Jack Slade, page 3
Her eyes brightened. “Would you mind if I tag along? My home is a couple of miles down the highway. I can drop off my car, then drive in with you. I may be able to help. I’m quite familiar with Crawford. My mother lives there, and I know the police chief.” She grinned mischievously. “He’s an acquaintance of my father’s, and he’s always asking me out.”
“Glad to have you. And the police chief has good taste.” He started to rise, then settled back in the chair. “If you’re going to come along, I have one stipulation.”
“What’s that?”
“Drop the mister, and just call me Slade.”
“Agreed, if you’ll drop the Ms. Elmwood, and just call me Helen.”
The highway stretched due east through gently rolling hills covered with tall green prairie grass. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was behind them. White fluffy clouds played peek-a-boo with the sun and threw moving shadows across the land. Slade watched a hawk gliding over the hills on wide spread wings. Suddenly it paused, hovered in mid-air, wings buoyed by the wind, black eyes glittering as it spotted prey. It plummeted toward the ground with incredible speed, sunlight glimmering off its black curved beak. There was a commotion in the tall grass, a flash of sharp cruel claws, then the hawk rose into the air, wings beating the wind, a squirming rabbit clutched in its talons.
The struggle for life at its most basic, Slade thought.
He glanced at Helen, sitting in the seat beside him. She had also witnessed the drama, and her dark eyes were somber as she watched the hawk fly with its prey toward a stand of black oaks etched against the blue horizon.
“How did you come to be working as an administrator at the reservation?” he asked.
“I majored in Native American history and business administration at college,” she replied. “I spent quite a bit of time at Twin Peaks when I was growing up. I’d spend a few weeks each summer there with my grandparents. I always felt a strong kinship with the land and the people. I always knew that I’d want to come back and do what I could to help make things better for the people.”
“You’re not full-blooded Sioux.”
“I’m a half-breed. My father is a white man. He’s a big real estate developer in Crawford. Over the years, he’s become very successful, responsible for much of the growth of the town, attracting business and people. He’s one of the movers and shakers in Crawford.”
“You sound proud of him.”
“I am proud of him. His name is Frank Elmwood. He’s been a good father. He’s also been a good husband. He loves my mother and always treated her well. He never resented my feelings for my Native American heritage. In fact, he encouraged me to spend time with my grandparents.
“His top assistant, John Dancing Horse, is full-blooded Sioux. John interfaces with the tribe for my father, helping to settle disputes and set guidelines when some of my father’s developments butt up against tribal lands. He also takes care of relations with the sizable Sioux population in Crawford.”
She glanced at Slade. “But how about you? How did you come to be in the security business?”
Slade shrugged. “I have certain psychic abilities. My boss, the owner and CEO of the Diamond Group, heard about me, came to see me one night and put me through a test. When I passed, he asked me to join his company as Head of the Occult Section. The rest is history.”
“How did you come by your abilities?”
“I inherited them from my parents. My mother used to take me traveling in the astral with her when I was a boy. I grew up thinking such things were normal.”
“What about your father?”
Slade glanced away. “He was a shadowy figure. I never really knew him.”
“There must be more to it than that,” Helen observed. “From what Soaring Eagle told me, you have abilities far and beyond simply traveling in the astral. It’s difficult for me to believe that you just fell into the position you hold.”
Slade’s features underwent a subtle change. In some uncanny way, he took on the semblance of a beast of prey. “I suppose I’m a natural hunter.” Red lights flared in the depths of his eyes. “That’s why I’m called Demon Hunter. I live for danger and risk. I feel most alive in combat.”
She looked into his eyes, and a faint shudder shook her slender frame. “I think I just got a sense of what my grandfather was referring to,” she whispered in an awed voice. “You remind me of the hawk that just captured that rabbit. All of a sudden, you frighten me.”
About to reply, Slade fell silent as they topped a rise, and the city of Crawford came into view.
The highway became the main street of the town. Commercial buildings lined the road, with miles of residential areas sprawling across the prairie in every direction. Railroad tracks ran through an eastern section dominated by large cement warehouses. To the north, tall chimneys belched black smoke into the air from what Slade assumed were manufacturing plants.
As they drove along Main Street, Slade glanced at storefronts typical of any other town. Grocery stores, general stores, meat markets, a beauty salon, a lumber yard. Pickup trucks and SUVs lined both sides of the road.
“Turn right there,” Helen said, pointing to a side road running south. “The police station is on that street.”
Slade spun the wheel and drove down a road lined with more small businesses.
“There sure is plenty of business in Crawford,” he observed.
“Here it is,” Helen said.
Slade turned right into an asphalt parking lot in front of a long white stucco building with plate glass windows that glinted in the sunlight. Several squad cars were parked out front. A sign under the overhang of the sheet metal roof read: Crawford Police Department. He pulled into an empty parking space and cut the engine.
“The police chief’s name is Jeff Connolly.”
“All right.” Slade blew a gust of air out between his teeth. “Let’s go in and see what we can find out.”
