Rough Country: A gripping crime thriller

by T. J. Brearton

  Raimi asked, “So, the thinking is Ida Stevens’s daughter might’ve been staying with Snow? Like, he was keeping it from her?”

  “Maybe,” Reed said. “We’ll see.” He tried the knob and it turned. He let go and the door swung in with a little creak, and he pulled his Glock. “Hello? Mr. Snow? It’s Reed Raleigh. Are you…?”

  He trailed off, scenting the air. There was a flash memory – an incident during his deployment – and he said, “Smell that?”

  The troopers crowded in behind him, looking every which way. “Yeah, I smell it,” Charleston said.

  “Shot shell. Sour gunpowder smell,” Reed said quietly.

  All three men zeroed in on the kitchen, where the bit of light emanated, and moved carefully that way, aiming their weapons. When Reed breached the doorway, he saw it: looked like Snow sitting in a chair, his head back, blood soaking his shirt, a shotgun on the ground beside him. There was a splatter of blood and brains and maybe bits of skull on the cabinets and countertop behind him; some on the ceiling, some on the griddle.

  Raimi put a forearm over his nose. “Ah, God,” he said.

  “Careful. Let’s stop right here.” Reed grew still.

  “He ate his gun,” Charleston said.

  “Yeah, he did. Let’s move back exactly the same way we came in; we’ll call in Britney Silas and the crime scene people. Don’t touch anything.”

  Reed took one last look at Snow, couldn’t see much the way the man’s head was tilted, but the back of his head was still dripping. He’d just done it. Maybe twenty minutes ago. Maybe less.

  Reed sat in the car, no music going this time, waiting for the crime scene unit to arrive. It was almost eleven. Snow pulling the trigger on himself made three deaths within twenty-four hours, two of them suicides. Even Overman hadn’t experienced those odds, that Reed knew of. And Overman had seen just about everything.

  What the hell was going on? These men, young and old, were willing to die. To keep something hidden? Or were they overwrought with guilt? To be pushed to that extreme, it had to be bad.

  Both sleeping with Kasey Stevens, maybe. Disgusting, but it had to be considered.

  Although, once considered, where did it leave things? Did Snow kill Kasey because she was getting back with Tyson?

  Hmm. That might have legs to it.

  Kruse called. “Ida admits that Kasey was staying with Snow.”

  “She knew?”

  “Yeah. I think we’ve got to bring her in. She’s obstructing at this point.” Kruse was at Ida’s house to break the news to her – or, really, to control how the news got to her, so they didn’t have another instance of an emotionally volatile civilian trampling a crime scene.

  Reed mulled it over. “Let’s hang back for now.”

  Kruse said, “This looks like some kind of sick love triangle to me. That what it looks like to you?”

  Reed shared his similar notions. What he didn’t share was that “hang back” meant, in a way, seeing what else happened, which was morally and ethically challenging, when you thought about it. Letting things work themselves out might mean more bodies. But there was something going on here, some sense of a toxin being purged from the system. No, he didn’t want anyone else hurt. Not at all. But he felt certain there was more that would reveal itself. To some extent, he needed to let that unfold. Kind of the way you worked a suspect: After they’d supplied all their planned answers, that’s when the real stuff started coming out.

  They talked a little longer – Kruse would check out Daryl Snow’s phone. He would continue talking to Ida and the people who surrounded her. In the meantime, what it looked like was Kasey staying with Snow ever since she and Tyson had been on the outs. Ida was possibly angry with Tyson for that.

  Clearly, though, the girl hadn’t wanted to come back home. Hey – after your mother napalms your bedroom, maybe you don’t feel so warm and cozy about returning. But then, they had to keep up the charade, Kasey acting like she was still living with her mother, even pretending to call her mother for permission to sleep over at a friend’s house.

  Why? Because Daryl Snow lived in Keeseville, out of the school district, and everyone, including Kasey, it seemed, wanted her going to Eastern Adirondack?

  There were other, simpler ways to do that. EAC had nonresident tuition.

