Текст книги "Buried Alive"

Автор книги: Jack Kerley

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

14

“What’s the next step, Detective?” I asked when we’d put a couple miles between us and the tongue.

“I want to make sure I get everything tight for Bob, I mean Agent Dray. So I’m heading back to Sonny Burton’s crime scene to make sure there’s nothing I missed.”

“Deep in the woods, right?” I didn’t like the idea of Cherry alone in the forest with a psychopath on the loose. There had been cases of law officers being stalked and cut down when the moment presented.

“I’ll be fine. Lee McCoy said he’d go along.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I said.

We arrived at Sonny Burton’s murder scene a half-hour later, back a long fire lane. The nearest house was a mile away, down a long hollow. Hemlocks soared above, filtering the light into a gentle yellow that turned the nearby creek to gold. The upslope on the far side of the creek was covered with ferns so delicate they seemed more a green mist than rooted plants. The air smelled of pine. I found the beauty of the setting at horrible opposition to what had happened here.

Burton’s case file described a good ol’ boy, as we called them in the South. He worked hard and played harder. He liked to fight and had been a boxer in high school, earning a partial boxing scholarship to a small college. He hunted and fished and owned the best bass boat in Woslee County, the finest shotgun. His Dodge Ram 350 dualie pickup boasted more chrome than any other truck for miles. He loved Vegas. When time was limited, he’d hit the gambling boats on the Ohio River. Burton gave to local charities. Bought ads in high school yearbooks. He drove his snack truck in the county’s Fourth of July parade, the white step-van third in line behind the honor guard, the fire truck and police cars, and ahead of the band, VFW marchers, and the winners of the “Cutest Baby” contest.

Burton had been married four times, each link in the marriage chain under two years in length, with one union lasting all of six weeks. From a psychological standpoint, serial marriage could mean several things, none of them attractive.

Cherry and I inspected the area as she detailed what she’d found upon arrival: Sonny Burton’s body beneath the truck tire, chest almost flattened, innards squeezed out through his mouth and lower opening. Lee McCoy – the first to notice the murder scene’s location on the geocache website – had been pacing beside the truck when Cherry arrived, frustrated by his helplessness.

I knelt beside a flat chunk of stone, three feet by five or so. Faint but fresh-looking scratches were inscribed in the stone, geometric, like something square had rested on the rock, scarring it.

“What are these, Cherry? The scratches on the rock?”

“I figured they came from the killer moving the truck around. Driving over the rock.”

I scratched at the stone with my fingernail. “It’s dolomite, a dense sandstone. Rubber tires wouldn’t scratch dolomite.”

“My, my, Ryder. You’re a geologist as well as a detective?”

On our hike McCoy had pointed out dolomite layers in the Gorge strata and demonstrated how hard it was for sandstone. I probably should have mentioned that fact. Instead, I patted the stone as if drawing secrets from it with my fingertips.

“Something hard rested here, metal, I suspect. The object would have been a couple feet from Burton’s head. That would place it beneath the forward section of the truck’s frame. Would you know if the frame is—”

“Don’t ask. I didn’t study truck design.”

I paced a circle around the stone, eyes not leaving its surface. “I’ve got a hunch about these scars. But we need to go to the Woslee impound and look inside Burton’s truck.”

“I got another idea.” Cherry pulled out her phone and dialed. Tossed the phone to me. “Tell Caudill what you need.”

The young officer arrived soon after, cradling a black cylinder and a two-foot metal pole beneath his arm. “A twenty-ton bottle jack,” Caudill said. “Bolted behind the driver’s seat in Burton’s step van. The handle was back there, too.”

The hydraulic cylinder was welded to a square steel base. I set the base on the stone. The scratches lined up with the base. Cherry studied the match-up and I saw the pictures enter her imagination.

“Oh lord, Ryder … the truck wasn’t driven on to Burton. It was lowered.”

I nodded and pushed the handle into the jack, marking the jack post with a pencil. I cranked it up, checked the distance traveled. Six or seven cranks moved the post an inch. I stood back and looked between the scene photos and the ground.

“Crank the truck up eighteen or so inches. Put Burton beneath the tire with his hands behind him, helpless. Lower the truck in one-crank increments. With each crank the tire dropped a fraction of an inch. Burton might even have been conscious to hear his ribs break as his chest caved in.”

“Tortured,” Cherry whispered. “Like Tandee Powers. And John Doe with the soldering iron.” She crouched beside the stone. “Why use his truck? There have to be easier ways.”

“The truck was symbolic to the killer. He was probably talking to Burton as he lowered the truck, getting off on the control. Making Burton beg and scream.”

