Cold Quarry
Authors: Andy Straka
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery, #General, #Mystery & Detective
B0045JL4M0 EBOK
Straka, Andy
COLD
QUARRY
A Frank Pavlicek Mystery
ANDY
STRAKA
ISBN 978-09841317-6-1
Copyright © Andy Straka, 2010
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.
NOTE:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents cither are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design e-book edition: Mayapriya Long, Bookwrights
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For Bernice Lucille Presnell Straka,
and Orville and Blanche Presnell,
who never forgot the mountain South.
Praise for the Novels of Andy Straka
Cold Quarry
“Frank Pavlicek is a breath of fresh air in the field of private eye fiction—witty, sharp, and flesh-and-blood real. It’s a delight to see him back in action in Andy Straka’s compelling third installment in the the series,
Cold Quarry.”
—Jeffery Deaver,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Vanished Man
and
The Stone Monkey
“I couldn’t put it down! From a single act of murder—a falconer lying dead in the lonely woods of West Virginia—to the highest stakes imaginable in a post-9/11 world, Andy Straka delivers more pure suspense in this book than anything else I’ve read this year. A book this good, and this original, helps remind me why I started reading mysteries in the first place.”
—Steve Hamilton, Edgar Award–winning author of
North of Nowhere
and
Blood Is the Sky
“Cold Quarry
is like the falcons in flight Andy Straka writes so knowledgeably about: soaring, observing, feinting—and then slicing through the sky for the kill. … An intriguing series featuring the likable Frank Pavlicek and the ancient sport of falconry.”
—C. J. Box, author of
Savage Run
“Using falconry as his starting point, Andy Straka has created an intriguing series set in the hills of western Virginia.
Cold Quarry
is his third novel about Frank Pavlicek and he just keeps getting better.”
—Margaret Maron, Edgar Award–winning author of
Slow Dollar
A Killing Sky
“A quickly paced and satisfying novel.”
—
Newport News Daily Press
“Andy Straka has learned something about writing from falconry. His storytelling is as sharp and strong as talons, and once he’s got you in his grip, he never lets go.
A Killing Sky
is sure to confirm his status as one of the rising stars of the mystery genre.”
—Rick Riordan, Edgar Award-winning author of
Cold Springs
“Andy Straka soars to wonderful heights with his latest Pavlicek tale.”
—
Midwest Book Review
“Expert plotting, three-dimensional characters, and a plausible story make
A Killing Sky
soar. … Straka wisely uses Frank’s interest in falconry as a bonus to his solid private detective novel, providing us a good history and knowledge of the sport. By studying birds of prey, Frank has a more astute knowledge of the way humans prey on each other, which Straka expertly weaves into this enjoyable mystery.”
—
South Florida Sun-Sentinel
A Witness Above
Nominated for the Agatha, Anthony,
and Shamus Awards
“A gripping combination of sleuthing and falconry lore.”
—
Albemarle
magazine
“Aside from good writing, an interesting plot, and the unusual aspect of falconry, it’s nice to see someone come along with a new P.I. who is not drowning in wisecracks. Andy Straka has managed to avoid the more obvious clichés of the genre while continuing to pay homage to the conventions of it. This was a goal that many of today’s P.I. writers have failed to achieve. Straka should be proud.”
—Robert J. Randisi, Founder, The Private Eye Writers of America
“An exciting investigative tale [with] an entertaining story line.… The plot never slows.… Frank [Pavlicek] is a strong character. … Andy Straka has introduced a winning new sleuth whose love of falconry adds uniqueness rarely seen in private investigator novels.”
—
Midwest Book Review
“Straka paints a detailed picture of the modem South, which has still not completely escaped its turbulent past. The descriptions are apt, the dialogue is fast-paced, and the plot will keep the reader guessing to the end”
—I Love a Mystery
“The writing is smart and interesting, the dialogue and settings are good … comes [close] to capturing the Robert Parker Spenser formula. The P.I. is a literary man with a hands-off love interest and a semimysterious sidekick.”
—The Mystery Reader
“Quirky character, romantic hobby, twisty plot. … Straka writes a good novel. He sees and shows the detail. His writing style is clean, at times lyrical. … Chances are [he] has a winner.”
—C-Ville Weekly
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks are especially due to Genny Ostertag, my editor at NAL, whose suggestions, as always, have helped turn this into a much better book. And to my agent, Sheree Bykofsky, for her continued guidance and support.
