Текст книги "Cold Blue"

Автор книги: Gary Neece

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Leon made a good point—smart little bastard. “Where’s the letter you wrote?” Thorpe repeated.

“Fuck you, nigga, that letter gonna keep me alive. Got you now—cracker motherfucker.” Leon began to show his ass now that he thought it was saved.

Thorpe scooped up Leon’s legs before he could react, lifted them off the ground, and with all his strength yanked backward on the small man. Tendons and bones gave way as Leon’s arms, which had been restrained to the railing behind his lower back, now extended straight above his head. Thorpe dropped his contorted prisoner to the ground. The scream that followed barely sounded human and had to be stifled with the rag.

“Leon, you were doing so well, but then you had to go and get disrespectful. You are going to tell me where that letter is. It’s just a matter of how much pain you’re willing to endure first.”

Leon vomited, prompting Thorpe to remove the rag. The man’s arms no longer presented a threat so Thorpe cut the Flexcuffs and rolled Leon over on his side to prevent him from asphyxiating on his own puke.

“Leon, where’s the letter?” Thorpe persisted.

Leon sputtered, his breath smelling of bile. “At home, under my mattress.”

“Bullshit, asshole, that’s going to cost you.” Thorpe grabbed Leon’s wrist, locked his elbow, and slowly began to twist, rotating the already dislocated shoulder.

“Wait!...my lawyer has it…Jessie Leatherman.”

“Leon, are you lying to me again? If you are, I promise I’ll work on you all fucking night.”

“Man, he’s got it. If I die, he walks it to the feds. You can’t stop it.”

Thorpe considered Leon words—it made sense. Jessie Leatherman was a private criminal attorney who often served the North Side drug dealers. Officers loved him because he was a horrible lawyer. They joked Jessie put more bad guys in jail than any cop ever dreamed. The only time he got people out of prison was when they appealed their case and it was determined Jessie had provided ineffective counsel. Earlier, before Leon attempted to use the letter as leverage against Thorpe, he started to say his lawyer was in possession of the document. If Jessie did have the letter, it presented a significant obstacle. Thorpe wasn’t prepared to start hurting innocent people, which made retrieving the document a tricky proposal.

“What about your brother? He know about any of this shit?” Lyndale was still incarcerated.

“No.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“He’s in fuckin’ prison. They monitor his phone calls and his mail. I’m not going to talk about this shit with him.”

“What else you have to tell me, asshole?”

“I’ll be waiting for you in hell,” Leon growled between clenched teeth.

Thorpe stood. “You have two minutes to make peace with God. Then I’m sending you to one place or the other.”

Thorpe gathered his equipment as he heard Leon praying under his breath. There truly are no atheists in foxholes. Despite the damage Thorpe had inflicted on Leon, there was little blood to show for it. Thorpe wanted to keep it that way. After a couple of minutes, he returned to his captive and pulled on Leon’s collar until the man sat upright, his arms dangling unnaturally at his sides. Thorpe stood behind Leon and dug a knee into his ribs.

“It’s time.”

Leon began to protest in vain. Thorpe grabbed Leon’s chin with his right hand and palmed the top of his head with the other. In one violent motion, Thorpe pulled up and back with his right as he pushed down and away with his left, snapping Leon’s thin neck and fatally damaging the spinal cord.

Thorpe dropped the limp vessel of what was once Leon to the ground. He needed to find a place to conceal the body in an attempt to prolong its discovery and buy enough time to complete his mission. If a letter truly existed, and if Leon’s corpse were discovered, it wouldn’t take long for investigators to focus on Thorpe, especially after certain TPD officers’ life expectancies took a sudden plunge.

Thorpe figured on paying fully for his sins and crimes. He had little doubt he would be captured, charged and convicted of several counts of premeditated murder, kidnapping, and a myriad of other felonies—but not until it was over.

Thorpe considered burning the body to dispose of physical evidence. But a fire would likely lead to an immediate discovery of Leon’s remains. He also contemplated severing Leon’s hands and feet. The Flexcuffs had left behind distinctive impressions that he would like to destroy. Even though the plastic cuffs were readily available to civilians, the fact they’d been used would immediately mark police officers as potential suspects. Picturing himself sawing through Leon’s limbs didn’t set well—too Jeffery Dahmerish.

