by Jeff Carson
The headstone read, Here Lies Johnathon Wolf. A Beloved Son and Brother. Next to that, Here lies Daniel Wolf. A Beloved Husband and Father.
Staring at the hole made Wolf feel something resembling seasickness, knowing that his father lay mere inches beyond in his coffin, and that his brother would be lying there in a few days.
He leaned his head back and sucked in a breath of crisp air, looking to the cloudless blue sky, and then to the golden aspen trees on a distant mountain.
His breath caught as a memory flashed in his mind. He was standing in nearly the same spot, watching his father being lowered into the earth. It had smelled just like today.
His mother sniffed. “I hate this place.”
Wolf scanned the view. It was an endless expanse of pines and changing aspens, spanning a thinly inhabited valley overlooked by thirteen-thousand-foot peaks. Crows cawed nearby as they soared on the wind. Grass and wildflowers swayed at their feet, caressing their shins.
He knew what she meant. “Me too.”
He dug in the pocket of his Levi’s, fished out the ring, and then held it up in the late-morning sun. Silver with a bright orange coral inlay around the entire circumference, the ring was just as magnificent as the day he had found it lying on his father’s armoire, two days after he’d been fatally shot in the line of duty. Since then it had been a personal symbol for Wolf, a reminder of the man his father had been, and who he would forever strive to be.
He twisted it in the light to reveal the engraving inside.
Ayóó' ánííníshní — 7/21/1985.
Wolf had long ago figured out what the words meant. It was Navajo for I Love You. The date afterwards was still a mystery to him.
“That thing again?” His mom reached up and took the ring from his hand and looked at it closely. “I don’t know where your father got that. I never did see him wear it.”
He’d heard her say that before, and he could never remember his father wearing it either. But it didn’t really matter to him. It filled a perfect role in Wolf’s life: a reminder of his father, and their distant Navajo heritage. And he wasn’t about to dilute the significance of what it had become for him by nitpicking over how much he wore it.
With a flourish, he grabbed it in mock anger and put it on his pinky, the only finger it would fit on.
She laughed. “It looks great on you though.”
He laughed quietly and nodded.
A soft throat-clear came from behind them.
Harold Smyser stood a respectful distance away with hands folded and head slightly down. Wolf wondered whether he practiced that stance in the mirror.
“What do you think?” Smyser asked in a gentle tone.
Wolf nodded. “It looks good. Thank you, Harold.”
“Yes, thank you, Harold,” Wolf’s mother said. “What else do we have to do?”
“There really isn’t much to worry about, Kathy. We’ve taken care of everything. We’ll just see you here on Saturday morning. We will have everything ready to go. If it’s poor weather, then we will just move inside.” He pointed his hand at the small gray brick chapel up against the mountain. After that, the funeral director bowed his head and walked away quietly.
Wolf turned to his mother. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go back to Denver. I’ve been here a few days, and I already can’t stand it again.” She looked disgusted. “Are you going to get your job back from that … Derek Connell?”
He lifted his head, shut his eyes, and soaked in the sunlight through his eyelids. “I’ll get a guy from the station to drive you.”
“No, don’t worry. I’ve already arranged a ride. Some friends drove up here and are in town. I just need to go meet them. They’ll take me back. And don’t worry about driving me back up here for Saturday. I have a friend who is going to bring me.”
Wolf turned with a raised eyebrow.
She looked appalled, stealing a guilty looking glance at his father’s grave. “A girl. A friend from the center.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
She jabbed him in the ribs and they left.
Chapter 4
Wolf pulled into the station parking lot and squeezed his SUV into a tight spot between two department-issue trucks. A quick count told him there were ten department vehicles including his, which was the entire fleet. That meant every deputy was there, including those who had just completed a night shift.
He sighed and walked toward the main entrance. Connell.
When he entered the building, Tammy was gone from reception, so he had to use his key to get into the squad room, which sat empty. He walked to the closed door of the briefing room and put his ear to it.
