From A Dead Sleep Read online

  As expected from the details of Joan’s broadcast, he spotted Bailey first. A clump of brown camo with dried blood splattered thoroughly along his chest and some on the ground beside him. Lumbergh didn’t bother to take a pulse. He’d seen enough dead bodies in his time to know not to bother. Bailey’s shotgun was off to his side and next to it there was a spent shell. Gary wondered if the strong, stout Marine had gotten a clean round off at the assailant. Also beside the body was a large, brown burlap bag that also appeared to have blood on it. Against his professional crime scene judgment, Gary gave the bag a nudge with the outside of his foot. A couple of rabbit carcasses poured out through the opening, with the promise of others inside. All of those rabbits’ feet but no luck for Bailey, Lumbergh thought with irony.

  It was a challenge for him to keep his mind focused on the task at hand with the stakes so personal. My God, he thought, what part did Sean play in this? He knew his brother-in-law had serious problems. He’d even speculated, on occasion, that he might be mentally ill. But he couldn’t fathom the notion that Sean Coleman would harm his own uncle, or shoot anyone, for that matter. He couldn’t have been behind the morbid scene, but it had to come back to him somehow. Ideas flashed through his mind: Maybe Sean owed someone money and the person who did this was a lender. Maybe Zed showed up at the wrong time, a confrontation ensued, and all hell broke loose. Was that why Sean had skipped town? To avoid collection?

  Joan’s bellowing forced the investigation to the back of the chief ’s mind. First things first. With his gun at his side, he slid inside through the open door and into the lit room. There, he saw Zed’s body among overturned furniture, a broken chair, and shattered glass—some brown, probably from beer bottles, and some clear chards that he couldn’t place the source of. It had been one hell of a struggle. Scuff marks and scratches marked the wood floor. He was thankful that Diana was outside. Zed had been shot through the throat. The bullet looked to have exited out the back of his head and probably came to a stop somewhere in the wall or floor. His eyes, still exuding a sense of kindness, were left in a gaze aimed up at the ceiling. Lumbergh fought the urge to choke up. Zed was a good man. He was family.

  A separate, thin trail of blood led Lumbergh around the edge of Sean’s kitchen counter. There he found the crimson-laced carcass of Rocco. Gary’s face twisted in puzzlement at the site. What kind of sick person would do that? Why would he bother?

  He quickly checked out the rest of the house. He found nothing of note. The place wasn’t ransacked, just messy by nature because of Sean’s chosen lifestyle. A burglary didn’t appear to be the motivation.

  When he saw the flashing, colorful lights of Jefferson’s cruiser beaming through the curtains, he stepped outside and yelled to the officer to call in the county medical examiner before bringing in the cameras.

  Gary walked down around the corner of the house to Bailey’s side. His door was locked, which wasn’t a surprise. Bailey’s clothes suggested that he’d been outside when the attack started. He sent an elbow through a glass pane on the door, then reached around and unlocked it from the inside. It didn’t take him long to secure the living quarters.

  As he began to make his way back up to the vehicles, a partially open steel telephone box on the side of the building stole his attention. He narrowed the beam of his flashlight through it and saw that the phone wires had been yanked.

  “Jesus,” he muttered before recording a mental note that fingerprints should be taken there first due to the smooth surface of the box.

  When he got back to the vehicles, Gary pulled Diana aside after briefly eavesdropping on Jefferson’s radio conversation to make sure correct requests were being made. With his lips close to his wife’s ear, he spoke softly and calmly of the scene inside. He excluded the gory details but provided enough information to answer the questions she surely had. Her strong-scented perfume, which he normally found alluring, tickled his nose and provided a stark contrast between what the evening should have been and what it had become. He felt her body tense up when he spoke of Rocco.

  While riding quietly over from her house alongside her husband, Diana had prepared herself for the impending specifics on her uncle, but a thought hadn’t crossed her mind about the beloved pet she’d rescued from an animal shelter in Denver over a decade ago. The composure she’d admirably shown since their arrival suddenly dissipated like the warm, visible breaths that left her mouth. She buried her head in Gary’s shoulder where her eyes soaked through his shirt. She felt the palm of her husband’s thin hand along the back of her head.

