Cold Lake (21 page)

Wolf took his time getting to the black BMW sedan. The scratch of radios seemed to disappear and the rain seemed to pass through him. As he rounded behind the passenger side and ducked under the makeshift tent, he was laser focused on the alabaster hand dangling from the car.

It was clenched in a half fist, a single stripe of red on the palm to the first knuckle of the slender pinkie finger.

The two white-clad deputies stepped aside as Wolf approached.

The bare arm and a bare leg came into view, and Wolf froze. For a few long seconds he stared at her muddy feet, and then his eyes travelled from the bare foot, up the impossibly white skin of the knee, to the thigh, all the way up to the side of her buttock, all the way to the waist and to her slinky black nightgown pulled up to her belly.

For just an instant he allowed himself to look at her exposed black panties. It was unclear whether the movement of being ruthlessly murdered had raised the slinky material above her waist, or if had been something, or someone else. He moved forward and then stopped before raising his gaze to her face.
There are some things you don’t need to see.

He turned and walked around the back of the vehicle. Tinted windows. Colorado plates. Gleaming black paint covered with orbs of water. Ducked under the edge of the tent. A white clad deputy stepped back. The open driver’s side door.

Wolf tracked his eyes from the man’s shiny shoes, muddy and scuffed on the top of the toes, up his pressed black slacks, and paused at his fly. The crotch zipper was up and Wolf blinked with relief.

The rain slapped the top of the foldout canvas tent as Wolf bent for a closer look at the dead man.

Carter Willis’s face was scratched and bruised, and there was a neat hole in his temple. His eyes stared into the void.

Wolf stared, his eyes transfixed on Carter’s groomed hair. In his peripheral vision he saw Sarah’s face twisted toward him, blonde hair across her face, and though he did not look directly, he could see two white specks and knew her eyes were open. The most beautiful blue eyes the world had ever seen, and would never see again.
There are some things you don’t need to see.

Sergeant Yates stood at the back of the car. He was waiting to talk to Wolf with a sympathetic expression.

Wolf stood up and walked past him.

“Sir.” Yates stepped up behind him. “We found a receipt in the center console for The Pony Tavern from last night.”

Wolf stopped and nodded. “Yeah? So?”

Yates shifted his feet. “Sir, I was on patrol last night, and I saw your truck there. You were there last night, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Yates held out his hand. “Sir. I gotta.”

Wolf stared at his hand for a second, his mind reeling with possibilities, and then un-holstered his service pistol and held it out, butt-first.

Yates took it with a rubber-gloved hand and ejected the clip. He held it up, counting the rounds and checked the chamber. Wafting the barrel in front of his nose, Yates flared his nostrils and stared into the distance. He shook his head, jammed home the clip and handed the pistol back to Wolf.

“Good enough for me.”

Wolf took it with a nod, his gut churning from the exchange.

He looked back at the BMW and then down the road that that led into Rocky Points.

A quarter mile away, barely visible through the rain, Wolf saw a figure alongside the road. Pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth.

The wriggling in his gut became a thrashing wild animal, a gorilla trying to break out of a cage.
Jack.

He began walking.

Patterson gripped the ceiling handle and held her breath as Rachette sped up Beacon Light Road. The SUV’s wheels skidded on the wet asphalt, and they drifted a few feet to the side before correcting.

“Careful,” she said, but she wasn’t about to tell him to slow down. Halfway to the lake, they’d received a call from a freaked-out Wilson. The news had been nothing short of a mental bomb detonation.

She and Rachette had not spoken on the way to the lake for one reason, and now they were silent for another.

Sarah was dead?
She closed her eyes and swallowed. Three gunshots, the two calls last night had said. At the memory, her eyes welled again.. This time she let the tears stream down her face like the water streamed across her passenger window.

“God damn it,” she said.

Rachette reached over and gave her arm a squeeze.

Flashing lights marking their destination came into view through the mist, and they sank back in their seats as Rachette revved the SUV.

