Smoked Out (David Wolf Book 6)

by Jeff Carson

  Chapter 8

  Deputy Tom Rachette fired six rounds in quick succession, hitting the grayed area he aimed for.

  The red cease-fire light flashed and the horn sounded for good measure.

  Rachette exhaled and put down his pistol.

  “Getting better?”

  Rachette turned. It was her again. He pulled off his ear protectors. “What?”

  She gave him that cute, bashful smile act she seemed to think worked on men. “I just wondered how you were progressing. You going to be ready for the test tomorrow?”

  Rachette turned his back to her and pushed the button. The motor on the pulley whirred and the target sped towards him from 25 yards away.

  Rachette had always been a good shot. Growing up on a farm in eastern Nebraska, it was something that just happened naturally. That, and he was a Rachette, who had always been good shots.

  Throughout his childhood he’d picked off birds, squirrels, and groundhogs with his pellet gun, and then he’d graduated to shotguns and rifles, and hunting bigger game with his father and grandfather as he grew up.

  It had been one of the only things the Rachettes ever did with their fathers—shooting and killing things out in the wild.

  “You’ll never be a perfect man, but you can always make the perfect shot.”

  His father used to tell him that out in the bitter chill of autumn as they followed the dogs up the corn line. It made zero sense to him today, just like it had back then.

  Assholes rarely make much sense, otherwise they wouldn’t be assholes. But, he had to admit, his old man had taught him how to shoot.

  In his first run through the police academy in Lincoln, Nebraska, he’d scored a perfect 100% on his shooting proficiency test, and then scored the same when he was hired into the Sluice County Sheriff’s Department in Rocky Points.

  He never felt nerves with shooting until now. The target zipped all the way in and stopped with a flutter in front of his face.

  Three of the shots had missed the grayed target area.

  It was his damn shoulder. It just wouldn’t hold his arm steady like it had before he’d been shot.

  “Oh, no. Well, you’ll do better when it counts, outside on the course. I’m sure of it.”

  Rachette turned and shook his head. “I didn’t ask you. Now are you here to clean up my brass, or what?”

  The girl smiled and raised her eyebrows. “No. Did you need help cleaning up your brass?”

  “Yeah. Please. Thanks, honey.” Rachette unloaded his weapon and placed it inside his case.

  Still deemed unfit to carry the weapon on his duty belt until he passed the test tomorrow morning at 10 a.m., he already felt like an inadequate fool walking around the station with no piece or badge. Now he was missing targets, standing still, at 25 yards.

  And on top of that he had to deal with this chick pretending to hit on him? He was tired of being the butt of that joke.

  She showed up with the broom and hand scoop and pushed Rachette’s brass into a tinkling pile.

  “Hey, what? Give me that.” He grabbed the broom and finished cleaning up after himself.

  The woman watched quietly.

  “Seriously. Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Deputy,” he read her name patch, “oh yeah, Munford?”

  Rachette gathered up his stuff and froze. His shoulders sagged. “You?”

  “Hello, Deputy Rachette.”

  “You.”

  “Yes. Me. Besides Sheriff MacLean, I’m currently the only Law Enforcement Standards Board certified instructor in this department, so I’ll be administering your test tomorrow.”

  “Sorry I called you …”

  “Called me what?”

  In slow motion horror, Rachette felt his gun case slip from his fingers. It tumbled onto his foot and with a muscle spasm he kicked it into Munford’s leg.

  “Sorry.” Rachette scooped it up and stood.

  Munford stared, clearly enjoying herself.

  She was even more intimidating than Patterson could be, because this woman was downright irresistible. Rachette could admit it to himself now that he had no chance with the woman.

  Her manicured eyebrow lifted, creasing the taut, tanned youthful skin of her forehead. Her lipstick-free lips widened, displaying her perfect rows of ivory teeth and a good dose of gum on top, and she shook her head, which caused her blonde hair to bob into view on either side of her perfectly oval head.

  He looked down at her name patch again, and perused the rest of her body with an undetectable peripheral vision assessment. Just as stunning as the first time he’d met her a few weeks ago.

