While the Savage Sleeps (3 page)

“
Naw, not really.”

“
Not
really
, or
not at all
? Think hard, Jet. It’s important.”

Jet was now moving his eyes back and forth along the dashboard as if following a thought, then stopped like he’d found it. He looked at Cameron. “Well, there was … but
naw
. That wouldn’t be nothin’.”

“
What? Tell me. What is it?”

Jet pushed the brim of his hat back an inch or two, scratched the part of his head now exposed, deliberating on a thought before speaking. “Found something on the ground later that day. Figured one of the deputies tossed it. But now that you mention it …”

“
What was it?” Cameron asked.

“
Slip of paper.”

“
What was on it?” Getting information here was like pulling teeth.

“
Your department’s name … and a phone number.”

“
Do you have it?” asked Cameron, anxiety in his voice despite his best efforts to conceal it. “Did you keep it?”

Jet thought for a moment. “No, but I think I know where it might be.”

“
Where?”

Jet gave Cameron a lingering look, his mouth pulled tighter on one side. Opening his door, he shoved a leg through, then stepped out of the truck. As he walked toward the back, Cameron jumped out on his side as well, following quickly.

Both stared into the bed. There were more empty bottles, some ropes, an old saddle.

But no note.

Still gazing into the bed, Jet shrugged, cupped his palm over the crown of his hat, tilting it back some. “I threw it back here. Guess it blew out.”

Cameron folded his arms and rested them on the bed railing, releasing a long sigh. “Do you remember the numbers, Jet,
any
of them?”

Jet looked at the ground, kicked some dirt. “The first three numbers were, five-seven-one … don’t remember the rest.”

“
Five-seven-one,” Cameron repeated, knowing it meant very little. There were only two exchanges in Faith, that, and five-six-two. Without the rest, connecting them to something significant would be next to impossible. “And you’re
sure
you don’t remember the others?”

“
Naw,” Jet replied, then threw his hands up, “Wish I did.”

Me, too, Jet, Cameron thought. Me, too.

Chapter
Five

Faith, New Mexico

Cameron checked with each of the deputies on the scene after Witherspoon’s murder. None of them knew anything about a slip of department stationary bearing those numbers; that meant it could very well have belonged to Witherspoon, maybe even have fallen from his pocket while he was murdered.

A potentially valuable piece of evidence, lost. Just the thought of it made Cameron’s gut tighten into a fist-sized knot.

Whether or not the paper was relevant to the crime was anyone’s guess, since finding it would be next to impossible, and a number with the five-seven-one exchange would only narrow things down to about half the town.

Turning his focus toward new evidence, Cameron thought about his next step, probably the hardest one of all: to speak to Witherspoon’s wife.

Bradley’s house was a modest-looking ranch-style home located only a mile or so from the sheriff’s station.

Cameron arrived just as another visitor was leaving. Witherspoon’s wife, Shelby, stood in the darkened doorway, saying goodbye to another woman; she looked over her guest’s shoulder and caught Cameron’s gaze. The other woman swung around, saw him, then turned back and continued talking. They embraced, then the guest turned to leave, and she passed Cameron as she headed toward her car.

Shelby’s eyes were rimmed in red, her nose a deep shade of pink. Cameron reached for her hands, gave her a somber, sympathetic smile, then instinctively wrapped his arms around her. She hugged him back, and he could hear her soft sobs against his shoulder. He continued holding onto her for a long time, as if doing so could somehow help drain away her sorrow.

Finally, she pulled away. Grief-stricken eyes peered directly into his.

Cameron shook his head, fighting back his own tears. “I don’t know what to say, Shelby, I just …”

“
I know …” she said, looking down at her feet, nodding, her voice shallow and weak. “… I know.”

A few moments of awkward silence stretched between them. Then, softly, Shelby said, “Why don’t you come inside?”

Cameron nodded and followed her through the doorway.

The dining room table was awash in a sea of baskets, cellophane wrapping paper, bows, and flowers: all tokens of sympathy, of love, for the wife of a slain deputy. Shelby moved past them all as if they didn’t even exist, then went into the kitchen. She reached for the refrigerator handle, opened the door, and stared inside for a long time, her back to Cameron, almost as if she’d forgotten why she’d gone there in the first place. Finally, she let out a deep, helpless sigh, her shoulders falling an inch or two. “Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

Cameron stood in the doorway watching her. Having something to drink was the last thing on his mind. “No. Thank you.”

She turned around to face him and shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m doing. My mind … it’s just—”

“
Sit down, Shelby,” Cameron said softly, “You don’t have to do anything.”

Shelby closed her eyes and nodded. She walked slowly past him into the living room, sat down tentatively on the couch, dropped her face in her hands, and began crying.

Cameron took a seat beside her, placed a hand on her shoulder, and kept it there, silently.

When Shelby finally lifted her head, Cameron reached for a box of tissues—nearly empty—on the end table and handed it to her. She took one, wiped her nose.

A long, labored silence filled the air again. Cameron glanced around the room as if searching for words. “So where are the boys?”

“
My mother took them to her place for the afternoon. Guess she figured I needed a break …” she said, her voice trailing off, “… although the quiet seems worse.”

Cameron shifted his weight nervously. “I have to do this, Shelby. I don’t want to—you know I don’t—and I’d do anything not to have to put you through this right now, but—”

“
I know,” she said, her voice changing, becoming steadier now. Shelby had been a cop’s wife long enough to realize what was coming next.

