by D P Lyle
“I do know the General.”
“He’s the client.”
Cain and Harper had worked with Milner on dozens of cases over the years. Mostly securing information, or planting information, or supplying incentives for someone to alter their behavior. Physical or psychological incentives. Sometimes this required wet work. Elimination of a threat, settling a score, taking out the garbage, whatever was needed. There was a time such work would have bothered him, given him pause. Those days were long gone. Any reservations he harbored evaporated years ago in Afghanistan. Tyler, Texas, too.
“What’s the problem?” Cain asked.
“His granddaughter is missing.”
“You know we don’t do lost and found.”
“Did I mention this was General Kessler?”
“And?”
“And he specifically requested you.”
“Why?”
Milner shrugged. “I guess you’ll find that out when you meet with him.”
“If I meet with him.”
“You will.” Milner smiled. “I know you. You’re already grinding over what he might have to say.”
Cain had no argument for that. “What do you know so far?”
“She’s a sophomore at Vandy. Apparently headed off for a hiking trip in Colorado. A week ago. No word since then.”
“A college kid goes AWOL and that’s news?”
“According to the General she’s very reliable. Always checks in. Almost daily.”
“We still don’t do runaways.”
“Just talk to him. Then decide.” Milner picked up a silver Mont Blanc rollerball and tapped it on his desk. “But I should add, he said he would pay whatever it took.”
Cain nodded. “That always helps.”
“He’s already put up a fifty grand retainer. And given us an open expense account. No restrictions.”
“Sounds like he’s pretty sure we’d take the case.”
Milner shrugged, laid the pen on the desk. “He’s very persuasive. Used to getting things done. His way.”
“That’s indeed his reputation.”
Milner offered a quick smile, saying, “You don’t get to his station in life by taking no for an answer.”
“You said she’s his granddaughter. What about her parents?”
“Deceased. Plane crash. Returning from an Aspen ski trip many years ago. The General and his wife then raised the girl.”
Cain hesitated, mulling the situation. Distraught grandfather. Missing college kid. Who knew what family dramas were in play? Could be a total cluster fuck. But he had to admit that seeing General Kessler again was intriguing.
“Okay. When does he want to sit down?” Cain asked.
“Now.”
“That urgent?”
Milner hesitated and then sighed. “I’m sure he’ll tell you this, but he doesn’t believe she’s still alive.”
“Based on?”
“A full week. No communication. No nothing. Means this might not be a lost and found situation. It might be something in your wheelhouse.”
Cain stood. “Where’s his place?”
“Down by Franklin. Leiper’s Fork.”
Leiper’s Fork. Tiny town, big bucks. Open farmland that had morphed into the current hot spot for Hollywood’s A-List and the Music City’s megastars. Huge estates that, if you have to ask the price, you should move on down the road. Way down the road.
“I’ll give him a call,” Milner said. “When can he expect you?”
“Give me a couple of hours. I need to do a few things, then Harper and I’ll drive down that way.”
“I’ll text you the directions.”
Cain stood.
“Oh,” Milner said. “I forgot to ask. How many blades do you have on you right now?” He smiled.
“That you could find?”
Milner laughed.
Cain left.
CHAPTER 4
Bobby Blade, Age 7
Everyone has a story. Where they hailed from, how they were raised, what goals they set, achieved, failed to reach. Most often, a simple, linear, mundane tale.
Not so for Bobby Cain, that being the name he ultimately inherited.
Truth was, his birth name was never known. Not to him, not to anyone. His real parents were likewise unknown. He didn’t become a Cain until age twelve when he was adopted by Wilbert and Ruth Cain. After the FBI shattered his gypsy family, the culmination of a two-year investigation where they dogged the group, gathered evidence, and finally—on a misty and cool morning—materialized from the woods, guns drawn. After, Cain and Harper were packed off to a juvenile detention center, then to separate orphanages. After he was ripped away from Harper, not knowing at that time that their paths wouldn’t cross again for fifteen years. On the other side of the planet.
