by Jeff Carson
Wolf was familiar with the project. Everyone was. Cave Creek Canyon was north of town, beginning just past the Connell compound entrance. The steep-walled winding canyon created a traffic bottleneck for the Denver weekend warriors coming and going during ski season. The project was widening the road to two lanes in both directions, and generally straightening it, removing the two blind turns where numerous accidents had occurred over the years.
“And how’s it going?”
He shrugged. “It’s going a little slower than anticipated. But we’ll get it done before this upcoming ski season, that’s for sure.”
Wolf nodded. The table went silent for a few moments, so he pressed on. “Why so slow?”
“It’s tricky country. Tricky ground. It’s called Cave Creek for a reason. We’ve run into a lot of caves and pockets, bringing the ground above them tumbling down, making even more work. Or sometimes we’ll brace what we do find so that they won’t collapse, which takes time. Some of the caves have already collapsed, leaving scree piles high up the side of the mountain, which we have to clear, then build walls against the new slide area it creates.” He shrugged and shook his head, then put his elbows on the table. “It’s a lot of work.”
“And I’ll stick with houses, thank you,” Dennis said.
Mark laughed. “Yeah, yeah.” His face turned serious again. “It’s just tough to predict what exactly it’s going to take to finish it until you get digging. But I’m pretty confident we’re close.”
Wolf thought of how he’d explored some of the caves there with Nate over the years. Then he thought about the location of the construction site, just about a quarter-mile past the Connells’ 2Shoe Ranch.
Wolf’s thoughts spiraled further inward as Dennis and Mark talked about the intricacies of rates on construction loans, appreciation, or something else Wolf had no interest in. He looked to Jack, and thought of the two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year job he’d just turned down. Over twenty thousand dollars a month.
His stomach churned as he wondered yet again if he’d made a mistake. Then he thought about how a thousand tiny hairs had been ripped from his scalp as Connell’s hands had bounced off the top of his head. Then he remembered the sight of his hat flying over the edge of the cliff.
“David?”
Wolf’s eyes rose to meet everyone staring at him. “Yes?”
Sarah was staring halfway between him and her plate, and the rest were staring at him with wide expectant glares.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Dennis cleared his throat. “I was just saying I was talking to Margaret Hitchens today, giving her hell for the whole sheriff appointment thing, and she said that you were taking another job.”
Wolf set the crust of his pizza on his plate. “Uh, no. I didn’t end up taking that job.”
“Oh.” Dennis looked confused.
The table plummeted into a deep silence, and everyone’s eyes studied their plates. Everyone’s but Jack’s, that is, who was staring at Wolf with wide-eyed concern.
Wolf winked and gave a small nod, which instantly relaxed Jack, who smiled and shoved half a piece of pizza into his mouth.
Wolf shook his head as his son’s mouth bulged like a balloon. “Thank you so much for dinner, Angela.” He placed his napkin on his plate and stood up. “And Dennis, and Sarah, and Mark, and weirdo.”
Jack laughed through his stuffed mouth and so did the rest of the table.
Dennis and Mark stood up, scooting their chairs back on the wood floor.
“That new sheriff’s an idiot and an asshole.” Dennis poked the table with his index finger.
“Dennis!” Angela pointed to Jack with a horrified expression. “Where the heck did that come from? And watch your mouth.”
They all laughed again as Dennis gave Angela a defiant sideways glance.
“I’m serious.”
Wolf stopped. “Any particular reason you are telling me this, Dennis?”
He squinted. “Well, no. I just … I can’t believe he’s sheriff now, and you’re not. Goddamn, it’s about time we start electing a sheriff, like the rest of the free world. It’s ludicrous. It’s a goddamn—”
“Dad, calm down.” Sarah put her hand out towards her father. “I’m sure Dave has a plan to get his job back. Just … please, stop swearing.”
Dennis shook his head and concentrated on his plate.
“Thanks, guys.” Wolf smiled. “I’m glad to have you on my side.”
