by Jeff Carson
“What dispute are you talking about?” Wolf asked.
“Then I’m going to retire.” Jackson pointedly ignored him and sat down. He picked up his fishing pole and dropped his line into the hole at his feet. A dollop of water came out onto the carpeted floor. “You know, after that case you guys had a few years ago up here, I keep expecting to pull up a human head every time I drop my lure in.”
Wolf checked his watch, already sick of the man’s games.
“So,” Jackson exhaled and twisted his reel. “I know you talked to my campaign manager, but I figured we needed to talk this out man to man.”
Jackson smiled at him, letting his gaze linger.
“I’ll cut to the chase here,” Jackson said. “I’ve showed you my finish line, and now we can go two different ways. Right here and now we’re at the starting line. Option number one: You endorse me as the next sheriff and I hire you as the next undersheriff. When I’m elected, we skate through the next eight years and come out the other side happy campers, one of us further in our careers, making more money, the other sitting in a fishing hut, living out the rest of his days a contented retired man in the beautiful town of Rocky Points, Colorado. What do you think about that?”
Wolf nodded. “I’m flattered by your interest in me, sir. But I’m a little taken aback by the … earliness of the request from you and Ms. Fleming. The election isn’t for two years, and I’m not willing to do that kind of thing to my sheriff, and I’m sure you would be grateful for the same loyalty from your detectives if you were to be elected the next sheriff.” He paused and put down his coffee. “Secondly, I’m not good behind a desk.”
Jackson raised a single eyebrow. “I’m not understanding your answer.”
“I guess the answer is, you got an option two?”
Jackson looked away, clearly disappointed. “Option two is you tie yourself to MacLean’s ship. And we both know MacLean’s ship is taking on quite a bit of water at the moment.”
Wolf stared at the muted television. Aunt Bee was yelling at Barney Fife for something.
“Right, I’ll let you think about it.” Jackson stood and slapped Wolf on the back. “Don’t twist another ankle stepping in one of those holes on the way out.”
Wolf pulled on his stocking cap and stood.
Jackson’s eyelids dropped. “Two options, David. Choose wisely, okay?”
Wolf looked at the man’s cocksure grin, felt an unwelcome squeeze on his shoulder.
He pulled on his gloves. “I’ve made my choice.”
“You have? Great.”
Wolf pushed the door open and stepped out into the sideways snow.
“Well?” Jackson asked.
Wolf tucked his chin into his coat.
“Option two it is!” Jackson’s voice echoed between the fishing huts.
Wolf sat inside his SUV and fired up the engine. Cranking the heat to full howl, he pulled out his cell phone from his breast pocket and stopped the recording session.
The conversation went as he’d suspected it might, and he’d learned long ago that nothing covered his ass like a good piece of audio.
He pressed the button and listened. There was a rhythmic rustling of fabric and wind, and then it stopped for a second.
“Adam Jackson!” Wolf’s voice was muffled. And he’d yelled the words. Not a good sign.
“Shit.” Wolf’s thumbed the volume three times to maximum.
Fast-forwarding another minute, Wolf pressed play.
“... …”
There was mumbling, but that was it. No intelligible words at all. It was like Wolf’s phone had been buried in snow when as it was recording.
He checked the microphone holes in the bottom of the cell and sagged in his seat. He had a heavy-duty plastic case on his phone with an oval hole for the mic—an oval hole that was packed solid with snow. He must have dropped it just right to plug it.
He flicked the snow out with the end of a key and blew out the water.
He pressed stop and saw there was a bar of reception, so he scrolled to Lauren Coulter’s phone number and hovered his finger.
He tapped it.
It rang once and went to voicemail.
“Hi, this is Lauren Coulter. Leave a message,” she said, her high-pitched voice adding a shot of adrenaline to his bloodstream.
“Hi … it’s me, David. It’s now 10:25. I’m about an hour and a half away with good roads, and now it’s starting to snow … again. Just letting you know I might be a few minutes late to our lunch–dinner, but I’m on my way. I’m looking forward to it. See ya.”
Chapter 8
Rocky Points sits in a valley with a sagebrush-covered high plateau to the north and the heavily forested Williams Pass to the south, hemmed in by pine-covered mountains to the east and west.
In 1974, Rocky Points Ski Resort was gouged out of the tallest mountain on the western side of the valley, with ski runs like veins that had grown into the neighboring mountain to the north as the resort expanded.
On the east of the valley stood the gentler-sloped, forested hills, backdropped by thirteen- and fourteen-thousand-foot peaks. Since Rocky Points’ mining days, the east side had been nicknamed Sunnyside because of the afternoon sun it received. It was how the breakfast café in town had gotten its name.
From Sunnyside, western views of the resort and the waves of mountains beyond it were spectacular. Since the amount of sunlight was greater by a full hour or more, real-estate prices were accordingly high.
It was where Margaret Hitchens had built her home, where many prominent figures of county government called home, and it was where Wolf was driving now to find Lauren Coulter’s home.