  She probably had a six-five husband or boyfriend with mountainous muscles. Probably was going to have a hay-day laughing about this with her fellow Byron County cronies.

  “Like I said, sorry.” Rachette stepped past her to the plastic chair, grabbed his jacket and began walking.

  “Bye honey, see you tomorrow. Ten a.m. sharp,” she said with a chuckle.

  Rachette’s face went hot and he ducked as he passed a deputy in the next shooting stall who had watched the whole thing. Yeah. Later, honey.

  Out the door in a flash and lost in dreadful thoughts about his abysmal aim, he almost missed the commotion ensuing in the squad room down the hall.

  Almost. It was too much craziness to miss.

  Rachette stepped down the terrazzo-floored hallway and into the huge room. It was bright, airy, and well lit with natural light from the floor to ceiling windows on the west and east sides. The two-dozen desks were empty, because the deputies were lining up and flowing into the Command Room.

  He searched for Patterson, Baine, Wilson or Yates. Anyone he recognized.

  “Hey, deputy,” he called after the nearest passing uniform, “what’s going on?”

  The man stopped and pointed at his name patch, and then the Chevron on his uniform. “Deputy Sergeant Barker.”

  “Yes sir, Sergeant. I’m Deputy Rachette. What’s happening?”

  Barker stepped close, eying Rachette up and down, assessing him like a piece of meat. “Not yet.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re not a deputy yet.”

  Rachette blinked and stood straight when he saw Barker’s lip rise in a snarl.

  “Not yet, correct sir. I have my shooting proficiency test tomorrow. I’ve been in the Sluice County department for four years now, though.”

  “And if you pass then you’ll be involved with official department business of the Sluice-Byron SD. But until then, you won’t be.”

  Rachette backed away from the man. Dick.

  “See you around,” Rachette said.

  Barker raised his eyebrows, as if Rachette had meant it as a challenge. A threat. Maybe he had. Serious dick.

  “Hey,” a feminine voice said behind him.

  Rachette twisted around and saw Patterson.

  “Hey, what’s going on?”

  Patterson was ghostly white, and she was massaging one palm with her other hand.

  “What? What is it?”

  “They found Gail Olson this morning. Last night.”

  “They did? Bout’ time that chick showed up.”

  “Dead.”

  “Oh.”

  “Someone called in an anonymous tip. The phone number was encrypted, the voice was garbled, but whoever it was said exactly where to find Gail Olson, and then said Wolf had the weapon stashed in his barn.”

  “What? Wolf?”

  “Tammy took the call. She said the person signed off as a disgruntled partner of Wolf’s. I guess Lorber’s got her body now, and we’re waiting for the FBI before we move.”

  “Why?”

  Patterson shrugged. “Above our pay grade.”

  Sergeant Deputy Barker stood on his toes and then marched over. “Hey, I thought I made myself clear.”

  Rachette ignored him, reeling from the news. “Keep me posted.”

  “I will.”

  “Hey!”

  �
�Yeah, asshole, I get it.”

  Barker stepped close to Rachette.

  Rachette held firm, pressing his pectorals into the man’s ribs.

  “Easy there, boys.”

  A different feminine voice materialized next to Rachette and then a firm hand clamped onto Barker’s bicep, pulling him away.

  It was Deputy Munford again. “Come on, Barker. Deputy Patterson, right? Let’s get going.”

  Barker backed away staring wide-eyed at Rachette.

  Rachette and Patterson stared at the two retreating deputies for a second and then faced each other.

  “Dick.”

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  Rachette took a deep breath. “All right. Guess I’ll go get a cup of coffee or something.”

  Patterson pulled her lips into a thin line and turned away.

  “Call me.”

  Rachette watched Munford walk away, and she looked back at him right before she went into the situation room, giving him a tiny smile with one side of her lip.

  Rachette stood, thinking of that tiny smile, the bashful look as she entered the situation room.

  He snapped to the present when the Command Room door clacked shut.

  A lone office phone rang quietly somewhere in the vast, empty, cathedral-like space.

