saved my life.
Still shaken, I ran to my car, grabbed a rag from the trunk, then wrapped it snug around my leg to ensure that none of the bruises wore thin and started bleeding.
Then I called the Sheriff and waited in the car, bruised leg hanging out the passenger side door, nerves more than a bit on edge. A short time later, the cruiser came charging up the dirt path, lights flashing, siren blaring, and tires kicking up a cloud of dust. It pulled to an abrupt halt beside me.
The sheriff got out of the car and came toward me, an older guy, thin, tall, late fifties. I glanced at his nametag: Deputy Ned Baker. He took one look at my wrapped leg, then my face, and said, “You look like hell, son.”
“I’ll live,” I replied, “but I can’t say the same for the guy in the trailer.”
He glanced over his shoulder, then back at me. “Flint?”
“I think so. You’ve got a mess in there, a bloody, stinky one.”
He regarded me for moment, then headed for the trailer, unsnapping his holster and resting his hand on the butt of his gun.
As if on cue, the hell born hound came running toward him, barking, growling, and baring those nasty teeth. In one swift move, Baker pulled his gun and fired a single shot. The dog flew into reverse, landed on his back, and rolled onto his side. Let out a gasp, then went motionless.
As if Flint’s body hadn’t been enough.
Baker stared back at me, gun dangling at his side, tough-guy-cop expression on his face. The dog and I hadn’t exactly formed a meaningful bond, but the last thing I needed was to see him dead. It wasn’t his fault he had a rotten parent. Lord knows I could sympathize there. True, he’d nearly killed me, and yet in some strange way I felt badly for him.
Baker continued toward the trailer. I heard the front door suck open, and a few moments later, radio chatter. After about five minutes, more sirens shrieked in the distance, growing louder with each passing moment. Two more cruisers came speeding in; they cut a corner onto the dirt road, kicking up dust that had just started to settle. The cars skidded to a stop beside me, and two deputies got out, glanced my way, then joined Baker inside the trailer.
A few minutes later, they were stringing yellow tape all around the place.
I remained in my car waiting and watching as the deputies moved in and out of Newsome’s trailer. My leg felt better now; that was the good news. The bad news was my ever-increasing nervousness and the reality of the moment sticking hard in my gut. I’d managed to walk head-on into a murder scene, and that meant trouble.
About ten minutes later, Baker emerged from the trailer and came walking toward me, snapping bloody rubber gloves off his wrists with an expression that told me he wasn’t coming to make social conversation.
“Yep. It’s a mess in there, all right,” he said, nodding toward the trailer. “Been dead for a while, prolly several days.”
“Smells like it,” I agreed.
“Let’s you and me have a chat,” he said, and waved me toward his car. He glanced at my leg. “You bleeding there?”
“Just bruised. Dog thought I was lunch.”
“Yeah, and then I took care of
I felt sick again.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Patrick Bannister.”
“Got some I.D.?”
I pulled out my wallet, handed him my license.
“California.” He grunted the word. “What brings you all the way out here?”
“Trying to talk to Flint Newsome,” I said, “but it looks like somebody else did the talking for him.”
“What were you trying to talk to him
Internal dialogue time: I wondered how he could be the only person in Corvine who didn’t know about me. My presence here hadn’t exactly been a secret; far from it. I stuck my hands in my pockets and said, “I’m a reporter.”
“A reporter?” he replied, as if it weren’t possible. “Who with?”
“
“That national magazine?”
I nodded.
He seemed to think on that for a moment. I noticed his jaw clench, and he gave a slow nod, his eyes now peering directly into mine. It was the same sort of cop look Jerry Lindsay had given me. Must be something they taught them at the academy. Finally, he said, “Not much happening in Corvine...”
“I’m doing a story about Nathan Kingsley,” I replied.
“Say what?”
“Nathan Kingsley,” I repeated, my annoyance beginning its uphill hike.
He frowned. “Boy who got kidnapped a long time ago?”
I nodded.
“How does Flint Newsome fit in?”
“He worked for the sheriff’s department at the time.”
Baker laughed. “He
“I’m not.”
“Shit. I wouldn’t believe that man if he told me it was daylight at noon, let alone trust him to mop the station floors. Where the hell did you ever get the idea he worked for us?”
“From Lucas’s attorney.”
At this, Baker shrugged, then pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and poked a smoke into the corner of his mouth. It dangled and bobbed while he spoke. “Well, it’s news to me.”
I matched his shrug.
He found a zippo in his pants pocket and lit the cigarette. Studying me intently, he took a long, deep drag, then exhaled the smoke through his nose. Reminded me of a dragon. A tall, skinny one.
“Okay. From the start, now,” he said. “Tell me what happened when you got here.”
I told him.
“And you never went inside?” he asked.
“That’s correct. I saw the body through the drapes, opened the door to see if he was still alive in case he needed help. As soon as I smelled him, I knew. But I never went in. I’ve covered enough crime scenes to know better.”
“Cover enough crime scenes to know not to touch the doorknob with your bare hands?”
“Just the outer edges, not the front
He nodded but didn’t seem particularly impressed. “And that’s when you called us?”
“Correct. Immediately.”
He was studying me again, and it was starting to bug. “Where you staying at while you’re here, son?”
The son thing was bugging too. “The Hitching Post.”
“How long you gonna be in town?”
“Not sure. Guess as long as it takes to finish my story.”
“You check with me first before you leave.”
The request didn’t seem unusual, but the tone bothered me. Seemed a tad unfriendly. I said, “And the reason for that?”
“In case I got more questions, that’s why. Got a pretty nasty murder in there.”
“How nasty?”
“Very.”
“How nasty?” I repeated.
He seemed to deliberate over the answer. Finally he said, “Someone tied his hands behind his back, stuck a sock in his mouth, put him on his knees and let him have it right in the back of the head. It was an execution.”