Thorpe used a flashlight and searched the surrounding area for a place to secrete the body. When he located a suitable spot, he returned to Leon’s remains, hoisted it onto his shoulders, and shuffled into the woods toward a dense thicket of brush surrounded by a web of thorny vines. The leafless tentacles clawed at his clothing as he trudged into the thicket. He wore enough layers so as not to be concerned about his skin being ripped open and leaving DNA evidence, but he’d definitely have to ditch his shredded clothes. The annoying, flesh-tearing thorns should keep the casual teenager out of the area.

Not having brought a shovel, Thorpe concealed the body by tossing it in the thicket and covering it with fallen limbs and other vegetation. He had no doubt it would eventually be found, but hopefully not for a few days. By then the crime scene would have deteriorated because of the elements and with any luck, a hungry pack of coyotes.

Thorpe trekked back through the barbed scrub and scanned the area surrounding the oil tanks for signs he’d been there. The only visible evidence was footprints, tire tracks, and the contents of Leon’s stomach.

Thorpe entered Leon’s Cutlass, and with the headlights off, used starlight to navigate the dirt road. Not seeing any approaching cars, Thorpe pulled out onto 36^th Street North hoping a patrol unit wouldn’t spot him emerge from the woods.

The chances of being pulled over driving this piece of shit at this time of night were fairly high. Working his way southwest, he hoped his luck would hold out. He breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled into a convenience store lot near Shaw’s house. He left the car running, grabbed his bag and stepped out of the vehicle. Since TPD never uses bait cars, Leon’s vehicle would be stolen—the only question was how long it would take.

Thorpe began the hike back to his Impala. The temperature had dropped into the teens, and he was thankful to be on the move. He was equally pleased to hear a wobble tone on his police radio. A shooting had just occurred in deep North Tulsa, ensuring all graveyard officers would be headed that direction.

Thorpe slipped into the neighborhood and broke into a jog. He wondered what the crew assembled at Shaw’s house thought of the disappearance of Leon. With Leon’s Cutlass missing coupled with his obvious paranoia, Thorpe figured their first conclusion would be he got scared and fled. Their biggest fear would be Leon talking to the authorities. That, and the fact they’d never received a second phone call from the anonymous blackmailer were probably making for some very nervous people right about now.

Thorpe approached his car and passed it, looking to see if anyone was watching his vehicle. Not spotting any surveillance, he got in his car and left the neighborhood. As he drove by the convenience store, he saw that Leon’s Cutlass was already gone. The car had been stolen within minutes. And its owner was in no position to file an auto-theft report. The Cutlass would probably pass hands several times before being recovered by police or stripped for parts. Any physical evidence left in the car would be greatly diminished.

WHILE THORPE RETURNED TO THE office, three men stood in the front yard of Shaw’s home, speaking in hushed tones. Leon’s disappearance was almost as disconcerting as the ransom call they were still waiting to receive. Phipps had been inside listening to the heated discussion. Growing impatient, he’d looked out the window and discovered Leon’s car missing. He summoned Price and the other man outside to discuss what needed done.

With limited information the three could only agree on two things. One, Leon Peterson and Jonathan Thorpe were threats to their freedom. Two, both men needed to die.

Thursday

February 8

Nearing midnight

FOOT ON THE GAS, REVENGE on the mind, Thorpe sat behind the wheel of a nondescript Ford Taurus, his gear and a change of clothing in the backseat. He was headed to an isolated neighborhood with large, heavily wooded lots—and non-coincidentally sat in the middle of Stephen Price’s police beat. Driving south on Yale Avenue from 91^st Street, Thorpe turned right near the crest of a steep hill, into the rolling neighborhood. He scoured the area until he found what he was looking for—a dark home with a backyard screened by an abundance of trees.

The house displayed a “Smart Dog Alarms” sign in the front yard and a newspaper wrapped in yellow plastic lying in the driveway. Thorpe decided the house, which sat near the end of a dead-end street, had an empty feel. The road ran east/west but at this location curved back to the north before it ended in a cul-de-sac. Thorpe memorized the house’s features and continued on.

He exited the neighborhood, pulling the Taurus into a shopping center on the northwest corner of 81^st and Yale. He found a dark parking space and climbed into the rear seat. Shielded by tinted windows, Thorpe changed clothes, exited the vehicle and removed the license plate. Climbing back into the driver’s seat, he laid the plate face down on the passenger floorboard and drove to another neighborhood west of his target location. He stopped just north of the Thousand Oaks housing addition, which, unlike most neighborhood names, actually made sense.