A figure standing on the right shoulder came into view, and Rachette swung to the oncoming lane to give a wide berth. As they passed, Patterson gazed out through wet eyes, seeing a curious look on a teenaged face framed by a cinched hood.

Patterson’s head whipped back. “Shit. That was Jack.”

“What?” Rachette let up on the gas.

“Yeah. That was Sarah’s new house we just passed. Jack doesn’t know yet?” She looked at Rachette.

Rachette looked in the rearview mirror. “Damn. I don’t know. What do we do?”

“There’s Wolf.” She pointed out the windshield.

Rachette jammed on the brakes and stopped in front of Wolf who was marching down the edge of the road.

Patterson’s breath caught when she saw Wolf’s eyes underneath his hood. They were blood red and swollen, unblinking, staring past their vehicle.

She hit the button and lowered the window.

Wolf sidestepped the front of their SUV onto the muddy shoulder and walked past without pausing.

“Sir …” The next word was impossible for her to choose. She looked back at Rachette and rolled up the window. “There’s nothing we can do. Let’s go up.”

They parked behind a flashing SCSD vehicle and got out.

Patterson stepped into a patch of mud straight out of the SUV and slipped, barely catching herself on the door before she went down. With spread legs she shut the door, zipped up her jacket against the cold, and then gingerly walked around to the asphalt.

Rachette stopped next to Yates at the top of the driveway and they looked down the road at Wolf’s receding figure, now barely visible through a passing bank of fog.

“What the hell happened?” Rachette asked no one in particular.

Yates gestured to the black luxury sedan. “The homeowners discovered the car this morning. They live in Denver and this is their second home. You can see for yourself.”

Patterson followed Rachette. Dread pressed down harder with each step she took, and she focused on Rachette’s unwavering steps to get her there.

He went to the driver’s side door where Deputy Tyler was collecting forensics evidence.

Patterson ducked into the tent, determined to work the scene as she would work any other.

She flinched at Sarah’s vacant stare, and it threatened to turn Patterson’s resolve to rubble, but she pressed on. She had a job to do. She noted the trickle of blood that had oozed from a neat hole in Sarah’s  forehead. The rear of her skull was misshapen, but there seemed to be no exit wound. An explosion of blood on Sarah’s upper right chest had bled profusely, running down her right arm, which dangled off her exposed right thigh.

Patterson tried to cloak herself in professional detachment, and to ignore the coppery scent of blood mixed with fecal matter. She studied the scene from various perspectives: the gunshot wound on Carter Willis’s head, the scuffmarks on Carter’s shoes, the lack of shoes on Sarah’s muddy feet and her nightgown outfit.

“Where are the keys?” she asked.

“Center console.” Deputy Tyler cleared his throat. “Cup holder. It’s a push button start motor.”

She looked down to the concrete driveway. “No brass?”

“Nope.”

She reached back and Tyler handed her some gloves. She put them on and pulled open Carter Willis’s jacket, exposing the empty inner pocket.

“I already checked his pants. No wallet. No ID. Insurance card and registration in the glove compartment says Carter Willis. We’re confirming his ID.”

She nodded. “I met this guy. He introduced himself as Carter Willis.” She noted the powder smears throughout the interior of the car where prints had been found and lifted.

“We’ve got at least four separate sets of prints so far,” said Tyler.

Rachette walked away shaking his head. His face was pale and his lips shiny with saliva.

She listened to his footsteps quicken as he ran away, and then him retching. The soundtrack of Rachette heaving drew no glances from anyone.

“Did you call Lorber?” She asked.

Tyler nodded. “He’s on his way.”

She looked around the interior of the car and at the scuffs on Carter’s shoes. “Looks like they were shot outside the car and put inside.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Tyler said. “There’s no spatter inside. We’ll scour the area with the K-9’s.”

She stood straight and walked up the hill to the top of the driveway.

