Tracer

by Dustin Stevens

  Her heels again sounded out through the office as she walked the length of the hall. Found the glass door withSheriff Jacob Pratt stenciled on it. Knocked with the back of her knuckles.

  “Come in,” Pratt said from behind his desk. Stood as she entered. “Please, have a seat.”

  Goslin nodded in greeting. Settled into a brown tweed chair across from the Sheriff.

  Glanced around to see his inner sanctum fit the motif of the outer office.

  “Thank you for meeting with me,” Goslin said. The frostiness of a few moments before was gone, though her tone was still a long way from convivial.

  “Absolutely,” Pratt said. “What can I do for you?”

  Goslin fought hard to keep from rolling her eyes.

  The Webb shooting was the biggest story to come out of Hamilton in almost a decade. Not since the murder-suicide of a longtime resident eight years before.

  “Lukas Webb,” Goslin said. “Anything moving there?”

  Pratt motioned down to a file sitting open on his desk. No more than three pieces of paper bound together by a metal clip.

  “Not a lot to move,” Pratt said. “Multiple witnesses saw Webb leave the meeting angry, return with a high-powered rifle, and begin shooting. He’s still being held in a coma at Hamilton Memorial until Saturday.”

  “So Saturday is confirmed?” Goslin asked.

  An oversized nod came back to her in response.

  “I speak to his supervising physician each morning,” Pratt said.

  “Really?” Goslin said. Raised her eyebrows.

  “Yes,” Pratt said. “We both belong to the Crossroads gym, see each other every day.”

  Goslin glanced down at the prodigious belly parked across from her. The way it strained the buttons on his shirt. Pressed against the desk.

  The arch in her brow went a little higher. She said nothing.

  “I’ve also asked that they contact us immediately should anything change.”

  “You’re no longer keeping a guard posted there?”

  “No,” Pratt said. Shook his head. “Didn’t have it in the budget for that kind of overtime. We’ll go back to around-the-clock as soon as they wake him up though.”

  Again Goslin fought to hide an outward response. The most visible live criminal to come along in her lifetime, and the city was worried about paying out some overtime hours.

  “I came down to let you know I have planned a press conference for Saturday afternoon,” Goslin said. “I’ve asked for the local news station to be on hand from Missoula.”

  Pratt’s eyes widened. “Really? For Saturday?”

  “Yes,” Goslin said. “I want it to take place right after he wakes and you arrest him. We need the state to see we are taking this very seriously.”

  A moment of silence passed as Pratt leaned back in his chair. Laced his fingers across his stomach.

  A sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. His skin was pasty white.

  “You seem to disagree,” Goslin said. Put a touch of challenge in her voice.

  “No,” Pratt said. Twisted his head from side to side. “It’s just...is that the best way for us to go?”

  Goslin leaned forward. Rested her elbows on her knees. Let the fire shine behind her eyes.

  “You have a better idea?”

  “I’m not questioning you,” Pratt said. “It’s just that, the man is a veteran. We have some pretty loyal people in this town. I’d hate to incense them if we don’t have to.”

  “I agree,” Goslin said. Nodded for effect. “But at the same time, we can’t let people see that this sort of thing is acceptable either. Veteran or not, the people in this town must be able to live free of fear.”

  Goslin cut herself off there. She was beginning to preach, which was something she didn’t want to do.

  There would be plenty of time for that in front of the cameras on Saturday.

  “Have you considered offering to put him in state counseling?” Pratt asked. “I know they have some great programs for returning veterans over in Helena. Maybe this way justice is served, and we still appear sympathetic to those who serve our country.”

  Goslin scoffed. Leaned back in her chair. Straightened her blazer.

  “This, coming from the man that ran a month ago on a zero tolerance platform?”

  Pratt swallowed. Looked at her with sad eyes. Nodded.

  “You’re right. I just hate to see a young man with such a strong service record go away for the rest of his life over one mistake.”

