he asked, slamming the door to his truck shut.

  “A mess,” Stan said, stopping his recording. “Rufus is dead, Marcus isn’t far behind and Todd is going to wish he was.”

  “All of them? What the hell happened?” Skip asked, looking down at the crimson-soaked snow. A pool of blood three feet wide had melted in the snow, glaring in stark contrast to the rest of the white ground, and was spattered up to ten feet away.

  “I’m no doctor, but I know which way a knee bends. One of his elbows had the same problem.”

  Skip whistled. He noticed a wooden baseball bat smeared with blood, lying abandoned in the snow. A couple of feet away was a wicked-looking knife Skip recognized immediately as a Marine KA-BAR, and next to that a chrome .45 pistol with at least two spent cartridges. All lay discarded in the snow like candy wrappers.

  A set of footprints disappearing in the falling snow led away from the sight, to where a vehicle of some sort had been parked. Skip noted the tire tracks, half-filled with snow, and knew he was going to need to work fast.

  “Don’t suppose either of you ladies saw what happened?” Skip asked. He knew both of them. The older woman was Emma, the owner of the Red Rook. The other girl Skip knew more by reputation, which wasn’t exactly flattering, but recognized her as Jessica Mansfield, a young and rather promiscuous server at the Rook.

  Emma spoke first. “We didn’t see what happened. We were locked in the restaurant ’til Stan got here, but we got a pretty good idea of who did it,” she said in a subdued voice.

  “Locked in the restaurant?”

  “Yeah, either he did it, or Rufus and his brothers did after he left.”

  “He?”

  “I don’t know. Never seen him before.”

  “Not a local then?” Skip’s mind was scrolling through a mental Rolodex, trying to guess who might have had the balls.

  “No way,” Jessica said. “I’d have definitely known him if he was from around here.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Do you think we could talk about this inside, Chief Walkins? I’m freezing my ass off,” Emma said through chattering teeth.

  “Uh, sure,” he said. “Why don’t you both go inside. I’ll meet you in a minute.”

  Emma nodded wearily in thanks, and they both shuffled back toward the Rook.

  “That your idea?” he asked Stan, pointing to the camcorder with his chin.

  Stan gave a thin smile. “Preserve the crime scene and all that. I was gonna use my iPhone but this one’s better. It was Emma’s niece’s birthday two days ago, and she still had the camera inside.”

  “Not bad.”

  Stan was a good cop, even if he was a little wet behind the ears. He wasn’t one of those power-trip guys so overloaded on their own testosterone that they slept with their guns under their pillows. He was normally upbeat, a bit too much for Skip someti
mes, with a goofy sense of humor. Hard not to like. Presently, however, his face seemed drawn and a few shades paler than normal.

  “You okay?” Skip asked. Rolling Creek wasn’t the inner city, and although death is a part of life in any town or city, it rarely came in this form.

  “Yeah,” he replied. The closer Skip inspected, the more shaken up he seemed. Stan opened his mouth to say something more, than closed it.

  “That bad?” Skip held Stan’s eyes with his own.

  Stan shrugged. “Wasn’t pretty.”

  As if on cue, the doors to the ambulance slammed shut. In Philly there was a distinct difference between ambulance and meat wagon, but here in Rolling Creek, versatility was the game.

  “Who do you have in there?” Skip asked one of the EMTs as he secured the door.

  “Rufus. Do you want to see?”

  Skip nodded.

  The paramedic opened the doors he’d just closed and lowered the gurney onto the ground. Snow swirled and bombarded the opaque plastic body bag. The paramedic, a big man named Randy who also taught seventh grade social studies, unzipped the bag.

  Skip turned his head. “Whoa.”

  “Whoa is right.” Randy seemed morbidly excited, the normal monotony of being a volunteer in Rolling Creek broken. With a grim nod from Skip, Randy rezipped the body bag.

  “I’ll meet you back at the hospital,” Skip said.

  Randy nodded, hopped back into his vehicle, joined his partner and drove off, the red-and-white beacons pulsing through the night.

  “So what’s the plan?” Stan asked.

  “C’mon,” Skip answered, walking Stan toward the back of his Super Chief. He opened the back and pulled out a metallic-colored box that looked like a mini-suitcase. “Your night is just about to get a little more interesting,” he said as he opened the box.

  Inside was an array of at least twenty vials with stoppers in them, neatly arranged in foam settings. His CSI kit. On the inside of the cover were several different measuring spoons, tweezers, a portable UV flashlight, a box of latex gloves, liquid-filled vials and a host of other appurtenances necessary to the craft of detective-dom. It had originally been a starter chemistry set, something you might get a nine-or ten-year-old. He’d bought one for his nephew almost a decade ago and had been so impressed with its organization and convenience that he’d bought one for himself and had modified it. He hadn’t needed it in a long time.

  “You get to take samples,” he continued, handing Stan a pair of skintight latex gloves.

  “Are you serious? You’re the one who used to be a detective.”

  “Time is of the essence, young grasshopper. Just do like I showed you. And don’t screw it up.”

  Stan raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “You got it.”

  Skip turned and started for the Rook. He glanced at the fading tire tracks and picked up his pace. They’d be filled soon.

  Emma and Jessica had a pot of coffee burping and spitting as it brewed. Figured that he’d left his French Vanilla in his truck, but it was just as well. He didn’t have much time, and it had to be better than Stan’s.

  He skipped the pleasantries. “All right, what happened?”

  They both looked at each other before Emma began. Skip would have preferred to separate them, just to make sure—his instincts hadn’t completely died—but time was precious.

  Emma was a good witness.

