To the Bone (David Wolf Book 7)

by Jeff Carson

  “Are you there?”

  “Yeah. Please, go ahead,” Wolf said.

  She huffed into the phone. “Those community meetings in that brochure. That’s what brought her back into your life before she died. Do you remember?”

  Wolf said nothing.

  “Shit, Sarah’s parents are up in Vail all the time now. They’re checked out. It’s tough raising a kid all by yourself. Even though you guys weren’t technically together, you used to be able to talk to Sarah about all the stuff that happened with Jack: the scraped knees, girls … whatever.”

  The overnight camping trips.

  Wolf sat down. “You haven’t heard about Cassidy?”

  “No. What?”

  “Her father was killed.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “My God. How?”

  “Shot.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Yeah.”

  She went silent.

  “So I have quite a bit on my plate at the moment. Besides, I don’t think that type of thing is for me.”

  “That type of thing is not for you?” She stuttered a line of incomplete cuss words. “Happiness is not for you? Being able to communicate your feelings and get help from real people who have gone through similar situations is not for you?”

  Wolf stood up and pulled his keys out of his pocket, making a point of jiggling them near the phone. “I’ve got to pick up Trudy Frost from DIA, so I’d better get going. It’s Sunday afternoon, the traffic’s going to be crazy.”

  Wolf looked at his watch and calculated he had four hours until the plane landed. He stepped to the door, deciding his argument was pretty valid. Even in the middle of summer, supposedly off-season for the mountains, the traffic was bad, made worse by the road construction, which was everywhere while the weather was good in the Colorado high country.

  “I’m out the door.”

  She hesitated. “This isn’t over.”

  Wolf hung up.

  Jet wagged his tail.

  “Stay here.”

  Jet turned around and seemed just as content to curl up on some slices of sunlight on the floor.

  Chapter 9

  For the man, staring at the flaming reds and oranges of a sunset, with infinite shifting patterns anew each day, was like staring into the eye of God.

  That’s why he had despised sunsets for years.

  No one should be so unfortunate to live through what that all-knowing presence on the horizon had put him through.

  For thirty-seven years the man had been a devout Mormon, learning and living by the word of God in the footsteps of his father and his father before him—both of whom had died from the strange blood affliction, along with two of his brothers, along with six of his cousins, along with his uncle.

  God was chastising him now. He could feel it plain as the heat on his eyelids, and he just didn’t care. If he had a problem with what the man was doing, then He should have poisoned his blood, too, and taken him.

  He snarled his lips and glared at the setting sun. The orb seared into his eyes, but he stared a second longer in defiance.

  After he got his breathing under control he stepped away from the outbuilding doorway and dialed a phone number on his cell phone.

  “Hello?” His daughter-in-law had a soft, lilting voice he loved so much. If he had been in his son’s shoes he would have married the same woman.

  “How is he doing?” He blinked and the afterimage of God swam in his vision.

  She breathed into the phone for an answer. It was code for he was not doing well. He was suffering. He was watching cartoons to try and forget the throbbing pain in his bones, the hot sweaty feeling, the nausea from the crappy drugs the cheap, inadequate, doctors in her cheap, inadequate circle of approved doctors in her cheap, inadequate health care coverage provided—the kind of crap a seven year old should never have to deal with on a minute by minute basis.

  “I’ll be coming up later this week with the money. I just have to … go through some more stuff with the lawyers. You know lawyers, they want every T crossed, every I dotted.”

  She sniffed into the phone.

  In his mind’s eye he could see her wiping her pretty button nose, nodding with the phone against her ear.

  “Don’t you worry. It’s going to be a good year for once,” he said.

  “Okay.” She whispered.

  “Shoot. I was talking to one of the lawyers about Edinburgh. You know what they wear over there?”

  “Kilts?”

  “Yeah. Man-skirts.”

  She laughed on the other end.

