Cutting edge s--1

by Robert W. Walker

  “God Almighty…”

  “They left tracks this time.” said Meredyth.

  Lucas quietly agreed. “Many more tracks here than at the butchering sight.” He pointed out three separate, distinct shoe prints. “It's a bit more soggy here from the rains. When did it last rain hereabouts. Deputy?”

  Harold looked at the evidence of at least three sets of footprints here, all male, all adult. He shrugged off the question about rain.

  “Now it looks like the work of at least three men,” said Lucas.

  Harold scratched the back of his head, staring at the shoe prints in the mud here. “Damn, maybe Sheriff's right… maybe it was our local union boys.”

  “Drunks aren't going to hit that target down there,” said Lucas, pointing back to the deputy's windshield. Meredyth had to agree. “Whoever did this was stone sober and very, very good…”

  “Very good with a high-powered, scoped crossbow with infrared targeting equipment, top of the line.” Lucas stood up, grimacing with a sudden stab of pain, hiding it by averting his face. He then asked Harold, “At least two hundred fifty, maybe three hundred pounds on the bows. That kind of power means high-tech equipment. Do you know anybody around here with that kind of hunting equipment?”

  “Couple of folks, maybe. 'Course, Billings's old hunt club store carries some pretty high-tech items. We could start there.”

  The quick trip around town to the people who might know something about high-tech crossbows proved a monumental waste of time. They were all Disney characters, as if they'd stepped out of another time period, their smiling, ingratiating ways making them either Step ford Wives or simply pure and honest village folk. Everywhere the Houston authorities went, they heard the same lament about Timothy Little. “Just awful, and him such a fine man who done so much for our area…”

  To save time and taxpayers' money, they decided to fly back late the same night, allowing the locals to run their string of arrests out on their own. Harold's boss, Sheriff Lowell Barnette, only surfaced at the airport to see them off. He remained convinced that the killers were a pack of local boys who had it in for Little.

  Barnette was a huge man, intimidating, with leather for skin. He looked genetically suited to the hardships of the outdoors. Robust and powerful, his forehead massive, creating a hanging cliff over his dark, brooding eyes, the man merely shook his head over Stonecoat and Meredyth, apologizing brusquely for not having had time to monkey-cart them around all day. as he put it, punctuating with the phrase “damn that, damn that,” and finishing with. “But, by God, I have a hell of a situation on my hands here, folks, and I'm specting the FBI in any time, and there's some confessions to get before then. But I know what I can do for you…”

  “What's that. Sheriff?”

  “I can give you a crack at these boys we got locked up.”

  “Is that right? Well, we'd like to, but we got folks waiting for us in Houston,” countered Stonecoat. 'Thanks all the same.”

  “You got some pure Injun blood in you, don't you, boy?”

  Meredyth watched Lucas's reaction to this with interest. He showed no sign of displeasure.

  “Some of the best,” replied Lucas.

  “What're you, then? Coming from Texas, does that make you Coushatta,” he massacred the name, “Apache, a li'l of both?”

  “Cherokee, but I break bread from time to time with the Coushatta and the Apache-what's left of them.”

  “Damn that, what our race done to yours, son. I'm truly sorry for history. Damn that, for sure.” Nice way to view it, as history, Lucas thought-the white man's history was the red man's demise. “It's ancient history, and certainly not for you to worry about, Sheriff. Sounds like you got your hands full with those white devils in your cell.”

  The sheriff stared for a moment, uneasy at the remark, then decided it was meant in jest, so he let out with a western whoop and a laugh. “Sorry I didn't have more time with you and the doctor, here,” he finally said before they began boarding. “Have a safe trip back now, you hear?”

  Once on the plane, Meredyth summed Barnette up as the most purely Neanderthal individual she had ever met outside of a museum showcase. “He really didn't want us involved in his big show, did he?”

  “Probably an election coming up.” Lucas grinned, then added in response to her remark, “He does look like a meat eater.”