  Perhaps Ida simply couldn’t afford it?

  Still on the phone, Kruse said, “Not for nothing, but maybe Snow was the good guy here. Maybe he was just trying to keep the peace between mother and daughter after Kasey stopped living with the boyfriend. Snow gave her a place to crash. No strings attached. I’d like to think that.”

  Reed would have liked to think that, too. “But then, we have him completing a suicide.”

  “We do have that,” Kruse agreed.

  When Brit Silas finally pulled in, Reed got out and talked with her a minute, asked her to look at Daryl’s truck, too, then left her with the scene. He’d already called Overman, who’d called a judge, and he was okay to check Snow’s residence.

  It was a fairly quick shot up I-87, sixteen miles to Keeseville. A French-style Catholic cathedral sat on a hill in the middle of an empty-looking town. Like so many places in the Adirondacks, the population of a once-busy iron processing and milling town had dwindled as those industries died and people left for more urbanized areas.

  Reed rubbed his eyes as he drove out the back end of town, toward Snow’s place. He’d barely slept last night, having gotten up early and been on the run all day.

  At the last second, he turned into a gas station. He went in and came back out with a Red Bull and a bad feeling.

  That smell in the air. Seeing Daryl Snow like that.

  Ah, man…

  With now two apparent suicides, things were sneaking into his mind, things he’d managed to stay one step ahead of.

  He got moving in the Ford again and drained the can of its drink.

  Because all that is in the world, the desire of the flesh, and the desire of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but of the world.

  It was scripture, something he remembered from years past. He couldn’t say why it came to mind just now. But there was something about these people. A vibe he was getting.

  When he was overseas, sometimes the men went ashore to the island of Bahrain. Like Las Vegas, but darker and more depraved, Bahrain was pure decadence. Yet it all happened – the gambling and drinking and prostitution – in a place where the dominant religion strictly forbade any and all such behavior.

  How? The people had found a loophole, a way to get past Allah while placing bets and soliciting pros. It was a giant plastic pearl. True: a massive sculpture of a pearl sat in the center of downtown, right in the heart of everything. And the pearl blinded Allah; it conveniently kept the debauchery hidden. An ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card.

  Lost in thought, Reed almost missed the turn to Snow’s place. He jammed on the brakes and took the turn, then slowed again and stopped. He sat for a moment. Straight ahead, the dirt road forked, stacks of lumber going down the right branch. He rolled on, the axles squeaking over the uneven terrain. Then the sawmill came into view, a big machine – probably a Wood-Mizer – more piles of thick rough-cut lumber all around.

  He stopped and killed the engine and got out, listening to the deep silence. A few black flies homed in on him, and he waved them off. He walked around until he saw, back behind the structure housing the Wood-Mizer, a single-wide trailer. Snow’s place.

  Reed didn’t have the warrant in hand, but he had one in practice. And anyway, there were exigent circumstances with two of the people living here dead. He opened the storm door and tried the handle and found it locked. Using his knife, he jimmied his way in, still imagining some kind of sick love triangle involving the victim, Snow, and Tyson. And maybe Snow and/or Tyson being into some kind of weird shit with symbols meant something to do with viruses or Egyptians.

  Inside smelled better than expected, like recently baked swee
t foods in the kitchen. It was dark except for a nightlight plugged into the wall. He flipped a switch, and an overhead fluorescent flickered to life.

  Lots of boxes everywhere; Amazon logos on most of them, packaging and filler within. A cup of half-drunk coffee on the small kitchen table, the milk in it starting to form a little cloud. The way single-wides worked was like a train-style apartment in a city. Reed went to one end, past a tight bathroom and into a bedroom. The sole lamp made it dim, but it looked like a man’s room – the pile of clothes on the floor, the lingering odors of bed sweat and socks.