  A disgruntled partner of Wolf’s? He shook his head. He saw the tiny smile again. What in the hell was going on today?

  He pressed his thumb on his right shoulder. The starfish shaped scar was still tender underneath his sweatshirt. His muscle ached, and was less bulky than he was used to feeling.

  Not quite healed. But he was here with that test scheduled for tomorrow because he could wait no more. No more daytime television and feeling sorry for himself.

  As if that drive to get back into the department hadn’t been enough, now he had two more reasons he absolutely needed to pass that test tomorrow, if it was the last thing he ever did in his life.

  He walked away down the hall above the cars rolling by on Main Street below.

  A disgruntled partner of Wolf’s.

  That tiny smile.

  Chapter 9

  Wolf paddled over to the western shore of the river.

  He was tucked in the pines on the southern outskirts of town now, having floated his way undetected along the entire 2.7 mile stretch of sage country.

  Undetected? It was probably not an accurate word. He did not envy the two FBI agents when Wolf’s escape was discovered.

  The canoe bumped ashore and twisted 180 degrees. He hopped out and pushed it back into the flowing water.

  He stretched his limbs overhead, and as he pulled down on his fleece he realized his paddle holster was missing. It must have fallen off in the boat when he’d jumped inside all the way back at his ranch.

  With a sinking stomach he watched the canoe bob and twist around the next bend. Cursing himself, he hiked through the pines toward the rear deck of Beer Goggles Bar and Grill.

  It seemed early to see Jerry Blackman’s old pickup in the parking lot on a Wednesday, but Wolf decided it was a good piece of luck.

  He walked to the rear door and knocked three times.

  The barred trashcans lined up along the outside wall kept the bears out, but failed to keep the smell of stale beer and bar food from spilling into the damp morning air.

  He swore he heard a thump inside, but over the trickling river and referee-whistle calls of humming birds behind him it was tough to say.

  Three more knocks.

  Still nothing.

  Wolf walked around the side of the building to the front, knowing he was clearly visible to Jerry inside as he passed each of the windows in front.

  Stopping to peer in a window, Wolf saw no movement. There was a single light on behind the bar counter.

  He continued on. Crunching along the puddle-strewn parking lot, he eyed the entrance road. Hearing nothing, confident there was no reason for an FBI agent to be looking for him here, yet, Wolf stepped to the front door and pulled on it.

  It was locked.

  He knocked three more times. “Jerry! It’s David Wolf! Can I come in, please?”

  No answer.

  Wolf picked up a rock the size of his head and slammed it down on the doorknob. The knob snapped from the door and fell to the ground. Wolf pushed his finger through and the other side of the knob fell onto the floor inside. He pulled it open and stepped in.

  Jerry Blackman stood behind the bar, his eyes wide and his lips puckered.

  Wolf stopped. “Hey, Jerry. Don’t shoot, it’s me, David Wolf.”

  Jerry held his pose. His lips glistened with spit, and his eyes seemed like they were going to explode out of his head.

  “Sorry about the door, I have an emergency. I knocked on the back door. Did you not—”

  Jerry coughed and a cloud of smoke burst from his mouth. Drool streamed from his lips and his shoulders bounced up and down as he controlled a coughing fit.

  Wolf squinted and waved his hand as he stepped into the pungent cloud of marijuana smoke.

  “Hey, Dave. How’s it going?”

  “Sorry about the doorknob. I’ll pay for it.”

  “Ahhh.” Jerry waved a hand. “What?”

  “The door … Can I use your phone?”

  “Don’t you have a cell phone?”

  Wolf nodded. “Yeah. It died on me. Listen, I’ve gotta use your phone.”

  “Sure, bro. Have at it.” Jerry stood back and pointed at the cordless phone on the counter. He leaned forward and grabbed the smoking bong and put it on the shelf next to the liquor bottles.

  “Thank you.” Wolf pulled out his cell phone and inserted the battery, then powered it on.

  “It works.” Jerry smiled wide. “Nice.”

  Wolf scrolled through the numbers and found Luke’s phone number, then dialed the cordless phone.

