Dark Mountain (The David Wolf Series Book 10)

by Jeff Carson

Wolf grabbed Patterson by the arm. “Now we have to go and get him.”

  “I’ll …” Patterson back-pedaled. “Sorry, Charlotte. We’ll get him.”

  She had to turn away from Charlotte’s shock before she broke down herself.

  As they rounded the corner outside the squad room, Patterson turned to Wolf and shook her head. “Damn, that was bad. We can’t just spring news on her like that and leave, can we?”

  Wolf looked at his watch. “We have two and a half hours until we get a call from that number. We don’t have time to be thoroughly sympathetic.”

  “Beer Goggles?”

  “Yep.”

  She followed, jogging to keep up. Everything seemed to be going so fast. Too fast. “Wait a minute.”

  “What?” He pushed through the stairway doors and started down the steps, two at a time.

  “I have something at work that’ll help us. Let’s stop there first.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Tom Rachette lay paralyzed on a pile of red ants that were biting him from head to toe. He’d been wandering the Gobi Desert for days without food or water, searching continuously without luck.

  But now the search was over because his legs were twisted and useless. Why they were immobile was another question. He failed to remember falling or getting mauled by an animal.

  The ants kept coming. He felt them crawling underneath him. Why was he here? He needed to get up.

  A flash of light seared his retinas and the sound of a gunshot woke him.

  Opening his eyes, he sucked in a breath and a piece of something dry and scratchy went down his throat. He coughed and thrashed, trying to sit upright, but he was stuck.

  He remembered the hell he was in.

  Ropes were still fastened to his wrists, which pulled against loops around his ankles.

  The unfathomable itching was the result of being naked on a bed of straw.

  But there was light now, and he was warmer. That was different. Heavy blankets had been draped over his body, and though they felt like steel wool, they were keeping him toasty.

  The last time he’d been conscious he’d been shivering uncontrollably, wet to the bone, and pre-hypothermic. His captors must’ve wanted him alive if they were covering him. The thought gave him hope.

  He heard a shuffling noise and looked over the edge of the blankets.

  The unibrow guy from last night stood staring down at him. In the different light, with his alcohol buzz worn off, the man looked even weirder than before. Those eyeballs were like holes in paper.

  Behind him, a full bottle of water stood on a workbench.

  Rachette could only turn his head so far and for so long before the pressure on his neck made him collapse back onto the hay, but the image of the water bottle was seared onto his eyeballs. On any normal day after a night of drinking he would’ve been dehydrated. Now every swallow felt like choking down dust.

  “Water,” he croaked.

  Rachette stared at the dry straw in front of his face and waited for a reply that never came.

  He remembered the guy standing on the side of the road—the strange way he folded his hands in front of him and the same blank look that he wore now. He recalled the man’s head scars and wondering whether he’d been injured in the war.

  He remembered his friend.

  “Where’s Pat?”

  No answer.

  Beyond the hay in front of Rachette’s eyes, dust danced in slivers of sunlight lancing through cracks in the wood of the shack. Where the hay ended, dirt covered in animal hoof tracks began, something he hadn’t noticed the previous night, what with the blow to the head and his drunken stupor.

  He squirmed and the hay beneath him scratched his skin like a bed of knives.

  Taking a steely breath, he cranked his neck again.

  Rachette ignored the creepy way Unibrow stared at him, like he was a specimen, and noticed the water bottle missing from the workbench.

  The pain was too much so he collapsed back to the hay, catching just a glimpse of the bottle hanging in the man’s hand.

  “Can I have some of that water?”

  He remembered stepping out of the car, and then the flashlight beams and the sound of a shotgun slide-action freezing him in his tracks. And then a blow to the head, which still throbbed with every heartbeat.

