Red Dog Saloon (17 page)

“You
didn’t have to kill him,” Glenn incredulously replied.

“What’d
you expect me to do? Take him out to dinner and sweet talk him?” Bart responded
in a mocking tone. “You wanted me to take care of the Rhody Turner problem and
I did – permanently.”

“I
thought you would pay him off or come to some kind of understanding,” Glenn
countered. “I never expected you to kill him and stuff him in the trunk of a
car.”

Bart
walked back over and took his seat. His calm demeanor after killing their
old friend was disturbing to Glenn. He saw no signs of remorse. Bart spoke of
killing Rhody as if he were describing taking out the trash to the curb.

“It
was the only way,” Bart declared. “He was a loose cannon. Now that he knew
he could deal his way out of his problems by giving us up, it was just a matter
of time until he put our heads on the chopping block in exchange for a get out
of jail free card.”

Glenn
wasn’t buying Bart’s explanation. He was still stunned his old chum would
resort to murder. But then why should he be surprised since it wasn’t the first
time. Glenn knew Bart’s reputation. He had heard the rumors.

“I
still can’t believe you killed him,” Glenn responded. “You murdered him in cold
blood for crying out loud.”

Bart
wasn’t going to put up with Glenn’s insolence. The mayor wanted his problems
solved but was complaining when they weren’t solved to his liking.

“If
I were you, I wouldn’t be such a big hypocrite,” Bart shot back. “You wanted
the issue to go away but you don’t have the stomach for how I took care of it.
Face it my old friend, you’re just as guilty as I am. We are in this together
to the bitter end.”

“That’s
where you’re wrong, Bart,” Glenn disagreed. “I’m not a killer. I have a
conscience. I have a soul.”

Glenn’s
comment made Bart chuckle. The mayor’s holier-than-thou attitude was almost
comical given their history.

“Well
I have a soul myself old friend,” Bart laughed. “I mean come on, something has
to go to Hell when I die. As for that whole conscience thing, I guess they
forgot to give me one of those. It makes life a lot easier.”

Bart’s
words chilled Glenn. He realized for the first time that his old friend
was a psychopath - a homicidal psychopath.

“I
don’t want any part of this,” Glenn declared. “His blood is on your hands, not
mine.”

“What
about Earl Cutts?” Bart asked. “Whose hands is his blood on? You know blood
doesn’t wear off a person’s hands after only twenty years. Like it or not, your
Honor, you’re just as much a killer as me. I’m just man enough to admit it.”

Bart’s statement,
while ringing somewhat true, made Glenn’s face turn bright red as his
anger built.

“I’m
not the one who hit him,” Glenn hissed.

He looked
around to see if anyone were nearby listening to him despite the fact the
men were standing alone together in the closed room. Even more than twenty
years later, they talked about the Red Dog events in hushed tones.

“It
wasn’t my idea to torch the place either,"
Glenn accused. "That was all on you.”

Again
laughing a maniacal laugh, Bart corrected his guest.

“Even
back then you wanted your problems solved but wasn’t man enough to do what
needed to be done,” Bart began. “You tell me. What would have happened if that
little girl we partied with that night went to the D.A. and then Mr. Cutts
decided to grow himself a conscience? First off, you wouldn’t be the mayor of
Easton, that’s for sure. No, you’d just now be getting out of prison, branded a
rapist for the rest of your life. I’d say that’d hurt your election chances.”

Glenn
remained quiet for a moment. He was sickened by the knowledge that Bart
was right, at least partially.

“You
know, sometimes I wish we had just come clean back then,” Glenn said soberly.
“What we did with that girl was wrong and we made it worse with what we did to
Mr. Cutts. Now we’re all going to pay for it. All it did was bought us twenty
years of regret.”

“I
can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Bart countered. “We all had a hand in what
happened back then. You’re as much to blame for the demise of old man Cutts as
I am. It sounds like you’re trying to rewrite history at the first sign of
trouble.”

“The
first sign of trouble?” Glenn exclaimed. “There are four people dead, one who
you personally killed, and some creature running around trying to collect the
rest of us.”

“Would
you shut up with this talk of creatures and grim reapers?” Bart countered. “Do
you have any idea how crazy you sound with that talk?”

