Last Track, The (3 page)

When he rose to his feet he was breathing heavily.

“Sean wears glasses,” Mike said.

Her next statement told him he was correct. “How can you possibly know that?”

“It’s just what I see. What I see isn’t always complete.”

“That’s not something they teach in the military, is it?”

“The training helped.” He doubted she would believe him if he told her he had always seen things he couldn’t explain.

“Okay, then. So what do you think happened with the body?” asked Lisbeth. She removed a few photographs from the manila envelope and held the picture side toward her. She mentioned nothing about them.

“Any chance the first officer on the scene is here?” asked Mike.

“That would be me.” The answer came from Dagget, the same officer Lisbeth had scolded earlier. He wore a squared-off crew cut shaved down to the scalp on the sides: trooper style.

“Is this about where the body was?” Mike asked, pointing to a T-configuration he had marked toward the right half of the clearing.

Dagget shrugged. “It’s hard to be certain. The lighting is different now. Might have been.”

“Now, any chance he was on the short side, a little stocky? Probably had a paunch, over two hundred pounds. When you found him, he was face down on his stomach, head facing the left, cheek in the dirt. He had a goatee or a beard. Long red hair, tied up in a ponytail. Right arm wedged under his chest, left arm out at his side.” Mike fired the details off like a grocery list, emotionless yet severe.

Dagget’s startled expression told Mike he was near the mark, far closer than the officer had expected. “Possibly. I really didn’t spend a lot of time with the corpse,” said Dagget.

Mike believed Dagget, though he doubted the sentiment was mutual.

“What else do you see, Mike?” asked Lisbeth. With an eye on Mike, she studied the photographs—the pictures from the hunter’s cell phone.

“The killer took the shell casings and left. Your corpse wasn’t dragged away by a mountain lion or coyotes. No traces of either animal here, no scat, no prints. It was moved by humans. Same ones who sprayed down all the blood with ammonia.”

“The killer came back afterward?” asked Lisbeth.

“Almost,” said Mike. “I believe two different people moved the body.”

“So one killed the man, the other moved . . .”

“No,” Mike said. “I mean two different people besides the killer, as in addition.”

“Three?” Her eyebrows shot up, and she shook her head in doubt.

“There are enough differences among the various tracks to indicate three different individuals. Your gunman, and then two more who moved the body shortly afterward.”

Lisbeth spoke. “Okay, we’ll keep that in mind. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Yes,” Mike said. “You suspect Dagget is involved somehow.”

Dagget grunted. “Who the hell does this guy think he is, accusing me?” Dagget said with a snarl. He spewed his petulance like an explosion.

“Mike,” Lisbeth spoke over Dagget. “Please finish.”

“Dagget is not one of the two men who moved the body,” Mike said.

The other police officers glanced at one another. Mike thought that their expressions could have indicated anything. Maybe they disliked him. From a political standpoint, he probably said the wrong things. Mike would never know for certain. He could not. What he suspected: they planned to discuss the matter further and they wanted him gone.

He collected his lighting gear and excused himself.

“If you plan to leave the ranch,” Lisbeth said, “check with me first.”

09:45:41 PM

For Crotty, one of the big drawbacks of firearms was residue. Pulling the trigger was definitely easier than watching a life disappear at the other end—each time it took a little more gin afterward to bury that memory.

But firing a gun spewed black powder on everything. On the barrel, slide and trigger, inside the chamber, into the air and onto the shooter’s body and clothes—the umbrella of discharge covered a far larger area than simply the target. And a single granule bound the shooter to the crime. So dealing with that residue was a task no professional approached lightly. He tackled the problem with both calculation and experience. He never took shortcuts.

After carrying out David St. John’s grisly, yet unavoidable execution in the woods, Crotty drove home in his late-model gray sedan. Other than a squeak in the front disk brakes, the vehicle was unremarkable, forgotten by pedestrians and motorists alike in moments. Just as he intended.