Cherry grimaced. “What the hell would the killer say, Ryder? ‘Here comes the snack truck’?”

We turned to a roar of engines and crunch of gravel. Beale raced up in his SUV. Behind him was a second SUV from the sheriff’s department driven by a fat guy with stained teeth and the weasel-eyed look of a natural sycophant; every department had at least one. I saw outlines of two tall people in the second, figured it was more of Beale’s small force.

Beale skidded so close to my feet that I stepped back. He jumped out and strode to Caudill.

“What the fuck you doing here?” Beale spat.

“R-Ryder needed a jack from Sonny’s truck,” Caudill stammered. “He wanted me to bring it out.”

“Why are you taking orders from some fuckhead with no jurisdiction.” Beale swatted Caudill’s hat from his head. “Who you work for, boy?”

“Y-You, Sheriff.”

Cherry stepped forward. Though I’d seen the flash in her eyes when Beale slapped the hat from his hapless deputy, she was dealing with politics and needed to walk a thin line.

“It was important to get the jack out here, Sheriff. Detective Ryder made the phone call to Officer Caudill, but he made it for me.”

“Cuz you’re in charge of things, right?”

“A combined effort, Roy. We do a better job when we’re united.”

“You like being in charge, don’t you?” Beale sneered. “Makes you feel important.”

His voice was so condescending I was amazed Cherry kept her cool. “It’s a task force, Roy. I’m not specifically in charge.”

Three passengers emerged from the second vehicle. Two were men in dark suits and dark ties, the third a woman in the feminine version of the uniform, black pinstriped pantsuit and navy blouse. She was five eleven, maybe six feet tall, with the kind of blonde hair that doesn’t grow naturally, bright enough to shame a lemon. The hairdo truncated above her shoulders, curling forward into points like horns. She liked makeup, but needed more skill at blending face into neck, giving the impression of a mask with cobalt blue eyes and purple-pink lips. It was not an unattractive mask, the cheekbones high and features even. She looked fit. I put her in her middle forties, but fighting it tooth and nail.

The new arrival inspected the sudden-hushed scene while slowly unwrapping a stick of chewing gum. She popped the gum in her mouth and smiled without a touch of mirth.

“You’re right about not being in charge, Detective Cherry,” she said, displaying a gold shield with an eagle above. “I am.”

The Federal Bureau of Investigation had arrived. It appeared Bob Dray had missed the boat or had a sex change.

15

The Special Agent in Charge was named Gloria Krenkler. It turned out Dray’s case lingered into extra innings and Ms Krenkler had been placed in his slot.

“I’m happy to meet you, Agent Krenkler,” Cherry said, hand out. “You’re a welcome addition to the team.”

The cobalt eyes studied Cherry like Hernán Cortés viewing the welcoming natives. “Team?” she said.

Time for the official meet’n’greet amenities. I pasted my most charming smile on my face and waved across the dozen feet. “I’m pleased to meet you, Agent Krenkler. I’m Carson Ryder and I’m sort of, uh, consulting on the case.” The eyes studied me through a slow and silent five-count, like she was sorting items into boxes and trying to figure out what container I’d require.

“Ah yes, the vacationing cop who received the call from nowhere. Who called you?”

I shrugged. Krenkler said, “I heard it was Detective Cherry.”

Beale grinned and I realized he’d fed Krenkler his version of events.

“That was my initial belief,” I said. “I was wrong.”

Krenkler arched a perfectly drawn eyebrow. “Really? I heard Detective Cherry discovered you were nearby and called for help.” Krenkler turned to Cherry. “You’d call a vacationing cop before you’d call the FBI?”

“I assure you that I didn’t call Detective Ryder,” Cherry said evenly.

“But he was surely called by someone in local law enforcement, right?”

“That’s the safe guess, Agent Krenkler,” Cherry said. It was a subtle poke, and if Krenkler recognized it, an impression didn’t register. Cherry continued. “However Detective Ryder was alerted, he’s been tremendously generous with his time and input. We all owe him a debt of gratitude.”

“I just arrived,” Krenkler said, affecting puzzled. “Why do I owe him anything?”

There was an uncomfortable silence, no one wishing to venture an answer. I cleared my throat. “It’s true,” I said, trying to steer back toward civility. “I’ve simply been helping gather what little evidence has presented. In fact, new evidence came to light about the methodology of Mr Burton’s murder, and Detective Cherry and I were documenting it for the Bureau’s review.”

Krenkler approached me with arms crossed. She stopped a foot away, an uncomfortable incursion of personal space. “And just where is this new evidence, Detective Ryder?”