  He smiled wide and laughed, and a tear slid down his cheek. “When we go over there, I’m going to put on a man-skirt before I march my grandson into that doctor’s office. I’m going to pull up that man skirt, and underneath it’s going to be a wad of cash so big and I’m going to say, ‘Give my grandson a new life!’ That’s a promise.”

  “No, no. You’re terrible.”

  He smiled even wider. “You wait and see.”

  The conversation died to silence and he nodded. “I’ll be up there to see you in a couple days, all right?”

  “Okay.”

  “What?”

  “Okay,” she said in a louder voice.

  “Bye, baby doll.”

  “Bye.”

  He kept the phone to his ear and listened for the call to end, then dropped it in his pocket and pulled out a throwaway phone he had purchased from Walmart.

  “Yeah.” The man’s voice on the other end was squeaky. His tone impatient.

  “Well. How was the rest of your day today?”

  “How was the rest of my day? Let’s see … very bad. Truly the worst day of my life. Thanks for asking.”

  The man turned away from the sun and switched the cell phone to his other ear.

  Three mourning doves whistled by on the warm wind. It was almost bearable outside at this hour.

  “And what did you find out?”

  “To use a big lump of money like this is very difficult.”

  “But doable. People do it all the time.”

  The squeaky voice scoffed. “The people who do it all the time are called criminals. Most of them are caught by federal agents with sophisticated surveillance techniques. They monitor financial transactions. Certain behavior sends up red flags.”

  The man clenched his fists. He hated this defeatist talk. He hated the lies. “And what was your plan in the first place? You were going to split the money with the Professor, fifty-fifty. That’s four hundred-fifty K.”

  “I was going to leak it to myself over years. You’re asking the impossible if you want a deposit like this showing up in your account overnight.”

  “By Thursday.”

  The man tittered through the earpiece. He was cracking. “I can’t believe you shot …”

  The man narrowed his eyelids. “So what’s the plan?”

  “I don’t have a plan!”

  The man stared at the oak trees. The boughs swayed in the wind, the leaves sounded like a roaring river. The way this other man had given up was unsettling to say the least.

  “I don’t know if I can do this.” The tinny voice in his ear was barely a breath. “I’m not a killer.”

  The man stared at the phone and then he pressed the call end button.

  He looked at his watch and did some calculations. They were going to have visitors from the south, that much was certain.

  It had already been the longest of the longest of a weekend, and it had just gotten longer with that phone call. But at least his cut had just doubled.

  Chapter 10

  The last time Wolf had descended to the plains had been to see the other woman in Wolf’s life that called him every week—his mother. Mom had given up the mountain life, moving to Denver when his father had died all those years ago, and never looked back. She may have been a flatlander at heart, but Wolf was not. And as he coasted down I-70 with his foot on the brake for the third straight hour in bumper-to-bumpe
r traffic with the rest of the weekend warriors returning to their city life, he vowed it would be another year before he did this again.

  The steep, winding final stretch of chaotic highway, past Morrison and the jutting megaliths of Red Rocks Amphitheater, finally flattened and straightened and the traffic opened up. He drove onward on I-70 through Denver, past the fragrant dog food plant, and out into what seemed like halfway to Kansas before he pulled into the arrivals drive-up at Denver International Airport.

  Trudy Frost was waiting patiently on the curb, staring into nothing and sitting on her luggage in the dark. Her long blonde hair was pulled in a ponytail, lying against her straight back.

  He squeaked to a stop and got out, and by the time he’d rounded the back of his SUV she’d already opened the rear door and dumped her luggage in back. He got there in time to help shut the passenger door.

  Climbing back behind the wheel Wolf said, “Sorry. I misjudged traffic.”

  She waved a hand and shook her head.

  Wolf checked his mirror, and then turned to her. “I’m sorry.”

  She kept her eyes on the windshield. They welled and tears cascaded down her cheeks, but she said nothing.

  She said nothing the entire drive, and neither did Wolf. Back through Denver, past the hogbacks near Morrison, up Floyd Hill, past Idaho Springs, through Eisenhower Tunnel, past the darkened slopes of Copper Mountain, past Vail, down south through Cave Creek. They said nothing, and Wolf swore he never saw her blink.

