Cold Quarry (29 page)

And the younger brother, either too stoned or too scared, obliged. “Yeah, man. What the hell else you think?”

“Matt! Shut the fuck up!”

“Jesus H. Christ, mister,” the girl was saying. “Maybe you should call the FBI or something.” She had pulled her blouse completely back on now. “I want you two bastards out of this house, now.”

“Who killed Carew?” I asked.

“We don’t know.”

I squeezed off another round into the couch, coming a little closer to Matt’s leg than I’d intended.

“Shit, man! What are you, crazy?”

“I’m calling the cops.” The girl made a move toward the kitchen.

“Not yet,” I told her. “Who killed Chester Carew?”

“We don’t know who killed him and that’s the God’s truth, ain’t it, Caleb?”

Caleb said nothing. I finally turned the long gun toward him.

“You had specific instructions,” I said. Higgins was worried about something. “What were they?”

The older brother smiled and shook his head.

“Oh, who gives a fuck anymore, Caleb? Tell the man so we can get the hell out of here before the cops show up. He was looking for that other bird man who was always with the old guy who got shot. The one who’s been training us how to track the birds and all.”

“You talk too much for your own godamned good. You’ve always talked too much,” his older brother admonished him.

“Another falconer? Which one?” I asked.

“Farraday.” So there it was.

“Does Higgins think he’s the one who killed Carew?” I suddenly remembered Toronto’s theory about a second person being present at Chester’s killing.

“Matt,” Caleb said.

He ignored him. “Either him or the guy he works for.”

“So he works for someone else?”

“Yeah. That’s what I heard.”

“And who is the guy he works for?”

“Matt!”

“Mister. I’m telling you the truth. I ain’t got a clue. Why don’t you go ask Higgins or Warnock?”

“But why would Farraday murder Carew? Did Chester know he was helping you people learn to track the birds?”

“No way, man. The old guy showed up with that other guy at a couple of meetings. But we never talk about the shit that is really going on at the meetings. Only a few of us are in on it. We’re like a round table—knights.”

They were knights all right. Knights of darkness.

“You’re blowing our whole operation!” Caleb screamed at him. “We’re dead, you keep talking, you little fuck. Don’t you know that?”

“Shit,” his brother yelled back, “you just talked too. We may be dead already, anyway. I showed you how my hands was shaking.” He held up his young hands and they both were trembling—more than just a fear-inspired kind of trembling, these were minor spasms.

“Oh, God, get out!” one of the girls screamed. “You bastards have brought some kind of poison shit into my house.”

“Relax,” I said. “If they’d brought it here, we’d all be dead or getting ill by now.”

“It’s not contagious?”

“No.” I hoped I was telling the truth, but whether I was or not, it was a moot point. I looked again at Matt. “You two have been doing some testing, handling vials of some kind of chemicals with those pigeons, right?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’ve always worn protective clothing, masks and everything when you’re handling this stuff, right?”

He nodded.

“Will you people please leave my house? I’m gonna call the cops. This whole thing is scaring me shitless,” the girl said. The second girl, who’d managed to pull up her pants and rebutton them, was now crying, slumped against the wall in the corner.

“Okay, fellas,” I said. “Time to go. Get your shirts on and get out of here.”

“What, you mean you’re just going to let us go?” Matt Connors looked with wide eyes at his older brother. “I need help, man. I mean, I’m tired of handling all this toxic shit. Maybe I’m sick. I want to go to a hospital.”

“Then get in your car and drive straight there,” I advised him.

He looked at Caleb as if he didn’t quite trust that would happen.

“C’mon. You heard what I said. Now, move.” I gestured with the Mossberg.

They slowly wrestled their shirts over their heads. Caleb stared at me with a renewed hatred as he stood and his younger brother struggled to his feet.

I took a step to the side, swinging the gun directly toward him. “Don’t even think about it,” I said.

“What about this grass, man?” He gestured toward their bong and the other drug paraphernalia. “This shit all belongs to us.”

“Take it, and get out of here.”

“Hey, you’re just going to let these idiots leave?” the girl protested.

Caleb smirked at me. “Thanks, asshole.”