I gave it two slow beats.

“You’re standing on it, ma’am.”

Krenkler looked down. Her icepick-pointy black flats were dead-center on the dolomite. She stepped back and we studied one another, neither happy with the input.

She said, “I’m sure you’ll be glad to get back to your vacation, Detective Ryder.”

“I can help here, Agent Krenkler. I’ve had experience with—” I was addressing her retreating back. She gestured Cherry to her with a crooked finger, as if summoning an errant child. They spoke, Cherry’s face growing red. I walked to the other agents with my hand out. The older man shook my hand and mumbled, “Rourke.” The other kept his hands in his pockets and nodded to the air beside my head.

I leaned against a hemlock until Krenkler dismissed Cherry. We drove away, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“It’s officially Krenkler’s investigation,” Cherry said, voice tightly controlled. “She was officially asked to take over by Beale, who is officially in charge of the county and officially allowed to request any assistance he needs.”

“And you are officially what?” I asked.

“Fucked.”

It was the only word she said on the drive back.

16

Two days passed. I resumed my climbing lessons and afternoon hikes, occasionally seeing a law-enforcement vehicle speed by, Beale’s county mounties or one of the FBI’s dark cruisers. The Bureau berthed at two cabins by the park. It looked like they’d brought in a couple additional agents, or maybe clerical types to keep the paperwork straight.

I knew they’d start by interviewing anyone who’d ever had a beef with Burton or Powers or who’d done time in prison or psychiatric observation. They’d check locals with violent backgrounds. Evidence – what little there was – would be shipped to the Bureau’s labs, waiting for that one hit: the partial fingerprint, the molecule of DNA in Burton’s truck or on Powers’s clothing.

I hoped the Feds could identify Soldering-iron Man, the anomaly, the victim with no known ties to the area.

Gloria Krenkler and I hadn’t harmonized at our initial meeting and I’d judged her harshly based on my natural aversion to arrogance. I had been wrong about people before – often to my detriment – so I called John Morgenstern, a long-time FBI buddy. Harry and I had met John when he instructed us in behavioral psychology years ago. He was a straight shooter who gave me background info, knowing I’d never pass it on.

“Carson!” came the happy exclamation at the far end of the line, the Bureau’s training academy in Quantico, Virginia. “How they hanging?”

“Off a cliff this morning, John. I’m on vacation in Kentucky, getting in some rock climbing.”

“Keep a tight grip, buddy. What can I do for you?”

“Got a mean case nearby and I’ve got a fingertip in the proceedings. A state detective got bumped hard by one of your field agents, Gloria Krenkler. I was just wondering about Krenkler’s capabilities.”

“She’s been based in the New York office for over a decade. Working mail fraud, mainly, heavy detail work, sitting at a desk and poring over reams of paper. We’re short-handed, homeland security issues. I imagine it was felt she needed to get back out in the field a bit and—”

“You’re giving me everything but an answer, John.”

Morgenstern loosed a long sigh. “Let me put it like this, Carson: Krenkler’s smart, but not creative. She makes up by being dogged, getting the job done a half-inch at a time. If Gloria Krenkler was an auto mechanic she’d tear down the engine to get at the tailpipe.”

“I sense a need to control. Anger issues, perhaps.”

A pause. “You’re the one with the psychology degree.”

“Just between you and me, John, do you respect Gloria Krenkler’s abilities?”

“She can get the job done.”

“Do you like her as a person?”

“Enjoy your mountains,” he said, hanging up.

I decided to grab lunch at the lodge. When I arrived, McCoy was there, perhaps who I’d been hoping to see. He gestured me to his table. I sat and ordered.

“So, Lee,” I said, handing the waitress my menu, “you’re probably spending a lot of time with the FBI, right?”

He frowned over his coffee. “Agent Krenkler views me with curiosity, like I’m a two-headed calf. She can’t understand why an adult would spend his life in the woods, even asked me if I had a ‘Boy Scout complex’. She grilled me for a half-hour on the murders, but that was it.”

That Krenkler didn’t see McCoy’s worth was inexcusable. “How about the website?” I asked. “Monitored day and night by the Feds?”

He nodded. “They tried to reverse-track the listings, but it was a dead end.”

Meaning the killer knew enough to cover his electronic trail. “What’s Cherry up to?” I asked, trying to keep my voice professionally disinterested.

“I spoke to Donna yesterday. She seemed embarrassed about being removed from the case so I kept the conversation short.”