Silence.
He pulled his head back, and then heard a small cough from within. Pushing the door open, he froze at the sight before him.
The large rectangular table at the center of the room was packed, all chairs occupied, and the head of every man in the department turned toward him in unison with tired-looking eyes. A few straightened up from their slumped positions against the wall, and a gently snoring deputy next to the door snorted awake and wiped his chin.
No one spoke.
Connell jumped up from a seat at the front of the room. “Aha! Okay, here we all are now. We can get started. Thank you for making it to the ten o’clock meeting, Sergeant Wolf.”
Wolf looked at his watch. It was 11:44. “What are you talking about?”
Connell pointed towards the wall. “At attention, please.”
Wolf glared. “Are you telling me you’ve kept these deputies waiting for me for an hour and forty-five minutes?”
“No, Sergeant Wolf. You’ve kept these deputies waiting for you for an hour and forty-five minutes. And each second you talk is another second they are waiting for your inconsideration to finish. So let’s get started.” Connell turned to the white board and wrote Sgt. Warren Vickers.
Wolf let the door click shut and took a spot along the wall.
Connell turned around and clapped his hands.
“As you all are well aware, I am the new sheriff in town.” He laughed at his own joke, ignoring the looks of scathing contempt around the table. “I’ve hired a new deputy sergeant who will be working with me closely to get things going the way I want them. Plus, he is a good man who will be a valuable addition to the department. Without further ado, it’s my pleasure to introduce Deputy Sergeant Vickers. Welcome.” Connell gave him a nod.
The blond mystery man that had been sitting next to Connell in the town hall earlier stood up. He wore a short-sleeve khaki SCSD uniform shirt, jeans, and a duty belt with a department-issue Glock.
Sergeant Deputy Warren Vickers turned to the men, looking at no one in particular. “How we doin’? Glad to be here.” He turned and sat down slowly.
Connell spent the next twenty minutes talking about teamwork, and protecting not just the people of Rocky Points but the entire citizenry of Sluice County at any cost, and then going over standard procedures that had been in place for the past ten years. Then he opened his arms and stared the room down. “Any questions?”
No one moved a facial muscle.
“All right then. Let’s get back to keeping this town safe. Sergeant Wolf, stay here and talk to me, please.”
Rachette gave a nod to Wolf on the way out.
“Rachette!” Connell’s voice shook the room. “You’ve got PT. Get on it. Vickers will check your quota at the end of the day.” Rachette looked at Connell, dumbfounded, then shot a pleading glance to Wolf as he left the room.
Wolf offered no reaction to Rachette. He patiently stared at Connell and waited for the room to clear.
Vickers sat studying his fingernails, clearly sticking around for whatever this was. The clock on the wall ticked, and Wolf looked to the closed windows. The room was stifling, and the smell of eleven sweating deputies hung in the still air.
Connell nodded his head as the door shut. “See how it is? You cross me, and you are cro
ssing the entire department. Got that?”
Wolf stepped to the front of the room, and Connell squared off to meet him.
Wolf looked to Vickers and held out his hand. “We haven’t met.”
Vickers’s hand was callused and bone dry, suggesting an outdoorsman, which seemed in stark contrast to the five ounces of hair gel and precise grooming of his facial hair.
Wolf’s nostrils burned as he stepped into a cloud of Vickers’s designer cologne mixed with Connell’s Drakkar Noir.
“Nice to meet you, Sergeant Wolf,” he said with a southern drawl. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Wolf smiled and looked to Connell, whose face went from contortion to nonchalance in an instant, Wolf undoubtedly catching him in the throes of some psychotic fantasy.
“I’m sure you have,” Wolf said. “I’m sure you have.” He looked back to Vickers, then to Connell. “Is that all?”
Connell sneered, furrowing his eyebrows for an instant before relaxing them with a sharp breath. Wolf knew that Connell would be having pain with the stitches above his eye if the cut hadn’t yet fully healed.