Her eyes welled up again when she saw Wolf holding Jack in a bear hug and rocking back and forth, his son trying to escape to no avail. Then she flinched for the second time that morning when a distant wail reached her eardrums.

Wolf had no energy to knock on the door so he pushed the doorbell button.

A full minute later he heard the squeak of wood inside and the clack of locks, and then he saw Burton’s face poke out to greet him.

“Hey.” Burton squinted and rubbed his eyes. “What’s up?”

Wolf took a breath in response.

“Holy shit, boy. What happened to you?”

“Can I come in?”

Burton swallowed and opened the door wide, revealing his full outfit of a muscle T-shirt and boxer shorts. “Sorry. I was just watching TV in bed. I … let me change. You want some coffee?”

Wolf nodded. “Sure.”

“Got one of those single shot dealios in the kitchen. You know how to use it?”

Wolf waved a hand. “I’ll figure it out.”

Burton eyed him warily and then hurried down the hallway.

Without pausing at the entrance to the kitchen Wolf walked to a bright window in the living room and stared out through the streaming droplets. A green ski slope covered in mud, grass, a single strip of snow, and wildflowers meandered up the mountain and disappeared into the mist.

“No coffee?” Burton walked up and studied Wolf. “What’s going on, son?”

“Sarah’s dead.”

“What?” Burton stepped back, bumping into a piece of furniture. “Oh my Go … what happened?”

Wolf stared out the window, now seeing fuzzy shapes as the tears welled. “She was calling me last night. And I ignored her calls.”

Burton put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, rocking Wolf in place.

“Jack …” Wolf sniffed.

“What happened to Jack? Is Jack alright?”

“He’s fine. He’s … fine.” Wolf let the tears stream down his cheeks. “She was shot. She and some other guy that was in town named Carter Willis. Shot in his car.”

Burton’s grip on Wolf’s shoulder was relentless.

“And Jack is so,” Wolf shook his head, “angry. He watched his mother call me last night. He watched her hang up the phone after I wouldn’t answer. He watched …” Wolf clenched his eyes tight and a deluge of tears streamed down his cheeks.

Burton stood silent.

They stood like that for what seemed an hour, until Wolf opened his eyes wide and turned around. “Coffee.”

Burton was glued to his spot near the window, looking at Wolf with sparkling eyes. He sniffed loudly and walked toward the kitchen. “Yeah. Coffee.”

For two cups they sat at the kitchen table without speaking, listening to the drops of rain hit the roof and make their way down the network of gutters outside.

“When’s Cheryl coming home?” Wolf’s voice croaked, like he hadn’t used it in a year.

“Tomorrow.”

Wolf smiled. “Better clean your ass up.”

Burton nodded, sipping his coffee with two hands. “Yep.”

They sat in silence for another few minutes.

Burton looked at him. “What do you need me to do?”

Wolf shook his head. “Nothing. You’re doing it.”

Another minute of silence.

“You need me to apply makeup on that nose?” Burton’s face was deadpan.

Wolf rolled his eyes. “I don’t think Cheryl’s my shade.”

They laughed for a second, and then another flood of emotion poured out of Wolf.

Burton assumed his position as patient shoulder-squeezer.

Successfully pushing away another wave of emotion, Wolf leaned back and took a big breath through his mouth. “Okay. Thanks. I’ve gotta get going.”

“What? No you don’t. Stick around.”

“No. Thanks.” Wolf stood up. “I’ll let you get back to watching your soaps.”

Burton scoffed, but had no retort. His expression steeled. “What happened to your face and head?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Like you said, nothing a little makeup can’t hide.”

Wolf paused in the middle of pushing out his chair and stared at the top of Burton’s hand-carved wood table.

“What?”

Wolf tilted his head and looked at Burton.

“What? What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” But it was
something
. Wolf was sure of it. He stood up and gave Burton a quick hug.

“Where are you going?” Burton asked.

“Home.”

“Good.”

Wolf nodded and walked outside, not even noticing the icy rain that stabbed at his face.