After they cleared the table, Wolf approached Sarah and touched her on the shoulder. “Sarah, could I talk to you a minute?”
“Sure.”
Mark stood with an awkward expression, perhaps reeling from the family-esque moment that had just passed, and then he smiled. “Bye, Dave.”
Wolf nodded and gave Jack a hug. “You want to go fishing tomorrow afternoon? After school?”
“Yeah. Can Brian come?”
“Yep. That’s what I was thinking. His dad’s in Laramie for the week, so I figured he’d want to come. Probably around three or four.”
“Okay.”
“Later,” Wolf said. “I love you.”
“Bye. Love you too.”
Wolf ruffled his son’s hair and walked with Sarah down the hall to the front door.
She lowered her voice. “What’s up?”
“You know John’s funeral is on Saturday at ten in the morning, right?”
She nodded.
“Can you put together a list of friends you think we need to contact? I’m doing the same, but I just don’t want to forget anyone.”
“Yeah, sure. Of course.”
He nodded, looking down at her. “Thanks.”
She tilted her head sideways and some hair swung in front of her eyes. As she tucked it behind her ear, she crossed her legs and put her hands in the rear pockets.
Wolf couldn’t help but glance at her chest. The scent of her flowery perfume, that same brand she always wore, sent a rush of hormones through his body. He turned away and looked out into the night through the door window. “You look really good, Sarah. Really healthy. Happy.” He reached for the door.
She stood unmoving, watching him, then lowered her eyes as footsteps approached.
Mark walked down the hallway and put an arm around her.
“I’ll talk to you later, okay?” He looked at Sarah. “I’ll be picking up Jack tomorrow afternoon. He can spend the night at the ranch if he wants. I’ll take him to school the next morning.”
She nodded, staring at his feet.
Wolf held out his hand. “Good to see you, Mark.”
Mark lifted his arm off Sarah and gave his hand a quick pump. “Good to see you, David.”
Wolf left, closing the door behind himself.
Chapter 8
Deputy Rachette’s Volkswagen Golf sputtered into the station lot. Whether the engine shut down as a result of his twisting the key or just stalled out with good timing was up for debate.
He got out, set his bag of lunch trash on the roof, and glared at the back window. He opened the rear door and shimmied the glass up with both hands, then shut the door while mashing his hand against the window. By a rare miracle, the window stayed up.
Satisfied, he lifted the front door handle and closed it gently. The rear window dropped back down an inch.
“Ah!” He shook his fists at the sky, grabbed the trash and walked away, kicking the rear tire with his work boot.
The pessimism was getting too much to handle. Just a week ago he’d looked at that twenty-one-year-old piece of junk as a rite of passage, a vehicle that he’d surely get rid of when his career moved further along the great path it was on. One day he was going to look back on the memory of the car and laugh, telling stories at Thanksgiving dinners back home of the windows falling down, and the fuel line that froze if you chewed a piece of peppermint gum and breathed on it, and the change bin lid that wouldn’t close, and the countless other quirks he had to live with while driving this thing.
He sucked at the iceless Coke until it gurgled empty and then looked at it with a shake of his head. His future was this empty Coke cup, his career prospects the wadded-up bag of burger-and-fries debris. And the piece of crap car … well, that was his car.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Wolf.
“Hey.”
“Hey, what’s going on over there?” The voice sounded distant in the earpiece.
Rachette meandered back to the piece of crap. “Just getting back from PT duty. Day number-two of a full week of PT fun.”
Wolf was silent for a few seconds. “That sucks.”
“Ha. Yeah, you could say that. I can’t handle working for this asshole.” He stopped and looked to the sky, scratching his head, and then shot a look to the garage door of the station, which was thankfully empty. He lowered his voice. “Correction. These assholes, plural. I’m starting to think about going back to Nebraska at this point. I don’t want to go back to that Podunk town, but it’s sure as hell better than this.”