  Trudy had been a beautiful girl growing up, and was a beautiful woman now. It’s where her daughter got her looks. She and Wolf had kissed once in first grade. It was one of those tiny memories imprinted on Wolf’s mind—a peck underneath a sheet while playing hide and seek. She was a memorable woman, Wolf guessed, and Wolf knew he would always remember this drive for the rest of his life. Wolf inhaled the grief that saturated the inside of the cab. It was like a thick fog and it steamed off of Trudy Frost’s unblinking eyes.

  They pulled into Rocky Points and headed up the hills toward Nate’s house, which sent a fresh wave of tears flowing down Trudy’s cheeks, probably because the route to Nate’s was roughly the same as going to the Frost’s home—where her husband had just been murdered in cold blood.

  Pulling into Nate’s driveway, Wolf could see the lights blazing bright inside his log home. Stepping out, he was surprised at the cool stillness of the air.

  He opened the door for Trudy and she trudged to the front door and stood motionless in front of it until Wolf came up and opened it for her.

  Nate’s wife, Brittnie, was standing inside waiting with sympathetic wet eyes.

  The house was quiet and subdued, which was opposite the normal state of Nate’s household. Wolf normally heard circus music in his head when he walked inside here, but not tonight.

  Brittnie opened her arms and Trudy walked into them.

  Wolf set down the baggage and waited silently as Nate walked down the hall toward him.

  Nate flicked a glance back outside and Wolf stepped back onto the front porch.

  Sliding the door shut, Nate turned to Wolf with a holy shit expression and walked down the stairs into the driveway.

  “How’s it been in there?” Wolf asked.

  “Not good. Cassidy and Keegan are in the living room. Jack and Brian are upstairs.” Brian was Nate’s oldest son and Jack’s best friend. “The other kids are asleep. Christ, look at that.”

  Nate stopped and looked up.

  Wolf had already seen the phenomenon on the way into Rocky Points.

  The moon was full, high above the eastern peaks, and it was blood red, tinted by smoke.

  “That’s …” Nate stopped his sentence.

  “Smoke from the Durango fire. We’ll be in the clear though. They say rain’s rolling in tomorrow night. Going to be a monsoonal flow.”

  Nate shook his head. “I was gonna say creepy.”

  Wolf stared up and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Well that’s good. About the rain. Now we can put off cutting those trees of yours for another few years.”

  Wolf smiled, feeling grateful for the tiny jab at humor after the long drive of seriousness and grief.

  Nate looked at him. “I think I have more respect for you now.”

  Wolf chuckled. “You had respect for me to begin with?”

  “I know you always dealt with this type of thing on a first hand basis, but I didn’t know how hard it was. How draining. You know, being so close to the bad stuff. And that’s just what you do. All day. Know what I mean? Shit, sorry. Don’t want to depress you or anything. I’m just saying.”

  Wolf shook his head.

  They stood staring at the moon.

  “I’m headed up to Windfield tomorrow.”

  “Big oil up there,” Nate said. “I guess you’ll be putting off your conversation with Jack then, too.”

  Wolf looked at Nate. “What conversation?”

  “I could tell you were bent out of shape about it today. Learning Cassidy and Jack were together last night.”

  Wolf lifted his chin and stared into the night. There was something else that he could put off for another few years.

  “Head in?”

  Wolf nodded. “Yeah.”

  They walked inside and down the hallway, and Wolf stopped short at the scene in the family room.

  Trudy stood arm in arm with her two children, Keegan and Cassidy, like they were lined up and going to say something in unison, like in a depressed version of a Disney movie or something. Six red-rimmed eyes, all the identical shade of Trudy Frost-blue, stared at Wolf with such ferocity that Wolf straightened.

  “Are you going to get the piece of shit that did this to my husband?” Trudy asked.

