Bluetick Revenge
Authors: Mark Cohen
The Fractal Murders
The events and characters in this book are fictitious. Certain real locations and public figures are mentioned, but all other
characters and events described in the book are totally imaginary.
Copyright © 2005 by Mark Cohen
All rights reserved.
Mysterious Press
Warner Books
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
The Mysterious Press name and logo are registered trademarks of Warner Books.
First eBook Edition: September 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56507-3
Contents
In memory of Dexter S. Cohen and George Vandenberg
I want to thank my agent, Sandra Bond of the Bond Literary Agency, for her professionalism and her unwavering belief in me.
(Well, she might have wavered a little as the deadline approached, but she now knows we are capable of a fourth-quarter comeback.)
I want to thank my editor, Kristen Weber, for her patience and guidance. (She flatters me with her praise of my imagination;
I fear that someday she will visit Nederland and learn that my depiction of the town and its characters is entirely accurate.)
Finally, I want to thank Mysterious Press for having the courage to take a chance on a quasi-vegetarian private eye who lives
with his dogs (Buck and Wheat) in the mountains, reads philosophy in an attempt to make sense of life, and has strong convictions
on the subject of cola.
The greatest happiness is to vanquish your enemies, to chase them before you, to rob them of their wealth, to see those dear
to them bathed in tears, to clasp to your bosom their wives and daughters.
—G
ENGHIS
K
HAN
I
’
D BEEN SCOPING
the place for a week. That seemed a long time, but this wouldn’t be a traditional dognapping. Not that I had much of a basis
for comparison. I had never dognapped before, though I had taken a few catnaps.
I focused my binoculars on the area between the cabin and the million-dollar mountain home. They were a good fifty yards apart.
It was an old two-room cabin and its windows were protected from the winter wind by faded pine shutters. But for a dozen empty
antifreeze containers piled near the door, there was no sign the cabin was in use.
The animal was chained to a tall pine about halfway between the cabin and the residence. He had maybe thirty feet of slack.
He lay in a plywood doghouse, his muzzle resting near its entrance. His expression showed boredom and sadness. The water in
his metal bowl had long since frozen.
There were two Harleys parked in front of the home—the fewest I had seen yet. I’d been there four hours this day and seen
only two men. One was about fifty and looked like Jerry Garcia a few years before his death. The other was a lanky ponytailed
man in his early thirties, who walked from the house to the cabin every few hours with a machine pistol in one hand. Both
displayed tattoos on their faces and hands, and they probably bore more beneath their winter clothes. Neither fit Bugg’s description.
I decided I would make my move tonight.
It wasn’t quite dark enough. I walked through the dense pines about a half mile back to the F-150 I’d parked just off a county
road. Had anyone looked through the shell into the back of the truck, they would have seen a chain saw, a few dozen logs,
and some camping gear. My hope was they would assume I had been cutting firewood.
I placed the binoculars on the passenger seat, then removed my parka and tossed it into the truck as well. If things got hairy,
I didn’t want bulky winter clothes slowing me down. A down-filled vest over a flannel shirt over a high-tech undershirt would
keep me warm enough. I clasped my hands together, then brought them to my mouth and blew on them to keep them warm. Tiny clouds
of mist spiraled before me as I exhaled. It was the third Tuesday in November—Thanksgiving was two days away—and though there
was little snow on the ground, there was moisture in the air. The thermometer in my truck showed twenty-six degrees.
It was overcast. No stars were visible and the moon was nowhere to be seen. As the last remnants of the day’s light vanished,
it became wonderfully dark. There would never be a better time to do it.
I climbed into the truck, placed the keys in the ignition, and started her up. I waited a few minutes, then exited the vehicle,
leaving the driver’s door slightly ajar, but not enough to cause the dome light to come on. If someone came along and stole
it in the next twenty minutes, I’d be shit out of luck. Chances of that happening on a Tuesday night in a national forest
were slim. I checked my Velcro shoulder holster; the Glock was still there.
The hike back to Bugg’s secluded mountain home took ten minutes. The wind hadn’t changed, so I was able to approach without
the dog picking up my scent. The trees surrounding the home had been cleared to a distance of one hundred feet in an effort
to make it more defensible in the event of a forest fire. I stopped before I hit the clearing and surveyed the area one last
time. I donned a black ski mask to protect my identity, then got down on my belly and started crawling toward the dog. He
was awake but resting on his side with a vacant look. I was within twenty feet when he raised his magnificent head and scanned
the area. I didn’t want him barking. Still on my belly, I removed a roast beef sandwich—one I had purchased at the B&F just
for this purpose—from my vest pocket and tossed it at him. Then I sprinted.
He let out two melodic barks, then went to work on the meat. I unhooked the chain from his collar and snapped my leash into
place. With the dog now under my control, I started running back to the trees. He ran alongside, as if we’d been friends for
years, gulping the sandwich as we went. As we hit the trees a man inside the home yelled, “Fuck!”