Sun streamed through a crack in the clouds and into Wolf’s windows, flickering behind trees as he drove along a well-plowed road. He was still driving in an unblinking daze, his earlier enthusiasm to see Lauren Coulter dampened by his visit with Adam Jackson.
Checking the GPS unit, he slowed and turned at the next driveway. A mailbox designed to look like a log cabin, with a snow ski for the mail flag, said Coulter on the side.
The single-lane road was paved and well plowed, covered by an inch of snow that had fallen earlier in the morning. If the forecasters were right, there was an approaching storm, and it would be a steady and raging snow by the end of the day.
He pulled around a corner and the ground leveled off while the forest broke into a clearing. Lauren Coulter’s house stood proud in a snow-covered meadow, a wide single-level structure that was shaped like an L.
It was much like Wolf’s house design but built with sturdier lumber. A walkout basement stood to the rear, and a high roof promised vaulted ceilings inside and huge gleaming windows. This and the secluded surroundings, all in prime Sunnyside territory, pointed to a price tag in the millions.
Rounding the traffic circle in front of the house, he swung to the west and the valley below came into view. A veil of white snow was now passing over Rocky Points, obscuring the sun and darkening the landscape outside.
He parked at the front of the house, at the end of a walkway to the porch. Checking the mirror, he picked a piece of lint off his eyebrow, grabbed the half-dozen roses for Lauren and gift bag for her daughter, and stepped outside.
Cold wind swept up from the valley below, breathing softly through the trees that bordered the clearing behind and to either side of the house. Crows cawed overhead, joining another noisy group that had gathered somewhere in the forest. There were no visible neighbors in any direction. Quite a piece of property.
Taking Luanne’s Sweets and Treats’ earning power into consideration, a company whose products were in every gas station and grocery store Wolf had ever set foot in, the house was rather modest in size compared to those erected elsewhere on Sunnyside. Understated. Overall, he judged, the land and house were a tasteful extension of the woman named Lauren he knew so little about.
The sun flickered and disappeared behind the clouds, dropping the temperature immediately.
As he walked to the door, he tried to remember the last time he’d spent any sort of time with a five-year-old. It had been years. The girl probably already had ten versions of the doll in the bag dangling from his hand. Probably had an exact replica.
He pressed the doorbell and stood back.
Now the wind sounded like a jet engine as it rolled through the trees up the mountain. Snow from the front yard skated and swirled past his feet.
No answer.
He leaned to the side and glanced in the window—not a face-press, but a squint at a respectable distance from the glass—and saw no movement.
A few moments later he knocked.
There was no response, no sound from within, so he did the face-press. A gleaming wood-floored hallway led to what looked to be a kitchen table backed by some windows. There was a bowl on the table with a spoon in it.
Just beyond the glass in front of him was a darkened dining room, and to the left a sparsely decorated room with an electric keyboard against one wall.
Snooping for another five seconds, he pulled back and studied the footprints along the walkway. There were at least three sets, not including Wolf’s. His were fresh, showing tread, and, at first glance, looked to be the only ones that led to the house. The others led down the path, away from the front door. They were shallow indentions, covered by a half-inch of snow in some places, or blown away altogether by the wind in others.
He pressed the doorbell one last time and walked down the walkway toward his SUV, not bothering to wait. They were gone, and had left about an hour ago. The footprints said as much.
Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed Lauren. It rang once and went straight to voicemail, like her phone was off. Like it had done earlier.
Unlocking his passenger door, he opened it and put the flowers and gift down on the floor. Turning back to the house, he wondered what his next move was. Had he just been stood up? Maybe there’d been an emergency at work and she’d had to stay late. Then why not call him? She hadn’t seemed the flaky type but, like he’d told her, first impressions could be deceptive.
He pressed the digital-assistant button on his phone.
“How can I help you, David?” the phone said in a female voice.
“Call County Hospital.”
“Calling … Sluice–Byron County Hospital.”
Propping a butt cheek onto his passenger seat, he waited while it rang.
“Sluice–Byron County Hospital, how may I direct your call?”
“Could I please speak to the second-floor nurses’ station?”
“One moment.”
A tinny saxophone wailed in his ear. The car door started to blow closed so he swung his legs inside and let it shut, relishing the weight-release on his ankle.
“Nurses’ station, this is Nurse Johnsfield,” a woman’s voice answered. “How may I help you?”
“Hi, I’m looking for Lauren Coulter.”
“Not here.”
He waited for more explanation but none came. “This is Detective David Wolf with the Sheriff’s Department. I was—”
“Oh yeah, annoying guy standing in my way. I remember you.”
“Yeah. Listen, did she say where she was going?”
“Nope.”
“Okay.”
She chewed some food into the receiver.
“Could I speak to John?”
“Nope. Not on duty today.” She exhaled like she was already on her last nerve. “Lauren left this morning. Check that, she disappeared this morning. Four hours before she was done she upped and left, which left us a nurse short, and she didn’t even try to get anyone to cover for her.”
“Did she say why? Like it was an emergency or something?”
“Nope. Just walked out.”
He opened the car door, letting the cool air inside again.