“You
weren’t there last night, Bart. You didn’t see what I saw,” Glenn responded.
“If you’d been there you wouldn’t think I was crazy. You’d be wondering what we
could do to stop it before it finishes its mission.”

“Mission?
Really? And what would that mission be?” Bart scoffed.

“Revenge,”
Glenn responded. “He told us he would get us. He told us he would take us to
Hell with him. Can’t you see? He’s making good on his word.”

“That’s
the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Bart said. “He’s nothing but a pile
of ashes.”

“Well
I guess we’ll know pretty soon,” Glenn retorted. “There’s four down and three
to go.”

“Three?”
Bart shot back.

“Don’t
play games, Bart,” Glenn replied. “He was as much a part of it as any of us.”

“You
need to watch what you say, old friend,” Bart said, narrowing his eyes at his
guest.

“Just
stating fact,” Glenn said. “Without him we would have never gotten away with it
and you know it.”

Bart
stood up from his desk. The direction of Glenn’s conversation was going
somewhere he did not like.

“I
think it’s time for you to go,” Bart declared as he pointed to the door.

“I’ve
said what I came to say,” Glenn huffed. “You won’t be seeing me, for a while
anyway. I’m getting out of town until this all blows over. I'm taking me a
long-overdue vacation.”

“Maybe
the grim reaper won’t follow you to the beach,” Bart sneered as he still stood
behind his desk.

“You’ll
see, you’ll see,” Glenn assured him as he turned and walked for the door. “He’s
coming for all of us.”

“Oh,
one last thing,” Bart called out as Glenn reached for the door. “The next time
you find a body in your closet at city hall, don’t call me.”

With
that Glenn stepped out the door, slamming it behind him hard enough to rattle
the glass. After more than twenty years, their friendship was over.

Sam
sighed as he settled in behind his desk. The veteran lawmen was feeling
overwhelmed. Things had changed dramatically over the past week in what had
been a relatively peaceful Castle County. At least four deaths were on the
unsolved list under his watch and he suspected the number would climb if recent
history was any indication.

Adding
to the frustration was the lack of leads as to the identity of the killer. His
potential witnesses were dropping like flies. He realized the morning’s
discovery would bring another round of questions from the press. The growing
body count would likely catch the collective eye of statewide media.
Castle County’s problem would soon be on newsprint and television screens
across the state if not the nation. What could he tell them? That all this was
the work of a killer seeking revenge for a long-past injustice that happened in
a place that ceased to exist over two decades ago? There was no precedence for
something like was happening. Generally, vengeance is something sought while
passions are high, not many years later when cooler heads prevail. Who waits
twenty years for payback?

Sam
rubbed his eyes as he pushed the message button on his office answering
machine, expecting more media inquiries and calls from concerned citizens who
feared for the security of their county. Frankly, Sam couldn’t blame folks for
losing confidence. Their illusion of security was being dashed by the recent
unsolved homicides. They elected Sam Delaney to provide that sense of security.
It was a job he succeeded in for twelve years. Now, if things didn’t
change soon, all those years of work making Castle County a safe place to raise
the kids would be forgotten, replaced by a sense of uncertainty.

The
messages droned on as Sam wrote down a few numbers to call back while fast-forwarding
through others. Most of the messages came from busybodies wondering
what was going on. They could read the paper like everyone else. Cliff had used
his “dark man” suggestion in his last headline. He could only hazard to guess
what would be next.

Sam
would soon know the cause of death for both Stevie Grissom and Rhody Turner.
Investigator Parks accompanied the bodies to the medical examiner and was under
orders to report the preliminary results immediately. The sheriff was pretty
certain on the mode of death for Stevie. His throat was cut from ear to ear.
However, the reason for Rhody’s demise was more subtle as his body, still
dressed in his black and white jail top, appeared basically unscathed. The
slashes to his arms and legs, he figured, were likely inflicted by the jail’s
razor wire at the time of his escape. The sheriff hoped the medical examiner
would find something, anything, that could jumpstart the investigation. Aside
from the long shot that remained in the records of Shelby Mental Health
Institute, the sheriff had nothing left unless Bart suddenly had a change of
heart. However, Sam had his doubts Bart even had a heart. Regardless, if things
continued at their current pace, Bart wouldn’t be around much longer anyway.
The sheriff just wondered how many other citizens of Castle County would also
cease to exist at the hands of the killer.

