Dire

by Jeff Carson

  Bristol smiled painfully at the sight of his nephew. Jim was walking now. He was laughing in the picture, leaning forward, trying to chase after a ball, looking like he might have face-planted a step after the picture had been taken. His mother was behind him with folded arms, smiling proudly.

  The caption read: I hope you’re on schedule for our payment or we’ll start slitting throats, ending with yours.

  The sweat beaded inside Bristol’s latex gloves.

  Trey Manzi had completely lost it.

  They’d been close once, he and Mr. Manzi, but now Bristol was no more than a piece of dog crap that needed to be scraped off his shoe. What was wrong with the big-boss man now?

  It had been two years since that fateful day he’d announced to Manzi that he wanted to go it alone. For ten years before that he’d been one of Manzi’s top enforcers in Vegas, in charge of account payments for the south and west sides, which meant he’d seen a lot of action. At the height of his career, he’d busted a lot of heads for the man in charge. A lot of corpses were feeding the scorpions in the desert north of the strip right now because of him.

  But Bristol had never been satisfied hanging out with the other brain-dead thugs. Mindless head busting had gotten old quick, and then, after ten years, it had become unbearable.

  Bristol was a born businessman. Through sheer determination he’d survived childhood, literally scraping together meals off the floor of the single trailer while his mother slept on the couch in a drug-induced coma most of the day, fluids oozing from her orifices. And that determination had shaped him into the man he was destined to be. There was no way he’d be a thug for the rest of his life, working for a wage to build somebody else’s empire.

  Settling for less than he was capable of would be using his past as an excuse. It would be letting his mother pull him down to her level. It would validate all the times she’d put him down, telling him he was “so flippin’ dumb you’ll never even find a job in the real world.” No way was he a dumb, two-bit thug.

  Manzi had seen the predatory instinct in Bristol on that day. The problem was, Manzi was a predator too, and predators are territorial animals. In order to get out from under Manzi’s thumb, Bristol had to agree to buy-out terms and move to a different territory.

  Manzi had been thinking about Colorado for some time, so he allowed Bristol to leave, opening his own branch of the gambling business in Denver. It was virgin territory, the current bookies in the area a loose-knit group of weak-minded individuals hanging out in the backs of bars and medical-marijuana dispensaries. It took Bristol less than six months to get a foot inside the door in Denver, and now he was the doorman.

  It was Bristol doing what he did best—fighting and taking what was there. Doing whatever it took, even if it meant feeding cadavers to the crows up in the mountains, burying bodies in the sand dunes, or dropping a few corpses in mine shafts.

  Meanwhile, Manzi had sat back with folded hands, collecting a seventy-five percent cut of everything Bristol built. For the past year and a half, Bristol had been paying down the interest rate with lump sums. Lump sums that were numbers picked out of thin air by Manzi—demands that were becoming larger and more unreasonable as Bristol gained more independence. And now that Bristol was so close to paying down all the ridiculous terms, without batting an eye, Manzi was adding threats to his demands.

  It was clear now that payments were never going to be enough. He was going to have to fight his way out of Manzi’s clutches. He was going to have to kill him. Because every positive step for Bristol was a betrayal against the big-boss man. And the big-boss man took betrayal very badly.

  As Bristol stared at the picture on the monitor some more, he came up with a new, lofty plan—he would use this Lauren Coulter payday to kill Manzi. It was going to take every cent of the proceeds, maybe even more, to get that done.

  Dialing burner phone #3, he stood up and listened to the trilling in his ear.

  The driftwood clock ticked, echoing through the spacious great room.

  He could picture them now, sipping whiskey and staring at the silver phone on Manzi’s huge desk, the caller ID showing a random 720 area code number from Colorado. They would know exactly who it was.

  “Yeah.”

  The voice was two octaves lower than an average male’s.

  “Hey, Brick.”

  No response.

  “I just got your email. I just wanted to give you guys a heads-up on what’s going on. Make sure you don’t jump the gun on anything.”

  “Jump the gun? You disappeared. We’re just making sure you’re not trying to make that permanent when we’re coming down to our last payment.”

  “I’m not.” Bristol looked at himself in a mirror on the wall. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale and shiny.

  “Good.”

  “Whoever you have looking at my sister and her kid, tell them to stand down. I’ll have the money tomorrow afternoon.”

  The Brick chuckled, and it sounded like boulders rolling in Bristol’s ear. “I’ll tell Illi to stay right where he is.”

  “Illi?” Bristol’s neck-hair stood on end.

  Illi was the sickest whacko he’d ever met in his life, with absolutely no conscience. The man was strong, quick to anger, and quick to overreact with extremely violent consequences. Sure, Bristol had killed, but at least he despised the necessary evil. But Illi? Illi was a monster. There was no other way to describe him. One time, Illi and Bristol had been sitting at a dinner table with a man who was refusing to pay. Illi had listened to all of five seconds of the man’s back talk when he picked up a butter knife and got to work. After splashing blood around the room for the length of a good rap song, Illi had sat down and finished his sandwich, paying attention to neither the blood on his hands nor the circles of red, soggy bread on his plate.

