Nailed (38 page)

Chapter 49

Didi DuPree. Colin Ring. Jimmy Thunder. Texas Jack Telford.

Those were the names of the men among whom Ron expected to find the killer of Isaac Cardwell. If he was overlooking someone, he’d have to give himself a kick in the ass to think who it could be. Which in a manner of speaking was just what he intended to do.

He was going to look again at the tree to which Isaac Cardwell had been nailed. Look at it, not in the hope of finding new evidence, but simply to review the setting. To see if it would suggest which of his suspects had committed the crime. To see if he could imagine which of those men had driven the nails through Isaac Cardwell’s flesh and into the lightning-struck tree.

To get to the tree from the Shipton house, Ron had to take Highway 99, the road that would lead him across the Tightrope. Ron didn’t have the same dread about the Tightrope that Oliver did, but he maintained a healthy respect about crossing the narrow, guard rail free length of blacktop.

You wanted to make sure your tires, brakes and suspension were in good working order before you ventured out upon this particular stretch of road. A mechanical failure here would be more than costly. A twitch in an arm or leg muscle wouldn’t be a real good idea, either. And forget about sneezing.

Of course, you could manage your end of things just fine, and a sudden stiff crosswind might still send you sailing. But Ron figured that would be a case of your number being up, and if that happened you could be at home in bed and you were still going to check out.

The chief’s philosophical detachment was put to the Tightrope’s most severe test when, just after he’d begun his crossing, a semi-tractor rig appeared around the curve in the oncoming lane. The huge truck took up every bit of its own side of the road, and the overhang of its trailer intruded into Ron’s lane. Not much. But on the Tightrope you didn’t want to yield a millimeter of ground.

The two vehicles
crept
toward each other. Tectonic plates moved faster. Ron saw the trucker staring fixedly at an imaginary point in the center of his lane. Guiding his vehicle as if it were on a rail. Beads of sweat stood out on the man’s forehead. The truck driver knew he had to take it slow, but a high-profile rig like his provided a much bigger target for a gust of wind than a car.

Small comfort for Ron. If a strong wind caught the far side of the truck while it was passing his car, they would both go over the edge.

Several moments — and lifetimes — later the front bumper of each vehicle broke the same plane. Now they were creeping past each other. As the trailer of the rig approached, Ron thought for sure he was going to lose his left sideview mirror. He was perfectly prepared to let it go. There wasn’t a hair’s-breadth of roadway to his right.

But when he came abreast of the trailer, the mirror wasn’t snapped off — only its finish was removed. In a long screeching banshee wail that seemed to go on forever, the mirror’s housing was abraded by the aluminum body of the trailer. Oliver would have had a heart attack.

By the time an eternity passed and the vehicles finally cleared one another, Ron’s nerves weren’t exactly rock-steady, either.

The chief eased his patrol unit toward the center of the road to give himself some breathing room. Then, looking to his left at the staggering vista of mountains and lake he was now able to appreciate, he was struck by a sudden insight. He immediately moved his unit to the dead center of the pavement and came to a complete stop. Checking his rear view mirror to make sure the semi had cleared the Tightrope, and no other vehicles had moved onto it, he turned on his emergency lights.

Even from this position of relative safety, he exited his vehicle carefully. He stepped as close to the town side drop-off as he dared and looked down. Far, far below were the pointed tops of countless evergreens. Not far beyond the stands of trees were houses and a road. Diamond Bay Road. Where the Reeses lived. Where the bloody hammer had been found.

Now Ron understood that the killer had nailed Isaac Cardwell to the tree, driven up to the Tightrope and flung the hammer over the side. He had every right to expect it would never be found. If he’d thought to throw it over the wilderness side dropoff, he’d undoubtedly have been right. But in the dark, when the killing had occurred, and presumably somewhat agitated by having committed murder, the perp must have failed to make the distinction.

Ron got back in his patrol unit, switched off the lights, and made his way off the Tightrope before any other vehicle came along.

It was a small lead, to be sure. But the discovery made Ron feel lucky. Like the breaks would be coming his way now. One around each bend in the road.

As Ron came around the bend in the road where he and Oliver Gosden had discovered the body of Isaac Cardwell, he saw something so outrageous he felt like he’d just been hit in the gut by a heavyweight left hook.