  “Wait. What? Your phone works now.”

  Wolf put the phone to one ear and his finger in the other. It rang several times then went to voicemail. Wolf dialed again and waited.

  “What?” Luke said into the phone, barely audible over the loud hiss of background noise.

  “It’s Wolf.”

  “Wolf! Where are you?”

  “I’m … is this line secure?”

  “I hope. Where are you?”

  Wolf looked at Jerry, who was staring at him and blinking. “I’m in town.”

  Luke exhaled hard into her phone. “You need to get to Margaret’s office as soon as possible. I’ll take care of everything else.”

  “I’ve gotta get to MacLean.”

  “No, to Margaret. Call me when you get there.”

  The line went dead.

  Wolf pressed the button and looked at Jerry. “Can you give me a ride into town?”

  Jerry nodded. “Wait, no. I can’t drive after doing this stuff. That’s against the law.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not Sheriff anymore. Please, I need a ride.”

  “Okay.” Jerry shrugged and walked past Wolf.

  Wolf leaned back away from the filthy windshield as a line of Ford Crown Victorias sped past with lights twisting on their roofs.

  “Whoa, must be a fire or something.” Jerry leaned toward his filthy side mirror, pulling the truck into oncoming Main Street traffic in the process.

  Wolf pulled on the wheel. “Jerry! The road.”

  “Whoa, yeah.” He straightened and turned bright red, and then combed back his long mop of hair.

  “Up here.” Wolf pointed ahead.

  Jerry mashed the brakes and Wolf caught himself before slamming into the dashboard.

  “No, up there. Another block.”

  “Okay, yeah. Man, this stuff is really potent. Sorry.”

  Wolf wiped his palms on his jeans and scanned outside. All the trouble just blew by them at sixty miles per hour. So he hoped. There was no sign of sheriff’s department vehicles, and as far as he could see through the dirt caked windows, no sign of anymore FBI vehicles.


  “This is perfect.”

  Jerry slowed at a more reasonable rate this time, his front tire popping up on the curb as he stopped.

  “Thanks, Jerry. If they ask you what you did, just tell them you gave me a ride into town. You didn’t know anything else.”

  Jerry’s eyes glazed over like he was trying to add two ten-digit numbers in his head.

  “Never mind.” Wolf shut the door.

  “Hey, Dave.” Paul Chancelor, a local having a cigarette outside the coffee shop nodded at Wolf.

  “Hey, Paul.” Wolf walked fast to the end of the block and took a right, all the while keeping his face buried in his fleece collar.

  On the opposite corner squatted the abandoned Sluice County Sheriff’s Department station building he’d spent so many years of his life in.

  The blinds inside the windows were drawn and the dirt parking lot was deserted, save a couple hip-high weeds.

  He gave a silent greeting to it and marched to the front door of Margaret’s office.

  Frosted on the glass was a Hitching Post Realty logo, and when he pushed open the door a string of sleigh bells clanged.

  Margaret stood up from her desk and her wheeled chair slammed into a filing cabinet behind her. “David.”

  “Margaret.”

  The door swished shut behind him.

  Margaret reached into a drawer and pulled out a hair tie, pulled her mass of silver curls into a ponytail and fastened it back, all the while her eyes locked with his.

  Normally cool and confident, quick to speak with a razor sharp tongue, Margaret was mute, her face tight, mouth clamped shut and breathing hard through her nose.

  “Kristen Luke told me to come here.” Wolf stepped to the windows and peered outside. When Margaret kept silent he turned to look at her.

  She had her desk phone receiver pressed against her ear and was tapping the keypad.

  “Who are you calling?” Wolf asked.

  “Kristen.” She stood straight and closed her eyes, as if praying for an answer.

  Wolf turned back and scanned out the windows.

  “Hey. He’s here … okay …”

  Wolf walked toward Margaret with his hand out. “Let me speak to her.”

  She held up a finger. “Okay … 17 … I’ll call her. She’ll come. Okay, I have to go …”

  “Wait,” Wolf said. “I need to talk to her, right now.”