  Bristol thought of that final morsel of blood-soaked whole wheat going into Illi’s mouth and let out a shaky breath. “I’ll get you the money.”

  “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

  “Where do you want me to deliver it?”

  The Brick chuckled again. “Just get the money, white boy.”

  The line went dead.

  Bristol lowered the phone and flipped it shut with tingling fingers.

  With quick strides, he walked back to the laptop and checked the dot again. It was still there, parked in the same lot in Frisco.

  He’d used the application and software before, but never in the mountains. She’d disappeared numerous times coming up through the foothills, then finally reappeared outside of Silverthorne. She would undoubtedly disappear again, but the metaphorical collar was locked to her neck.

  He walked to the door in the hallway, stood in front of the flickering sliver of light at his feet, and silently twisted the knob.

  The girl was covered in blankets, huddled in a ball on a beanbag chair.

  The muted television played an infomercial, caressing the girl’s face with soft light. Her eyes were closed, little lines drawn at the corners, like she was in a fitful sleep. Or like she was pretending to be.

  Michael Coulter was lying on his back on the carpet, drool streaming from his mouth. His bandage was soaked in blood still leaking through the stitches that held together the two pieces of his ear.

  Bristol pulled open one rubber glove and let the sweat trickle up his arm; then he bent over and picked up the empty syringe from the plate. Michael Coulter was fully addicted to the new cocktail coursing through his veins. It was going to be simple to deal with the two addicts.

  Three people dead. What were two druggies on top of it?

  And then there was this girl. He’d killed before, but he had morals.

  He thought about the picture of his nephew. It was either his nephew or this child.

  But the girl and her mom? She was hot, and this girl was likeable. It was probably because of her upbringing that she acted so civilized, even in the face of all this danger and confusion.

  Without
warning, the familiar rising sense of panic rose from within, and he suddenly resented this girl for having such a mother, resented them both for existing. Resented the lowlife client lying on the floor.

  There was no alternative. They all had to die.

  Manzi’s email had sealed the deal.

  He shut the door and twisted the lock.

  Chapter 23

  Forty minutes after leaving the Mackennas’ house, the train of vehicles, led by a crazy plow driver going at a reined-in pace, reached the flats of the Chautauqua Valley and the western outskirts of Rocky Points.

  Wolf’s phone rang. It was Luke.

  Rachette watched with interest as Wolf answered. “Hey.”

  “Jesus, where ya been?”

  “Driving down a canyon out west of town.”

  “Well, I’ve been to the office with my guy and we found her brother’s car. It’s in Frisco.”

  “Frisco?” Wolf ignored Rachette’s upturned hands.

  “Yep, Frisco.”

  Wolf paused. “Have you told anyone?”

  “No, why?”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  “DPD’s looking for her. Did you know that?”

  “Yeah,” Wolf said. “But I’d appreciate it if you kept it quiet.”

  “Great. I always enjoy breaking a few investigatory laws in the name of David Wolf.”

  A line of brake lights blossomed as Greg Nanteekut slowed his plow to the side of the road.

  The train of SBCSD vehicles swerved around him and rolled down the hill toward Main Street. Wolf honked twice on the way by.

  “Where are you now?” Wolf asked.

  “I’m sitting here inside Michael Coulter’s place off 16th Street Mall. Been here for fifteen minutes.”

  “What do you see?”

  “I see it’s a real shithole.”

  “On 16th Street? I thought that would be a high-class place.”

  Wolf slowed to a stop at Main Street and took a left. The glass of the county building slid past and he took the next right.

  “It is high class, all granite and brushed nickel. Place probably goes for a cool million judging by the size and view, but you should see the filth this guy lives in.”

  Wolf pulled into the parking lot.

  “I’m seeing a lot of drug use. Alcoholic for sure,” she said.

  “Hey, just a second, all right?” Wolf parked in a spot and nodded at Rachette. “You go ahead inside. I’ll be right there.”

  Rachette jumped out and jogged to the rear automatic doors of the county building, entering after MacLean, who was marching in with two other deputies.

  “Okay, go ahead,” Wolf said.

  “I’m looking at his set of kitchen knives right now. I’m counting three missing from the wooden block. Two steak knives are in the sink, along with the rest of his filthy dishes. The only one missing is the paring knife, your first murder weapon.”

  “How did you know about the paring knife?”

  “I called Patterson when I couldn’t get hold of you for the twentieth time in a row. Better than sitting in this creepy apartment in the middle of the night by myself. She told me everything you guys have so far.”

  “Did you tell Patterson where Lauren is?”

  “About her being in Frisco? Yeah.”

  “Shit. I have to go. I’ll call you back.”

  “Wait—”

  Wolf hung up and limp-jogged through the snow to the rear entrance.

  Chapter 24

  “Did you tell anybody where she is?” Wolf was out of breath, leaning on the edge of Patterson’s desk.

  She looked up from her computer monitor and swiveled on her yoga ball, peering back at MacLean’s office. “No.”

  MacLean saw him and marched out to the squad room. “Wolf! Office, now!”

  “Don’t tell anyone.”