  He poked around a minute, looking for any guns or a safe. Seeing none, he headed in the other direction, through the kitchen again, into a living space with a giant flat screen and into the opposite bedroom. It didn’t take much: by the evidence, a teenaged girl lived here. You could smell the strawberry-scented shampoo. The flimsy clothes that were hung in the closet. The book bag on the floor. He went through that – Earth Science and French and Global Studies textbooks – pulled out a notepad, flipped through it, searching for circular symbols, whatever grabbed his attention. She had nice handwriting, easy to read, kind of blockish, like his own…

  He heard a noise outside, there for just a second. Could’ve been a vehicle.

  Jesus – maybe Ida? Couldn’t be. Kruse was questioning her at home. If she’d left, he would’ve notified Reed.

  Reed set the notebook down and stood up slowly, straining to listen.

  It came again: an engine, getting close. So who was it? He moved out of the room bent over, avoiding the windows. When he neared the front door, the engine quit and doors slammed. Voices next – a burble of laughter, some low words – males. Young, by the pitch and tones.

  He considered it: he’d parked around behind the Wood-Mizer, out of sight from the dirt road leading in. Any second now these young men were going to spot his van. Then he’d see – if they recognized it, maybe they’d bolt. Or keep coming if they didn’t. Either way, he wanted to be ready. He touched the Glock at his lower back and stood up beside the door, on the side it opened.

  The men kept talking, their precise words lost, but he might’ve heard: “Stomped that ass.”

  Then the talking cut off. The crunch of footsteps ended, too.

  They’d spotted him.

  After about five seconds, the voices resumed, but lower. Reed opened the door and stepped out. It was dark, but he could see the shape of them – slender, rangy – standing fifteen, maybe twenty yards away.

  “Hey there,” Reed said. “Nice night, huh?”

  Nobody moved. Reed struggled to see faces in the dark, but there wasn’t quite enough light coming from the trailer home, and no other illumination to be had in the overcast night. He could feel rain in the air, smell it – and then the young men took off running.

  “Hey! Whoa!” He started after them, made it a few steps, kicked something on the ground – a couple of boards rattled – and almost fell. He kept his feet and picked up speed again, but the two guys banged into a Jeep, slamming doors. The engine roared and the Jeep backed up. Worried about guns, he kept a little distance, but tried to read the plate. No good.

  It backed up and cracked into a pile of lumber and then shot forward. In addition to the dark, there was sawdust flying, getting into Reed’s mouth and eyes.

  The vehicle bounded away into the night, just a blur and fading engine noise.

  After wiping out his eyes and spitting sawdust, Reed keyed the number for the barracks in Carmen, gave them a vehicle description and his location. The desk sergeant relayed it to troopers on duty. “Who’s closest?” Reed asked.

  “Troopers Raimi and Charleston are securing the scene at Betty Beaver’s. Alfred and Granger are running radar on 87 – they’re closer – about ten miles from you. I’m polling the call, and we’ll get everyone on it.”

  Reed played his flashlight beam over the area where the vehicle had collided with a stack of thick one-by-six boards, knocking the top few askew, and looked for any bits of plastic. “Might have a back taillight out, or at least damage to the rear from backing into a woodpile.”

  “Copy that.”

  He put his phone away, still looking with the light. Well, what about that? Someone coming to visit Daryl Snow. Young guys, in a big hurry to get away without being seen.

  Damn, and his leg hurt, too.

  Reed shined the light down, saw his torn pant leg, the blood soaking through. “Ah…”

  He pulled up the pants. A nice gash there, blood coming pretty hard. Tracing the light back over his path from the house, he saw it. A chainsaw sitting on a tree stump, blade angled out. That was what he’d run into.

  Dammit, Snow, put your tools away.

  He shined the light on the trailer home. No going back in there now, not bleeding like a stuck pig. What the hell was going on? The day had exploded. A dead girl, suicides, old men fighting, a couple of youths running from police… Or whoever they thought he was.

  He limped to the van and opened the back, went through his go-bag and pulled out a T-shirt that he could bear parting with, and ripped it into a couple of pieces, then tied it around his leg. Not that he was in danger of bleeding out, but avoiding the extra cost of cleaning the van was at least one thing in his control.