We continued toward the truck. I heard a door slam. Floodlights suddenly illuminated the house and cabin, but I was back into
the trees by then. “Something’s going down!” the man yelled. “Check the cabin.” One of the Harleys roared to life. I continued
running, dodging the pines as best I could. It was incredibly dark in the forest, and my forty-something face took more than
one hit from low branches weighed down by accumulated snow. The bike noise grew faint as the rider headed to the highway.
The dog dropped what was left of the sandwich and tried to go back for it, but I yanked the leash hard. By this time I had
my second wind and was running at a good clip given the darkness and rough terrain. It was a good thing I had the dog with
me, because mountain lions can be unforgiving if you startle them.
I smelled the exhaust from my truck, then saw the truck itself. I reached the truck and opened the driver’s door. The dog
jumped right in and I followed suit. Headlights off, I drove down the dirt road at a moderate speed toward Colorado Highway
72 just west of Ward. All I had to do was make the highway without coming into contact with the bike.
I was less than two hundred yards from the pavement when a single headlight appeared and started toward me. Think fast, Pepper,
I told myself. I didn’t want to shoot the guy, but I didn’t want him to get a look at my truck either. I could have clipped
him with the truck, but somebody might have noticed the damage to my vehicle and put two and two together. I punched the accelerator
and went straight at him. When I was twenty yards away I turned on my brights. He held one hand up to his eyes to dim the
glare. It was Jerry Garcia. I blasted my horn and swerved to the right just as I met him. He took a nasty spill and ended
up in the drainage on the side of the road. I killed my headlights, turned right at the pavement, and headed home to Nederland.
I had trouble sleeping that night. Dognapping gets my adrenaline flowing. This is particularly true when the dog is a champion
bluetick coonhound owned by the leader of the Sons of Satan.
A
T NINE THE NEXT MORNING
I was enjoying a cup of hot coffee in the plush reception area of the downtown Denver offices of Keane, Simms & Mercante.
My cup had the firm’s logo emblazoned on it. I had known “Big” Matt Simms more than fifteen years. We had formed a law firm
after I had left the U.S. attorney’s office. Matt was now a prominent attorney and the managing partner of what had grown
to be a nine-person firm. I had left the practice of law some years back, primarily because of burnout, but my former partners
had voted not to change the firm’s name. They did not do this out of affection for me; they did it because the firm had invested
a lot of money in that name over the years. Or, as Matt had so eloquently summarized the decision, “I don’t want to have to
pay some fucker to design a new logo.”
“Would you like more coffee, Mr. Keane?” the receptionist asked. She was a tall brunette with pouty lips and fine cheekbones.
Late twenties. Her dress was made of satin or something like it, and the vertical black and white stripes of the fabric only
served to accent her curves. I had seen her once or twice before when visiting Matt in connection with the projects he occasionally
asks me to undertake. She was beautiful but maintained a certain formality she felt was expected at a first-rate law firm,
and I suspected that had deterred many a man from asking her out.
“More coffee would be wonderful,” I said. She retrieved my cup and saucer, then returned with a fresh cup. I started reading
the
Rocky Mountain News
. The big stories concerned Islamic militants, a new report on global warming, and tax cuts for the rich. “Thank God for cabernet
and antidepressants,” I muttered.
A few minutes later Matt strolled toward me and extended his hand. A former offensive lineman at Colorado State, Matt stands
six-two and weighs in at about 270 pounds. His ego is even bigger. We shook hands.
“Thanks for coming on short notice,” he said. His collar was unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up, his brown, wavy hair a
bit disheveled. “How was the drive in?” He had already turned around and was heading for his office. Not even looking at me.
“Glad I don’t do it every day,” I said. It is forty-six miles from my mountain home in Nederland to downtown Denver. “The
traffic is unbelievable.”
“Tell me about it,” he said. “If I didn’t have three kids in high school, I’d move downtown.” Matt lives in Cherry Hills Village,
an exclusive suburb with an exceptional school system. It is home to many doctors, lawyers, and overpaid athletes.
Even before we hit his office, I smelled the aroma of a cigar. It’s supposed to be a smoke-free building, but Matt possesses
a healthy disregard for rules. Not coincidentally, it’s a trait shared by most of my friends.
I entered his corner office first and he closed the door behind me. Matt sat in the executive chair behind his mahogany desk,
and I sat in one of the burgundy leather chairs in front of it. Our perch on the thirty-seventh floor of the Qwest Tower provided
a nice view of the city on this sunny winter morning. The snowcapped Rockies glistened in the distance. I had been looking
at the same mountains since the day I was born, and though Denver had grown from a sleepy little cow town on the plains into
yet another land-devouring urban cancer, I took comfort in the fact that the mountains remained more or less unchanged.