  After listening to the first part of her account, Skip asked, “Did he say where he was from?”

  “No, like I said, he hardly said anything at all, and when he did, he gave me the creeps.”

  “Right, the voice. Now let me make sure I have this right. You’re telling me that this kid caught Rufus’s hand in midair, brought him to his knees and then threw him across the room?”

  “Craziest shit I’ve ever seen,” Jessica said, star-eyed still.

  “How big did you say he was again?”

  Emma shrugged. “I’m not sure exactly. He wasn’t very big. Not small, either. Maybe five-nine, five-ten? He was just really weird. Spooky.”

  “Describe him to me. How old was he, what he was wearing, hair, things like that?”

  “Well, we already told you about the sunglasses, which was pretty strange in of itself. He was young, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three and real good-looking, like he could be in the movies. Long hair, down to his shoulders.”

  “What color?”

  “Sandy ash blond with golden undertones,” Jessica interjected helpfully.

  Skip leveled his gaze at her.

  “I’m going to cosmetology school,” she explained.

  Skip stared at her a second longer then said aloud as wrote into his notebook, Blond. “And then what happened?”

  “I kicked Rufus out because he started it,” Emma said.

  “He didn’t like that much,” Jessica added. “Before him and his brothers left, Rufus threatened the guy, told him that they’d meet up with him later.”

  “Go on.” Skip turned the page to his notebook.

  “Chief, this guy was like a robot. He just sat in the corner, staring at the TV like he was in a trance or something. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at anyone, that is until Rufus started on him, but for some reason I got the feeling he was waiting,” Emma continued.

  He looked up. “Why do you say that?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, just a feeling.”

  “That’s good. What time did he leave?”

  “He was here forever, didn’t leave until right before midnight. Just sat in his corner…waiting. It got to the point that I thought I might have to call you guys.”

  “Did you ask him to leave?”

  “Oh yeah, but he wouldn’t. He said ‘not yet.’ Weird huh? He practically dared me to insist.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No way, not with this guy.”

  “Did you clean the dishes he used, his glass, silverware?”

  “I just put them in the dishwasher. I was going to have Rusty do them in the morning or the day after that, depending on this storm.”

  “Great. Make sure they aren’t touched. I’m gonna want to get some prints. After he left, did you hear anything or see anything? Did you actually see what happened?”

  “No. We were just getting our things when we heard the gunshots and screaming. When we went to go and see what was happening, we found the door jammed. The back door too. We didn’t see anything else until Stan got here and let us out.”

  “But we heard it,” Jessica said in a quiet voice.

  Emma’s face paled in agreement.

  Skip’s left eyebrow shot up. “What did you hear?”

  Silence for a moment, and then Jessica spoke up. “Screaming. A lot of screaming. I saw a hunter get mauled by a grizzly before. It was like that, but it lasted longer.”

  Skip kept his face professionally neutral. “I see.” He finished scribbling in his notebook. “You ladies have been most helpful. I’ll get your official statements in the morning. Don’t open up tomorrow ’til we sweep for prints. In the meantime, you should both get home before this storm really starts.”

  Skip walked them out and met up with Stan, who was hunched over getting a blood sample in the snow. He’d already wrapped the knife, gun and bat.

  “Not bad, not bad at all,” Skip said, standing over him. A powdery dusting of snow had already coated Stan’s body, melting in his hair and making him look thoroughly miserable. “You have any idea where those gunshots went?”

  Stan shook his head as he concentrated. “I looked but couldn’t tell. All I know is that they didn’t hit the restaurant.”

  “What makes you say that?�
� Skip asked.

  “No holes.”

  Skip smiled. “Good work, smartass. I want you to call state, let them know what happened, tell them we got a suspect but not a vehicle. Young male, twenty to twenty-five, shoulder-length blond hair, black overcoat, and tell them there’s a good chance he’ll be wearing sunglasses. Tell them to use caution too. Where the hell is Jared?”

  Stan stood up, jotting down Skip’s orders in his head while batting snow off his knees. “Who the hell knows? He’s probably walking. I told him not to get that stupid Mustang—thing handles like shit in the snow.”

  Skip shook his head. “When he gets here, wrap this up, bring it over to the station and hit the Rolling Creek Motel, the ski lodge and any other place you think someone might stay while visiting. I’ll meet up with you guys after.”

  “Where are you gonna be?” Stan asked Skip as he walked toward his Super Chief.

  “Hunting,” Skip said. “I’m going to follow the wabbit twacks,” he said, pointing to the fading lines.

  Before he shut the door to his truck, Stan called out to him, “Hey! Be careful, anybody who could do this…”

  Skip smiled. “Don’t worry. You just do what I told you. I’ve got Mr. Python here to protect me. And call me if you find out anything,” he said, tapping his radio. The kid was telling him to be careful.

  Once back on the road, his mind kept tempo with the windshield wipers, different images and memories appearing and vanishing with each beat. Rufus kicking the living daylights out of that kid from Nebraska last year—thwap, the time Rufus ran over that mother raccoon and then backed over all the babies—thwap, Rufus’s head bashed in—thwap. What a violent night.

  Fortunately, people were showing that they did indeed possess some intelligence and were staying off the roads. Skip only crossed three other pairs of tire tracks and was having no problem following the stranger’s.

  Main Street Rolling Creek was a pretty tunnel lined with tall red cedar and prickly swaths of lodgepole pines. An instant immersion into nature, and Skip loved it. Here it came, and there it went. Rolling Creek was one of those towns that could be missed by blinking too much. He traveled for another ten minutes, following the tracks beyond town limits. Just where the hell was this guy going anyway?