  Goslin stared hard at him for a moment. Let her face soften as she gave a wan smile.

  “I know. It is sad, and I agree with you. If there was any other way, we would pursue it. The fact is, this kid didn’t make a mistake. He grabbed a rifle and started shooting up a civic meeting.”

  Silence fell once more as Pratt stared at her. Leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table.

  “Is there anything you need from me at the press conference?”

  Chapter Thirty

  Lights.

  One in the living room. Another in the kitchen.

  Drake saw them as he pulled up. Was quite certain he had not left them on that morning.

  No cars out front. Garage door down.

  The entire drive up from Hamilton was spent with one eye watching the rearview mirror. Upon reaching Missoula he turned north up Reserve Street. Stopped off to pick up dinner.

  Took the long way back around towards campus.

  No sign of McIlvaine.

  Drake drove past his house. Parked a few houses down on the street. Pulled out the tire iron from beneath his seat.

  Moving fast, he walked up the sidewalk to his house. Tried to peek into the windows. Knew before looking that the shades were all down.

  A habit due to the violent nature of the games Ajax was often working on.

  Drake retreated away from the window. Tucked himself in behind a tree.

  Pulled his cell-phone from his pocket. Scrolled through the call log and hit send.

  “Yo,” Kade said after a single ring.

  “Hey, where are you right now?”

  “Home, why?” Kade said. Complete seriousness in his voice. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ve got lights on at the house,” Drake said. “If you don’t hear from me in fifteen minutes, get over here.”

  Drake could hear movement on the other end of the line. “Is that guy back? You want me to come over now?”

  “I don’t see a car anywhere,” Drake said. “Let me go in first. Maybe I just left some lights on in a hurry this morning.”

  “You never leave lights on,” Kade said. “Let me get over there.”

  Drake peered around the tree at the house. Couldn’t see or hear anything.

  “Naw, let me go in here first. Give me fifteen minutes.”

  “Ten,” Kade replied. Hung up without a sound.

  Drake crammed the phone back down into his pocket. Gripped the tire iron in his left hand. Went to the front door and shoved the key in with his right.

  Pushed the door open and stepped inside, improvised weapon ready by his side.

  Standing in the hallway, plate of food in hand, mouth agape, was Ajax.

  “What the hell got into you?” Ajax asked.

  Drake stood frozen a moment. Pushed out a sigh of relief as recognition set in. Smiled and lowered the tire iron.

  “Good God, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Um, I live here,” Ajax said. Walked around to an armchair. Set his food down on an end table. “What’s got you so jumpy?”

  “Long story,” Drake said. Sighed again. Walked down the hall. Set the tire iron on the back of the couch.

  “Damn,” Ajax said. “Busting-into-the-house-carrying-a-tire-iron long story?”

  “Yeah,” Drake said. Circled around and dropped himself onto the couch.

  “Who the hell did you expect to be here?” Ajax asked. Eyes still a bit wide.

  “Hank McIlvaine,” Drake said.
Ran a hand over his face.

  “The guy from TV the other night?” Ajax asked.

  “Yeah,” Drake said. “The one that shot Lukas Webb. He was tailing me around town earlier today.”

  “And you think he’s coming here?” Ajax asked.

  “No, not really. I lost him this afternoon,” Drake said. “So, what are you doing back? I was going to pick you up Sunday from the airport.”

  Ajax leaned back in his chair. Let a sour look cross his face. Took up the plate of food from the table beside him.

  “Couldn’t do it. Four days was more than enough. Too damn much, as a matter of fact.”

  A smile curled up the corner of Drake’s mouth.

  “The girl? Or the family?”

  “Yes,” Ajax said. Shoveled a bite of potatoes into his mouth. “Damn this is good. I should have just stayed here and gone to the Keuhl’s with you.”

  “You should have,” Drake said. “And please, eat all of it. I’ve had enough to last me a month.”

  A thought crossed Drake’s mind. He fished his phone out and called Kade back.