  Lucas quickly stowed his bag. “I sure do pity those local boys he's got in lockup.”

  “You sure we shouldn't have talked to those boys?”

  “Waste of time.”

  “You sure are… sure of yourself. I'll give you that, Lucas Stonecoat.”

  “This was a professional hit.”

  “Professional. Like hired mob types?”

  “Well-trained commando types; it was set up so neatly the whole thing was done in a matter of five to ten minutes, including the butchering.”

  “God.”

  “It looked very familiar, wouldn't you agree?”

  “You mean like Mootry?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Then I was right? All along, I was right?”

  “Yes, yes, yes, you were.”

  She could hardly contain herself, so Lucas sat her down and locked her seat belt around her. “I knew it! I just knew it!” She beamed up at him. “What's our next step?”

  “We go see Covey.”

  “Covey? Jack Covey?”

  “He was working the Palmer case, remember? Early in the investigation.”

  “The cop pedophile serving time for abduction and child molestation?”

  “He was working the Palmer case when he was put away on the charge. He's likely mellowed out some by now. In any case, we need to know what he knows.”

  “What do you hope to learn from him? “Why he was caught.” She glowered at him. “What kind of game are you playing, Stonecoat?

  “ One as old as time. I have twenty questions for Mr. Covey.”

  “Beginning with?”

  Lucas strapped himself into his seat. “Who was behind his capture and arrest?”

  “But what does that have to do with… with this?”

  “Maybe nothing… maybe everything.”

  “Damn it, I hate it when you revert to Indian glibness and cryptograms. Will you please tell me what you hope to gain from this filthy individual whose arrest brought down the image of every cop in Houston with it?”

  “He may be dirty, he may crawl on the earth as a snake, but why was the snake beheaded just as he was about to uncover evidence in the Whitaker case?”

  “What evidence? I saw no evidence of evidence coming out of Covey's involvement. Where'd you get that?”

  “I read between the lines in the file. Covey was one of the two investigators on the case. One, Pete Felipe, a Spanish cop, was killed in what was described as a random act of violence outside a liquor store the night before his partner, Covey, was picked up on charges he abducted, molested, and filmed sexual acts with a number of minors.”

  “All true, and a court of law put the man away.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Precisely what?”

  “The judge who put Covey away?”

  She stared hard into Lucas's eyes. “No. Charles Mootry?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Damn that! As Sheriff Barnette would say.”

  “Something big and dark like an ugly cougar is roamin' about, and it has large claws and bigger fangs, Doctor, and if we continue to scratch at it, it's going to turn on us. Maybe now's a good time to ask yourself just how far you're willing to take this thing.”

  “What're you talking about? Quitting now? That's non-sense!”

  “When white men tell lies, they are often lies within lies, and I've heard it said that a cautious man is careful for what he wishes. Can you face the truth in the end if the truth may reach out and kill you or harm those in your family, Meredyth?”

  She thought about this warning well. She said nothing, leaning back in h
er seat instead. They'd left the ground. “We've unearthed irrefutable evidence that some sort of hit men or hit squad is operating across state lines. We could turn what we have over to the FBI, pass the standard, make it someone else's nightmare. We could let it silently sink back into the quiet cemetery of the Cold Room from where it all came. But that wouldn't avenge Alisha Reynolds, now, would it?”

  “Think long on it,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I don't have to think long on it. I'll go with you to see Covey. We'll find out what he knows, or what he thought he knew when Mootry and the system put him away.”

  “It may be he knows nothing.”

  “I'm aware of that.”

  'Then again, it may be that he was set up.”

  “And his partner murdered? How did his partner die, exactly?”

  “Stabbed repeatedly through the heart by what was described as a trio of street toughs.”

  “Anyone charged with the stabbing?”

  “They were never caught, never identified. One eyewitness said they were dressed entirely in black to blend in with the night, and apparently, they did.”

  “Where did you learn of all this?”