  She sensed a pair of eyes beaming down on her and she turned to meet Joan’s lost, sunken gaze. The befuddled mother’s mute demeanor was a disjointed blend of anger and helplessness. Diana knew she blamed Sean for the carnage and her son’s disappearance. Joan had made that quite clear while Gary was checking out the house. There was nothing Diana could do to lessen her pain.

  “We’re going to find your son,” Diana heard her husband say with a level of confidence that was so direly needed.

  Joan’s unchanged expression proved that she didn’t believe him. Everyone knew her son was her life. Without him, she couldn’t imagine a reason for continuing to live.

  Regret for not pressing Toby for Sean’s whereabouts the other day at the bridge left an uneasy feeling in Gary’s gut. Sean didn’t carry a cellphone and he wasn’t one to check in with family or anyone else.

  “I’ve got a shoe over here,” Jefferson reported loudly from the far side of the house.

  All heads spun in the direction of the officer’s voice. None of them had noticed his meandering away from the police cruiser. With all attention now on him, his sneer dampened; this was no time to gloat in the knowledge that he’d found something important—something that would surely impress his boss. He kept his flashlight trained on a black high-top shoe that was largely concealed by tall grass and other groundcover. It looked too small to belong to an adult.

  Once close enough, Joan excitedly identified it as Toby’s.

  “What does it mean?” asked Diana of her husband.

  She peered down along his face as he gazed out at the dense hillside beyond the winding, slow-moving creek just outside the perimeters of Bailey’s property. She could almost hear the turning of gears in his head under the hurried gnawing from his jaw. The chief slowly raised his flashlight out at the vast layer of evergreens. Taking his boss’s queue, Jefferson did the same.

  Chapter 21

  “It sounds like it’s working, Mrs. Kimble,” a friendly male voice acknowledged through the speaker with a chuckle.

  “Thanks, Marty,” answered Lisa with a hint of embarrassment in her voice. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “It’s no bother at all. Are you expecting Mr. Kimble tonight?”

  Lisa’s shoulders drooped. “Tonight and the two nights before that.”

  Silence on the other end.

  “Mr. Kimble has a very imposing and unpredictable work schedule, Marty,” she explained. “It’s not uncommon for days to go by without us talking.”

  Her elbows lowered to the flat face of the marble bar counter resting in front of her. An audible sigh dropped from her lips. She glanced out the large kitchen window that overlooked the winding driveway which was dimly lit by staggered accent lamps. “We planned this trip some time ago. I was hoping that his job wouldn’t interfere this time, but it did. He promised it wouldn’t take more than a day or two, and then he’d meet me out here.”

  “You haven’t heard from him at all?” asked Marty.

  “No. No phone calls at all since I got here. That’s why I thought I’d have someone call me back to make sure this thing is even working. Again, I appreciate you doing me the favor.”

  “Does he carry a cellphone with him? Or a work number you could reach him at?”

  “No,” she answered, eyeing the remnants of a salad she’d fixed for herself earlier in the night. “He’s not in the office and he can’t easily use a cellphone
in the field.”

  “The field? What does he do?”

  She didn’t answer and kicked herself for offering up such information.

  After a moment, Marty spoke. “I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s none of my business.”

  “It’s okay,” she quickly interjected, recognizing that it wasn’t fair to make him feel awkward for asking a common question. “He’s an accountant.”

  There was no acknowledgment from him. She visualized the expression most likely draped across his face—one of puzzlement over why an accountant would work such odd hours when it wasn’t tax season and why contacting him was so difficult. She leaned back against the backrest of her stool and crossed her legs in front of her. It would have been a good time to adjourn the conversation, but she felt drawn to continue. She hadn’t chatted with anyone for days. She was lonely.

  “Marty, are you married?” she heard herself ask.