Author Deborah Prum, former NSIS Agent Bob Brackett, and falconer Lee Chichester kindly offered their expert input on the manuscript as well. I’d also like to thank Ed Clark of the Wildlife Center of Virginia for his ideas; Officer Mike Pridemore and the Charleston, West Virginia Police Department for letting me ride along on patrol; Joan McClanahan, Nitro city recorder, and Bryan Casto of the Nitro Fire Department for pointing me in the right direction and supplying information about the history of the town; and Doug Gellman of Blue Ridge Mountain Sports for providing information about handheld GPS systems.
Last but not least, my family deserves the greatest thanks for putting up with the long hours and preoccupation of a novelist husband and father. Writing may be a solitary pursuit, but it is never performed in a vacuum. Their love and support make it all worthwhile.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Charleston area residents will observe that I have taken a few minor liberties with West Virginia geography, and with a few locations, in particular through the creation of the fictional KBCX television station and Balthazar Hotel. As always, all names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Prologue
There is a light that sharpens the hunt during darkest winter, a delicate radiance belonging as much to the earth as to the sky. After dawn, it clings to the trees like some corporeal messenger. Remember the stark reality of cold possibilities, it says, black memory, the frozen echoes of hollowed-out veins beneath the ground.
The old man remembered.
“Ee-lo-y-lo-y-lo,” he cried. Neither the earth nor the sky offered an answer; Elo was gone.
The man faced the gathering of a gray emptiness above, straining for a glimpse of his falcon, but saw nothing: no dot above the horizon swelling with approaching speed; no twirling air dance to materialize on the wind. There’d been no response to his whistle either. His gyrperegrine must have jumped the ridge, caught sight of a mallard maybe on the state-land pond on the far side of the slope. The faint telemetry signal from his receiver appeared to be coming from there.
Other sounds seem to come to him on the wind. Footfalls? Motors? Or just a distant highway? For a few moments, the old man had the distinct impression he was being watched. Something to do with Elo? Something to do with the illness that had affected his bird not so long ago?
No, he decided, pushing the thought from his mind. This time, at least, he was dealing with nothing more than a falcon off on a lark.
He pictured the duck again, high wheeling as it took to the air over the pond. In his mind’s eye, he watched Elo overtake the slower-flying bird. The falcon, falling in its lightning stoop, would have jackhammered the bigger bird with its talons, ending the mallard’s life instantly, then would have broken away to recover from the force of the strike, before swooping down again to gather in its prey from the air.
The falconer was sorry he might have missed the show. Not sorry to have missed the killing part, because he’d seen enough of it in the past, but sorry to have missed the culmination of the bird’s graceful exit from his stoop. Sorry his sixty-seven-year-old hip, the one he’d injured in Korea, had begun to bother him again. Sorry because he understood whenever you allowed a captive falcon to fly free, if the wrong circumstance developed, the bird’s bond to you could break without warning. It had happened to him before.
“C’mon, Chester, ya idiot. Let’s get it goin’,” he said out loud to himself.
He willed himself uphill through a stand of burdocks that stuck to his clothing, fighting against the weariness, ignoring the troublesome doubt that the prostate cancer he had already beaten once might be attempting to book a return engagement.
There was snow today along the ridgelines running back from the river. Not much, just a dusting. Damn hard drought. The pond beyond the slope might be dried up or frozen, in which case there would be no ducks there, only dry yellow reeds stuck like frozen hair to its icy surface.
This was not the terrain for a longwing hunter. They’d started a half mile away where the forest had been cleared and opened to an adjoining acreage of pasture. Here, the trees closed in, cutting his bird’s line of sight.
With a grunt he crested the hill and stepped up into a cold slap of wind. He took in the scene on the other side.
More forest. A sharp-topped rock of a hill rising into the distance above a slushy brown puddle, a pitiful excuse for a pond. He put his hand to his brow and scanned the sky and the tree line once more, looking for Elo, but all he saw were a pair of mourning doves, dropping to alight in a distant bracken.
B-deep, b-de-e-ep.
Good news. The signal from the telemetry receiver sounded loud and clear. Wherever Elo had gotten himself to it must be on this side of the hill. The old man tweaked the dial on the unit then held the yagi aloft like a personal television antenna to see if he could get an exact bearing.