Wolf’s breath was a loud crackle, or it was a gust of wind. Rachette couldn’t tell. He set down the trash again and looked towards the pine trees. “What are you up to today? Never did see you this morning.”
“Yeah, I’m keeping away from the station for a while.”
Rachette tucked the phone under his chin and put a chew in his lip. “I don’t know, Wolf. What do you think? I used to feel like part of this team here, you know? And I knew someday I’d be promoted. And I knew someday I would be able to get rid of this piece-of-shit car.” He kicked his rear tire, which sent the window sliding down another inch. “But now, it’s like there’s no future here, you know? At least not for me, that’s for sure. Connell made that clear this morning when he assigned me to PT all week.”
Wolf said nothing.
“You there?”
“Yeah,” Wolf said. “Look, I’m not sure what to say at this moment. I guess I recommend sucking it up.” Wolf’s voice was loud in the earpiece.
Rachette felt the blood rush to his face as he waited for something more, which apparently wasn’t coming. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll suck it up. I just … yeah, okay.” He raised his watch and didn’t really look at it. “All right, I’ve gotta get back in the station.”
“Listen. Are you going back out onto PT this afternoon?”
“No. I finished my quota this morning.”
“Just keep me posted if you guys need any help.”
“Okay.”
“We’ll talk later,” Wolf said, and hung up.
Rachette stared at the phone and noticed his hand was shaking. Wolf’s words had been like a palm to the nose. Putting the phone back in his pocket he shuffled across the lot to the open garage, shoved his food bag in the trash, and walked inside.
The man was right, of course. Wolf always seemed to take the right angle on a situation. Rachette was complaining, and that never got anyone anything worthwhile. Time to suck it up.
As he turned the corner a hand thumped against his chest, pushing the breath from his lungs. Before he could react, his shirt was wrenched from his waistband and he was launched headfirst into the concrete wall. His head connected with a dull thud and a sharp pain exploded in his tongue as he bit through the tip.
He was twisted around and only then did he realize it was Connell.
The new sheriff’s thick hand clamped on Rachette’s throat and pinned him to the wall.
Rachette tried to suck a breath in, but his windpipe was shut tight.
Connell’s face bent close. “You talking to your mommy there, Rachette?” He shot a glance to the doorway.
Rachette’s eyes darted around the fleet garage. Only a couple silent SUVs. They were alone.
“I’m going to tell you this once.” Connell’s breath was hot on Rachette’s nose. “Wolf’s future in this department is non-existent. You either step in line and stop talking to him,” he lifted up on Rachette’s neck, “and talking smack about me, and your superiors, or you are going to be out of a job, going back to Shitville, Nebraska, or wherever the hell it is you come from.” Connell’s grip was relentless.
Stars flashed at the edges of Rachette’s vision. He wasn’t sure if he was dying or simply passing out, but in that instant he started to panic. Connell was a good four or five inches taller than he was, and a hell of a lot bigger in every other way, but Rachette knew he could lay a good walloping on him if it came down to it. Rachette had been in his fair share of scuffles growing up, and he rarely came out of them without doing some serious damage to the other guy. Then again, Connell was a whole new level of beast.
Connell narrowed his eyes and let go, then jumped back a few feet, apparently sensing that Rachette might attack.
Rachette collapsed onto the cool concrete and sucked in a breath with a long whistle that came from his throat. He clawed at his neck, willing his esophagus to open back up.
Connell bent down. “You got that, punk?”
Rachette stared at Connell’s dusty work boots through the swirling stars.
“I said, you got that? You’d better start showing me some respect, right now!”
Rachette nodded his head.
“I can’t hear you.”
“Yes, sir,” he croaked.
Connell turned and walked away. “Good. Don’t you forget who’s in charge here. Don’t you forget it for one second.” He walked inside, and the door slammed behind him.
Rachette sat on the floor against the wall, sucking in breaths with greedy desperation, knowing in that instant that he would do anything to help Wolf get the sheriff job back from this asshole. Even if it meant he had to murder the son of a bitch himself.