“So, I’m not too happy with your little friend Ms. Lauren Coulter right now. I hope you see her first, because if I do I’m going to kill her. Well, if I did that I guess I’d have to see you again … maybe I won’t kill her. But I’m gonna do something. That’s for sure.”
He pulled the phone away from his ear and pressed the call-end button. Staring through the windshield, he watched three more crows disappear over the top of Lauren’s house. He reached into his glove compartment, retrieved his Glock in its paddle holster and stepped outside.
Snow caressed his face now, dropping from the leaden sky.
Two more crows flew in from the north. Another twisted on the wind to the east.
He walked to the single-lane driveway branching off the traffic circle, which led to a three-car garage on the side of the house.
Tire tread marks, thinly veiled in snow but still visible, backed out of the garage and left down the driveway past his feet. Swiveling around, he followed the treads with his eyes until they merged with his SUV’s on the approach road and disappeared into the woods toward the main county road below.
His boots squeaked on the snow and as he stepped to the garage doors and the back corner of the building. The land sloped down around the rear to the walkout basement, which was capped by a deck off the rear main level.
A short distance from the rear stood dense woods. And inside the woods there was a party going on and only crows were invited. Black forms flapped and flitted in and out of view, cawing like mad.
He stepped onto a mound of snow at the edge of the driveway to get a better view.
The wind was sharp as a knife, but that’s not what sent a chill up his spine. Two sets of footprints came out of the noisy part of the forest and converged, and then they led to the rear of the house. Either that or two people had left the back of the house and split just before the trees.
The crows in the trees let out a blast of excited caws, and the sound of flapping wings echoed in the air.
Gingerly, he stepped down the other side of the mound, favoring his weight on the right foot.
The snow was cold on his shins, coming up to his knees and burrowing into the top of his boots as he made his way down the slope to the back of the house. His left ankle ached from the movement.
The air got colder as more flakes started falling. The clouds thickened and the light flattened, making the contours of the land disappear, and he felt a pop in his ankle, then hot pain as he stumbled in an invisible rut underneath the snow.
“Shit.”
Baring his teeth, he limped downward, then finally reached the lower rear corner of the house where it was sheltered from the wind.
He walked along the back of the house, past a window to the sliding glass door and to the footprints, which led to the door.
Under the overhanging deck, the prints were relatively untouched by the elements, and they told the story clear enough: two people had come out of this door, out into the yard, into the trees. One had come back.
His gut wriggled as he gazed down the line of tracks to the tree line, which was now barely visible behind a veil of sideways-blowing snow.
Pulling his gun, he grabbed the handle of the sliding glass door with his coat sleeve and pulled. It slid open and hot air billowed out as he stepped inside.
He shut the door and the world went silent inside the basement level of Lauren’s house. He held his breath and stood motionless, trying to listen past the blood pounding in his ears.
There were no steps, no creaking. Nothing.
The walkout basement was one large carpeted room, cordoned off into different zones by the furniture placed there. A recreation zone had a ping-pong table and dartboard. One corner had couches, a coffee table, and a wall-mounted television, all of it taken over by princesses and long-haired dolls strewn about.
Ahead and to the left, a carpeted stairway led up.
Letting his muzzle lead the way, he walked silently to the stairs, using his ankle as if it were uninjured, ignoring the shooting pain that came with each step.
Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, he pointed his eyes and his Glock up at an open doorwa
y on the main floor. A soft natural light painted the wall beyond.
There were no shadows or movement, so he climbed.
With each left step his ankle ached, and with each right step his kneecap cracked like a dry twig, the sound echoing off the walls and vaulted ceiling.
He stopped at the third to last step and pressed his back to the right wall. As he leaned forward, the hallway to the left came into view, and then the front door. Nobody.
He looked right, keeping low to the floor, jabbing his head out and back like a snake’s tongue. There was the kitchen table, the chair, the spoon in the bowl, the glowing overhead light.
Stepping out into the hallway, his wet boots squealed on the hardwood floors.
To the right, the kitchen opened up. There was a large sub-zero refrigerator, two side-by-side wall-mounted ovens, a large gas range, an island in the middle with copper pans dangling from a black metal rectangle, which itself hung from heavy chains attached to the ceiling. It was a space designed for someone who knew what they were doing in the kitchen.
On the table next to the bowl, a box of crayons spilled over a piece of construction paper. Lauren’s daughter had been drawing mountain scenery, and by the looks of it she had more artistic talent at the age of five than Wolf would ever have.
A sliding glass door led to a deck outside. Beyond the deck, he could see the line of footprints behind falling snow. Past it all, a crow perched in a high bough before diving down.
Apple slices that had browned over time sat on a cutting board. A Disney lunchbox on the counter sat open with a bagged sandwich inside.
To the left stood a family room with shining hardwood floors and dark furniture, lit by a row of windows that continued along the rear of the house.
“Lauren!” His adrenaline made his voice louder than he’d intended.
There was no answer, only a low whoosh as a new wave of wind and snow hit outside.
He raised his gun and limped silently through the living room to a darkened hallway and pushed open the first door on the right, revealing a plain bedroom with a made bed and drawn shades.