  “Fine, asshole, keep your water. Where’s Pat?” he asked again. Rage swirled inside of him and he sat up, digging the ropes harder into his wrists. “Where’s Pat, you piece of …”

  He let his sentence die, because outside a car engine grew to a roar. Brakes squealed and tires crunched to a stop on what sounded like dirt and rocks. A door thumped and footsteps approached.

  Dropping his head back onto the hay, he relaxed and waited.

  Daylight exploded inside as the door opened and a man with long blond hair and beard of matching color walked inside. He gave Unibrow a look, saying nothing, and then loomed in the doorway, his attention landing on Rachette.

  “You up yet, ya drunk bastard?” The guy’s voice was gravel, the accent Irish. His silhouette showed him to be overweight but he walked over to Rachette with athletic speed.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Rachette said.

  He craned a finger toward Unibrow. “Give me that,” he said and then knelt in front of Rachette with the bottle of water.

  Beads of sweat ran down the plastic and Rachette licked his lips. “Yes.”

  The man put a cold, callused hand that smelled like cigarettes on Rachette’s forehead, then gripped his mouth and twisted his face this way and that, as if examining an animal.

  A star-shaped earring dangled from his right ear and Rachette decided he would call this guy Lucky Charms. He appeared to be in his late fifties and had weathered red skin and beady blue eyes. The hair around his mouth was stained yellow by nicotine.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, feeling violated by the guy’s cold, calculating demeanor.

  Without warning, he gripped Rachette’s neck and yanked him upright.

  A cross between a cry and a gurgling noise escaped Rachette’s lips. The ropes dug into his wrists and ankles and his limbs felt like they were being stabbed by a million needles.

  “Drink.” Lucky Charms put the bottle to his lips and tilted it back.

  Rachette was unprepared and coughed as the water poured down his throat like a waterfall. Mucus and water spewed from his nostrils, but the guy kept the bottle tilted up.

  The ice-cold liquid ran down his chin, over his bare chest, and down to his crotch.

  “Drink!”

  Rachette turned his head and took a full breath. The icy water splashed into his ear and down the center of his back.

  Ignoring the shock, he turned back and sucked greedily on the bottle. In the end, he stomached only a few ounces and bathed in the rest.

  Lucky Charms pushed him down onto the hay and poured the last trickle of water on his shoulders. “Piece of shite.”

  Now Rachette was thirsty and back to pre-hypothermic.

  The man hurled the plastic bottle at his head. It bounced off his skull and skittered onto the dirt.

  “Easy! What the hell’s your problem?”

  Lucky Charms bent down and stared at him. “You don’t recognize me?”

  Rachette squinted. “Nope. And I’m pretty sure I’d remember a shit-stained mouth like that.”

  The man turned around and walked out the door.

  “What did you do to Pat?”

  Cold air billowed inside and Rachette was almost sure they were at altitude. It felt like being on top of the Rocky Points Resort and his Nebraska lungs had to strain to get oxygen.

  Unibrow shuffled into Rachette’s periphery.

  “What happened to Pat?” he asked again.

  Unibrow backed away quickly as Lucky Charms came inside again, this time holding a toolbox.

  Though he was determined to show no weakness, Rachette shivered uncontrollably. “Hey, I have to take a piss.”

  Luc
ky Charms set down the toolbox on the workbench. With back turned, he rummaged around inside, setting aside a hammer, then a screw-driver.

  “What are you doing over there?” Rachette asked.

  “Aha.” Lucky Charms packed up the tools and put the box on the floor near the doorway. Then he approached Rachette, holding tin snips.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Rachette trembled harder now. Ropes tore into his skin as he tried to roll to his stomach. When that failed, he tried to curl into a ball to protect his manhood. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Lucky kicked the blanket away.

  “Stop!” Rachette yelled. “What do you want? What are you doing?”

  Lucky Charms smiled and laughed, sounding like a wounded bear. With eyes wide he asked, “You want to be just like little Davey Wolf, don’t you?”

  “What? I—”

  “Answer the question!”

  “I … I …”

  “Answer!”