  After catching his breath, Reed sat with his leg stuck out of the vehicle and started to call Overman. It was midnight. What was he going to report? Better to let the troopers find this SUV with a damaged back end first. See what it was all about.

  But his phone buzzed in his hand. He was about to take the call from Virginia when he heard another engine.

  Reed dropped the phone on the seat and stood. He walked away from the car, thought better of it and walked back, keeping cover. He didn’t like this. The engine sounded the same. But he couldn’t see anything from here. Not until they came around the sawmill and were right on him.

  He hobbled over to the sawmill and went around behind it, hurried along close to the wall until he got to the corner and looked around, saw the lights bouncing over the bumpy road, flashing through the trees. Then it was coming through the stacks of lumber, headed toward the sawmill.

  The vehicle stopped roughly where it had been parked before.

  Nothing happened. The engine idled. Reed crept along the edge of the building, hidden by another pile of fresh-cut lumber. The pine was pungent to the point it was almost flowery. He peered through gaps in the boards.

  The driver’s side door opened. Someone got out, not stepping to the ground, staying on the running board, head above the door. “Hey!”

  Reed froze. Definitely a young guy. Deep enough voice, but smooth, not enough mileage on the larynx yet, not as many cigarettes.

  But ballsy.

  The two of them had left and come back. That meant they were cocky or crazy or desperate, or maybe all three. Maybe, though, they still just didn’t know he was a cop.

  “You need to go,” the voice called. After a few more seconds, “This is private property!”

  The engine rumbled, the figure stayed hanging off the side of the car. Reed couldn’t make out a face, nothing. He called out: “I’m an investigator with the New York State Police.”

  No response. Then kids spoke in harsh whispers to each other. Reed listened to the argument without being able to discern the words. He could confront them now, but he still wasn’t sure whether they were armed. Probably not, but you never knew. He didn’t want to get shot or do any more shooting.

  Five minutes had passed since he’d made the call to dispatch. In five more, two troopers would be rolling in. Best to let the guys sit there and quibble amongst themselves. The longer, the better.

  They’d run away at first, then come back. To warn him he was on private property? It made more sense they were crazy. Drugged up. He’d seen crystal meth do that to people. Before they were all rotten-mouthed and strung out, when they first started using, they felt like gods.

  Daryl Snow’s trailer wasn’t a cook house, but
he had many acres out here. Could be another trailer off in the balsam trees, a camper tucked away…

  Or something that they’d come back for. To take, to protect.

  “All right,” the driver said, sounding resigned. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you, cop.”

  Reed waited, stunned by the brashness of it. But it was an empty threat. The driver dropped back down into the vehicle and turned it around. Both taillights were working, intact.

  As they drove from sight and the engine noise faded, Reed stepped out from behind the rough-cut boards and walked to where the vehicle had been idling, shined his light again, saw nice, perfect tracks in the sawdust.

  He was still standing there seven minutes later – what the hell, guys? – when the troopers rolled in. Getting eaten alive by the black flies and mosquitos, the blood from his leg filling his shoe despite the tourniquet.

  And this was just day one.

  11

  Day Two

  Everything you wish you could be

  Stock County saw few murders. One every couple of years. A guy shot his girlfriend while she sat in her mother’s car. A kid stabbed another kid in his backyard over a basketball argument. Two men got into a disagreement at a bar, took it into the parking lot, one pulled a gun out of his vehicle, and the disagreement was settled.

  You saw anger, alcohol, drugs, damaged egos and past trauma. As Reed sat on the table, getting his leg stitched together, he thought this one was different. Egos and trauma, sure. Anger, maybe. But Tyson Wheeler had burned his house down, and Daryl Snow had shot himself. To put it indelicately, he’d blown his brains out in a restaurant kitchen minutes before Reed was going to question him. The cleanup was ongoing.

  And then there were two young men, brazen enough to threaten a cop, acting like fearless thugs. Almost like they were part of organized crime. Foot soldiers, of a sort. Kruse could be right that drugs – not sex – was at the root of this thing.