Caching Out (6 page)

“This
is a good one Gav, just far enough to provide a little privacy.”

Leaning
back on the rocks, he closed his eyes, letting the morning sun warm him as his
mind wandered.  Placing the camera always reminded him of his daddy, the
bastard. Harold Wheeler had owned a small gun and taxidermy shop when Gavin was
a kid and he’d used game cameras to photograph sites where he would later
return to hunt deer. Hell, Gavin had used a game camera himself back when still
shots were enough…before fate had become his God, the coin his destiny. He whispered,
“This is so much better,
Daddy
. No grainy still shots for me, and once I
do the remote disconnect I’m done.”  Daddy - just saying the word choked him.

 Before
Gavin could stop them, memories of another day in the woods pushed at him,
insisting that he open his mind’s door and let them in. He’d been nine years
old and his Daddy was letting him go on the hunt. They’d left the house in a
battered old farm truck with rusted floorboards. It was early fall and still
hot. The truck didn’t have air conditioning and they’d rolled the windows down,
dust circled in the cab as they bumped down a dirt logging road. Later, they
sat in that damn tree stand for hours waiting for a deer to show up. He’d
begged to climb down and pee but his daddy had only slapped him on the head.

Gavin
could still here the old man’s voice. “Shut up boy, you can’t be pissin’ out
here. Once a deer catches wind of human piss they won’t come within a mile of
this place. I knowed I should’ve left you home ‘cause you ain’t nothing but a
sissy ass kid. Got your Mama to thank for that.” 

Gavin
remembered shrinking down in the stand, crossing his legs and rocking himself,
willing his body to hold on. He could still hear the rifle shot as it echoed in
the small space, the scent of gunpowder filling his nose, the spent casing
popping from the gun to land on the rough and faded wood floor of the stand. “Come
on boy, I got one.”  Harold Wheeler had lifted him by the arms and dropped him
to the ground. Gavin stood looking at the deer as it thrashed, struggling to stand
while blood streamed from a hole in its chest. Fear kept him rooted to the spot,
his eyes glued on the downed animal whose body was unmarked except for the single
bullet hole piercing its heaving chest. Harold walked quickly over to the deer,
placed his gun on its head and pulled the trigger blowing half the animal’s
head away with the shot.

“Damn
ugly animal, didn’t have a rack worth trying to save the head for.”  Then the
old man shot him a yellow-toothed smile and handed him a knife, “Well, boy, I
killed it and that means that you gotta clean it.”

Goosebumps
pricked his arms as Gavin recalled how afraid he’d been. Not just of what he
was being told to do, but of what would happen if he didn’t do it right. His
hands shook as he made a long sweeping cut across the deer’s neck just like his
daddy told him to do. Squeezing his closed eyes tighter he remembered the
metallic smell of the animal’s blood as it poured out and pooled at his feet. He
still felt his old man’s hand on his back, pushing him forward. He saw himself
as he fell to his knees and the animal’s crimson blood soaked through his jeans.

Gavin
jumped up from his seat on the rocks and stumbled toward the trees. Almost
there, he stopped. Standing alone in the woods, he shook his head, willing the
memories away. It didn’t work. There he was, a skinny nine year old with his
hands braced against a pine tree puking his guts up while urine ran down his
legs soaking into his jeans and mixing with the animals blood to form red
trails down his pants legs. What was his old man doing? Laughing. Even now, he could
still hear the SOB laughing.

“Bastard.
You sorry bastard!  I hated you just a little bit more every time you told that
fucking story to your friends, and I hate you today. Well, guess what old man? 
You’d be the one pissing his pants if you could see me hunting now.”                                                      

Retracing
his steps to the edge of the clearing, Gavin was startled when a group of
people broke through a patch of brush and stepped into the clearing just a few
feet from him. Damn, he’d been so caught up in his own thoughts that he hadn’t
even heard them coming. Even worse, it was a family. The man held a GPS, much
like his own, in one hand while the other hand was locked with a dark-haired
woman’s hand. Bringing up the rear there were two boys, maybe eight and ten. Both
sported baseball caps and small school-sized backpacks.