I’d been dismissed from investigations before. Even if you’d been doing a kick-ass job, you felt like a dolt. What made it worse was knowing lack of progress in the case would be blamed on the initial investigators. “We’re having to go back and re-check all the sources,” I heard Krenkler complaining to her supervisors. “Detective Cherry left a lot of loose ends.”

I returned to the cabin and found Mix-up snoozing on the porch. I didn’t have to shut him in the cabin when I left, finding he never ventured far. When I’d whistle, he was always at my side within a minute, often soaking wet from the creek. He did the same back on Dauphin Island, and I wondered if my genetic boullabaise of a dog carried a homebody species inside, or was loath to wander too far from his beloved food bowl.

I considered calling Donna Cherry – only to offer a sympathetic ear, of course – but heard my brother’s words as clear as he’d spoken them in person:

“If she’s pretty, you’ve commenced a charm offensive to get into her pants, Carson. You need the attention.”

I decided what I needed was a drive through the mountains. Mix-up seemed content snoozing in the sun, so I left him to his dogdreams and followed my muse, circling through the Gorge until the road somehow dumped me several miles distant, in Campton. Being so close to Cherry’s office, I was compelled by civility to stop and wish her well.

She was at her desk, hair pulled back in a streamlining of red, a pair of silver earrings bobbing against her milky cheeks. She wore a white blouse and dark pantsuit that would have turned any buxom starlet du jour into a sexless manikin, and I wondered if Cherry was – consciously or not – aping the drabness of the Feeb’s palette.

She looked up and I thought I saw a spark of smile, quickly extinguished in favor of nonchalance. I spun a chair in front of her desk, where I saw a grouping of photos from Powers’s death scene.

“You’re back on the case?” I asked.

Cherry shrugged. “I figure Krenkler’s first day push-away was a shot over my bow, making sure I knew my place.”

“Which is?”

“Making multiple copies of all case materials,” she said, keeping her face and voice emotionless. “Making runs for coffee and burgers. Smoothing the lady’s way into interviews with locals.”

“Ever think she’s keeping you close to keep you open to blame?”

“That thought has occurred, Kemo Sabe. I’m watching my flank.”

I’ve watched it a time or two, my mind said. My mouth said, “Krenkler making any headway?”

Cherry leaned back in her chair and sighed. “She wants to do all the interviews herself, like I’m too incompetent to ask a question. Trouble is, she’s got this imperial attitude. And she’s got all these guys in dark suits with her every step she takes, no idea how scary it is to a lot of the populace.”

“People clam up the second Krenkler appears,” I said.

Cherry nodded, silver earrings bouncing. “They pretend to be as dumb as she thinks they are. It seems to validate her suspicions, so she treats them even more like ignorant children and the circle keeps spiraling down. She has no concept of mountain folk.”

I nodded understanding. Any group from a relatively isolated and low-money background learns the ritual as a form of protection. When you don’t know how the rulers will use information, the best play is playing dumb. To the well-heeled, knowledge is power. To the poor it’s usually just a target on their backs.

“What’s Beale doing?” I asked.

“He’s turned the Woslee police force completely over to Krenkler. She uses them for errands. She uses everyone for errands.”

Cherry’s cellphone rang. She pulled it from her jacket. “What? Where? How bad?” she said, listening between the words. She snapped the phone shut and shook her head.

“Caudill’s got a problem. Some preacher has gone O.K. Corral and is holed up in a church shooting anything that moves.”

“Anyone hurt?” I asked.

“A county worker brush-cutting a side road got hit in the thigh. He found cover under the tractor, but Caudill can’t get to him. Uh, Ryder …”

“I haven’t been to church in a while.”

17

Within a minute we were on the Mountain Parkway, Cherry standing on the pedal, the speedometer in the hundred-ten-plus range. We veered on to an asphalt road that was barely a car and a half wide, changed direction on a switchback, climbed a couple hundred feet, swerved off on to a dirt road.

I saw a trio of wooden crosses in the distance, the center cross twenty feet high. Behind them, on a rise of three mowed acres, was a single-wide trailer with a large cross painted in white across its front. A hand-lettered sign said Solid Word Church. A hundred feet behind, at the edge of a woods, was a second trailer, living quarters, a small garden to its side.

A slug thudded into the side of the cruiser.

“Damn!” Cherry yelled. “Get down.”

She aimed the car into a steep drainage ditch beside the road, a few feet of cover. I saw a single-lane bridge two hundred feet ahead, a county-cop SUV and dark FBI cruiser on the far side. The occupants were safe behind a four-foot rock wall. Caudill and the Feds.