Wolf thought about the cliff ledge again and glared at Connell.
“You’d better watch your back with this guy, Vickers.” Wolf turned to leave.
“Hey, Wolf,” Connell said. “No, that’s not all. Go ahead and join Rachette today on parking-ticket duty. I know you guys like to be together so much. Vickers will check your quota at the end of the day. Don’t be short.”
Wolf walked out of the room.
Chapter 5
Wolf was driving ten miles north of town on the main highway, where the pines thinned out and a vast sage-scrub-covered valley floor began. Cirrus clouds glowed orange with the day’s final rays of light, and the fragrant air jetting through the open windows was cooling rapidly.
The radio was loud so he could hear it over the rush of air.
… Next I’ll put on a little David Grisman to help you get through the final leg of your Monday. You’re listening to K-B-U-D, eighty-eight point one. Your kindest place on the radio.
Wolf shook his head. Besides the tasteless marijuana puns, the station always played what he considered to be quality, real music. He turned the fast-picking bluegrass even louder and thought about the situation he was driving into.
What did Gary Connell have to tell him? To offer him?
Today Derek Connell had been appointed sheriff, Wolf had okayed the hole his brother was going to be buried in on the weekend, and he’d been assigned parking-ticket duty with Rachette—a task actively discouraged by former Sheriff Burton, unless there was an event of some sort that would warrant keeping a close eye on parking violations. Wolf figured that whatever Gary had, it couldn’t be any worse than anything today had tossed his way.
He slowed, lowered the volume on the radio, and turned onto the gravel in front of the elaborate gate of the 2Shoe Ranch, otherwise known as the Connell family compound.
The right and left pillars that held the thick wooden-beamed crossbar were made of red flagstone imported from the Boulder area. On each monolith was mounted one large sterling-silver horseshoe. A dozen multi-pointed antler racks were mounted on the crossbeam connecting them, and in the middle was a sterling-silver rectangle with a deep engraving that read 2Shoe Ranch.
Wolf wondered how much money had gone into the gate alone as he clicked the music off and rolled to a stop next to an intercom box on a pole. The dash clock said 6:57 and, as was always the case when visiting Gary’s estate, the large wrought-iron gate opened swiftly without him having to speak or move a muscle.
He drove fast along the dusty road beyond the gate, winding up a rise that stretched a mile and a half long. The washboard dirt road vibrated the car as he climbed a gradual blind hill covered in sage.
As he came up to the top of that hill, a sight was revealed below that few mortals without large amounts of political or industrial clout had seen.
The main lodge, as Gary Connell called it, was a fifty-thousand square-foot log home that was two stories tall in most places, covering a long footprint of at least one hundred yards from right to left. The entire length of the house was well windowed, reflecting the bright orange of the western sky behind him. Wolf knew from experience that the windows were high tech, darkening and blocking out one hundred percent of the sun’s rays with the push of a button, if wanted. Probably bomb-proof, too.
Directly behind the property lay a brightly lit pine valley floor that climbed up in between two peaks in excess of thirteen thousand feet, which were part of a vast chain of mountains that extended north and south.
A red cattle barn stood on the right, detached from the southern tip of the house. In between the barn and the house were two smaller red structures. One was filled with farming and ranching equipment, and the other Wolf knew to be filled with mechanical toys—from boats to motorcycles to four wheelers to off-road go-karts.
Further beyond to the south stood a complex of horse stables and a large log house, so impressive in themselves that the rookie visitor might mistake them for yet another wealthy person’s property who lived nearby. Wolf, however, knew it to be the palatial guesthouse area of the property.
Wolf drove to the circular drive in front of the main lodge and parked underneath the A-frame-roofed porte cochere. He got out and looked up at the elk-horn chandelier hanging from a thick chain.
Gary opened the front door. “You like it?”
Wolf nodded. “Nice addition.”