The
woman looked up at him, smiled and asked, “So, did you find it?”  Pushing
forward, the smaller boy moved behind the man, using his father as a shield.

Gavin
cleared his throat and turned to face the family, “Uh, no, I didn’t find the
cache. My batteries just died and I forgot to bring a spare set.”  Stepping around
the group he pulled his cap lower and again turned toward the trail. He’d only
taken a few steps when the older boy called out.

“Hey
mister, you can look with us if you want to.” 

Then
the younger one poked his head around his father and added, “Yea, we always
find ‘em. My dad’s the best at finding caches.”

Turning
part way to face the man, Gavin smiled, “Uh, maybe some other time. I really do
have to be going. Hope you find it.”  He really did hope they’d find it, in
fact you might say that he needed them to find it.

CHAPTER 8

Tate
watched from his office window as the sun dipped low and fell behind the
snow-capped peaks that the state was so famous for. The fading light touched the
snow casting a bluish tint on the tops of the otherwise black hills. Just as he
sat down at his desk, his office phone rang.

“Echo
here.” 

“Chief
Echo, this is Travis Parker, Saralyn’s daddy. I left a message earlier today
and I need to know when you intend to arrest Marshall Olen. Word around town is
that he’s the one who killed my baby. I’m a Christian man, but if you can’t do
your job then don’t be surprised when it gets done for you.”

Tate
sucked in a deep breath. “Mr. Parker, I am so sorry for your loss and I can
assure you that the department is doing everything possible to catch the person
who killed Saralyn, but you need to stay out of our investigation and let us do
our job. Marshall has a solid alibi for the night that Saralyn was murdered and
he is not, I repeat
not
, her killer.” 

Silence.

“You
there, Mr. Parker?” 

Coughing.

“Yes,
I’m here. So what you’re telling me is that you won’t arrest him just because
he had some drinking buddy vouch for him?” 

Letting
out a frustrated breath Tate explained. “Mr. Parker, Marshall Olen was in
Rushville lockup the day before the crime, the night that Saralyn was murdered
and for two days after that. He was in the County Jail and that’s a pretty
solid alibi. I know that the townsfolk are speculating about the case and I
understand that a tragedy like this will either bring out the best or the worst
in folks, but everyone has got to let the department do our job. It would be a
sad situation if we arrest the killer and fail to get a conviction on a
technicality or worse yet, arrest the wrong person while the guilty party goes
free. This has got to be handled by the book, and that’s what I’m doing.” 

Sobbing.

“Mr.
Parker?”  No response, followed by a click disconnecting the call. Tate
redialed the number to the Parker house, then jumped in surprise when the
second line on his phone rang. “Echo here.” 

The
soft voice of a woman came on the line. “Tate, this is Sara Parker. Mr. Parker
had to hang up, he’s just too upset to talk. I think you should go out and
check on Mr. Olen. I overheard my husband earlier on the phone and I’m afraid. I
heard what you told my husband about Marshall, and, well, if he’s innocent then
I’m worried that some of the locals may be out to do him harm. You understand,
right, Tate?” 

Already
grabbing his Glock from a locked desk drawer and slamming it into his holster
Tate barked a reply. “Yes Mrs. Parker, I do understand. Thank you for calling
me back, but I’ve got to go now.”  Tate grabbed his cap and his cell phone. He dialed
the number for Martin as he went down the stairs, got his voicemail and left a
brief message. Passing the dispatch desk, Tate ordered Julie to call for back
up at Marshall’s house. He took the courthouse steps two at a time jogging to
his vehicle.

“This
is going to be a long night,” he muttered.