At the tender age of two months, he had been abandoned in a Houston train station, where the woman who would become his aunt plucked him up. At least that’s the story everyone told. Aunt Dixie and Uncle Al Broussard named him Bobby. A good name as names go, but probably not his. So he became Bobby Broussard.
Uncle Al and Aunt Dixie gave him a home, of sorts. They belonged to a transient group that at various times was called a family, a clan, or a gypsy band. Those of true Roma origin might have had issues with the latter, but Bobby never heard any complaints. Never even saw a real gypsy. But they lived like gypsies. Motor homes, trucks, trailers, always on the move. During Bobby’s twelve years with the group, he visited a dozen states, from Texas to South Carolina.
The band, around sixty strong, consisted of three dozen adults, the remainder children, ranging from teens to Bobby, the youngest. The children were divided among the adults in no pattern Bobby ever saw. He and his “sister” Harper were under the wing of Al and Dixie. Harper was a year older. The family story was that she had been purchased from a young, unmarried girl for $200 and three bottles of Wild Turkey. Her mother a half breed, according to Uncle Al—white and Cherokee—gave Harper her almond complexion, dark eyes, and silky black hair. A distinct contrast to the blond Bobby.
The family never settled in one place more than a few months, more often only a week or two. Odd jobs, mostly in construction, brought in some money, but more came from the shows they performed. Never in big cities, where their itinerant nature and Bohemian appearance often drew hostility. Smaller communities were more tolerant of their camping on the town’s periphery, and their performances, often at the local fairgrounds or the corner of some hospitable farmer’s land.
Singing and dancing, some magic, fortune telling, and games of skill dominated. The games were of course rigged. Like tossing baseballs at balanced wooden pins. Seemed simple enough. Unless the pins were secured with wax, making a direct, solid hit necessary to tumble the pyramid. Or tossing coins toward the mouths of assorted glassware, arranged haphazardly on a wooden table. No problem. Except each was so shallow that the coins were rarely collected. Still, people lined up to take their chance. All for prizes such as cheap stuffed animals, necklaces, bracelets, and other trinkets lifted here and there, or wood products manufactured by the family—whittled whistles, slingshots, and the like. A dollar here, another there, it added up.
But the family’s major source of income came from various cons, picking pockets, panhandling, and burglary. Thus, the need to keep moving.
Bobby’s young life swerved on his fourth birthday. Not a turn anyone would have predicted. Uncle Al gave him his first knife. A folding six-inch blade with a deer antler handle. His fascination was immediate. Its weight and precision. The sharp blade that sliced through wood effortlessly. Whittling instruction followed. Bobby proved to be a natural. Small animals, whistles, necklace bobs, slingshots, he created each with ease. Not without a few nicks and cuts along the way. Thin, pale scars he carried into adulthood.
He collected more knives. Throwing lessons followed. From Aunt Dixie. Something she could do adeptly. This also came naturally to Bobby. Overhanded, underhanded, over his shoulde
r, between his legs, even blindfolded, he could hit every target.
Then, under Uncle Al’s tutelage, he moved to axes, where he also displayed amazing skill. And, of course, bows. He was taught to hunt. A necessary skill as the family often lived off the land. Hunting, fishing, and nighttime raids of farmers’ fields and chicken coops, fed the troupe.
They possessed guns, rifles and shotguns mostly, but bows were the predominate devices for hunting. Some small towns became nervous with guns blazing in the surrounding area. And local hunters didn’t tolerate the intrusion. Bows allowed for what Uncle Al called “stealth hunting.” No one ever knew they were there. Rabbits, possums, squirrels, and the occasional deer. Rarely turkeys.
By age seven, Bobby Broussard became Bobby Blade, the centerpiece of the shows. Balloons, shiny tin disks, scraps of colored paper, walnuts and pecans, became his targets. Much to the delight of those who came to the shows.
Harper entered the picture. She held the tiny targets as Bobby pierced each with a perfect throw of a knife or axe. He could easily crack a pecan held between her thumb and index finger.