A vacant lot sat east of where Thorpe parked. Isolated homes were situated on either side of the empty property. A streetlight stood vigil thirty yards north. If someone did notice his vehicle, they would likely only recall a white Taurus with tinted windows. That would narrow the search down to a couple hundred-thousand cars. Because Thorpe was dressed in heavy garb, anyone who might see him wouldn’t be able to provide much of a description.

He was monitoring Riverside’s frequency and had heard Price go “46” on a dinner break ten minutes ago. Thorpe scanned the area, strapped a soft padded olive-green case to his back, and walked briskly across the street and through the vacant lot. A greenbelt ran north and south directly behind the property. The air was glacial; like a steam engine, Thorpe left puffs of condensation as he chugged up a steep incline across the greenbelt toward a heavily wooded area. Enough moonlight shone that Thorpe, laden with equipment, risked being spotted by a neighbor as he traversed the open expanse. Because running or skulking always drew attention, he walked steadily and as upright as the incline would allow. If he heard a call on the radio in reference to his suspicious activity, he would return to his car and choose another location.

Thorpe entered the sanctuary of the trees, squatted and peered down at the area he’d just crossed, looking to see if any eyes had followed him into the woods. It was cold, near midnight, and a weekday, so Thorpe hoped his passing had gone unnoticed. The radio was dead silent. Much darker here in the trees, Thorpe retrieved the night-vision device he’d obtained from the office. The NVDs were not military grade and could be a bit disorienting, but he didn’t want to use a flashlight and risk being seen. Thorpe continued his climb up the hill, navigating through trees displayed in hues of green and black.

A few minutes later, Thorpe felt confident he’d rediscovered his target house. Looking at the back of the structure, he removed the NVDs and confirmed the siding and trim were painted the same colors. The backyard was surrounded by a six-foot wooden privacy fence, the planks attached so that the support posts faced outward. Avoiding the clamor that kicking pickets would generate, he used a large knife as a prying instrument, loosening and removing several planks. After making an opening through which he could easily escape, Thorpe stepped into the yard.

A wooden storage shed and clumps of trees rose out of a choppy sea of copper and brown. Waves of raspy leaves, feet thick in places, covered every inch of the yard. A raised wooden deck, three feet off the ground and accessed by stairs, led to the back door. An illuminated porch light guarded the rear entrance.

Thorpe waded through the leaves, stepped up onto the deck, and using a hammer fist, loosed three booming knocks on the back door. Right hand tingling, he retreated deep into the yard, watched for indications of someone being home, and monitored the police radio. Except for hearing Price go “10-8”—meaning he was now available to take calls—nothing pertinent to Thorpe’s activities had been reported.

Thorpe noted the gate leading to the front yard was on the southeast side of the home—to Thorpe’s right. The storage shed sat to his left about thirty yards from the deck and offered the only sufficient concealment; the yard’s tree trunks were not large enough in diameter to screen him from his prey. Unfortunately, launching an attack from the shed would be difficult because of the deck’s higher elevation and railing. He needed to be about ten yards closer for what he had in mind.

Thorpe removed a small pair of bolt cutters from his pack and cut the lock on the shed. Inside, he felt comfortable using a flashlight. It didn’t take long to find what he needed—a plastic leaf rake. Thorpe used the rake to clear an area behind and to the left of the shed. He then cleared a ten-yard path leading up to the deck. Finished, he tossed the rake aside, crossed the deck and kicked in the back door. Pulling the door closed, he returned to his hide. Thirty seconds later, the home’s piercing alarm system shattered the once still night. Thorpe monitored the surrounding houses for lights or movement in reaction to the shrill alert.

Nearly ten minutes passed before dispatch assigned the call.

“Ida 304, Ida 304 and a car to back. Smart Dog intrusion alarm, 4530 E. 86^th Street, four-five-three-zero east eight-six Street, break.”

Price answered the call. “Ida 304, I’ll advise.”

“Ten-four, Ida 304. Trip is rear entry. Copy you’ll advise. Time zero-zero-three-six hours,” dispatch acknowledged.