  Perhaps too personal and probing of a question for a resident to ask, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  “I’m divorced.”

  “Kids?”

  “Yes. I have a daughter. Her name is Katy. She’s four. The light of my life.”

  She smiled, absorbing the pride and sincerity in his voice. “How long have you been divorced?”

  “About a year.”

  She nodded her head, took a moment, then asked, “Has it been tough?” She heard what sounded like a sigh on the other end. It was a question that most certainly had no short answer. She winced. Definitely too personal. “I’m sorry, Marty. Now that’s none of my business.”

  He quickly replied, “Oh, don’t worry about it, Mrs. Kimble.”

  “You can call me Lisa.”

  “Lisa. I don’t mind talking about my marriage. It’s just not the type of conversation I’m used to having with residents. Those are usually along the lines of Do you think we’ll get any rain today? or I’m expecting guests for dinner.”

  She giggled. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  Marty explained that the divorce had had its ups and downs. Child custody was an issue, but both sides eventually settled on an arrangement he could swallow. His ex-wife was already remarried, which made things difficult on him and created concerns with his daughter’s living situation. As the call continued, the conversation became more comfortable. Lisa soon felt like she was talking to an old friend—one with some gentlemanly maturity. She reminisced about growing up outside of Billings, Montana, and complained of the brutal summers in Nevada. She’d lived there since college, choosing UNLV after her high school boyfriend had earned a football scholarship there. They broke up before graduation. She didn’t bring up her own marriage, however. She wasn’t ready for that.

  “Thanks for lending me your ear tonight, Marty. I really appreciate it. I know it’s not in your job description to help pass the time for bored residents in the middle of the night.”

  “Believe me, anything away from the normal routine is a good thing. Things down here have been slow, and I’ve enjoyed the company. Only a half hour to go and I’m done until the morning.”

  She could feel him grinning through the receiver. She glanced up at a wooden clock that lined the dining room wall. Since her arrival, its intrusive ticking had worn on her nerves. She’d even considered stopping the pendulum the day before. But for the past hour, she hadn’t noticed it once.

  “Oh my. It’s eleven thirty,” she said.

  “Yes ma’am. I mean, Lisa.”

  She didn’t want to hang up the phone, but knew she’d long outworn her welcome. Still, she felt wide awake. “One last thing. A couple years ago, I checked out a movie at your station down there. Do you guys still do that?”

  He answered yes, but quickly apologized for the weak selection of video tapes. He began reading off titles, none of which was newer than four years old. She stood and stretched her free arm up toward the open bedroom loft, then walked into the living room where the flush carpet felt good under her bare feet.

  “Last of the Mohicans,” she decided. “I love a good romance.”

  She crossed in front of a wall mirror and stopped to take inventory of herself. The slow moving ceiling fan high above dabbled with her hair. She reached back behind her head and unhinged her ponytail, letting her blonde locks float down to just above her shoulders.

  “Sounds good, Lisa. I’ll watch for your headlights.”

  “Marty,” she responded, “why don’t you bring it up in thirty minutes once you’re off . . .? And why don’t you stay and watch it with me?”

  Chapter 22

  The circular outlines of the traffic lights were hazy and nearly conjoined as best Sean’s weary eyes could decipher. He used the palm of his hand to tug at his lower eyelid in an effort to keep his right eye open enough to read the street signs. It was very late by the time he’d finally arrived in Traverse City. Despite the darkness and the humidity that his windshield defroster battled, he could tell that upstate Michigan was lush with heavy trees and occasional wide open areas nestled in between them. Boats sitting on trailers were a common sight. Street lamps were few and far between, which left his car’s headlights the only warning signal for the frequent roadkill that littered the roads. There was a constant dampness in the air though he had encountered little rain on his way in.