“
I’ll try to make this as quick as possible,” Cameron assured.

“
I know it’s hard for you, too—all this—I know it is. Brad thought the world of you.”

“
Thought the world of him, too,” Cameron said, looking down at his hands, nodding, remembering. “I really did.”

“
I want to help you find whoever killed …” She stopped, closed her eyes. “…whoever did this to him.”

“
I need to know if you saw or heard something—
anything
—suspicious in the last few days.”

She looked away and stared absently across the room, shaking her head slowly. “No. There was nothing.”

“
Are you positive?”

“
I would have known if something was wrong.” Shelby turned back toward Cameron. She shrugged. “There just wasn’t.”

“
What about someone else? Anyone you can think of who’d have reason to want to hurt him? Hurt you?”

“
You knew Brad. He didn’t have a single enemy. Not one.”

It was true. Bradley was probably the best-liked deputy at the station. Cameron couldn’t think of anyone who’d want to do him harm. He thought some more, then spoke. “There was a slip of paper found at the scene later with department letterhead and a phone number written on it.”

She tilted her head. “Let me see it.”

“
I can’t. It got tossed. Accidentally. I don’t even know if it was Brad’s or not. All I have to go on are the first three digits of a telephone number.”

Shelby just stared at him, vacantly.

Cameron knew what she was going through—really knew—and yet he felt helpless. His own sadness and loss seemed to be coming to the surface once more, as though the grief had been waiting for just that moment to own him. “What can I do for you right now, Shelby, how can I help?”

“
Find him, Cameron,” she said, her voice becoming firm and harsh, her expression unforgiving. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Find whoever took him from me.”

Cameron nodded. It was all he could do.

“
Find the bastard, then make him pay. Make sure he never sees the light of day again.
Never.”

Chapter
Six

Eisenhower Middle School

Faith, New Mexico

Thirteen-year-old Ryan Churchill sat behind his computer, pounding the keyboard as he worked on his research paper. Alma Gutierrez smiled, pleased to see him looking so inspired, so motivated. She’d been tutoring him for several months, and he’d improved in ways even he never imagined he could.

Ryan had started out as a below-average student, barely making Cs and Ds. Now, however, he’d been bringing home As and Bs, thanks to Alma’s help and careful guidance.

A quiet kid, and a bit on the awkward side, he had a plump, round body, flushed, full cheeks, and a smile that could light up a room … when his shyness permitted. Before Alma, Ryan had been an underachiever, and no one could figure out why. Certainly, it wasn’t for a lack of intelligence, as all his test scores showed otherwise.

That was why they’d sent him to see Alma. She soon discovered why he’d been doing so poorly in school: Ryan Churchill was dyslexic. He saw the world differently than everyone else did, a mirror image of itself, everything backward. All these years he’d suffered a limiting disability that kept him from reaching his potential.

But not anymore. Alma worked with Ryan, teaching him how to overcome his problem, and he’d been improving rapidly ever since.

Alma enjoyed the work. There was sweetness about the boy that made it hard not to like him. While it took some time to gain Ryan’s trust, once they’d forged a relationship, he began to excel.

It seemed once the dyslexia was discovered and addressed, there was no stopping Ryan. As it turned out, not only was he bright, he actually belonged in the gifted category. Finding that out, and realizing he had a diagnosable disability, that he was not
stupid
or
lazy
as people had often told him, made all the difference in the world to the boy. Before long, Ryan began to feel like he had value and purpose in life. Most of all, he was grateful to Alma for freeing him from the stronghold the disorder had placed on him.

Ryan started picking up his typing speed, and Alma looked up from her work and smiled. “You’re doing so well, Ryan. I’m very pleased.”

Ryan flashed his bashful smile, the one Alma had become used to seeing, the one that would win her over every time.

She often wondered how the boy did around the other children. Kids like Ryan in general faced one of two reactions: they either went unnoticed, or suffered the opposite effect, becoming the target of ridicule and cruel jokes. It would break Alma’s heart if she found out he’d suffered the latter. She’d never broached the subject with him, though she thought perhaps someday she might.

Ryan had been laboring away on his research paper for almost twenty-five minutes now, with a fervor Alma had never before seen in him, almost as if he couldn’t type fast enough to keep up with his thoughts.

“
You must really be onto something, Ryan,” she said with a grin. “I’ve never seen you type so fast.”

“
I have a great idea!” he replied, enthusiasm evident.

“
Good, good! That’s wonderful! I can’t wait to read it.”

“
Neither can I,” said Ryan. “I really want you to see it.”

She was pleased. “Keep up the good work, kiddo. You’re doing great!”

Bashful smile again.

Alma reached down into her drawer for a pen, fishing around for a moment in vain. “Shoot,” she said, looking up at Ryan. “I have to go to the supply room. Will you be okay while I’m gone for a few minutes?”

Ryan kept typing and did not look up. “Sure. I’m fine.”

When Alma’s office door clicked shut, Ryan froze instantly, almost as if on cue. He pushed his chair back and locked his fingers behind his head, taking a good long look at his work, admiring his accomplishment.

He smiled, but this was different—nothing bashful or endearing about it.

On the screen, sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph, page after page, the same passage, repeated over and over:

Ryan pulled the hunting knife from the sheath inside his boot. He gazed with admiration at the seven-inch blade with its razor-sharp serrated edges glistening and its tip pointed. He felt a rush of adrenaline shoot through him. It made his spine tingle, was invigorating. A wicked smile widened across his face.