Four teenage boys, all of them white, but one in blackface, were re-enacting the murder. The boy in blackface was being “crucified” by the other three. Everyone involved, including the “victim,” was laughing uproariously. They thought the whole thing was hilarious.

Ron was infuriated.

He pulled up on the wrong side of the road in a screech of tortured rubber. He flicked on his lights and sirens, and was out of the car with his riot gun in hand.

The boys froze for a second when they realized what was happening. Then they started to scatter. Except for the kid in blackface, who was tied to the tree.

Ron fired a round into the air and roared, “Police! Stop and drop!”

There was no arguing with that voice of command, not punctuated as it was with gunfire. The three boys immediately fell to their faces with their hands stretched out. The kid tied to the tree raised his hands, but he wouldn’t meet Ron’s eyes.

“Stay right where you are,” Ron ordered. “God help you if any of you moves a muscle.”

Without taking his eyes off them, the chief made his way back to his car. He called for a back-up unit, and told the dispatcher to advise the responding officers to make sure they had four pairs of handcuffs. And for Sergeant Stanley to be prepared to book four juvenile offenders.

His instructions were spoken loudly enough to produce moans and sobbing among the boys.

Ron looked at the yellow crime scene tape that had been knocked down. Now, even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to look for any further evidence. The area had been tainted. It had never occurred to him that he’d need to post officers to protect the integrity of the site.

He was angry at himself for that oversight. But right now his wrath was focused outward.

In a hard, chilling voice he said, “I’m going to charge the four of you with trespassing on a crime scene. If the DA will go along with it, we’ll look into obstruction of justice charges. I don’t know if the FBI would consider this a hate crime, but I’ll check with them, too.”

All four teenagers were sobbing now.

“If any of you has a criminal record, you’re going to be looking at jail time. If you don’t, you’ll probably get probation, but you’ll have established a criminal record for yourself. And, without a doubt, you and your parents will have a very unpleasant meeting with Mayor Steadman. Don’t be surprised if he comes up with some punishment for you that would make jail seem like a pleasant alternative.”

Ron wondered if Clay would go along with the idea of having these four cretins pilloried. He had to repress a laugh. Of course, he would. He’d probably make them build their own stocks.

A patrol unit arrived within minutes. Nobody got a response time like the chief of police. It was one of the perks of the job. The four teenagers were cuffed and packed into the caged back seat of the patrol car. Ron gave orders for them to be booked and their parents to be called. But they were not to be released until he got back to headquarters.

When he was alone again, he tried to calm his mind, douse his emotions. He looked at the dead tree. Now it was the site of two crucifixions: one real, one symbolic. Both profane. Both carried out on that ugly as sin stalagmite of decomposing wood, standing there in malignant contrast to all the vibrant, fragrant evergreens around it.

Damn thing ought to be cut down.

Unable to clear the stark image of the burlesque crucifixion from his mind, Ron got back in his unit and drove off. What he’d just seen made him think how graphically gruesome the real thing must have been: Isaac Cardwell, a living man, being nailed to a dead tree.

The epiphany that came from that thought hit Ron so hard he almost ran his car into the side of the mountain: a brand new idea of who the killer could be.

Who the killer
had
to be.

Someone who had been right in front of him the whole time.

Doing his subtle best to mislead Ron.

But the charred tree itself was the most compelling evidence.

Chapter 50

The chief called Sergeant Stanley into his office as soon as he returned to headquarters.

“What do you have for me on that nail I asked you to track down?” Ron asked.

“Five retail outlets in town sell that kind of nail, Chief. Two hardware stores, two home improvement centers, and a lumber yard.” Stanley gave Ron the names and addresses of all five businesses. “Locating the stores was the easy part … and, I’m sorry to say, if you still think Texas Jack is your man, a guy at the lumber yard remembers him buying building materials, including nails, two weeks ago.”

Ron saw the look of dismay on Caz Stanley’s face. The sergeant didn’t want to believe Texas Jack could be the killer.

“Do all the stores have surveillance cameras?” the chief asked.

“Three out of five,” the sergeant replied. “I thought of that, too. I asked the stores not to erase anything. But I haven’t picked up any DVDs from their security systems yet.”

“Have somebody do it right away, Sarge. And one more thing: tell Benny Marx to finish any evidence gathering work he has to do on Colin Ring’s computer and notebooks first thing. I want to read everything the man wrote about Jimmy Thunder.”

Sergeant Stanley saluted and was about to leave when he remembered something. He took a small envelope out of his shirt pocket.