Turning
onto the dirt road leading up to Marshall’s place, Tate saw the red and blue
flashing lights of two patrol cars. Standing on the front porch of Olen’s small
frame house, Martin was talking to a group of three men who stood in front of
the house. Deputy Cook stood next to his county patrol car, at the ready if
violence erupted. Nodding to the deputy as he got out of his SUV, Tate’s long
strides ate up the distance across the yard. Stepping up next to Martin, Tate
wasn’t surprised when one of men mouthed off.

“Shouldn’t
you be back sittin’ in your office, Echo?  You don’t have any authority out
here. We was only going to do what one of you should have already done.” 

 “And
what would that be Mr. Long?” Tate stepped down onto the first step. “Arrest a
man that wasn’t anywhere near the crime scene?  Or maybe you had some other
brand of justice in mind.”

Gerald
Long, a rail thin man with a thick head of red hair took a menacing step
forward.

Martin
did the same. “You boys could land yourselves in some real trouble here,”
Martin said. “I should arrest all three of you just for thinking you could come
out here and do our job, but I’m going to give you a chance to go home to your
families and leave the police work up to the police. I already told you that Marshall
has a solid alibi and that is all you need to know about it. The man isn’t at
home and if he was he’d probably file charges on you for trespassing. Or worse.
He might take that old shotgun his daddy left him out and fill you full of buck
shot.”

All
three men talked at once about what they should do. When headlights swept
across the yard, everyone turned and watched as Marshall’s old truck bounced
into the yard.

Moving
fast, Tate stepped off the porch and hurried to the driver’s door just as Marshall
Olen shoved it open. “Hold up Marshall!”  Tate demanded, stepping close enough
to smell the beer on Marshall’s breath.

Taking
a menacing step forward, Marshall yelled around Tate at the group of men
standing near his porch. “What the hell are all you people doing in my yard? 
Get outta my way, Echo, this is my damn house and I got a right to protect
what’s mine.”  

When
Marshall tried to push past him, Tate slammed the big man face down on the hood
of his truck, one arm twisted behind his back. Quietly he said, “Marshall,
these men were just leaving. Seems they turned in at the wrong driveway. Won’t
take but just a minute for me and Crawley to clear them off your property and
while we do that I want you to have a seat in your truck. You got that Marshall?”

When
the big man nodded, Tate released his arm and watched him walk to the door of
the truck. Glaring at the three unwelcome visitors, Marshall fumed, “I see
you’re damned baseball bats and I know who every one of you is. Anytime you
want a piece of ol’ Marshall, you just come on back when the cops aren’t here
and I’ll be happy to oblige you.” 

Tate
stood in the front of Marshall’s truck, as Martin shuffled the three vigilantes
into their vehicle with a stern warning of what would happen if they tried
anything like this again. As the tail lights of Gerald Long’s truck faded, Tate
motioned to Marshall.

Marshall
stepped out of the truck and brushed past without a word. Stopping at the steps
he turned to look at Tate. “I
let
you have your fucking way this time
Echo, but you can’t always be around and I owe them boys something.”  Without
waiting for a response Marshall walked into the house letting the door slam
behind him.

Thirty
minutes later, Tate pulled into the Ridge Diner closely followed by Martin in
his patrol car. Stepping through the glass doors they took a booth near the
door and ordered coffee.

 
Martin laughed, “I thought them boys was going to shit themselves when Marshall
stepped out of his truck and made a beeline for them. Good thing you was there
to talk him out of beating the shit out of them all, there’s no way I could
have held him back on my own.” 

Tate
grinned over his coffee cup as he blew on the hot liquid. “Yeah, well, maybe we
should have looked the other way and let him do just that. After all, that’s
what they had planned for him. You confiscate their baseball bats?” 

Martin
took a sip from his own cup.“Got ‘em in the back of my patrol car right now. Told
them boys that they better hope nothing bad happened to Marshall in the near
future or I’d be out to pay them a visit. You get anywhere with the
investigation today?”

“Nothing
significant. I did spend several hours this morning searching the Department of
Criminal Investigation records to see if there were any reported cases with
similarities to the Parker case. Nothing logged that compares. I need that
damned DNA report. ”