Sam
resisted the temptation to simply press the “delete all” button on his
answering machine as he cycled through the tenth message, none of them
amounting to a hill of beans. His perseverance was rewarded with message eleven.
That message changed everything.

“I
have information that you may find of interest,” came the barely audible voice
of a man, gasping his words onto the sheriff’s answering machine. “I know
things that may shed some light on the case you’re working on.”

It
was nothing new for Sam to receive “hot tips” about everything ranging from
dogs running at large to the location of Jimmy Hoffa’s body. From time to time
tips did pan out but often they were the figment of overactive imaginations and
manifestations of conspiracy theories. The next words the mysterious voice
uttered, however, convinced the sheriff the caller was legitimate. The man,
speaking in a feeble voice, was obviously laboring to breathe while
leaving the short message.

“I
know about the Red Dog,” the man continued. “I also know about your four
killings there. There will be more.”

The
caller’s dire prediction, while not surprising, still chilled the lawman. There
was a sound of certainty in the weak voice.

“You
can find me at two-thirty-two Robertson Lane in Harvest Lake,” the
man noted in his faint voice. “You need to come today. Time is
running out for everyone, even me. Ask for Bob Smith.”

The
cryptic invitation marked the end of the phone call as the man hung up without
revealing any more clues as to his identity.

The
sheriff, who was ready to grab at straws minutes before, jotted down the
address. He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. There was something
about the man’s voice that convinced him the caller might be able to tie the
recent deaths to events twenty years ago. He was going to take another two-hour
trip, this time to the retirement community of Harvest Lake. He trusted he
wouldn’t drive up to a mental institution this time. At any rate, he knew the
person he was looking for was still alive, at least for the time being.

“I’m
heading to Harvest Lake,” Sam declared as he ducked into the detectives'
office.

“If
you don’t mind me saying, this is an odd time for fishing given the murders and
all,” Bo pointed out.

“I’m
going fishing alright, fishing for information,” Sam quipped as he
pulled on his coat. “I need you to see the judge up in Shelby and get me a
search warrant for Gina Porter’s records at SMHI. If we let the judge get away
for the weekend, we’ll have to wait until Monday and we don’t have that kind of
time.”

Sam
headed back out into the cold after issuing his orders, wasting no time
pointing his SUV into the wind in the direction of Harvest Lake. Snow was
falling once again. The continued cold was allowing the white
powder to stick not only to the ground but the roads, even during daylight. The
sheriff figured by tomorrow evening the long anticipated winter storm would
have Castle County in its icy grip. Forecasters were calling for as much as a
half-foot of snow. While that amount might sound like nothing up north, it was
cause for panic in Castle County. In a town like Easton, six inches of
snow was six inches too much as residents were already scurrying to
the stores on their bread and milk runs. It seemed that when snow was in the
forecast, most of Castle County became a bunch of doomsday preppers, getting
ready for an apocalypse rather than a dusting of powder.

The
weather wasn’t about to detour the determined lawman from his pilgrimage. He
was going to speak with Bob Smith even if he had to walk to Harvest Lake.

The
snow would prove a minor hindrance as he motored north to his destination. The
early afternoon kept a major accumulation at bay. He figured he wouldn’t be so
lucky once the sun went down.

Sam
spent most of his drive trying to think of questions he would ask the man. He
also replayed the man’s short message in his mind, realizing the mysterious Mr.
Smith mentioned there were four victims. While rumors of the discoveries of the
bodies that morning was spreading around Castle County, Sam was a bit surprised
the man up on Harvest Lake had already learned about them. Perhaps he had a
local source feeding him updated information.

The
sheriff’s thoughts were interrupted by a call from Kendal Parks.

“We
have the preliminaries on our victims from this morning,” Kendal announced. “No
surprise on Stevie Grissom. His cause of death was loss of blood. He bled to
death from a knife wound that sliced the carotid and jugular.”

Sam
involuntarily rubbed his throat hearing the detective’s description of Stevie’s
horrible end. Something about a throat-slashing always made the veteran
lawman’s skin crawl.

“The
doc said it was almost like his blood had been drained out,” Kendal continued.
“He was pretty well empty.”

