Chapter 24
Corrie Knox and Tucker Marsden found the remains of the Derby family’s heroic dog at the base of a sugar pine. Tuck squatted and looked at the little that was left of Sumo; the dog’s bones had been picked clean.
“Too bad that lion was so hungry,” Tucker said. “If he’d left some meat on the carcass, he might have cached it. Then we’d have a big advantage.”
“Sure. We could have set out traps for when he came back for the leftovers.”
Tucker stood up and stretched. His lean six foot four inch frame reached toward the sky. He had sandy blonde hair and crystal blue eyes. He looked like he should have been modeling or playing pro beach volleyball. But Tucker Marsden loved the wilderness and all the creatures in it.
Except when they got out of hand. Not that there weren’t plenty of jerkwad campers who shouldn’t be scoured from the earth by the savage fang and claw. That would be sound environmental management. But when a big cat started running down innocent joggers and bounding into people’s backyards looking for kids to snack on, then steps had to be taken.
“How big was this poor pooch?” he asked Corrie.
“The owners say around seventy pounds.”
“That ought to keep the beast sated for, what, a couple days?”
“Maybe,” Corrie said.
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“I’m not. This cat’s behavior is just plain weird.”
“There’s a highly scientific explanation,” Tucker said with a grin.
Corrie rolled her eyes. “This animal is not following any kind of a normal travel-way, then, okay? His hunting path is totally idiosyncratic. He has to be violating the home ranges of other mountain lions. It’s just as likely that one of his own kind will kill him, in a territorial dispute, as we will.”
Tucker shook his head. “Things never work out that neatly. So, what do you think is behind this strange behavior?”
“If I had to make a guess right now, I think it’s old age more than anything. He’s not exactly up to going after a bull elk anymore.”
“From what you tell me, he jumped a six foot fence with Rover here in his jaws. That’s still pretty strong.”
“Not compared to what we both know an animal like this can do in his prime.”
Tucker’s smile was rueful this time. “True. Did you hear that story out of Colorado? Mountain lion kills a
six hundred pound
heifer, drags it a
quarter mile
up a mountainside to eat.”
“That’s what I mean. This cat, if he’s healthy, should be going after four-legged prey. But he’s going after humans. I think what happened was, he got his first taste of people with poor Gary Jenkins. After that, from a predatory standpoint, he worked it out that two-legged creatures are easy pickings. ”
“Fast food,” Tucker said deadpan. “Maybe he even likes the way we taste.”
“I thought of that, too. But I wasn’t going to say anything. People in this town are tense enough as it is.”
“Understandable,” Tucker agreed.
But Corrie said he didn’t know the half of it, and told him about the “curse.”
“That’s crazy!” Tucker protested.
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just being scared. Either way, I want to get this animal quickly.”
“If it’s old, like you say, it might just kick off on its own soon.”
“Now, who’s talking about neat endings? Besides, I wouldn’t like the possible consequences if that happened,” Corrie told him.
“What do you mean?”
“Look. If we can’t find this cat and kill it and bring it in, what are people going to think?”
“I don’t know.”
“They’re going to think we can’t find it because it’s got supernatural powers.”
“That’s really crazy.”
“Yeah, but if you believe in a curse, it’s
consistent.
Don’t you see?”
Tucker nodded grudgingly. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
“But do you think the people around here will be content to just hunker down forever, while they imagine some magical man-killer is stalking their town?”
“No.” Now, Tucker saw where Corrie was heading. “They’d go after it.”
“Just like the villagers went after Frankenstein’s monster.”
“Uh-huh. And you get people scared enough, and they don’t exactly have a command of the facts … they’ll kill any cat they come across. Won’t matter a bit to them if it’s some completely innocent animal.”
“They won’t be stopped by any state law saying please don’t shoot the wildlife, either. So let’s get this bastard fast, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Because for all we know he’s already hungry again.”
Chapter 25
Sergeant Stanley knocked twice on the doorframe of Ron’s office, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. In his hand, he had a half-dozen pages of computer printout held together by a bulldog clip. He gave the material to the chief.
“Two for two on those names you wanted checked,” the sergeant said.
“Mr. Meeker and Mr. DuPree have been bad boys?”
“No outstanding arrest warrants unfortunately, but otherwise, yeah. Deacon Meeker’s just average bad; Didier DuPree, he’s real bad.”
Ron looked at Deacon Meeker’s sheet first. Convictions for assault, robbery and extortion. All strong-arm stuff. By today’s standards, small beer. Didier DuPree, on the other hand, had only one conviction, but it was for involuntary manslaughter. He literally threw a man under a bus in Houston.
Not that his lawyer phrased what occurred that way. That distinguished member of the Texas bar had insisted that at worst his client “assisted in the fall” of the decedent in front of “a mass transit vehicle” that was undoubtedly exceeding the posted speed limit.
On the hot summer night in question, the story went, Didi DuPree was at a sidewalk party where alcohol was served. A fellow who had proposed marriage to a young woman and had been awaiting her answer for a week became upset when he saw Didi talking to her. He ran at Didi and tried to shove him away from the young lady. Didi, having the advantage of being a teetotaler and sober, sidestepped the angry young man’s advance, and would have been home free if he hadn’t helped the victim’s momentum along with a hand to the small of his back. More than a dozen witnesses affirmed that Didi had acted in self-defense, but one of them let slip the detail about Didi giving his would-be assailant a helping hand.