They scooped up their belongings and headed out the front door. I watched them down the sidewalk and into the GTO before I lowered the shotgun. Their back tires bounced over the curb backing up and they burned rubber tearing off down the street.

I’d already committed the plate to memory. The cops and the FBI could figure out the rest. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911.

“Like to report a possible DWI,” I said.

Snoopy wouldn’t get far.

32

“I finally got it, Dad.” Nicole’s voice, through the cell phone, hovered somewhere between excitement and horror.

“Are you still at Priscilla’s?” I was on MacCorkle Avenue headed out of South Charleston toward St. Albans and Farraday’s place. It was coming on to nine o’clock and though I might be late for my rendezvous with Higgins and Warnock, I’d decided to focus, for the moment at least, on Farraday.

“Yes. But I’m just about to leave to drive out to you.”

“What have you got?”

“Damon Farraday’s real name is Drew Slinger.”

“Really.”

“And get this: he has a criminal record a half a sheet long.”

“What is he, some kind of right-wing militia extremist?”

“No! You won’t believe it. He spent time in jail for several acts of sabotage against lumber and mining companies. He was also one of the leaders arrested at the protest riots during the finance meetings in Seattle a couple of years ago. Apparently, he subscribes to a more left-wing agenda.”

“Why in the world would he be involved with the Stonewall Rangers then?” I asked.

“Good question. Are you sure he’s working with them?”

“I just got further confirmation that he is. I’m on my way to try to find him now.”

“Be careful, Dad. Priscilla helped me come up with the info on Slinger’s record. She also made a couple of phone calls … and get this, Slinger was let out of jail early with the help of the ATF. Plus, she said to tell you that the ATF and FBI are working in West Virginia with a man named Colonel Goyne—Patrick Goyne. He’s ex-CIA and apparently a whole host of other things.”

“Gotta be the guy Toronto was talking about. I guess Priscilla didn’t tell you how she came up with all that information.”

“She said don’t ask.”

“No other names? Just Farraday and Patrick Goyne?”

“That’s it.”

“Great job, honey. This helps close the loop on things. A lot.”

“Have you found out any more about Jake’s situation?”

“A little, but it’s not necessarily good. He escaped federal custody.”

“He what? Where is he? Have you talked to him?”

“No. I just talked to Betty Carew awhile ago and he hasn’t shown up there either.”

“What do you want me to do now?”

“Go to the Carews’ in Nitro and wait there until you hear from me. I’m going to try to find Farraday and haul him down to talk to the lead ATF agent on this whole deal. That ought to be interesting.”

There was silence on the phone for a moment.

Then Nicole said in a much softer voice, “Dad, maybe you should wait for me to get there. I mean, for backup and everything.”

“I’ll be all right, Nicky.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. You go on to Nitro. I’ll call you in a couple of hours if not before.”

“Okay,” she said. “Just be careful.”

“Hey, do you remember when you were a little girl, what I used to sing to you when you were scared at night?”

“Sweet Baby James,
right?”

“Yeah,
Sweet Baby James.
Hang in there, Sweet Baby.”

“Sure, Dad … love you.”

The connection clicked off.

I had Stinger’s a.k.a. Farraday’s address, a house on a quiet residential street backed by fields, but as it turned out, I wouldn’t need to go all the way to the residence. His old Scout was just pulling down to the next intersection, a block away from his place, as I rounded the corner by his home. He turned on to the cross street and I followed.

I shadowed him from a distance for several miles, onto the interstate and all the way back into the city. He seemed in no hurry. We took the 119 Robert Byrd Freeway exit and wound our way up into Charleston’s South Hills, a world away from Washington Street and the west end. Tony Warnock’s neighborhood. Now wasn’t this interesting? Maybe I wouldn’t be so late for my appointment with him and Higgins after all.

In a neighborhood of expensive homes, I cut my lights at the curb and watched from around the corner as the Scout drove into the driveway of a stately plantation-style house. Even from a distance I could see it sported brightly lit landscaping, a three-car garage, and an in-ground pool that had been covered over for the winter. And there was another vehicle in the driveway: Warnock’s Lincoln Navigator. Farraday climbed out of his vehicle, walked up to the front door, and entered without knocking.