3
They pushed through the glass door and entered a closed-off area dominated by a long wooden desk behind which stood a tall, lean policeman with brown hair, and sergeant’s stripes on his uniform. He glanced up when they came in, and a broad smile creased his craggy features.
“Hello, Helen,” he said in a pleasant voice.
“Hi, Stan.”
“What brings you to our neck of the woods?”
She gestured to Slade. “This is Jack Slade. We were hoping to see Jeff. Is he in?”
“He sure is. As a matter of fact, he’s in his office right now talking to your father and his top foreman, John Dancing Horse.”
“What is it about?”
Stan’s homely face became serious. “There’s been another killing. It’s an Indian this time. Jeff’s hoping John Dancing Horse can check with the Sioux community and help figure out what happened and why.”
“The killings are why we’re here. Would you mind calling in to Jeff and ask if we could join the meeting?”
Stan’s brows went up quizzically. About to say something, he shrugged and picked up a phone, dialed a number and spoke into it. “Jeff says come on in,” he said, replacing the receiver.
He reached down, pressed a buzzer, and a gate in the wall popped open. They passed through into the squad room where men and women, some in uniform and some in civilian clothes, sat at desks typing into computers, filling out reports, and talking on phones. A glass door in the back flew open, and Slade watched a large man in a tan business suit, with a big smile on his handsome face, stride down the aisle between the desks and come toward them. He was as tall as Slade, but heavier across the shoulders. His sandy hair was parted and combed to the side, and his blue eyes sparked with vitality and intelligence. He had a square chin, corded neck, and the hands dangling from his sleeves looked strong and capable. Two other men, one a Native American, watched from the open office door.
“Helen,” he called in a deep, forceful voice. “What a pleasant surprise. Stan said you know something about the killings.” He glanced quizzically at Slade. “What’s this about?”
“Jeff, this is Jack Slade. He works for a security company. He has some knowledge about this sort of thing. He’s looking into the killing on the Twin Peaks Reservation. We came hoping to get some information from you about the killings here in Crawford. When we heard that there had been another murder and that you’re talking to my father, we were hoping you’d let us join the meeting.”
Jeff extended his hand. “Jack Slade,” he said musingly. “You have expertise in this area?”
Slade took it and experienced a warm, firm grip. “I’m a field operative for a company called the Diamond Group. I have some experience with cases of this nature.”
Jeff’s pale brows went up. “I’ve heard of the Diamond Group. You people are big in the security industry. You work crisis situations all over the world.”
Slade smiled. “We don’t want to intrude, but maybe we can add something to the discussion.”
Jeff gestured with a large hand toward his office. “Sure, come on in.” He glanced at Helen, and his blue eyes softened. “You know you don’t need a special reason to stop by and say hello. It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too.” Then she moved forward and threw herself into the arms of the man standing in the doorway. “Hi, Dad!” she cried, hugging him. “I’ve missed you and Mom.”
“Hi, kid,” he replied in a smooth voice. “Your Mom was just asking about you. We don’t see you often enough.”
She pushed back in the circle of his arms and looked up at him affectionately. “Sometimes I just get so busy that I lose all track of time. Tell Mom I’ll swing by to see her the first chance I get.”
Jeff and Slade had stopped to listen while they talked. Jeff spoke up. “Why don’t we all go back into my office and take up where we left off?”
Noticing that there were only two chairs in front of the desk, Slade stepped to an empty desk in the squad room, grabbed a chair and wheeled it into the office. “Here,” he said to Helen as the others settled back into their chairs. She glanced back gratefully at him and sank into it. He went to a credenza sitting against the wall and leaned his hips against it.
“Feel free to bring in another chair,” Jeff said with a smile as he dropped into a high-backed chair behind the desk.
“I sat all the way in here from Twin Peaks,” Slade replied. “I’d prefer to stand.”
The police chief nodded then said, “Jack Slade, this is Frank Elmwood, a major land developer here in Crawford.”
Slade shook hands with a man in his forties, of medium height, with thick brown hair, rugged features tanned from spending a lot of time outside in the sun, a well-knit physique going a little soft around the middle. His grip was firm, and the brown eyes gazing at him sizzled with self-confidence and drive. He was dressed in Levi’s, cowboy boots, and a tan, long-sleeved shirt open at the collar.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Slade.”
“You, too.”
“And this is Frank’s top man, John Dancing Horse.”
Extending his hand, Slade looked into black eyes set in a broad, craggy face the color of an old penny. A thin-lipped mouth, set above a granite chin, stretched in a friendly smile. He was tall for a Native American, and his grip was firm. He held the grip a little longer than was necessary, and Slade had the impression the Indian was measuring his strength. A rubber band secured his long black hair off his face. As with his employer, he was dressed in Levi’s, cowboy boots, and a long-sleeved shirt.
Slade glanced at the chief. “Stan out front said there’s been another killing.”
“Yes.” Jeff hunched forward and clasped his hands on the desk. “It happened just last night. The mutilated body of a Sioux male was found in the parking lot behind a small grocery store in the Native American section of town. I was just discussing with Frank and John the feasibility of having John go with our officers when they question the community to see what we can find out. There’s a certain amount of tension between the Sioux and the whites at the moment, and having John along might ease things a bit.”