Price had done exactly what Thorpe knew he would, what almost every police officer does; he “advised” on an alarm call. Advising meant he would respond alone; no backer would be assigned. It was a bad habit. Because the vast majority of alarms are false, they’re rarely taken seriously—especially in South Tulsa. Officers usually only request additional units if they locate a “good break” on the perimeter of the home.

After a few minutes the alarm fell silent. Thorpe ceased to watch the gate and retreated fully behind the shed. Anyone walking into the yard would be announced by their footsteps thrashing through leaves. He unslung the padded case and removed its deadly contents. For the next nine minutes, Thorpe stood ready beside the shed, concentrating on his breathing. Finally he heard Price go “10-97” on the radio. The announcement spiked his heart rate ever so slightly. Price had arrived on scene.

FAR FROM THE PROPER STATE of mind to be on patrol, Stephen Price had been operating on autopilot all evening. In the academy, rookies learned about three different mindsets, which were based on the traffic light system.

“Condition Green” was the mindset an officer has while sitting in the sanctuary of his own home, scratching his balls and watching reruns of Seinfeld. “Yellow” was cautionary, a condition he needed to enter anytime he donned a police uniform—danger could be around any corner; from the minute he leaves the house, he should be scanning his surroundings for threats. “Condition Red” meant one was “in the shit,” or likely to be soon.

After the ominous ransom call, Price had been operating exclusively in the green; he wasn’t focused on his surroundings.

Price pulled in front of the address with the sprung alarm. Another rich asshole who wouldn’t shell out his inherited money for a decent alarm system. After having performed a cursory check of the front, he found a gate on the left side of the house and stepped into the backyard. He walked around the corner, feet shuffling through accumulated leaves, toward the lit back porch. Price directed his flashlight to the wooded yard but quickly turned his attention to the back door.

Who the fuck called me last night? He thought as he stomped up the wooden stairs. As he crossed the deck, he noticed the splintered doorframe. His mind was just registering that he had a good break when he heard, and felt, a thud in the small of his back.

What the hell? At first he experienced no pain, only spreading warmth. Then came the burning hurt and the realization he was “in the shit.” As Price’s mind bridged the gap between green and red, he realized he should be drawing his pistol. His right hand on weapon, Price heard something on the deck behind him. He unsnapped his retention holster, lifted the Glock and turned—only to get knocked off his feet and through the back door. The warmth in his back became excruciating when he landed on the kitchen floor. His tormented mind registered a piercing noise, a brightening of the room, then pressure on his arms and torso. His eyes focused. Looming above him was Sergeant Jonathan Thorpe.

Fuck.

THORPE’S PLANS OF INTERROGATINGPRICE were dashed. The arrow from Thorpe’s compound bow didn’t have the incapacitating effect he’d hoped for, and the speed with which Price reacted was surprising. The man had been close to clearing his holster by the time Thorpe reached him. His safest option had been to knock him off his feet. Unfortunately, the blow had knocked Price straight through the back door, reactivating the house alarm.

The recognition of imminent death in Price’s eyes gave Thorpe a measure of satisfaction. He buried a large hunting knife in Price’s neck, severing both the internal and external carotid arteries as well as the internal jugular vein. He must have also penetrated Price’s spinal cord because death was instant. Purposely leaving the knife in his victim, he removed the dead man’s radio and cell phone and backed out the door.

Thorpe recovered his bow and case and exited the opening in the fence. As he made his way through the woods and down the steep hill he tossed the bow to the side and continued toward his car. Just before reaching the greenbelt, he knelt and retrieved a plastic bag from a pocket. Thorpe pulled off his gloves and put them in the bag, then pulled on a different pair and continued walking to the car.

Safely in the Ford, Thorpe drove south until he found a secluded area to reattach the license plate. He also activated the emergency button on Price’s radio; he saw no sense in having a family traumatized by returning to find a slain police officer in their home. The activation of the emergency button would have officers respond immediately to Price’s last known location. His lifeless body would be discovered within minutes.

Friday

February 9

Early Morning

AS SUPERVISOR OF THE DEPARTMENT’S Homicide Unit, Sergeant Robert Hull didn’t respond to every murder scene. He did respond to most—and absolutely responded to any killing involving a police officer, especially when the officer was the victim. When Hull answered his page at 1:30 this morning, he’d been told a TPD officer had been killed on an alarm call and that no suspects were in custody. He hadn’t asked for the officer’s name; he wasn’t eager to know.