I thought about hauling the shotgun up to the door with me again, but in this neighborhood I decided I was better off sticking with handguns that could be concealed. I left my car and cut across the neighbors’ lawns to the back of Warnock’s residence. I moved in the shadow of the pool house toward the back patio, beyond which I could see lights blazing in a sunken living room. The room was empty, but I could hear classical music playing from somewhere, Tchaikovsky I thought.

All at once, a side door leading from the kitchen to the driveway flew open and Farraday came out hurrying toward the garage. He went to the side and pushed a button. I could hear one of the heavy garage doors begin to open. A moment later I caught the scent of exhaust smoke, and when the door stopped moving on its rollers, the purring of a car engine’s idle floated through the air.

“Oh, Christ,” I heard Farraday exclaim. He entered the garage, a car door clicked open, and it sounded as if he were fumbling with something. A few seconds later, he came back out, walking quickly, with a large canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He went to Warnock’s Navigator, opened the driver’s door, heaved the large bag inside, jumped in, and backed out of the driveway.

As he roared off down the street, I took off running, detouring around the front of the garage on the way back to my car. There was no doubt about what was inside. Tony Warnock’s dead body slumped in the seat of a silver Mercedes coupe, its engine still running. A pack of what looked like hundred-dollar bills that must have fallen from the bag Farraday took also lay on the pavement next to the car. I moved in to check on Warnock. No pulse. He’d been dead for some time. I also noticed a contusion the size of a dime behind his left ear.

Suicide? That’d be up to the M.E. to decide.

I needed to stay on Farraday’s tail. Leaving Warnock, I raced to my car.

Back in the Buick, I made a quick three-point turn and floored it toward the entrance to the luxury subdivision. I caught sight of the Navigator’s taillights ahead, just as they turned onto the highway. I followed, still careful to stay at a distance, although Farraday seemed to be in much more of a hurry now.

I pulled out my cell phone and punched in the number for Agent Grooms. He answered his cell on the third ring.

“Agent Grooms?”

“Ahh, the man of the hour. You know I’ve just been sitting here twiddling my thumbs since you hung up on me. Got nothing else to do, you know. Have you managed to screw anything else up for us since we last talked, Frank?”

“You and your people must not be too happy with me at the moment,” I said.

“That would be the understatement of the decade so far. This is your final warning, Pavlicek. You’re interfering with a federal investigation. …” He went on, but I cut him off.

“Listen, I was just up at Tony Warnock’s house in the South Hills. Warnock’s dead in his car in the garage. He either committed suicide or someone tried to make it look like he did.”

“What? What are you, a shit collector? Dead bodies seem to have a habit of following you around.”

“Right now I’m following Damon Farraday, whose real name, as I’m sure you know, is Drew Slinger.”

“Where are you? And how do you know about Farraday?”

“How do I know I can trust you, Grooms? Why are you people working with someone like Farraday?”

He said nothing.

“Who is Colonel Patrick Goyne? He’s the guy who’s helping you sting the Stonewall Rangers, isn’t he?”

“You know I can’t … if you would just come down here or tell us where you are we can help each other.”

“The way you helped Jake?”

“That’s not fair, that’s—”

“Do you know where he is?” I asked.

“Who? Toronto? No.”

“Me either.”

“Maybe, just maybe, Pavlicek, this means you should go back to investigating accident scenes or taping lustful husbands, or whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing instead of investigating terrorists.”

I said nothing, concentrated on keeping the Navigator in sight.

“We’re on top of this situation, believe me. The last thing we need is you going around talking to more people. Pretty soon we’ll have some kind of panic on our hands. Don’t try to be a cowboy, Pavlicek. You need backup.”

“I do have backup.” I checked my side mirror as I switched the phone to my other hand and changed lanes. “I just don’t know exactly what he’s doing right now.”

“You’re only making things worse for yourself,” he said.

“Oh, by the way. When you go to Warnock’s, make sure you have your people keep a lookout for any more money. I saw a stray pack of hundreds lying around and Farraday’s carrying around an oversized canvas bag I’d just bet is full of cash.”