“I almost forgot, Chief,” he said, handing the envelope over. “This came express mail this morning for you.”

It was from Charmaine Cardwell. The copy of the letter she’d received from her dead husband.

“Thanks, Sarge. That’ll be all for now.”

Sergeant Stanley closed the chief’s door on his way out.

Ron opened the envelope. There was no note to him enclosed, only a photocopy of the letter he’d discussed with Isaac Cardwell’s widow yesterday. Out of necessity, but with more than a little regret, he read the whole thing. It was, as Charmaine Cardwell had said, very personal and deeply moving, the heartfelt words of a man who had loved his wife and child.

Reading Isaac Cardwell’s letter made Ron feel both deeply sad and profoundly angry that such a good man had been taken so brutally from his family. This couple should have been allowed to grow old together, to raise their son and any other child they might have had, to see their grandchildren being born and their posterity secured.

Ron moved on to the passage that was most relevant to him now:

I think my father could be in real jeopardy. There’s someone close to him, someone unlikely to arouse his suspicions, who may mean to do him harm or even kill him. I cannot imagine that it is only coincidence that has brought this man so close to my father.

Hearing those words yesterday only made Ron wonder whom Isaac had been writing about; seeing them today made him more certain than ever he knew who the killer was.

Now, he had to find out
why
the killer had struck, why he’d chosen Isaac Cardwell for his victim. He was about to go out looking for answers when his secretary buzzed him.

“Yes, Dinah?”

“Chief, there’s a Marcus Martin here. He’d like to know if you could see him.”

Corrie Knox and Oliver Gosden followed the mountain lion’s tracks for a mile into the forest. Over the last hundred yards of that distance, the animal had dragged the body of its victim, leading Corrie to wonder if the animal had grown tired of carrying its burden. That would be consistent with her idea that they were dealing with an older cat.

The mountain lion had cached the mortal remains of Didi DuPree between a sugar pine and a large boulder. Corrie carefully removed the soil, leaves and branches with which the animal had covered its leftovers. Didi was not a pretty sight.

Both arms were gone, as was the left leg. Didi had been eviscerated, and the cat had packed his chest cavity with dirt to preserve the meat. Didi’s head was still aligned with his shoulders but was separated from them by twelve inches, and his face had been torn off.

The intermediate scavengers such as coyotes and crows had yet to sup, but legions of bugs were having their turn at the killer turned coldcut.

Corrie rose and kept her rifle levelled. Oliver had his handgun extended. The safeties of both weapons were off. They both sensed the mountain lion was nearby. A big predator didn’t stray far from the prey it had taken until
all
the food it could consume was gone.

The game warden and the deputy chief looked carefully in every direction — including up — to make sure they were not the next entrees on the menu at the Fang ‘n’ Claw Cafe.

They listened to the sounds of the forest as closely as their hearing would permit.

As for their sense of smell, they tried their best to ignore it.

“I do believe Mr. DuPree’s getting a bit ripe,” Oliver said. “Must’ve forgotten his deodorant or something. I think we’d better get his sorry ass tagged and bagged.”

The deputy chief used his portable radio to summon help to remove the body. The overworked, overanxious Benny Marx showed up thirty minutes later with two other cops, Dr. Ryman, and two attendants from the morgue at Community Hospital. Benny photographed the scene. Dr. Ryman declared the life and times of Didi DuPree to be at an end. The attendants loaded Didi’s available parts into a bag and carried it away. Soon, Corrie and Oliver were left to resume their hunt.

The deputy chief took his cigarette lighter out of his pocket. He was about to start flicking the top open and shut when he saw Corrie looking at him. He put it back in his pocket.

“The sonofabitch beat it for a while when the crowd was here,” the deputy chief said of the mountain lion. “You feel that?”

“Yeah.”

“But now he’s back.”

“Unh-huh,” Corrie agreed.

“I hate this shit.”

“Hasn’t been my favorite hunt, either.”

Then they moved off carefully through the trees, following the lion’s tracks. Not that they entertained any great hope of killing the animal that day. Or even sighting it. But simply waiting in place for the lion to show itself was too frustrating. Too damn scary, too.

Guns and all, standing still made them feel like a pair of sacrificial lambs.

Ron figured Marcus Martin had to want something from him. He thought it was too damn bad the sonofabitch didn’t wear a hat. He’d have loved to see Marcus come through his door with one in his hand.