It
had taken a lot of blood to paint the foreboding words on Bart’s car. Sam
expected the blood used for the ghastly work of perverse art was donated by
Stevie Grissom. If it wasn’t him, then there was another body out there still
to be discovered since just a flesh wound couldn’t account for that much
crimson paint.

“What
about Rhody Turner?” Sam asked.

“Are
you ready for this?” Kendal asked. “The official cause of death for Rhody
Turner is drowning. They found water in his lungs. He was alive when the car
went into the water.”

“Were
there any signs of trauma?” Sam asked.

“Other
than some minor injuries, there was nothing,” Kendal responded. “It was like he
was perfectly healthy until he drowned.”

“It’s
almost like he was stuffed into that trunk,” Sam noted. “I can’t see Rhody
getting put in a trunk without a fight.”

“Maybe
he got in the trunk voluntarily, sheriff,” Kendal speculated. "That would
explain the lack of trauma."

If
Kendal’s suggestion were true then that meant Rhody likely knew his killer,
trusting the person enough to put his life in their hands by crawling into a
trunk. Did Rhody Turner know the killer? Did his killer have something to do
with his escape?

The
questions continued to swirl around in Sam’s mind like the swirling
snow that pelted his windshield as he entered the small town of
Harvest Lake.

The
remote vacation village was already taking on the look of a Norman Rockwell painting.
The snow topped the roofs of the cabins that ringed the large lake around
which the town was situated. The beauty was wasted on Sam who was focused on
his goal, that being his meeting with Bob Smith.

Sam
made the turn onto Robertson Lane and began rounding a hill which overlooked
the lake. His tires slipped on the slick incline. Topping the hill moments
later, he caught sight of his destination – Harvest Lake Assisted Living
Facility. He was at a retirement home.

This
time Sam concealed his badge under his jacket before walking inside. He didn’t
have time for legal wrangling should administration want to get clearance or a
warrant. Today he would be a regular visitor for Bob Smith.

Sam
was motioned on to Bob Smith’s room without a second look from the
receptionist. That was a far cry from the panic he started at SMHI the day
before. He walked at a fast pace down the hall toward the room. His anticipation
built as he nodded to an elderly man working his way down the hall in a
wheelchair. Would this be the break in the case he needed or another of the
seemingly endless dead ends?

He
found the room at the end of hall. The door was partially ajar. The room was
dark except for the afternoon light shining through the window which overlooked
the lake. A man sat in front of the window, gazing out, apparently watching the
snow fall.

“The
snow’s beautiful isn’t it?” Sam began as he stepped in the room.

The
elderly man was dressed in a dark house coat pulled up to his chin. He continued looking
out the window without responding to the sheriff.

Was
he in the wrong room? Had he been lured on a wild goose chase? Why wasn’t the
man responding if he was the one who invited him? Perhaps he was hard of
hearing.

“Are
you Bob Smith?” Sam said in a loud voice as he took a couple of steps closer to
the elderly man.

“It’s
a name as good as any,” the man responded.

It
was the same voice the sheriff heard earlier on the answering machine. He
was in the right place.

“I
had a message to come see you,” Sam continued, still talking in a loud voice.
“Do you mind if I come in and talk?”

The
man, summoning his voice with some irritation, took exception with Sam’s tone.

“I’m
not deaf,” Smith declared. “I can hear just fine. Give a man a second to answer
next time. At my age it takes a while to catch up.”

Sam
apologized as Smith gestured for him to take a seat. The mysterious host still
faced out the window as he talked.

“I
trust you had a pleasant drive up,” Smith began. “The lake is really something
this time of year. I hear we’re going to be getting some snow.”

“Um,
yes, we’re getting it now,” Sam agreed. “You said you had some information.”

Smith
laughed at the lawman’s eagerness and his underestimation of the information he
was about to reveal. The weak laugh turned into a cough, the mere act of
laughing choking the elderly man.

“I
don’t have just some information, sheriff. I have it all,” Smith replied.
“I know about your murders and I know why they’re happening.”

“Do
you know who the killer is?” Sam excitedly asked.

“Patience
sheriff, patience. All in due time,” Smith replied as he turned his wheelchair
to face his guest. “I’ve met the killer.”

Smith’s
revelation had Sam chomping at the bit. If Smith had really met the killer as
he claimed, his information could blow the case wide open.

“Who
is it?” Sam asked. “Who is doing this?”