  “Yeah, sure!”

  “Good.” Lucky Charms’s expression became serious and he reached behind Rachette.

  The ropes tightened on his wrists and he realized that the man was cutting him free.

  But the relief was short-lived as he felt the cold iron of the tin snips on his pinkie finger, and now the crazy man’s question made sense. David Wolf had lost his pinkie two years previously, blown off by a nine-millimeter bullet fired at point-blank range.

  Rachette’s mouth opened in soundless horror as the snips severed his finger from his left hand.

  And then, again, darkness overtook him.

  CHAPTER 17

  The parking lot for Leary, Crouch, and Shift was a stable for luxury-model SUVs.

  Wolf parked next to Patterson’s new Acura MDX and a top-of-the-line Land Rover and climbed out.

  The rain had stopped and the sun was out. The air was moist and smelled of pine. The storm, now a midnight-black smear in the northeastern sky, bellowed on its way up and out of the valley.

  Still on the phone, Patterson climbed out of her car. “… okay, see you. Thanks so much. And there’s a new bag of chicken nuggets in the freezer … I’ll call you later. Bye.” Patterson pocketed her phone and reached into the back seat. She pulled out a leather bag and shouldered it. “This way.”

  Patterson was undersized, but given the proper motivation she moved fast. Right now, Wolf had to jog to keep up.

  The modest-sized, box-shaped building was painted white and trimmed with brown wood. The name of Patterson’s employing law firm was etched on a metal sign on the façade. Though a new building, the architects had given it a mid-1800s look, a seemingly popular trick of the trade in Rocky Points that had never grown old.

  “We have offices in twenty-seven towns up and down the Rockies,” she said, following Wolf’s eyes. “Bozeman is the farthest north, and Taos the furthest south. None in the major cities. We say we do criminal law but it’s mostly real-estate deals and divorce.”

  It seemed as if she talked for something to do besides think about Rachette.

  He understood. On the drive over, his jaw had been clenched for most of the morning and he’d had to concentrate on breathing deep to counteract the tension.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  Patterson walked silently around the side of the building to the heavily wooded rear. “We’ll take the back entrance and try and keep away from any action on the way to my office.”

  She put the key card on a pad and the door clicked. She pulled it open and waited for Wolf to follow, then went inside.

  Patterson led him down a carpeted hallway, past closed doors with names on them, to a metal stairway door. They climbed to the fourth floor and she pulled the door open slowly, sneaking a peek before she stepped out into the hallway that ran left and right.

  She hung a left and Wolf followed. They’d not traveled a few feet before a deep voice bellowed from behind them.

  “Heather, there you are.”

  Patterson raised her eyes to the ceiling, then turned around and pasted on a fake smile. “Hello, Bryce.”

  Wolf turned to meet a man dressed in a tight, blue, and very shiny suit with lightning-yellow tie. He was tall and good-looking, probably early forties, with a haircut suitable for someone twenty years his junior—shaved on the sides and slicked back in the middle.

  Bryce walked to them, ignoring Wolf’s presence. “Where have you been?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” Patterson said. “I was … detained.”

  The man held out a hand to Wolf, still keeping his eyes on Patterson. “Bryce Duplessis, regional partner.”

  Wolf grabbed the manicured hand and shook it, finding a handful of platinum rings in the process.

  “You’re David Wolf,” Bryce declared, still not looking at him. “Chief Detective of the Sheriff’s Department. Heather Patterson speaks of you like a long-lost brother she adores.”

  Heather raised her eyebrows and blinked rapidly. “Can I help you, Bryce?”

  “The photos.”

  “Right. Like I said, I did get the pictures and I’m on my way to upload them now.”

  Bryce held out his hand. “I can upload them myself.”

  “Yes.” She pulled out a camera with a zoom lens from her bag, ejected a memory card, and handed it over. “Thank you. That would be much better for me.”