As Hull approached the entrance to the neighborhood, he encountered a patrol unit restricting access to the area. The officer manning the post waved him through, and Hull wove his way into the neighborhood. As he grew closer, he noticed the towers of several news vans. The carrion-enticed media were circling the fresh kill. There would be no shortage of discussion for the talking heads this Friday morning.

Hull passed the hungry-eyed reporters and continued to another checkpoint manned by three officers and police tape. He parked behind a string of modest, American-made sedans lining the street. As he stepped from his car, a blast of arctic air prompted him to return for his gloves before walking toward a large home that appeared to be the center of activity. He ducked under more tape as an officer in uniform marked his arrival on a clipboard.

“They’re all around back, Sarge. There’s a gate on your left.”

Hull nodded, walked across the yard’s dormant grass, through the gate, and around the corner of the home, where he was met by his gaunt detective. Chuck Lagrone stood shin deep in an ocean of leaves.

“Skull, whatta we got?”

“I’ve never seen a killing like this before, boss, let alone a cop. You know who it is right?”

Hull had been afraid to ask. “No.”

“Stephen Price.”

Hull released his held breath, relieved it hadn’t been an officer he was close to—or even liked for that matter. Then he experienced guilt over his initial reaction. His dueling emotions must have been apparent.

“Don’t worry about it, Bob. I didn’t care much for him either.”

“His uncle been notified yet?”

“Got two uniforms and a chaplain en route to his house. Should be arriving any minute now.”

“Better get some more officers on the perimeter. We don’t need him showing up and knocking down our crime scene.”

“I’ll put some guys on it. Come on, Bob, you better see this one for yourself, even if you don’t want to.”

The two men rounded the deck and ascended the wooden stairs, taking care not to step on potential evidence. The rear door stood open. Price lay on his back just inside the kitchen, his dark form in sharp contrast to the stark white tile. The first thing Hull saw was the large knife protruding from the side of Price’s neck. When he got closer he noticed the shaft of a metal arrow beneath the body. A significant amount of blood had pooled on the floor around the head. Hull was taken aback.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Fucked up, ain’t it?”

“That’s an understatement,” Hull breathed, then, “How pure is this scene?”

“Three officers stepped over the body and cleared the rest of the house for suspects. Two firemen entered and pronounced Price dead. After that, everyone exited the house and locked it down. The list of people who have been crawling around the backyard is more extensive. SIU is already finished with their video.” SIU was the department’s Special Investigation Unit. Its detectives were responsible for collecting evidence at major crime scenes.

“Damn. This isn’t your typical cop killing; he’s been assassinated.”

“Fucking looks that way.”

“He wearing a vest?”

“Yeah. The arrow penetrated. Don’t know how deep yet. Need to do some more processing before we start poking around the body.”

“Fuck. Tell me everything you know so far.”

Lagrone raised his notes and lowered his reading glasses. “According to dispatch, Price went 10-46 in his car at 2345 hours and 10-8 at 0015 hours. At 0035 dispatch received a rear-entry alarm at this residence—we’ll check with Smart Dog to get an exact time the alarm was tripped. At 0036 hours, dispatch assigned the call to Price who stated he would advise. At 0050, Price went 10-97. At 0101 hours, Price’s emergency button was activated on his handheld radio. At 0108, the first officer responding to the emergency activation arrived. At 0110, the responding officer reports an officer down; he requests EMSA, a supervisor and additional units. Fire arrives before EMSA and pronounces Price DOA, while three officers clear the rest of the house. When they’re done they tell the firemen to get out, then they walk out the front door so they don’t have to step over the body again. Additional officers clear the backyard and notice the lock to the shed has been cut off. They also discover several boards have been removed along the back fence.”

Lagrone motioned back toward the area where the boards were missing. “The fence is in pretty good shape, and it looks like the boards were recently pried loose. That’s all I got right now, boss.”

“Shit. This is fucked up, Skull. A damned bow and hunting knife! Son of a bitch.” Both men were unconsciously looking down with unfocused eyes at Price’s body while shaking their heads. “What about the homeowners?”

“Not home and haven’t been able to contact them yet. There’s a newspaper sitting at the end of their driveway, so maybe they haven’t been home today. Neighbors don’t know where they’re at; say they were here yesterday.” Lagrone looked at his watch. “Well, I guess it would be the day before yesterday now. Neighbors saw them Wednesday.”