The car reflected a deeper purpose. First, it was reliable. Modest, economical, and while not cheap, no enthusiast lusted for this ride. He rejected flashy cars because the Partner craved them so. The Partner wanted everything bigger, louder, greater than it was. Meanwhile, Crotty worked behind the scenes and got things done, however ugly. Things like David’s termination were certainly ugly. At least that part was over. Back at home, Crotty focused on the cleanup; it was better than thinking about what happened in the woods.

Stripping, he stood on the linoleum-tiled floor in the laundry room, and piled clothes on the machine. The windows were frosted, the flooring warm. He set the wash to extra hot, then dumped in a mixture of scented detergent and bleach. The dial crackled like the gears on a carnival ride. Letting the water rise halfway, he then arranged the clothes around the agitator evenly and shut the door.

After rinsing his hands and forearms three times in lemon juice, he slid on a pair of surgeon-grade latex gloves. While the laundry churned, he disassembled the Glock 17 on a pile of week-old newspapers spread across a card table. He cleaned the weapon with a bore cleaner and solvent, scrubbing the slide and chamber. With a dowel wrapped in emery cloth, he scraped inside the barrel, then dunked the metal cylinder in solvent. He allowed the cleaning solution to dry on the barrel. He wrapped it in plastic, ditched the gloves, and washed his hands in lemon juice again. His eyes returned to the Glock 17. He worked a different barrel into the frame, a well-used one that had seen a few thousand rounds at the firing range. For each gun in his collection, he kept a half dozen extra barrels around to frustrate ballistics analysis.

The science hinged on matching defects in the barrel with recovered bullets and shell casings from a crime scene. He always pocketed the casings, which left the barrel.

By creating his own set of defects, even if the barrel and the casings were recovered, the link between them was broken.

Crotty finished reassembling the weapon and felt an odd comfort following the sounds of the parts dropping into place. Loading a fresh magazine with a different brand of 9mm ammunition, he racked a round into the chamber. He dropped the magazine, added another 124-grain bullet, and jammed the fully loaded magazine back home. Seventeen, plus one in the pipe, made eighteen. Round numbers. The only way to carry.

He folded and bound the newspapers with twine for recycling.

The washer buzzed. Crotty ran the laundry again, this time heavier on the detergent than the bleach, and turned to matters of personal hygiene.

Steam from the shower fogged over the bathroom. A narrow band of it vented through the open window. The sill was moldy from years of condensation.

He washed his entire body with lemon juice, including his hair, face, and neck. Then he scraped every inch with a pumice stone, soaped, and shampooed. The mixture of chemicals burned his already irritated skin.

After the shower he tossed the clothes in the dryer, dialing the temperature to maximum. He crimped the metal coupling on the exhaust valve, which forced more heat back into the machine.

The washer chugged one final round, loaded with bleach and warm water. He sprayed an aerosol-based agent on the card table, and laid out clean clothes on the bed.

His daily attire merged street clothes with business casual: blue jeans, polo shirt, black socks, boots with a shaft that covered the ankle, and a dive watch. Dressed, he slumped on the couch and watched the news for a half hour. There was no mention of David on the television, even on cable. Not entirely unexpected.

The dryer buzzed.

The second helping of bleach had etched white streaks into the fabric. The stains were acceptable. Crotty folded, smoothed, and formed tight corners. He placed the garments in a shopping bag with handles.

After dinner he ditched the evidence. Goodwill was the first stop. He stuffed the shopping bag in the donation container near the supermarket. The bound newspapers he tossed from the car onto a stranger’s lawn for recycling. He wedged the barrel under the seat of a car scheduled for demolition at the local junkyard. Last, he tossed the two shell casings down two different sewer systems.

Back home Crotty paged through a file and nodded at his handiwork. All the wire-transfer records implicating his business partner fit in a small box. Reviewing them gave him pleasure so he did this twice weekly. He returned the records to their hiding place, and then wrote in his journal, making a few notes on how he wanted to grow the company. Crotty had big plans for growing the company, and the extra money expanding it would bring. He really needed the money. Well, his girlfriend wanted the money, anyway; she made that point clear enough. He just wanted enough cash to get out of the business and go away with her. For now, he wrote.

His pen moved carefully across the page and formed orderly rows of tight neat letters.

