The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller (17 page)

I climbed Newsome’s apple crates and gave the door a few hard and fast raps, all to no avail. I wondered if maybe he was passed out after a long night of hard drinking, so I peered through the sheer olive-green drapes hanging in the trailer door window.

And that’s when I realized something was terribly wrong.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A brown cowboy boot. Sticking out of a doorway. Resting in a puddle of blood.

I placed my fingers around the outer edge of the knob and turned it carefully. Pushed the door open and quickly discovered that the rancid stench wasn’t just coming from his trash; it was coming from Newsome himself. I slammed the door, moved quickly toward my car.

At least, that was my plan, but the dog had other ideas. He’d somehow managed to pull the chain out from under the cinder block and was now barreling full bore toward me with a determined look falling somewhere between attack and mutilate. I tried to hightail it past him, but before I could, he knocked me to the ground.

Then sank his teeth into my leg. Hard. And hung on.

I panicked.

I couldn’t tell if he’d broken the skin, but if so, I’d have little time to get to a hospital. I’d been warned my whole life to stay away from dogs, from broken glass and sharp objects, from anything that could make me bleed. Other than the playground incident when I was young, I’d managed make it through without any problems—until now.

My pulse pounded in my head and my breathing accelerated times ten. I had to get the dog off my leg. The longer I allowed him to remain clamped to me, the worse I knew the injury could become and the less successful I’d be in stopping—or at least slowing down—the bleeding. I also knew that any resistance or sudden movement might only exacerbate the potential for further injury.

With his teeth bearing down, the pressure increasing, and my pain reaching an unbearable intensity, I looked around for something,
anything
, to aid me in my attempt to escape. A rusty old carburetor lay just beyond my reach. Sliding toward it would only put more pressure on my leg. A little closer lay an old tree branch. I reached for it, and with all the force I could muster, whacked the dog in the face. He released my leg instantly and recoiled just long enough for me to slip out of his reach. Then he began barking and growling again.

I was still breathing heavily with sweat dripping down my forehead and off my nose. I inspected my leg: my jeans were still intact with no holes. No sign of any blood, either. All good signs. With shaky hands, I pulled up my pant leg.

Then breathed a giant sigh of relief.

Four rounded bruise marks on both sides of my leg, but no breaks through the skin. No wounds. No blood.

I thanked myself for dressing that morning in the thick denim and heavy sweat socks that had most surely 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
him
,” Baker replied with a surly grin. Seemed proud of himself.

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
about
?”

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?”

“
News World
.”

“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
what?
You’re joking, right?”

“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
or
back.”

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.”

We were still exchanging suspicious glances when a Ford Explorer pulled up beside us. CJ Norris got out on one side, a photographer the other; he went to work right away snapping photos of the trailer. She came over, looked at me, looked at Baker, then looked puzzled.

“What’s going on here?” she said, still alternating her gaze between the two of us. I wasn’t sure whether her comment was in reference to the tension mounting between Baker and me, or to the crime scene behind us.

Baker took another long drag from his cigarette, exhaled dragon-style again, then nodded toward the trailer and said, “Someone killed Newsome.”

CJ’s face went blank. “Flint? How?”

“Shot in the back of the head,” he said.

“Execution style,” I added.

Baker shot me a look.

CJ turned toward me. “And how do
you
fit in with all this?”

Baker said, “Seems our friend here found the body.”

She looked at me.

“Long story,” I muttered under my breath. “Fill you in later.”

She was about to comment on that, but the other deputy came up to us, wiping sweat off his forehead.

“Got something in there, boss. You’re gonna want to take a look. There’s
a safe behind a bunch of clothes in the closet. On its side, open, and empty.”

Without a word, Baker moved toward the trailer, his deputy following close behind.

“Looks like we have our motive,” CJ said, her eyes following the men as they walked away from us.

“Wonder what was in it.”

She gave me a funny look and said, “You going to tell me how you happened to land in the middle of all this?”

I told her.

She looked down at my leg. “I take it that’s where the rag came in.”

“Yep. Unfortunately, the dog fared much worse.”

“Saw that,” she said. “Not sure who I feel more sorry for, the dog or Newsome.”

“I’ll go with the dog.”

She smiled, nodded.