“What do we got going?” Hull asked.

“We have a full call out. All the homicide detectives are either here, en route or being called. Uniforms are still conducting a canvass in the neighborhood asking if they’ve seen any cars or people that don’t belong in the area, asking about the family who lives here and if they’ve heard or seen anything suspicious. Got some lights en route so we can process the backyard.”

“These damn leaves are so thick the suspect could still be here and we wouldn’t know it,” Hull said, only half kidding.

“Looks like the lazy fuckers haven’t picked up a leaf the whole winter; it’ll take us weeks to sift through this shit.”

“Chuck, I realize it’s early, but you got any theories yet?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if I want to say them out loud.”

“Price had a lot of people who didn’t like him, and a lot of them are on the department,” Hull answered for him.

“Yeah; remember 1982?” Lagrone was referring to a case in which a former Tulsa Police Officer, Jimmy Dean Stohler, shot the ex-girlfriend of another TPD officer in the chest, killing her. The weapon he’d used was a poison-tipped crossbow.

“Fuck...that’s all we need. With this being Price, Tulsa will have another race riot.”

Price was one of several black officers who’d accused TPD of discrimination. His name had been attached to many a lawsuit, and he was always happy to provide an outrageous quote for the local liberal rag. Although relations had greatly improved over the last couple of years, his past claims had earned him plenty of enemies on the department. And because of those previous allegations, his murder would be ample reason for the media to start speculating instead of reporting.

“By the way, look at Price’s gun belt. Notice anything?” Lagrone asked.

Hull studied the body for a minute. “His police radio’s gone.”

“Yup.”

“Huh. Do me a favor, Chuck. The chief and every other high-ranking fucknut are going to want in this backyard. Pass it on to the uniforms that no one enters the crime scene without my permission—that includes our illustrious chief; he can get his face time with the media some other place.”

Hull descended the deck and shuffled through the leaves to a mature tree where he leaned against its rough bark. He stuffed his gloved hands into his coat pockets and watched as SIU and his men went about their work. Over time, he blocked out the activity swirling around him. In his mind, he tried to picture the scene undisturbed by emergency personnel and through the killer’s eyes.

Lost in his own thoughts, the wash of crime-scene lights snapped Hull to attention. Looking down at his watch he realized he’d been leaning against the tree for nearly a half-hour, though it only felt like minutes. Hull stepped away from the tree and again trudged through the yard. After a thorough inspection, he returned to the deck and checked in with his senior detective.

“Got it figured out yet?” Lagrone asked.

“Got some theories brewing. Anything new?”

“A few things. Both the porch light and the kitchen light were on when the first officer arrived. He reported climbing the deck and finding Price. He’s feeling bad because he didn’t think to check Price’s pulse; he retreated and waited for his backers. Two backers show, one checks his pulse, can’t find one, and all three go inside to clear the house.

“Looks like the arrow penetrated the back of Price’s vest but not the front. May have hit bone, or just didn’t have the oomph to get through two panels of Kevlar and muscle. We were able to get hold of the family who lives here. They’re in Texas because the husband’s father had a heart attack. Wife or both will be back en route and should be here in five to seven hours. The house doesn’t look like it’s been burglarized, but we’ll have to wait till they arrive to know if anything’s missing. Marcus has been notified, as well as Price’s mother. The word is Marcus was somewhat unemotional about his nephew’s demise, but who knows what’s going on in his head. Everybody grieves in different ways.”

“Where’s Marcus at?” Hull asked.

“He’s still at home. He told the chaplains they could leave. We got someone sitting outside his house—just in case.”

“What are we doing with Price’s car?”

“It’s already been towed. We’ll process it in the barn.”

“Chuck, I’m going to talk to PIO.” The Public Information Office was responsible for disseminating information to the press. “Then I’ll talk to the brass. After that, I’m heading to the office to jot things down. If you come up with anything significant call my cell. Also make sure the area behind the house gets a thorough search. We’ll be looking for clothing, Price’s radio, a bow, whatever.”

“Will do.”

“One more thing, Skull. You notice the path that’s been cleared in the leaves?”

“Yeah, I saw that. Whattaya make of it?”

“Wouldn’t make any noise if you approached the deck from that path, would you?”

“No, no, you wouldn’t.”