He knew Marcus hadn’t come to threaten or bluster. If that had been the case, the lawyer would have
demanded
to see the chief. No, he was here to ask a favor. It was always sweet to see your enemies humbled, Ron thought, but right now he didn’t have time.

So, as soon as the lawyer sat down in a guest chair, the chief asked in a neutral tone, “What do you want?”

“Reverend Thunder is in danger,” Martin said, being equally blunt.

“From whom?”

“A criminal named Didi DuPree, and one of the reverend’s own associates, Deacon Meeker.”

The chief was pleased to hear that the news of DuPree’s horrific demise had yet to become common knowledge.

“Why is Reverend Thunder associating with a criminal?” Ron wanted to know.

“I can’t answer that.”

“You mean you
won’t
answer,” Ron countered. The two men stared at each other. Martin looked away first. The chief moved on. “Why can’t he simply dismiss the deacon?”

“He’s in fear for his life.”

“Have you heard any direct threat to that effect? You know, something that would stand up in court.”

Marcus Martin knew he was being mocked. He’d expected as much. But he’d come to achieve a goal and he meant to do it.

“I’ve heard threats of blackmail. Attempts to coerce the reverend to participate in a criminal enterprise,” the lawyer explained.

Which was just what Gayle Shipton had told Ron earlier that day.

“Blackmail’s painful, but usually not lethal,” the chief said. “And, by the way, did Jimmy go along with the plan?”

“He did not.”

“That’s when you heard the death threat?”

“It was implicit,” Martin hissed.

Ron nodded. “I believe you. But proving it could be tricky. You know how defense lawyers are.”

“Are you going to help or not?” Marcus Martin demanded.

Ron watched his lifelong nemesis practically quiver in righteous indignation.

“Cops are handy people to have around when you need them, aren’t they, Marcus? Even me.” Ron got up. He’d spent too much time already jerking the lawyer’s chain. “Come on. Let’s go see the reverend. There’s something I want to ask him anyway.”

“What?” Martin asked defensively.

“You gonna play lawyer games at the same time you’re pleading for help, Marcus?”

Marcus Martin insisted on knowing what Ron wanted to ask Jimmy Thunder.

When Ron told him, the lawyer couldn’t find a single reason to object.

Except that he couldn’t figure out what Ron was up to.

On the way to Ron’s car, the chief and Marcus Martin ran into Lauren and Daniel Gosden. Greetings were exchanged. Ron was even civil enough to introduce Marcus Martin.

“Oliver’s not here,” Ron explained to Lauren. “He’s out on duty.”

“I know,” Lauren said in a tone of mock disapproval. “You sent him out into the woods with a young blonde.”

“It’s okay,” the chief replied. “She only has eyes for me.”

“Why, Ron Ketchum. You dog.”

Marcus Martin cleared his throat. He wanted to get going.

Lauren turned and gave him a look that guaranteed no interruptions from him for at least the next five minutes. But she got down to business.

“I wanted to talk to you, anyway, Ron. You heard about Daniel’s problem yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we got that all worked out. And since Oliver told me how much you liked my last button, Daniel wanted to give you my new one.”

Lauren looked down at her son, who was still laboring under the weight of lessons recently learned. He raised his eyes to Ron and extended his arms to be picked up. Ron obliged.

“This is it,” Daniel said, showing the button to the chief. If featured a picture of Lauren as a toddler, taking her first steps, with her older, and white, brother and sister each holding one of her hands. All three children were beaming. Beneath the image were the words:
Mitigate Your Hate.
Daniel asked, “Where should I put it, Uncle Ron?”

“Right here. Straight across from my badge.” Ron helped the boy pin the button to his shirt. Then Daniel gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Would you like one, Mr. Martin?” Lauren asked. She had a plastic bag filled with buttons.

“Of course,” he said. He pinned the button to the lapel of his suit.

He was far too shrewd to do anything else.

Lauren said she planned to distribute the buttons at Community Hospital, and she asked Ron if it would be all right if his officers wore them, too. He said sure. Have Sergeant Stanley make them available to anybody who wanted one.

Then he put Danny down, said goodbye, and he and Marcus Martin went to his patrol unit.

Ron looked at their matching buttons and said, “Looks like we’re finally members of the same team, huh Marcus?”

The lawyer took his button off and put it in his pocket.