  “Insomnia gives a man time. I saw that Covey and Felipe were suddenly no longer on the case.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I noticed that, too, but I didn't pay much attention. I just figured administrative shuffle since they were getting nowhere on the case.”

  'That's the difference between us. Doctor.”

  “What's that?”

  “I see conspiracies everywhere; you're too trusting.”

  “Well, maybe… perhaps… but…”

  “Covey and Felipe were probably warned in one fashion or another to let up on the case, to lighten up; it was probably suggested to them that it wasn't worth pursuing, but they continued to pursue, and look where it got them.”

  She swallowed hard. “Are you suggesting… that we're Covey and Felipe now?”

  “I'm suggesting that we're in danger.”

  “Now that's carrying things a bit far, Lucas. The next thing you'll be suggesting is that Phil Lawrence is somehow involved, and that's why he's stood in my way all this time.”

  “Just watch your back, Meredyth.”

  She tried a joke. “I thought you'd do that for me.”

  “You need somebody to do it for you. Obviously, you're no good at it,” he tried joking back, but then his tone hardened. “In all sincerity, we may be dealing with people who view life, your life and mine and anyone else's who stands to unmask them, as having very little worth, and frankly-

  “You mean like the mob, the Mafia?”

  “-and frankly, at the moment, I don't know anyone we can trust.”

  The plane banked a bit. She stared once more into his deep-set, sure brown eyes, the centers filled with dread. She found her mouth dry and her palms sweating, her heart rate having jumped. “I'll see this thing through with or without you, you know.”

  He frowned and dropped his gaze and shook his head. “Perhaps that is the one thing of which I have been certain all along.”

  The plane continued to bank, smoothed out, played tiddledy winks with the air and their stomachs, the purr of the engine continuous and loud.

  “You were good back there,” she told him.

  “Just good? I thought I was a regular Columbo.”

  “All you needed was the raincoat.”

  He shook his head in amazement. “You know what I can't fathom?”

  “What's that?”

  “I can't believe those fools in Oregon overlooked so much.”

  She shrugged. “Not everyone's got the gift. Hell, it was weird the way you did that. It was as if you knew the exact spot to go, the exact angle the killers used against Little.”

  He realized she was looking at him with those blue-green eyes in a strange new light. “Hey, when I said we can't know who to trust, I meant people other than the two of us, Meredyth. You can trust me, and I can trust you, right?”

  She hesitated only slightly, but enough that he noticed, she feared. “Sure… sure, I know I can trust you.”

  “And I'm going to trust you.”

  She managed a smile. “Big step in a… relationship.”

  “Yeah, don't I know it. And don't forget, when this is over, you promised to get me out of the Cold Room permanently, right?”

  “Yeah… sure, I'll do everything in my power.”

  Why didn't it sound like enough? he wondered.

  NINETEEN

  It was extremely late when they arrived in Houston. Even the airport was deserted. They shared a cab into the city, and Stonecoat's place being closer, he said good night to her on the street. She had taken custody of all the information and photos they'd brought back with them. Tomorrow, they would share it all with Lawrence, who would in turn provide Bryce with the information.

  Lucas waved the cab off and strolled for his door, swinging his small bag. He placed the key into a locked gate that surrounded the building, stepped through, and found himself caught off guard when someone in the shadows between the building and the gate grabbed him about the neck, toying with a huge knife at his Adam's apple, using it to make like a violin, the knife the bow, playing it back and forth, creating little rivulets of blood and telling him to shut up and listen. Lucas dropped the bag to free both hands, but he was in a helpless situation. He dared not attempt a fight.

  “You get yourself free of this case you're pursuing, son, or you and your girlfriend are dead. You understand that, kimosabe?”

  “I–I-I…” He couldn't nod for fear the razor-sharp knife would cut a major artery, and he couldn't find the words in his suddenly parched throat. He imagined what the world would be like tomorrow without him in it.

  “That's what we think, son, exactly. Now, you just come to your fucking senses, boy.”

