by Jeff Carson
He pushed through the weeds and grasses, the image of Jack, Brian, and Nate flitting in and out behind branches swaying on the wind.
He reached the shoreline and a game trail that led toward them, so he followed it.
“Hey, Dave.” Brian spotted Wolf first and called out to him.
Jack twisted around and glared at Wolf, then at Nate.
Nate took the dagger stare and raised his chin, which seemed to worsen Jack’s sense of being betrayed, because he dropped his fishing pole and walked into the bushes in the direction of the parking lot.
“Jack.” Wolf followed after him.
No answer. Jack picked up his pace, his head bobbing and weaving between the bushes at breakneck speed.
Wolf struggled to keep up, his right femur throbbing, his hip tightening with each step. “Jack, please. Stop.”
His son slowed for an instant and leaned his head back as if pleading to the sky, as if finally resigned to talking to his father.
Wolf slowed and approached timidly, not believing his luck. For three months, Jack had ignored his calls, screening them, avoiding him at all costs, pretending he didn’t exist. Finally, he had a chance to plead his case.
But Jack changed his mind and marched forward again, this time at a faster pace.
“Please! I need to talk to you!”
He clenched his teeth and jogged after him, swerving around a bush and then another. His legs ripped through the weeds, and a branch swayed in the wind and hit him in the face.
With eyes wide open, a leaf hit one of his eyeballs and he wrenched his head back at the sudden pain. The movement sent a lightning bolt from his previously broken vertebrae up his spine and he fell over onto a pile of rocks.
He lay still on the cool ground, panting and gritting his teeth. Blood pounded in his neck as he rolled over and gazed at the bushes swaying above.
“Shit.” With ginger movements, he got to his knees.
“Are you all right?”
Jack was there with a lanky hand extended.
Wolf paused and looked up at his son’s face.
Jack’s hand was extended, but his forest-green eyes showed little concern.
“Yeah.” Wolf grabbed his hand, and Jack yanked him to his feet. “Easy.”
His son turned and walked away again.
“Why won’t you talk to me, Jack?”
Jack stopped and presented his profile, then faced him. His son’s eyes were wild, glowing with anger. “Are you serious? You’re pretending you don’t know?”
Wolf lifted his chin. “I think I have an idea, but you’re gonna have to tell me. Why the hell are you so mad at me?”
“Because Mom is dead because of you. That’s why, Dad. Because you should have been there with her that night instead of screwing some slut at your house.”
The words lashed him harder than any branch could. “I was knocked out that night, son. I … I don’t remember a thing. That woman brought me home, and then the next thing I knew I’d woken up.”
“I guess you shouldn’t have gone out drinking with her then. I guess you should have answered Mom’s calls. She was in trouble, and she called you for help, and you ignored her to go out partying with your slut friend.”
“Jack, listen—”
“And now she’s dead.” He raised his hands and dropped them. His breath started and his eyes welled. “Buried in the ground. So, what the hell do you want to talk about?”
Wolf swallowed. “I just want us to talk. I want to be your father again. I want us to help each other through this.”
Jack turned around and walked.
“Jack, we have to talk about all this.” You can’t blame me, he thought. I can’t take it.
Jack called over his shoulder. “Tell Nate I’m walking back to town.”
With that, his son ran at speed toward the river and disappeared into the brush.
Wolf stopped and let tears flow from his eyes, not sure whether they were from the new lacerations from the bush or because he was letting out pent-up emotions.
“Hey.”
He turned at the sound of Nate’s voice.
“You all right?” Brian was close behind him, looking afraid to speak.
Wolf nodded. “Jack’s walking back into town.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
Wolf nodded again, and then wiped his eyes.
“Listen, you wanna go for some food? Get a beer? I can drop Brian off at home and we’ll go.”
Wolf turned and finished drying his face on his sleeve. “No thanks. I’ve gotta get back home.”
Dark clouds, pulsing with flashes of lightning, loomed behind the green slopes of the Ski Resort. Jack had disappeared completely in the brush.
“Can you make sure he gets back all right?”
“Of course,” Nate said. “We’ll go pick him up at the next turnoff.”
Wolf walked back to the parking lot, ignoring the discomfort in his hip and leg.
He embraced the pain. He welcomed it.
Because he deserved it. More than any other man on the planet.
Check that; there was at least one other person out there as deserving, and bad health or not, it was about time Wolf figured out who they were and started giving them their share.
Chapter 4
Clayton Pope stared at the sniveling woman and chewed his stale piece of peppermint gum. He looked at the clock on the wall of the palatial Park Hill house living room and then at the woman again.
There was a chuff of an engine expelling air outside and a squeak, and then the sound of boisterous kids offloading a school bus.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God.” The woman sobbed uncontrollably, her hands shaking. Her face had turned white, almost as pale as Pope’s skin, but not quite. Not many people had the lack of pigment to reach Pope’s normal milky shade of ivory, no matter how freaked out they happened to be.
“Hey.”
She ignored him, staring at her front door.
“Hey.” Pope stood from the silk-upholstered chair, stepped to the woman on the couch, and pressed the suppressor against her temple.