  Wolf swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

  Chapter 11

  Wolf dialed the phone number to the University of Utah paleontology department head again and listened to the message.

  “You’ve reached the office of Dr. James Talbot. I’m not in the office at—”

  Hanging up, he checked his watch against the dash clock, which said 7:55, and decided he would try again in an hour.

  He passed a sign that said Windfield.

  Wolf had been driving on two lane highways for just under three hours when he passed a sign that said Windfield 2 miles. The 171 miles had been mountains and valleys and rivers until Grand Junction, where he turned north and the land became harsher, less inhabited plateaus, flat wastelands, and cliffs shaped by ancient seas.

  Now, winking in the morning light, Windfield was visible from the two miles away. It was a checkerboard of streets on a sagebrush valley that was tilted down a few degrees to the right. Beyond it the terrain rose and juniper trees and pinyon pines covered the ground and clung to white and red rock cliffs that stood proud in the morning shadows.

  The town of Windfield was a less majestic site than its backdrop. The gray asphalt in town was cracked with lines that had faded out years ago. The lawns were bleached yellow, the trees more brown than green, and the houses were different configurations of single and double-wide trailers.

  A stray dog got Jet’s attention as it trotted alongside Wolf’s SUV for a few yards, and a kid on a four-wheeler drove by on the other side of a barbed wire fence with his sister in the rear holding a baby. Monday morning traffic in Windfield.

  Wolf considered stopping and yelling at the kid to get back home and leave the baby, but the kid turned around and sped off the other direction.

  “Here we are,” Wolf announced.

  Jet dropped his jaw and panted in the rearview mirror. Wolf had had no choice but to take the dog with him that morning. His presence so far had been unobtrusive, save the occasional blast of gas. The medicine was working slowly, apparently.

  Two turns and he was at the Windfield County Sheriff’s Office without a hitch.

  The wooden rectangular building had a large window in front and a glass door next to it. It was bland-looking, like the storefront commerci
al property for a lumber sales office or something other than a sheriff’s office.

  The sign above the door, however, confirmed it to be the Windfield County Sheriff’s Department, and two brown painted long bed trucks with gold WCSD logos on the doors were parked in the midnight-black asphalt parking lot.

  Wolf pulled in and parked between two freshly painted white lines and got out. Stretching his arms overhead, he let Jet out of the back seat.

  The heat rose up his pants legs and he felt it on his eyelids. His feet sank ever so slightly in the asphalt with each step. And it was only 8:05 am.

  He gazed at the higher elevations, and hoped they were going there to visit the quarry, and if they were going there, it was cooler.

  The two Windfield Sheriff’s department trucks were Ford long beds, about five to eight years old by the looks of the body design and wear. As Wolf walked in between them toward the front of the building he looked down at the tires: Goodyear P265/70R17. Both matches to his crime scene.

  Sleigh bells clanked against the glass door as Wolf pulled it open and a blast of cool air pushed his uniform shirt against his chest.

  Jet hurried in past his legs and Wolf followed.

  “Hello. You Deputy Wolf?” A man stood from one of three desks that occupied a rectangular room. All three desks were in line and faced the windows at the front.

  “Yes. Detective Wolf,” he said.

  “Deputy Etzel,” the man said holding out his hand. He was low and squat and despite the cool air, there were sweat marks underneath the arms of his uniform.

  Etzel’s hand was puffy, but clamped onto Wolf’s like a bear trap.

  “One moment please.” Etzel walked to the back of the room to an open doorway and leaned against the doorjamb.

  It seemed like they had more pressing business to discuss, and then as an afterthought Etzel jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  Etzel turned around and waddled to his desk. “He’ll be right out.”

  “Detective Wolf!” The sheriff came out of his office fast, with hand outstretched. He was just about Wolf’s height but a bit thicker and softer, probably ten years older than Wolf—early fifties by the look of his graying, closely cropped full head of hair that was cut into a cube. His skin was tan and his mouth stretched in a smile that failed to reach his eyes.