That led to the board. Harper would stand against it, arms and legs spread, while Bobby peppered her outline with his blades. Uncle Mo built a circular platform that spun. Harper strapped into place, Bobby throwing in rapid succession while the audience oohed, laughed nervously, and occasionally shrieked, hands flying up to cover their eyes.
Word spread. The legend of Bobby Blade exploded. Folks scrambled to see the shows. The money rolled in.
CHAPTER 5
Early May in Tennessee is typically mild. A bridge between the cold dampness of winter and the oppressive heat of summer. But May can be tricky, wavering back and forth as if undecided which season would rule the day. And it can do so in no predictable pattern. Case in point—two days ago it was 60, raining, and windy; today, 88 and calm beneath a lid of clear blue sky. Humidity way up there. Enough to plaster your clothing to your skin, make you seek out the shade of a tree, or the churning of an air conditioner, definitely a sweating glass of lemonade or sweet tea.
Police Chief Laura Cutler’s day had begun like most others, with a couple of phone calls and a stack of notices to sort through, but then rapidly veered toward boring. When she finally gave up pushing paper clips around her desk—making patterns, messing them up, creating new designs—and staring out her office window, she walked down to Flo’s Diner for lunch.
Flo’s, a weather-worn wooden structure with big windows and a massive deck, sat just above the marina and looked out over Tims Ford Lake. Best breakfast, lunch, and happy hour in town meant it was always crowded.
The aroma of sweet, smokey barbecue, the murmur of voices, and the jangle of forks and knives against plates, greeted Cutler as she entered. So did the cool air that seemed to push her damp shirt against her, causing a slight shiver. She nodded to the covey of old timers who daily occupied “Liar’s Corner,” the round table for eight snugged up against a windowless corner beneath an array of black and white photos of Moss Landing from “back in the day.” Back when it was nothing more than a couple of houses, one being Jeremiah Moss’s old place, and a rickety boat dock. Back before big money discovered the area. Built it into a thriving town of 8,000 with an active tourist trade and a large marina that hugged the western end of the lake.
She climbed on one of the bar stools. Flo Mason, the owner, swiped a bar towel across the counter, and clapped down an empty coffee cup. Flo, fifties, short and stocky, ran a tight ship that churned out great coffee and even better food. She wore jeans and a lime green tee shirt with “Flo’s Dinner” in white script across the front.
“How’s it going Chief?”
“Fine. Quiet.”
Flo poured coffee. “The usual?”
The usual meaning tuna salad, lettuce, and tomato on wheat toast. “Sure.” Cutler took a sip of coffee. “Where’s Jimmy? I thought he’d be here.”
Jimmy Rankin. Her best officer and the guy in charge when she was away.
“He was.” Another swipe of the counter. “Got a call. Said he had to leave. Maybe an hour ago now.”
“Any idea what it was?”
Flo shook her head. A strand of graying hair fell loose and she tucked it back behind her ear. “Said something about some kids. That’s all I heard.”
“Hope it’s not the Tilton boys again.”
Flo laughed. “Poor Eunice sure does have her hands full with those two.”
Cutler ran a finger around the lip of her cup. “Ain’t it so. Last time they dismantled a section of Jed Downings’ picket fence. Said they needed the slats to make a raft.”
“Them boys are going to do themselves in someday. Drown or whatever.”
Cutler’s sandwich appeared at the pass-through window from the kitchen.
“Here you go,” Flo said as she placed the plate before Cutler. “Got some real good tomatoes.”
They looked it. Deeply red and fresh.
Flo refilled Cutler’s coffee. “Anything else?”
“This’ll do. Thanks.”
Another order came up. Three plates. Flo lined them up on one arm and headed toward a table near the back.
Cutler finished her meal, left cash on the counter, waved to Flo, and stepped outside. She slipped on sunglasses and looked up and down the street. As she walked toward her office, she called Jimmy.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Something weird.”
“Want to expand on that?”
“Got a leg up here. On Clovis Wilson’s spread.”
“A what?”
“A leg. Human.”