  Rachette and Hernandez had been brewing a cup of coffee and came over. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Wolf and Patterson said at the same time.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Wolf walked to MacLean’s office, already knowing how the conversation would go. MacLean was going to vent about the news story that had run earlier that night and would want Wolf to do something about it.

  “What’s up?” Wolf asked, poking his head inside the door.

  “Get in here.”

  “Is this about the news story tonight? If so, I don’t care. We have more important stuff going on right now.”

  “Get in here!” MacLean’s face was bright red.

  Wolf went inside and shut the door.

  MacLean made his way to the windows that looked out on the squad room and shut the blinds.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Where’s your report on the river-rescue incident?”

  Wolf frowned. “I haven’t done it yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve had other stuff going on, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  MacLean gestured to his desk. “Barker gave me his report.”

  “Yeah, so you told me earlier. Good for him.”

  “So read the report!” MacLean’s voice boomed.

  A single sheet of paper with Barker’s name and an incident number typed along the top sat conspicuously on the edge of MacLean’s desk. He walked over, plucked it off the shined wood and skimmed it over. Then he paused, backtracked to the beginning, and read it carefully.

  I was riding back from the western law-enforcement conference at Rocky Points Ski Resort in the passenger seat of Chief Detective Wolf’s vehicle when I noticed some slide marks going off the right side of the road. I immediately notified CD Wolf, who first ignored me, but then relented to my insistence we pull over.

  Wolf frowned and looked up from the report. “Is this a joke?”

  “A joke? What do you mean is this a joke?” MacLean’s face scrunched up.

  Wolf tried his best to control his breathing and continued on.

  I got out of the car and ran to the edge of the ravine and saw there was a vehicle upturned in the river. I informed CD Wolf of what I’d seen and climbed down the edge of the ravine.

  Wolf read on, hot rage welling up in his gut. The report went on to describe the incident in a way that replaced Wolf with Barker, often embellished to make Barker look better, and Wolf much, much worse.

  When I realized CD Wolf was not going to come down from the road to help, despite the immediate danger the victim and I were in, I yelled into the radio for him to come down. That seemed to finally bring him out of his psychosis-like state and he finally climbed down with the sleeping bag and clothing I had instructed him to bring.

  “The radio-transmission tapes confirm his story,” MacLean said. “That he was yelling at you to come down and you weren’t answering.”

  “My radio was shot. From dousing it in the river water.”

  MacLean narrowed his eyes and stared at Wolf for a beat.

  Wolf thought about Barker coming down the hill, the way he’d lain down in the river, and now it was clear why—to make it look like he’d taken part in the rescue.

  “This is a bullshit report.” Wolf stopped reading and dropped it on the desk. “Now, are we done here? I have to get back to work.”

  “No, we aren’t. We certainly are not done about this matter.”

  “Where’s Barker now?” Wolf asked.

  “I told you guys, I sent him home.”

  Wolf stared at MacLean and raised his eyebrows. “This is bullshit.”

  MacLean rubbed his goatee and looked at the carpet. “I’ve been on the phone with reporters all night. And two of them asked about this.”

  Wolf frowned. “He leaked it?”

  MacLean nodded. “Coupled with that story they ran on the news earlier, making us look like a bunch of corrupt assholes grabbing money out of the county coffers … this is going to blow up in our faces like dynamite if we don’t meet this head on.”

  Wolf rolled his eyes.


  “What? You think I’m kidding?” MacLean pointed at him. “You blow this off and you and I don’t have a job in two years. That’s a fact.”

  “There’s a five-year-old girl in trouble out there and you’re worried about an election …” Wolf did the math, “twenty-two months from now? Come on. What do you want from me?”

  MacLean widened his eyes. “I … I want you to stand up on that podium with me tomorrow morning and tell your version of events.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “Okay, then if you’re not going to defend yourself, I have no choice but to believe Barker’s version, and I’ll stand with him on that podium, and then …” He raised his hands and rubbed his forehead.

  Wolf glared at him.

  “I’m not retiring early,” MacLean said. He started pacing back and forth. “Dammit, Wolf. I need that report from you. Now. Tonight.”

  “Let’s not overreact on this.” Wolf used a low voice. “We have other work to do and this crap can wait.”

  “It can’t wait!”

  Wolf considered yelling back and storming out, but felt a pang of guilt for not filling out his report in a timely manner. If he had done it then they would be having a different conversation right now. Probably with Barker here in the room. But Friday had been a blur, and then there’d been the weekend with Lauren, and now, here, was the worst Monday of his life.

  “Judy Fleming and Adam Jackson are behind all this,” Wolf said. “They’ve gotten to Barker. He wants to be promoted and we’re not giving it to him. Adam Jackson will.”

  “And that’s why we have to stop being played like fiddles.” MacLean made two fists. “That’s what they’re doing. Playing us. We have to put a stop to it. So … please. I beg you, Wolf … I don’t believe that report right there. I’m not blind. I see Barker for who he is and, yes, I regret that I did his father a favor and appointed him to your detective squad …”

  Wolf had never heard the flat truth from MacLean about Barker until now.