  Kade snatched up the phone mid-ring. “Everything alright?”

  “Ajax.”

  “Ajax?” Kade spat. “I thought he was gone until Sunday?”

  “Apparently it was a train wreck. I’m just now getting the details myself.”

  “Ah hell. I take it he didn’t end up getting his noodle wet?”

  A smirk lifted Drake’s head back towards the seat cushion behind him. “I think I’ll let you ask him that tomorrow.”

  “That’s right,” Kade said. “We back up at the lodge in the morning?”

  “We are,” Drake said. “But I have to be done at nine. I want to be on campus by ten. Need to track down some people tomorrow.”

  “We’ll be there,” Kade said. Signed off.

  “What’s happening on campus tomorrow?” Ajax asked. Already had half the plate put down.

  Drake tossed the phone onto the couch beside him. Leaned forward and scratched Q behind the ears.

  “Have to track down some people in the Ag Department. See what they can tell me about brucellosis.”

  “Is this something I don’t want to hear about while I’m eating?” Ajax asked. Used a roll to sop up gravy.

  Drake smiled. Shook his head. “All I know is it’s a disease found in cattle. Hoping they can fill in the blanks for me tomorrow.”

  “This have anything to do with why you came storming through the front door carrying a tire iron?” Ajax asked.

  A smile spread across Drake’s face. He stood, headed towards the door.

  “Don’t know yet, but probably.”

  Ajax paused from eating a moment as he watched Drake go. “Where you headed now?”

  “I’m going to get my truck and my dinner,” Drake said. “Watching you eat is making me hungry.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Three.

  McIlvaine was halfway through his third beer when the call came in.

  The entirety of the conversation lasted less than a minute. Short. Terse.

  Not a request. Not a suggestion.

  A directive. Nothing short of a command.

  Hank McIlvaine did not do well with commands.

  Upon hanging up the phone, he finished his beer. Ordered a fourth and drank it slow.

  Watched a couple of unknown college football teams play in a third-tier bowl game on the TV above the bar.

  When his beer was gone he rose. Laid a twenty down. Nodded to the barkeep. Went to his truck and headed towards the Tierney Ranch.

  A full thirty minutes after getting the call he pulled up in front of the farm house. Saw only a single light on in the back.

  Knew it to be Tierney’s home office. Knew he was the only one awake.

  McIlvaine turned on his high beams. Blasted his music as loud as it would go. Pulled the nose of his truck up as close to the house as he could.

  Made sure the light and noise both filled the home before shutting them off.

  Fueled half by anger, half by liquid courage, he exited the truck and slammed the door hard. Walked across the front porch and raised his fist to announce his presence with authority.

  The door swung open before he got the chance.

  Behind it stood Tierney, fuming. Eyes pinched in tight. Cheeks flushed red.

  “What the hell are you doing? I told you to be quiet, my wife was sleeping.”

  Anger permeated the words. They came out clipped, short. Nothing more than a harsh whisper.

  “I thought I was,” McIlvaine replied. Did his best to keep from smiling.

  “And where the hell have you been?” Tierney muttered. “I called you a half hour ago.”

  “Yeah, I was in the middle of something.”

  Tierney pulled back an inch. Glared. “A six pack, right?”

  Before McIlvaine could respond, a sleepy voice called down from the second floor.

  “Holt? Is everything okay?”

  Tierney leveled a withering glare on McIlvaine.

  “Everything’s fine, Dear. Go back to bed.”

  “Are you sure? What’s going on doing there?”

  Tierney again stared hard at his visitor.

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  The two men waited as the sound of Bernice’s footsteps faded away. The scowl remained in place as Tierney jerked his head towards the back. Led McIlvaine through the house to his home office.

  “Do I even want to know what that stunt was all about?” Tierney asked. Settled in behind his desk. Steepled his fingers before him.