Wolf walked towards Gary and pointed at his tanned face, then shook his hand. “Looks like you got some sun today.”
The interior entryway of the house was a towering ceiling with another large elk-horn chandelier.
“Yeah. Out on the horse all day today. How was your day?”
Wolf shrugged. “Another day on the job.”
Gary looked at him for a second and then beckoned with a wave, taking off at a fast paced walk along the front windows of the house.
At sixty-one years old, Gary Connell was a fit man. Though not quite as muscular as his hulking son Derek, Gary was still in impressive physical shape from religious workout routines, and spending more time outdoors than inside. Hunting, ranching, riding horses, fishing, and God knew what else, Gary was an avid outdoorsman through and through. He embraced his accelerating male-patterned-baldness and clipped the remaining hair to the scalp.
They passed more antlers on the walls. More than Wolf remembered since his last visit. It seemed that every square inch of the place had a rack of deer antlers here, a gargantuan set of elk antlers there. The interior of the house was painted with animal keratin.
Wolf looked outside at the fading light, knowing just where they were going. Gary didn’t like to do business in any other place of the house.
Gary skidded to a stop and turned to Wolf with closed eyes. “I’m an idiot.” He shook his head and sighed. “David, I never got a chance to tell you. I was so sorry … I am so sorry about your brother.”
He placed his hand gently on Wolf’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. Wolf always mused at how Derek Connell could have such beady eyes, thinly veiling the contempt for the world around him, while his father could have such wide, gentle eyes, filled with an understanding and empathy that could disarm anyone.
Wolf nodded and they resumed their walk in silence. Wolf knew that the man was being sincere, but he also knew that Gary Connell was making sure all emotional debts were paid, their relationship all square, before springing whatever it was he had on his agenda.
With Gary Connell, there was always an agenda.
The trophy room, as Gary called it, was designed to be an overwhelming display of money and power to the first-time comer. Or so Wolf assumed.
A green pool table stood in the center of the auditorium-sized space, illuminated by yet another antler light fixture above it, hanging from an impossibly long chain. Huge brown suede leather couches were placed in various intimate configurations around it,
lit softly by colorful Tiffany stained-glass lamps on dark wood tables.
A fireplace ringed with comfortable leather seats and tables of all shapes and sizes dominated one side of the room, and a dark wood crescent-shaped bar, backed with over a hundred bottles of only the finest liquor, dominated the other.
Mounted heads of big game animals from all seven continents hung from the three wood-paneled walls high above, and the final side of the huge cubed room was a two-story window displaying the dark silhouettes of the western peaks outside. Classical music played softly through speakers somewhere, everywhere. The room smelled of leather, pine, and fine tobacco.
Wolf made no show of taking any of it in, which seemed to disappoint Gary a little.
Wolf had seen the room before. He hadn’t, however, seen the man behind the bar before.
“David Wolf, this is Henry Young, my head of security operations for Connell-Brack Mining Corp.”
“Hi.” Wolf nodded and extended a shake.
Wolf’s hand swam in the massive grip of the much taller man, who looked to be almost seven feet tall, and though he wore a long-sleeved sweater, Wolf could tell from the clear lines of the muscles in his neck and slim face that the man was in top physical shape. Wolf fought the part of his brain that wanted to openly gawk at the man’s physical form.
Young stared with calm bark-colored eyes, one of which had a two-inch vertical scar underneath. It looked like it had been a particularly bad knife wound that had received little or no medical attention. His closely cropped brown hair and overall physical presence gave off the air of special forces rather than circus freak.
“Young here was a SEAL.”
Gary paused and looked between them, waiting for a reaction that wasn’t coming. He cleared his throat and held up a finger to Young. “Can you pour us three glasses from that Macallan 1939?” Gary pointed to a bottle in the front row.
Young turned to fetch the bottle and dug out three glasses from behind the bar.
“Come here.” Gary walked to a frosted glass door along the wall and pressed a button.