“And you didn’t call me?”
“I was just fixing to. Wanted to sniff around first.”
“Just a leg?”
“That’s all so far. Bet there’s more nearby somewhere.”
“Who found it?”
“The Clowers twins. And Benjie Crane.”
“Did you call Wally Spicer?”
“Sure did. Said he’d be here as soon as he loaded up Grace.”
Wally Spicer ran a kennel. Raised mostly hunting dogs—Beagles, Setters, and Labs. He also had Grace, a black lab trained in cadaver location.
“Where are you?”
“Up off the county road on one of Clovis Wilson’s plots. You’ll see my car. Near the power lines.”
“On my way.”
Ten minutes later, Cutler turned off the two-lane black top onto the rutted dirt service road that lapped Clovis Wilson’s property. Near a thick stand of pines, she saw Jimmy’s silver Ford Taurus and Wally Spicer’s red truck with stenciled white lettering that read “Spicer’s Kennels, Lynchburg, TN, 931-555-9291.”
Cutler climbed from her department-issue black Ford Bronco, abandoning its churning air conditioner for the sauna-like heat. Not a breath of breeze. She should’ve grabbed a to-go lemonade at Flo’s.
No sign of Wally, but she saw Jimmy near Ben Crane’s green Chevy sedan and Dennis Clower’s metallic blue Suburban, talking with Dennis and his wife Pat, and Ben. Behind them stood Benjie Crane and Billy and Misty Clowers. They looked scared. Their parents didn’t look happy. She suspected the kids had been outside their boundaries.
She walked that way. The kids eyed her warily, the parents offered grim expressions. She nodded to them and said she needed to chat with Jimmy and get a handle on things and then they could talk. Ben Crane checked his watch. Impatient as usual but he’d just have to deal with it.
She and Jimmy walked the forty yards to where the leg lay. It appeared to have been ripped away from the hip and gnawed on by some creature.
“Jesus Christ,” Cutler said.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Jimmy added.
“You ever seen anything like this before?”
“Nope. And I’m here to tell you I don’t ever want to again.”
“Looks like the predators got to it,” Cutler said.
“Most likely wild pigs,” Jimmy replied. “Those marks on the bones are p
robably tusk gouges. Then the buzzards got at what was left.”
Feral pigs in many rural areas of the South posed a major problem. They escaped farms, formed packs, and generally wreaked havoc. Smart, fast, aggressive, predatory omnivores that would eat anything. Not just plants and grubs, though they could tear through a garden and leave behind few remnants. Destroy a hen house in minutes and even take down calves. Every now and then they became such a nuisance, and danger, that the local farmers formed their own pack and hunted them down. Last time was a couple of years earlier. If she remembered the details, eight of an estimated dozen pigs had been killed. Looked like the pack might’ve reformed, likely with some new members.
She squatted next to the leg. The odor of decay wasn’t as strong as she thought it might be but it was plenty enough to cause the tuna sandwich in her stomach to do a couple of flips. Much of the flesh of the thigh had been removed and the toes and half the foot were missing. The calf was more or less intact and appeared to have been tattooed with thick black and white stripes that spiraled upward.
“What the hell is all that?” Cutler asked.
“Looks like one of those aboriginal tattoos the kids seem to like nowadays.”
She stood and looked around. “Is this it?”
“So far. Wally’s got Grace sniffing around in the trees. Maybe she’ll find some parts that are more useful.”
“Let’s hope. It’ll be a bitch getting an ID if this is all we have.”
“Sure will.”
“Looks like a female to me,” Cutler said.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Been dead a while.”
Jimmy nodded. “I bet on a week or two. Maybe more. Last few weeks have been cold and damp. Not like today.” He looked up toward the sun. “Must be a hundred out here.”
“Only ninety,” Cutler said. “According to the radio.”
“Those guys are never right.” He swiped his shirt sleeve across his forehead. “I think they sit in some air-conditioned studio and make all that up, anyway.”
She turned and scanned the open fields. “How much of this belongs to Clovis Wilson?”