  “Wasn’t a stunt,” McIlvaine said. Shook his head to the side. Dropped himself into an armchair on the opposite side of the desk. “You called, I came over.”

  Tierney paused a long moment. Glared.

  Let it pass.

  “The reason I called you here tonight is, we’ve got a situation.”

  McIlvaine waited for him to continue. Said nothing.

  “As you know, Bret Greeley has been field testing our herd over the course of the last few weeks.”

  “I’m aware.”

  Tierney pushed on without acknowledging the comment.

  “Earlier today he found two more. That makes a total of five.”

  McIlvaine gave a twist of the head. “Five out of five thousand isn’t too bad.”

  A loud snort rolled out Tierney. A derisive twist of the head accompanied it. “That’s why you work for me. Any out of five thousand is too many. Do you know how hard the state is cracking down on this stuff right now?”

  “Apparently not,” McIlvaine said. Sighed. Rolled his gaze up to the elk on the wall above them.

  Tierney followed his stare upward. Latched onto the elk as well.

  Just as fast, McIlvaine returned his attention to the meeting. Under no uncertain terms did he want or need to hear the story of the elk again.

  Every time it got a little bigger. A little more salacious.

  It wouldn’t be long and the old man would be saying he ran it down on foot. Ripped its throat out with his teeth.

  “So why do we care?” McIlvaine asked. “Or better yet, why do I care?”

  The old man shifted his attention back down. Let the scowl come back into place.

  Whether it was at being cut off before he could tell his story or at the comment, McIlvaine wasn’t sure.

  “We care because this is big. Could bring down the whole ranch.”

  McIlvaine sat unblinking back at him. Said nothing.

  “That’s several million dollars in total assets. Over a dozen jobs,” Tierney added. Had the same dark red flush return to his cheeks.

  Again, McIlvaine remained silent.

  Stayed that way until the old man leaned back in his seat. Slowed his breathing a touch.

  “Okay,” McIlvaine finally replied. “So you need them to disappear. Same thing that happened with the other three?”

  “No,” Tierney said. Remained reclined in his chair. Rubbed the back
of his right hand with his left. “These two just need to disappear.”

  McIlvaine nodded in response.

  “You care how or where?”

  “Not particularly. Just make sure the brand is destroyed and the tag removed. Nothing that can trace them back to us.”

  Another nod.

  “So what’s the difference between these two and the three before?”

  Tierney stopped rubbing his hand. His eyes hardened as he stared at McIlvaine.

  “The first two were to serve a purpose. The third was because the situation changed. Now, we have no reason to go further. Any more would just be overkill.”

  Confusion played across McIlvaine’s face.

  Tierney gave him a dismissive wave. “Just make them go away. That’s all that matters right now.”

  Once more McIlvaine fought down the urge to roll his eyes. To stand and walk out. To spit at the old man.

  To come flying across the desk and split his sanctimonious face open.

  “When?”

  “How many have you had tonight?” Tierney asked.

  “Two,” McIlvaine lied.

  Tierney nodded. “They’re waiting for you in the auxiliary barn as we speak.”

  He extended a piece of paper across the desk. Two non-sequential numbers were written in black ink.

  “These are the numbers.”

  McIlvaine took the paper. Glanced at it. Nodded. Stood.

  He made it almost to the door.

  “Oh, and Hank?”

  McIlvaine turned. Glanced sideways at the profile of the old man staring out the window. “Yeah?”

  “Try and keep that damn music off until you’re away from the house. Woman’s a bear to live with when she doesn’t get her sleep.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jet lag.

  Street slang for desynchronosis.

  A physiological condition resulting from air travel. Crossing time zones. The disruption of circadian rhythms.

  Also, Ajax’s excuse for getting annihilated on the final run of the morning. Beaten so badly that it nullified Kade’s first place finish.

  Allowed Sage and Drake to win breakfast free of charge once more.

  The crowd in Snow Plaza was a bit heavier than a week prior. Maybe three to five extra people. Students back a little early from break.