As Didier DuPree had been arrested on suspicion of seventeen murders, but had never been brought to trial due to insufficient evidence, the D.A. considered the witness’s slip of the tongue a gift from the gods. His only regrets, he said publicly, were that they couldn’t prove Didi had seen the bus coming and the sentence was only six years.
“Yeah, this DuPree asshole is major league, all right,” Ron agreed. “And now we’ve got him enjoying Jimmy Thunder’s hospitality.”
“Maybe they struck up their friendship in Huntsville,” Sergeant Stanley suggested. “I did some additional checking with the authorities in Texas and found out they were both graduates of that institution.”
“Were they there at the same time?”
Caz Stanley nodded. “The two of them and the Deacon, too. That’s when he was doing his time for extortion. And Meeker and DuPree are cousins. I got that from the Houston P.D.”
“You have any idea if DuPree is still in town, Sarge?”
The sergeant shook his head. “No idea. But my contact in Houston will be sending me a mug shot of him.”
Ron said, “Let me know when it’s here. Meanwhile, I better go ask Reverend Thunder if he knows where we can find the man.”
“There’s one other thing, Chief. Horgan’s back in town.”
Ron cursed softly. The last thing he needed was the FBI adding to his problems.
“He’s outside?”
“Yeah. I told him we had to talk for a few minutes before you could see him. You think he’s cooled his heels long enough?”
“Give me a minute to tuck Meeker’s and DuPree’s sheets away. Then send the SOB in.”
The FBI agent entered Ron’s office without the two underlings he’d brought previously. He strode up to Ron’s desk and gave the chief a cold stare. “You going to ask me to sit down, Ketchum?”
“Have a seat.”
Horgan flicked a glance over his shoulder.
“You want to buzz your girl out there, have her close your door?”
“No.”
“No?” Horgan knew after the first three seconds he wouldn’t be able to stare Ron down, and try as he might he couldn’t think of any leverage to use on the chief. The way Horgan’s face got tight and red, Ron thought his starched collar might be strangling him. “You’re a sonofabitch, you know that, Ketchum?”
“If you have something to say, say it. I’m busy.”
“All right,” the FBI man went on, “I was trying to make it easy on you. You don’t want it that way, fine. We’ll let the world in on what I have to say. I talked to Reverend Thunder this morning.”
“Regarding?” Ron asked softly.
“Regarding the implicit threat to burn his house down. The one you were so kind to send to me.”
“Kindness had nothing to do with it. It was professionalism.”
“Right. You realized you had a hot potato you couldn’t handle and tossed it to me.”
“I recognized a threat that might possibly be serious and connected to a series of interstate crimes. I forwarded it to the appropriate authority. Which complies with the spirit of cooperation Mayor Steadman said you could expect from this department.”
Horgan chuckled nastily. “Just can’t get under your skin, can I, Ketchum.”
“Don’t forget I told my sergeant to shoot you, if necessary,” Ron said with a straight face. “And by the way, I did have my desk dusted for prints. As soon as I have the time, I’m going to request a copy of yours from the Bureau.”
The FBI man blanched, before regaining his bluster.
“Listen, buddy, you’re the one who’s going to be in trouble. Again. I’m talking to Thunder about the arson threat, and he tells me you’re figuring
him
for killing his son. What is it with you Ketchum, your recovery suffering a relapse? You always gotta go after the closest black guy?”
Ron stopped to consider. Not the snide insult, but the substance of what Horgan had just said. “The reverend said I was going after him?”
“He said you were harassing him, all but accusing him of killing his own boy. You better be careful Ketchum. You could have another suit for violating civil rights on your hands.”
Ron replied sardonically, “And I bet I could avoid that whole problem if I just turned the investigation over to you Feebs. Oh, pardon me. That’s name calling. Maybe you’re right about my recovery. But I didn’t let you big-foot your way into this murder the first time around, and you’re not going to sneak in the back door this time.”
The chief keyed his intercom. “You there, Sarge?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Agent Horgan will be leaving momentarily. Please be ready to show him out.”
“Yes, sir!”
Ron turned back to his antagonist.
“Horgan, you might actually be right for a change. I do consider Jimmy Thunder to be a suspect in the killing of Isaac Cardwell. And right now I like him better for it than I did five minutes ago. Thunder’s an ex-jock: he knows there’s no defense like a good offense. So any talk about him giving me grief, legal or otherwise, just makes me that much more suspicious. But I am surprised he conned an FBI man into being his messenger boy.”
“You sonofabitch!” Horgan hissed.
“Now, you’re name calling. But I’ll tell you one thing, Horgan. You aid Thunder in trying to obstruct my investigation, you’ll find out real quick just how much clout Mayor Steadman has in Washington.”
The FBI man glared at the chief, then stalked out of his office. Sergeant Stanley made sure he followed the most direct route out of the building.