She sucked in a breath and froze. “Please, don’t hurt them.”
“If you make a noise when that door opens, or tell your kids to do anything other than come in and sit down, I plaster your brains on that disgusting thing you call a couch, in front of your kids, and then I do the same to your kids. Got that?”
“Oh God, oh God, oh …”
There was the patter of footsteps coming up to the front door and then it flew open.
“Mom!” A boy, no more than ten years old, elbowed his way in front of his little sister, dropped his backpack against the wall and then froze.
Pope stood straight with a gentle smile, his pistol held out of sight against his leg. “You must be Gabriel.”
“Gabe,” the kid corrected him. “Who’s this?”
Pope felt his smile waver, and then he felt his leather glove shudder as he squeezed the handle of the pistol.
“Honey, that’s not how we treat guests. This is Mr. …” The woman trailed off.
“Johnson,” Pope said, his smile returning. “I’m Bob Johnson. I’m a good friend of your dad’s.”
Eyes narrowing with suspicion, Gabe stood rooted to the spot in the entryway, looking between Pope and his mother, like a spoiled little shit who didn’t like his routine being messed with. Mom was probably supposed to be making his mac and cheese right now, or whatever it was that mothers did for their sons.
The kid’s little sister walked to her mother on the couch, all the while keeping her wide eyes on Pope.
Pope blushed at the little girl’s stare and felt his upper lip skin prickle with sweat under the silicone-based stage glue. She saw right through his gentle façade; she looked at his glove and then seemed to study his facial features, as if she knew he was wearing a disguise.
Damn it.
The woman had to have seen it, too. But she had been placating him, doing a fine job of
acting like she’d seen nothing out of the ordinary, like she hadn’t known his mustache was fake, his skin slathered in makeup, or he wore colored contacts.
He silently cursed his choice of makeup. It was too dark and didn’t match his true snow-white complexion, which made his eyelashes and eyebrows look unnatural. And the mustache itched fiercely, something to do with the way he’d shaved before he’d stuck it on.
The disguise was still doing its job, he assured himself. He looked like a completely different man, with stuffed clothing to give him a heavier build, and with long sleeves to hide his most distinguishing mark. There would be no need to kill innocent people today.
He felt a surge of confidence and smiled anew.
“What’s your name?” Pope’s voice was scratchy.
“Emma.”
He nodded. “That’s a pretty name.”
One of the woman’s eyelids twitched uncontrollably as she stared at him and pulled her child close.
The sound of running footsteps outside the rear door broke the silence, and Pope saw the lawyer slam into the back door and twist the locked doorknob to no avail.
“Daddy’s here.” Gabe jogged past them and twisted the lock. He pulled it open and the lawyer’s keys landed on the polished hardwood floor inside.
The lawyer, who Pope now knew as Jeffrey Lethbridge, Esquire, knelt and gripped his son’s arms, clearly relieved and, at the same time, horrified to see his son.
“Hi Jeffrey,” Pope called out before he got any ideas.
Lethbridge’s face dropped as he took in Pope standing over his wife and daughter.
“Come on in. Join us on the couch.” Pope’s mustache popped off and he smoothed it with a gloved finger.
“Please, I have everything right here.” Lethbridge held out a manila envelope. “This is everything they gave me. Take it and let us go. Leave. Please.”
“Close the door and come sit on the couch.”
The little boy’s jaw dropped at their interaction, and Pope’s new tone of voice.
The lawyer ushered his son to the couch and held out the envelope. “Sit down. Go.”
Pope snatched the envelope, careful to display his pistol now.
“He has a gun,” Gabe said.
“I know. Don’t worry. Just keep quiet. Let Daddy talk to him, okay?”
Pope waved Lethbridge to the couch and walked to a triangular table next to one of the overpriced, overstuffed chairs. He swiped a stained-glass lamp onto the floor and emptied the contents of the folder onto the table.
Without looking, he pointed his pistol at the boy. “Take your gun out of your pants and put it on the coffee table.”
“Okay, okay. Please.” Lethbridge leaned forward, put a pistol on the coffee table, and sat back down. “I … I …”
“Shut up and keep still.”
Pope lowered his gun and sifted through the contents now strewn on the table. He made no move for the lawyer’s snub-nosed revolver because there was no need. Pope was too fast, legendary in his time as a marine.
He’d only recently learned that his .22 rapid-fire pistol competition-record score of 588 out of 600 had been bested by two points.
It was news he would never admit to caring about, but it had devastated him. After his Other Than Honorable administrative discharge, the only proof that he ever existed as a marine, that any of it had been worth anything, had been that engraved record plaque in San Diego.
He clenched a fist to steady his shaking hand.
The family stared at him, not moving except to breathe.
Swallowing, Pope fought to ignore the irony of the situation, but it was impossible.
What this family was unaware of was that Pope had been expeditiously swept out of the marines for killing a family of four in Afghanistan, and now here he was staring at a family of four. A boy, a girl, a mother, and a father, just as it had been back then.