The phone rang, interrupting his writing.

“It’s Joan Berman from the New Hope Orphanage. Just wanted to thank you for your most recent gift. The children are so excited about the new playground equipment. If you could just see the smiles on their little faces.”

“I’m sure it’s quite something.”

“And as you requested, all your contributions will remain completely confidential.”

“That’s fine,” Crotty said. “I’m really sorry to cut this short, Joan, but I had a rough day at work.”

“Of course,” Joan said. “Perhaps someday we can meet in person. It would be nice to put a face to the name on the check . . . ”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’m really busy with my work.”

Crotty hung up and reflected on David’s murder that morning.

The timing was deliberate. He had long contemplated dismissing David—planning the execution carefully over many months, and settling on the exact place after great deliberation. David had become a liability. David had known too much about Crotty’s plans for too long. And if David leaked the details, the Partner would figure out what Crotty had been scheming. So he killed David. Crotty’s men had already moved the body to a safe place for disposal; nature would handle the rest. As it had with the others.

He anticipated the typical response when he would speak with the Partner: an interminably long conversation that had nothing to do with the situation and everything to do with the rift between them. Then once the bickering settled down, they would have to deal with the new threat.

 The boy who saw too much.

Day Two

06:39:48 AM

A stranger loomed in the doorway of the main lodge, staring at Mike. Through the window, the sun crested over the horizon. Mist rose off the grass. A kaleidoscope of beams danced on the walls, light refracting off a stained-glass ornament dangling from the frame. The large room had a pitched ceiling, and rose forty feet from floor to peak. Black-and-white photographs of various cowboys coated the walls. Decades old, the ceiling beams had the look of fresh-cut lumber.

The cot the clerk had promised never materialized, so Jessica and Andy each had taken a bed, with Mike on the floor. He had no trouble getting comfortable. Falling asleep was seldom his issue, getting real rest was. Like most nights recently, last night he had not dreamed. His mind, unwilling to relax, had resisted a chance to discharge emotional energy.

At the first light of morning he woke, wanting and needing strong coffee. That was an imperative. What Mike got instead was a strange man staring at him.

The man pushed an aluminum cart on rubber wheels. He was tall, broad in the chest, a little less so in the shoulders. His presence filled the doorway. The stranger spoke first. “Good morning, Mike. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“I was already up,” Mike said, his voice rasping like gravel beneath a rake.
Great, this guy knows my name, too,
he thought.

“I’m very sorry about what happened last night.”

Briefly Mike wondered if he meant the search or the cot. He didn’t like a second stranger in two days knowing who he was.

“Erich Reynard. I own the Pine Woods Ranch.” Here Erich offered his hand. They shook; Erich matched Mike’s strong grip. “Apparently the reservation system needs an overhaul. I’m sorry our incompetence left you in the lurch.”

“Apology accepted,” Mike said.

“Right after breakfast we’ll move you into a room. Plus, I want to make up for this mistake.” Erich snapped his fingers excitedly, then pointed his first finger and thumb at Mike. “I’ll take ten percent off the price of your visit.”

“That’s great.” Mike sensed Erich wanted to say more, and perhaps that Erich needed to say more.

“Wait! No, I’ve got it!” Erich said. “There’s a Cessna flight over the lake. Usually the fee is a hundred dollars a head per hour. For you and your family—free. A two-hour flight work for you?”

The offer was appealing, but Jessica hated flying. That was the reason they drove to Montana. Getting her aboard a small passenger plane would be a tough sell. Still, he appreciated Erich’s apology. “That’s very generous,” Mike said. “But I have to talk to my family and see if they’re interested.”

“You sure know how to beat a guy up on price,” Erich said.

“I’m not trying to. This seems like an honest mistake.” A sincere apology was enough for Mike. He knew what deception sounded like.

“There are no mistakes—only chances for improvement,” Erich said.

Sensing a compromise that he hoped worked for everyone, Mike moved quickly. “Tell you what, my ex-wife is a journalist. Jessica is planning an article about the experience. She’d love an insider’s perspective on the daily operations.”