“I don’t have a problem with that,” John said in a guttural voice, speaking fluent English. “I’m glad to help wherever I can.”
Slade glanced at the Indian, who flashed his pleasant smile.
“The interesting thing is,” Frank spoke up, glancing around at the others. “I knew the victim. His family owns a stretch of land I’ve been trying to buy, and I was in negotiations with him. He was a little reluctant to let the land go. It had been in his family for generations. But his family is poor. He wasn’t doing anything with the land, and they were urging him to sell. It makes me feel kind of lousy to get the land under these circumstances.”
“Do you know of anyone who had it in for him?” the chief asked. “Did he have any enemies that you know of?”
Frank shrugged, then looked at John.
The Indian shook his head. “As far as I know, he was well-liked in the community.”
“That leaves us with only one option,” Jeff stated with finality. They all waited. “It’s the same thing all over again. It’s another killing like the others—a rogue wolf or pack of wolves. I wouldn’t have bothered asking about the other angles, but we have to follow protocol and cover all the bases. But, by logical elimination, we’re back where we were with the previous killings.” He glanced at the Indian. “John, what can you tell me from the Native American angle? What do the Sioux think? Do they have any ideas as to how a wolf could be roaming around in Crawford?”
John spread his hands in a shrug. “As far as I can tell, they don’t know any more than we do. They’re as scared as the rest of the city.”
“Has anyone in the community seen a wolf or wolves skulking around?” Slade asked.
John shook his head. “No.”
Jeff looked up at Slade. “Well, Mr. Slade, you’re the security expert. Can you add anything?”
“There were originally four killings.”
“Yes.”
“Then there was a fifth one.”
“He was a new man in town,” Frank inserted. “He was in my line…a land developer. For a while, I thought I might have a competitor. I have no idea why he was killed. He was too new here to have any enemies. The best theory we can come up with is that he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the wolf or wolves got him.”
“And now we have a sixth victim.”
“That’s right.”
“The only thing I can offer at this point,” Slade said, “is that I believe the killings here are related to the killing that took place on the Twin Peaks Reservation. Which means we can probably eliminate any of the other theories and concentrate on the idea that the perpetrator is a rogue wolf or a pack of wolves.”
“Then we’re right back where we started.” Jeff grunted disgustedly. “Unless somebody spots some wolves traveling between here and the reservation, we’re dead in the water.”
Helen, who had listened quietly during the discussion, asked, “Can we send out hunters to scour the land between Crawford and the reservation?”
“We already have hunters out,” Jeff replied. “Not only between here and the reservation, but out in the prairie surrounding the town, north, west, and south. So far, they haven’t found any trace of wolves. They haven’t even found any tracks.”
“I was hoping to visit a few of the killing scenes,” Slade said. “Do you have an officer available who could show me around?”
“I’ll show you around myself,” Jeff responded. “I need to get to the bottom of this, and if you can come up with any answers, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Do you mind if John and I take off?” Frank asked. “I have a complex going up that’s getting a little behind schedule.”
“Sure, go ahead. I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”
Everyone stood and shook hands all around. Helen hugged her father. Then Frank and John left.
“Come on,” Jeff said. “We’ll use my personal car.”
Slade climbed into the back seat of Jeff’s Ford sedan and let Helen get into the front seat beside the cop. “I’d like to see the scene of one of the first four killings,” he said. “Whichever one’s closest. Then the fifth and the sixth scenes.”
He sat back as Helen and Jeff chatted and stared in moody silence out the side window. It wasn’t easy going on about other possibilities, when he already had a fairly clear idea who the killer was. But he saw no real advantage in bringing shape shifters and astral wolves into the discussion. Still, there were nagging doubts tugging at the back of his mind. Something wasn’t right. Something didn’t add up. He couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him, and he hoped to get some answers after examining the killing scenes.
He leaned his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes.
“Here we are,” Jeff said.
Slade opened his eyes and looked out at rolling hills stretching to the horizon. Close by was a wooden ranch house with a veranda across the front. The Ford was parked beside a giant oak tree with spreading branches about a hundred yards from the house. Yellow police tape hung limp from the tree and stretched around several metal posts sunk into the leaf-covered ground. As they climbed out of the car, a woman stepped out of the house onto the veranda, shaded her eyes from the late afternoon sun, and looked in their direction.
Jeff waved to her. “We’re just looking things over, Mrs. Stevens.”
She nodded, her face haggard with sorrow, and went back into the house.
While Jeff and Helen stood and watched beside the car, Slade ducked beneath the yellow tape and approached the outline of a body drawn in the dirt with blue chalk. The giant trunk of the tree, the gnarled roots twisting over the ground, and the low-hanging branches were all stained the brownish-red of dried blood. He stood within the outline and closed his eyes. The strong prairie wind blowing for days had cleared most of the contamination from the atmosphere, but as he continued to stand with his eyes closed, breathing deeply, slowly scenes of the carnage began to take grisly shape within his inner vision.