It was disturbing how life came full circle sometimes. Back then he’d done the right and honorable thing. He’d saved countless lives by wiping out that terrorist and his seed with their ignition-plate factory in their tiny hut. American soldiers had already died because of that family, and would’ve continued to die if it hadn’t been for him. Forget what his battalion commander and the rest of the brass thought in the end.
He wiped his forehead and painted his sleeve with a swath of brown.
Coming here, he’d known that this exact moment would probably arise, when he’d have to battle the demons that screamed in his brain, and that he’d have to move on from the present moment.
I’m disguised.
He was doing the right and honorable thing today, too. These people didn’t deserve to die.
Sweat dripped off his chin and his mustache flapped off his lip again and almost peeled clean off before he caught it and pressed it home.
The family shuddered and averted their eyes.
Shit. Snapping out of his waking nightmare, Pope pressed the mustache to his lip again and examined the envelope contents on the table.
“What the hell is this?” he asked.
“It’s exactly what you asked for. It’s the documents I was supposed to leak upon the agents’ deaths. One receipt and a rental agreement. And one letter of instruction written to me. The receipt and rental agreement are for a long-term storage unit in Gunnison, Colorado. Up in the mountains.”
“I know where Gunnison is.” Pope picked up the letter of instruction and read it.
Upon the deaths of Special Agent Terrence Tedescu and Special Agent Paul Smith, please proceed to the attached storage unit in Gunnison, Colorado, to obtain information regarding an urgent matter of domestic and national security.
Signed,
Special Agent Terrence Tedescu
Special Agent Paul Smith
Pope shook his head and chuckled. “Matter of domestic and national security.”
He picked up the storage-unit rental agreement and shook it by the corner. A key slid out from between the pages and clanked on the table.
It was a small padlock key with a logo stamped into it, attached to a magnetic fob with #62 written on it. He put it in his pocket and then turned to the family.
Lethbridge and his wife sat with their children pulled close together between them.
“I’m not going to hurt you or the kids,” he said to the woman.
He pointed his pistol and motioned Lethbridge to stand up.
“No, please.” The woman looked over at Lethbridge.
With a deft movement, Pope tucked his pistol into the back of his pants and picked up the papers, folded them, and shoved them into his pants pocket, all the while keeping a sharp eye on Lethbridge.
Lethbridge seemed incapable of keeping his eyes off his revolver, which sat on the edge of the coffee table nearest Pope.
“Don’t think about it.”
Lethbridge nodded, clearly still thinking about it.
Pope was sweating like a pig with the padded clothing. Without thinking, he pulled up his sleeves to the elbows, letting the climate-controlled air of the house cool his arms.
“All right. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to …” Pope looked down at the three occupants of the couch. They were all staring at his arm.
With lightning speed, Pope pulled down his sleeves, a movement that only worsened the situation, because they’d already seen the tattoo, and if they hadn’t grasped the significance of seeing it before, then they surely did now, because the tattoo might as well have been a nametag—a billboard with a headshot and phone number painted in dayglow, like the ambulance-chasing lawyers overlooking Colorado Boulevard outside.
The demons cackled in his head. They’d won. They’d somehow duped him into this, made him drop his guard, even after so much preparation, and now he had no choice.
Pope had never had children, had never even had sex, but he was a good enough man to know that it was inhumane to let parents watch their children die. So he shot the parents first.
> Chapter 5
Wolf sat on his back deck and chewed his last bite of steak.
Out in the meadow, a bull elk circled his harem of females, letting out vocalizations that echoed through the misted landscape.
The beauty of the evening was lost on him. He was elsewhere in place and time, standing over someone, feeling what it would be like to have finished bringing justice to the person who had shot and killed Sarah.
As he stared down at the nameless, faceless, lifeless, man in his mind’s eye, he felt nothing. No sense of satisfaction or fulfillment.
Perhaps a simple sense of completion of a chore, a task that if otherwise not done would be too much to live with. Like neglecting to clean up after a dog in the backyard. One could live with it so long, but in the end, the smell would overpower everything else, making enjoyment of anything impossible, making movement impossible, and sooner or later the scooper had to come out.
Wolf pushed his plate forward and leaned back. A low cloud, heavy with moisture, obscured the mountain behind his house.
Standing up, he stretched his arms overhead and felt a twinge in his back that failed to materialize into any real pain, but added hesitation to his step and to his resolve.
Screw it, he thought. Metaphorically speaking, he needed to walk his ass up that mountain, up through the cloud to see what was on the other side, his broken body be damned.
Clenching his jaw, he made a resolution. Tomorrow he was going to get busy, and if the FBI wanted to tag along, then they could tag along.
Chapter 6
Special Agent Kristen Luke of the FBI looked over the Denver County police officer’s shoulder and saw one of the dead bodies inside the house light up from a camera flash.
She blinked, and knew that image would stick with her a long time.
The Denver police officer stepped aside and shifted from foot to foot. “I’ve seen some gruesome killings in my time, but this takes the frickin’ cake. You wanna go in and look? Fine, go right ahead.”
Special Agent Tedescu, Luke’s interim partner for the past three months, stepped inside as if being pulled by a tractor beam.