Chapter 9
Henry Young’s training in Coronado all those years ago had beaten the weak, tall basketball-player-turned-tough-guy that he was into less than nothing. Down into a sniveling pile of too-long bones, with a halfwit brain and no confidence. And then it had built him back up, molecule by molecule, into a clever, resourceful machine.
Becoming a navy SEAL had instilled in him a sense of pride and purpose. He’d become a member of one of the most dangerous and feared elite forces on the planet. So when, for the first time in his life, he felt arrogance begin to creep into his consciousness, he was less than surprised. It was the hardest team on Earth to become a member of and he’d done it. He was confident he could kick anyone’s ass on the planet and it was a good feeling.
But nothing had prepared him for the killing.
No one had told him about that. No one could. It wasn’t something you could describe to someone else until it happened, though many fellow SEALs tried.
He still remembered the first—a nameless gook holding a machete at the wrong angle, at the wrong time. The feeling he had after putting two bullets through that man’s heart was much better than any drug or vicious sexual escapade could ever match. That rush of excitement stood as the best moment of his life for a short time, until he killed his first man with his blade.
The feeling of the second kill eclipsed the first by ten-fold. He remembered the Asian man’s blood gurgling in his throat as he sliced his blade. The splash of warm blood on his own hand. The convulsions of the man’s light body in his other arm as he died.
It had been nothing less than life-changing.
Mission after mission, he’d hoped for that feeling once again, and when he killed, he’d gotten it. Unlike the junkie reaching for that elusive first-high feeling, never to reach it again, every time Young killed, it felt better. And better.
It didn’t take long to realize that killing needed to be a very integral part of his life. Like water, or food, or three-hour daily workouts.
Of course, missions never guaranteed he would get a chance to kill, so he began making chances. Time off, no matter where he was in the world, became time well spent.
Of course, SEALS were smart. Smart as they come. So when they began to s
uspect, they had to let him go. It was fine with him. He didn’t fight for his job, or try to explain himself. In the end, he just slipped quietly away with an honorable discharge.
Since then, he’d gotten smarter—or, rather, more refined—at finding new victims, and he never stayed in one place for too long. Young’s job at Connell-Brack Mining was his fourth job as a security specialist in the past seven years. Each job, on paper, was better than the last, making it look like he was just stepping up the career ladder. In reality, when he was working at a firm, he was killing. And when the pile of bodies got too big to manage, to grow any more without bringing suspicion, he moved on.
What Gary Connell didn’t know was that Young already had another job lined up with a competing mining company, and it was about time to climb another rung. There were too many bodies piling in Gary’s derelict mine shafts. His instincts were telling him to move on.
But luckily for Gary, things were finally becoming interesting on the job itself. So he’d decided to stick around for a while.
Of course, Young was taking measures to cover himself. The Connells were one fucked-up bunch.
So the first measure was to make sure this kill was anonymous. He had to make it look like an accident.
Which was boring.
Feeling the final breath choked out of a young prostitute underneath his hand, her pulse on his skin pounding, then fading to nothing? A slow stab of his six-inch blade into the abdomen of a naked body tied to a bed, and the invigorating smell that accompanied it? That was real excitement.
Not that there wasn’t potential for this situation. There were some interesting people surrounding this Wolf character. Namely his ex-wife. If Young was careful about things, and he always was, he thought he might be able to get some quality time with her; then he could move on, knowing he’d gotten every bit of enjoyment possible out of this rung on the ladder.
Young adjusted his crotch, his arousal quickly fading as he concentrated on the task at hand.
He stood in front of the house, keeping inside the pine trees, which swayed and whistled in the strong wind. He studied the layout for a few minutes, and then walked to the covered carport. It was heavily tracked with fresh tire marks and footprints in the blowing dirt, and obviously the kitchen door near it was the most heavily used entrance to the house.