  Lucas felt a double-fisted hammer-blow to the base of his skull just as the knife was lifted away from his throat. His last thoughts were twofold: The attack on him was the work of two assailants, and Meredyth was in danger as well. But Stonecoat was in a black world now, the dirty cement his pillow. Through a fog, he thought he heard one of his assailants say, “We should just kill the bastard here and now.”

  The words filtered through Lucas's fog in broken slow motion.

  “No, not-now-and-not-here.”

  A sudden, teeth-jarring kick struck Lucas in the side.

  “Why're-we-screwing-with-him?”

  The other man answered, “That's-'enough. We-do- it-the-way-we' re-told.”

  Another vicious kick, same exact spot. “Damn. It's- a' ways-hell-Sanger's-way, isn't-it?”

  “Orders-is-orders.”

  “Our-lives-on-the-line.”

  “Damn it. Part-ner, we're-all-in-this-t'gether.”

  “Bas-tard!”

  Stonecoat felt a third sharp pain in his ribs where one of the apes again savagely kicked out at him. Fighting it every step of the way, Lucas then went into complete unconsciousness.

  Blood seeped into the pavement where he lay from the open wounds on his neck, wounds that were cautionary and formed a pair of miniature but painful rents like railroad lines along the throat, parallel to one another.

  A passerby on the street saw the assailants leaving through the front gates, looking as if they lived there. The passerby, walking his dog, saw next that someone lay between the building and the lock gate, realizing only now that he was witness to what appeared a horrible, gruesome murder. His first impulse was to turn and step quickly the way he'd come, to hide himself and his dog away, not because he feared the fleeing pair of killers, but because he didn't want to get involved. A thing like this, he reasoned, could take years to resolve, and the authorities could make his life hell. He'd seen it happen before. He'd seen it happen in the movies and on Court TV.

  Lucas awoke with a terrible headache, scratched about to locate his bag, wondered how long he'd been lying here, and tried desperately to focus his eyes. Eyeba
lling the bag, he focused on it until it came into clear view. He wondered now just how many people-neighbors-had walked by, offering no help. He was angry to've been caught so totally off guard. He hadn't imagined they'd come after him this way, and certainly not this soon. Whoever they were, they seemed clued into his and Dr. Sanger's movements.

  He tried to assess who in the city knew of his returning from Oregon tonight; who knew where he lived; who knew how to get through the damned gate, and that he'd be stepping through it at just that moment?

  Maybe it was just retaliation between cops.

  Maybe it had been Fred Amelford and Jim Pardee. In Texas, every cop liked to think he was a Texas Ranger-a judge, jury, and executioner all in one.

  They were smart cops. They had asked around, gotten the answers they wanted, learned that the guy out at Mootry's the other night had to be Lucas Stonecoat. Hell, even Phil Lawrence might have supplied them with the information. Pissed off at him for stepping in where he wasn't wanted, sure. When the guy with the knife said to butt out of the case, he was talking as one cop to another. Maybe it wasn't the crossbow mob at all. He rifled his memory for every word the knife wielder had said in his ear as he played the blade across his now burning, still bleeding throat. Not much there: “You get yourself free of this case, son, or you and your girlfriend are dead.”

  Damned nasty enough threat, he thought. But cops who've felt wronged had been known to use strong language. The other guy wanted to do him in, but the more controlled guy, the one who held the knife and kept calling him son, had balked at actually sticking Lucas with the pitchfork he was waving about.

  Fred Amelford was a lanky giant, a senior detective at the Twenty-second Precinct, and the apelike arms that'd draped over Lucas could've been his. The phantom in the dark had called his accomplice by the term partner, or had Lucas heard it wrong, had he said Pardee? And there was another word they used that sounded like a name, Sanger. But that must've been the daze talking.

  Pardee and Amelford. Fill in the blanks, he told himself now. Most likely a strong dose of warning to butt out of the Mootry investigation, to stay off their turf. He had imagined they would be pissed, but he hadn't bargained on this pissed.