  Bryce grabbed the memory card and then snatched the camera out of her hands. With expert speed, he re-inserted the card, flipped around the camera, and pressed some buttons. “Oh … yeah.” He shook his head, his eyebrows dancing while he studied the display screen. With a smile he said, “Once again, Heather Patterson delivers the goods.”

  Patterson tapped Wolf’s shoulder and walked away down the hall. “Don’t disturb us,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Bryce chuckled and walked in the opposite direction.

  Wolf followed her around a bend to an office door with a name plate that read Heather Patterson—Investigation.

  She unlocked it and walked inside, and Wolf paused in the entryway, taking in the space. Shelves lined the right wall, packed with books and pictures of Heather, Scott, and Tommy.

  She dropped her bag on one of two plush leather chairs, then rounded a dark-wood desk and sat in a high-topped swivel chair. Behind her were two windows with vertical blinds pulled open to display Rocky Points and the Chautauqua Valley beyond.

  “Can you please shut the door?” She pulled herself into her desk and started typing on a MacBook. “Take a seat.”

  He shut the door and sat down. “Now can you tell me why we’re here?”

  She sat ramrod straight in her chair and her fingers were a blur on the keyboard. A few seconds later, she clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Damn it.”

  “What?”

  “Just a second.” She typed some more and waited.

  He stood up and walked around the desk. Her computer screen looked like how he envisioned an NSA mainframe. In the center window, he recognized a street map of Rocky Points.

  “What’s this?”

  “Cellphone location and tracking software.”

  Letting the information sink in, he sat on the edge of her desk. “You mean you can track where a phone is by entering the number?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Without the consent of the wireless carrier, or the user,” he said.

  She kept her eyes on the screen.

  “The Sluice–Byron County Sheriff’s Office doesn’t have access to something like this,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Neither do I.”

  “Because something like that … this … is illegal.”

  “I know.” She clicked on the screen and typed some more.

  Wolf blinked. “What about the number that texted Rachette’s picture? Can you locate it?”

  “That’s what I’m looking at now.”

  The screen had a logo in the center that kept spinning.

  She shook her head. “It’s turned off. And there’s no name to the
number. According to the IMEI number, it’s a burner purchased at a Walmart down in Ashland.”

  “I can’t believe I’m asking you this, but can you figure out who purchased it?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “How about Ethan Womack’s cellphone? Does he have one? Can we trace it?”

  She typed again. “Checking … putting it in my reverse-lookup software.”

  This wasn’t the first time in his career he’d felt like an accomplice while working with Heather Patterson.

  “Okay. I got his number. I’ll trace it.”

  “What are you guys doing with this software?”

  Her gaze slid to his. “This is my personal computer. It’s my software running on an encrypted VPN. Nobody else in this law firm has any knowledge of this.”

  He held up a hand. “Whatever you say.”

  The logo spun in the center of the screen again.

  “No luck?” Wolf asked.

  “Dang it. His phone is off.”

  “Any way to check a location history?”

  She shook her head. “Not without prior planting of a device or piece of software on his phone. Or using the usual, legal means of serving a warrant to his wireless provider, which the department is already doing.” Pushing back from her desk, she said, “That’s all I have. Sorry I just wasted twenty minutes we don’t have, but I thought we might get something.”

  “Good try,” he said.

  She swallowed and flicked a look back to her computer. “You going to put me in jail for this?”

  He allowed one side of his mouth to lift. “Let’s find Rachette … and then we’ll talk.”

  She pointed down. “We have to be here for that text message at four o’clock. When we receive a call, I can enter the number and this software will pinpoint it in milliseconds.”

  “And if it’s a text message?”

  Shrugging, she said, “It’s more difficult. But doable.”

  He checked his watch again. “Two fifteen. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “Why are you guys in here asking questions? Did something happen last night?”

  Wolf knocked a knuckle on the bar counter. “Just answer the question, Jerry. Who was in here last night?”