We jumped out as a round thudded into the dirt. Cherry pulled up a walkie-talkie, waved it at Caudill. He pulled his own unit from his belt.

“What’s the story, Caudill?”

“We been stuck here since I called you. I’ve got two ambulances waiting a quarter-mile away.”

“Where’s Beale?”

“Hunting squirrel.”

“Who’s in there, Buddy?” Cherry said. “Who’s the shooter? Over.”

“It’s Brother Tanner.”

“Ezekiel Tanner?” Cherry said. “Uncle Zeke?”

Cherry set aside the communicator and stared at the church.

“You’re related to the guy in there?” I asked.

“His father was my uncle’s wife’s cousin’s brother third removed or something like that. I can’t keep it all straight.”

“He’s a for-real reverend?”

“Self-ordained. Zeke has always seemed more sick with the spirit than inspired by it. He used to give the blessing at family reunions. You ever been eight years old and told you’re gonna end up as cooked as the supper chicken, only in the devil’s oven?”

“I had my own problems. You got field glasses in the cruiser?”

Cherry thumbed the trunk mechanism on her keys. I duck-walked to the trunk, lifted the lid. A shot from the church blew out half the light bar as I found a set of high-powered binocs. I scrabbled back to Cherry’s side and peered over the top of the gulley, staying low.

The church-trailer was atop a rising hill, a small rocky creek at the base, a hundred feet from us. A narrow asphalt county road angled the side of the church. Between church and creek and slender lane, the scene was postcard pastoral. Until you saw the big green John Deere tractor tipped into the gulley, its bush hog attachment like a giant lawnmower on its side. The injured operator sprawled beneath the tractor, his right leg red with blood. He wasn’t moving.

Another shot rang out. A headlamp exploded on the tractor, glass raining down on the wounded man.

“AVANT THEE, SATAN,” screamed a voice from the church. “Yea though I WALK through the VALLEY I FEAR NO EVIL!”

It was Cherry’s turn to duck-walk to the trunk, returning with a bullhorn. She aimed the cone over the wall. “Zeke? This is Donna Cherry. You remember me, right? I always loved your preaching.”

“BITCH DEVIL!” the man screamed, punctuating his words with a volley. “SPAWN OF SATAN! WHORE OF BABYLON!”

“Not working,” she said, ducking back down as the guy started talking in tongues. “ARM-A-LACKEE TATALODO. SHEM PAYLA RAS! HARWHALLA DEEM-ADAYDA!”

“He’s losing whatever’s left,” Cherry said. “Mad as a hatter.”

“The guy under the tractor looks passed out,” I said. “Probably in shock.” I gauged the width of the creek, deep-cut banks, the creek a good yard beneath the level of the land.

“I think I can get to the wounded man with the car,” I said. “There’s a rise I can use as a ramp.”

“Jump the creek? No way. You’ll plant the nose in the creek bed. Even if you make it, you’ll have to drive in front of the church. He’ll pop you like Dick Cheney shooting a caged bird.”

I studied Cherry’s car, the big Ford Crown Vic cop cruiser with a roaring four-point-six liter V-8 and the beefed-up frame and suspension. Harry and I had done enough unlikely feats in our succession of Crown Vics that the Motor Pool considered us persona non grata. I scuttled to the cruiser, pulled myself inside, studied a downslope over meadow grass to the creek-jump east of the church, then the two-hundred-foot run to the toppled tractor.

Ducking low, I jammed the gear stick into reverse, pulling out of the cover as the windshield exploded. He had the range. I pushed the accelerator to the floor and heard the big V-8 scream. I roared into the field below the church, the creek rushing at me.

I hit the rise, the car bottoming out, grille lifting in rebound. Airborne. Then: Thunderous boom, shocks breaking, sideways-skidding, passenger door popping open on busted hinges.

I’d crossed the creek.

Now to pass the trailer. I saw the rifle barrel hanging out a front window, ready to pick me off through the open door…

Change of plans. I skimmed the car across the front of the trailer, cheap pasteboard construction versus serious Detroit iron. The Crown Vic peeled open the trailer like a jack plane slicing pine. A tire exploded. The hood popped open. My face filled with steam from the radiator. Tire flapping, I aimed the wobbling vehicle toward the wounded man.

And then I was out and rolling beneath the tractor. Touching the man’s throat. Feeling a pulse, thank God.

I saw Cherry and Caudill racing to the listing trailer with guns drawn. A warning shot, Cherry baying Stay down! The ambulances were moving in. It seemed odd that I didn’t see the Feds.

I stood and was doing fine for about three seconds, until adrenalin buckled my knees and I sat flat on my ass like a swami.