Ron was wondering just how close Clay was to the attorney general and whether he should talk to the mayor about Horgan’s recent visit, when Clay Steadman called him.
“Ron, I’m out at my house. There’s someone here you need to talk to about the Cardwell case. Can you come right out?”
“On my way, Mr. Mayor. I’ll be there directly.”
“We’ll be around back,” Clay told him.
Ron arrived at the Steadman house inside of ten minutes. He left his Explorer in the shade of a mountain alder so it wouldn’t be easily visible from the road. The mayor’s cars were all tucked into their garage stalls, but a landscaper’s truck was parked at the side of the house. The chief skirted the truck and turned the corner at the rear of the house.
Sitting at a wrought iron and glass table next to the tennis court were the mayor and Jimmy Thunder’s groundskeeper. That’s when it clicked for Ron. The man kept the grounds at both the reverend’s estate and the mayor’s house. He’d thought something had looked familiar about the man yesterday; he must have seen him, one time or another, working on Clay Steadman’s landscaping. If the chief had a more educated eye for such things, he might have noticed some similarities of style. Being a layman, all he’d noticed was that both places had gorgeous, meticulously kept grounds.
The two men stood as Ron joined them.
Clay said, “Ron, meet Art Gilbert. Art, this is our chief of police, Ron Ketchum.”
Ron took the hand Gilbert extended. Gilbert had a strong, calloused hand, but a carefully measured grip. He didn’t try to muscle it. The man wore the same blue work clothes as yesterday, but now the baseball cap was gone. He was an inch or two shorter than Ron with thick white hair and a seamed tan face. He was clearly pushing the age where many men might think of retiring, but there was a sense of vigor to him — the kind of energy that drove a man to work on Sundays. It made the chief think Gilbert would work ‘til the day he dropped. He wouldn’t be surprised if somebody eventually found Art Gilbert slumped over the wheel of his riding mower.
“I saw you yesterday morning at Reverend Thunder’s place,” Gilbert told Ron. “I didn’t think you being there had anything to do with me, but Leroi called me this morning. Said I might want to touch base with you.”
“Art does the landscaping and grounds keeping here, too,” the mayor said, confirming the chief’s hunch. “Apparently, the call he received made him think of something you should know.”
The mayor had everyone sit down and poured a glass of ice tea for Ron.
“I appreciate your coming forward, Mr. Gilbert,” Ron said. “I intended to call on you. So what do you have to tell me?”
“Well, the first thing I want you to know is what I told Mayor Steadman. I came to him first because I want it clear I have no interest in collecting the reward he’s offering.”
“Okay.” That elevated the man’s credibility in Ron’s eyes.
“Leroi said you were asking about if anything unusual happened while that young fella who got killed was at the house.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, another visitor was at the house while Reverend Cardwell was there.”
“Did you hear a name?”
“Didi DuPree. And I heard a lot more than that.”
“What else did you hear?” Ron asked.
“I heard DuPree and the reverend talking on the patio one morning. I was pruning a flowering crabapple. I don’t know if they thought I was too far away to hear or if it didn’t matter what an old white guy who worked with shears overheard.”
“Which was?”
“They were talking about a money-laundering scheme … and DuPree was telling the reverend there was no backing out now. The reverend was in it, like it or not, so he’d better sit back and get used to the idea. Enjoy it. Think of counting all the money he’d be putting into his pocket.”
“How did the reverend respond?”
“I don’t know because that was when they went inside.”
“Mr. Gilbert,” Ron said, “How did this talk about a crime make you feel?”
Art Gilbert shrugged. “Once Leroi’s call gave me a nudge, it made me feel I better talk to the mayor. Otherwise, I just mind my own business.” When the landscaper saw the chief would like to hear more, he went on. “I suppose maybe I’m too tight mouthed for my own damn good sometimes. But in my line of work, I hear enough that if the people saying it knew I was hearing it, it’d shock them good.”
That brought a dry chuckle from the mayor.
“Now, if I went around gossiping about everything I heard, I’d probably never have to buy another beer anytime I went into a bar. Except long before that, I wouldn’t have any clients left. So what I heard was one fella saying something shady, and then I saw another fella turn his back on the other guy and walk away. I guess it wasn’t my first thought to run to the police. As it is, I hope you’ll keep it to yourself where you got what I told you.”
“Don’t worry about that, Art,” the mayor said.
Ron accepted the explanation.
“All right, Mr. Gilbert. Can you tell me what this Didi DuPree looks like?”
“He’s a black fella, but a real light skinned one, if you know what I mean.”
“How light?”
“Lighter than me. At least where I’ve been exposed to the sun all my life. He’s got black hair, more wavy than kinky. I didn’t get close enough to really notice the color of his eyes. I’d guess he was a little shorter than me. You might think he was somewhat on the thin side to look at him, but he kind of held himself like he wasn’t anyone to be messed with. So maybe he’s stronger than you’d think at first glance.”
Ron said, “Thank you for your help, Mr. Gilbert.” Then he added, “By the way, you do some really fine work.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ve made it my life.” Art Gilbert nodded to the mayor and turned to go.
“Oh, Mr. Gilbert,” Ron said.
The old man turned around. “Yes?”