  Most things in town were closed but he wasn’t concerned with the business district. He was determined to reach his final destination, the location that appeared to be taking him to the outskirts. He’d picked up a city map at a gas station after conservatively electing to fill his tank a quarter full. There, he grabbed some individual slices of pepperoni pizza—the second heating lamp delicacy he’d enjoyed in less than twenty-four hours. They were easy to eat while he drove. The last fifteen minutes had been spent flicking the dome light on and off to verify on the map that he was heading in the right direction.

  After he crossed a three-way intersection, a new subdivision crept up on the left. Its perimeter was surrounded by an eight-foot-high, unlit brick wall with overhanging foliage and thick tree limbs sprouting out from behind it. It was clear to Sean that he had just entered an upscale area. A break in the wall up ahead suggested an entrance. He didn’t notice the discreet black and white street sign labeled Bluff Walk Road until he had practically passed it. Bearing down on the brake pedal, he prepared for a sharp left turn, but an imposing black, steel gate stood in opposition. He caught a glimpse of a small brick building in front of it with a single light turned on inside its side window. Yanking the steering wheel to the right to turn off onto an adjacent side street, he grimaced at the honk from an annoyed late-night driver behind him as he screeched off the main drag. Sean flipped a U-turn along the narrow street and parked under a row of fruit trees where he could see the gate from about forty yards away. He turned off the headlights and engine.

  Sitting inside the small building, which he recognized as a guard station, was a uniformed man. He appeared to be on the phone, engaged in a cordial conversation. Though Sean could only see him from the waist up, he seemed to have a thin but athletic build and was probably in his early forties. With blonde, short feathered hair and clad in his neatly pressed light-blue uniform, he reminded Sean of a toy soldier.

  With his nagging fatigue dividing what should have been a moment in triumph over arriving at his long-awaited destination, his mind chose to allocate what little energy it had left to wondering what kind of wages the guard was pulling in. Sean was certain it was more than he, just based on the geography alone.

  He pressed the palms of his hands into the steering wheel, straightened his arms, and flattened his damp back into his seat. The crackling of his joints brought some marginal relief after a hard day’s drive. His eyes were fluttering and he was convinced whatever was on the other side of that gate would have to remain a mystery until the morning. He incautiously crawled back over the driver’s seat and his large body crumbled down into the back. He remembered little else before he drifted off to sleep, other than the fain
t smell of nectar and soothing, crisp night air.

  Chapter 23

  “Toby!” His name was shouted throughout the darkened forest for nearly thirty minutes, echoing under the spitting sleet that dropped from the sky.

  Their cries had prompted no response and the men from the Winston police department lost track of the boy’s trail. They knew he’d made it at least to the other side of the creek, but couldn’t find much sign of him beyond where his footprints had disappeared into the underbrush. The only crumb of comfort came from the fact that the unusually large footprints, which were assumed to belong to the killer, could not be found in pursuit of the boy. They instead led to an area behind some trees where tire tracks revealed that a car had been parked. Lumbergh called on Ron Oldhorse.

  It was fair to say that Oldhorse was an eccentric, a term that could have easily been applied to many who lived in the secluded, mountainous region that surrounded Winston. Adopted and raised by a small restaurant owner and his wife in the Denver metro area, his legal name from years ago was Ronald Wilson. Oldhorse’s childhood was pretty typical of most kids brought up in the city: public schooling, intramural sports, a part-time job working for his parents. Yet, he never sensed that he quite fit in with those he lived among, even in a region somewhat known for its racial diversity and multiple ethnic backgrounds.

  In his teens, Oldhorse had formed a deep fascination with the history of the Lakota Indian tribe that he’d discovered his biological parents were descendants of. His mother and father had died in a house fire when he was an infant. His interest in the tribe became an obsession once he returned to Colorado after a few years in the US Army infantry, much of which he’d spent overseas. Despite the bonds he’d formed in the military, he returned to the state as a loner after his adoptive parents retired and moved to Florida. Over the next couple of years, he’d tracked down and sought wisdom among Lakota tribe elders, even traveling throughout the Dakota states and learning to live off the land while he worked as a ranch hand outside of Rosebud, South Dakota.