Читать книгу Under The Agent's Protection - Jennifer Bokal D. - Страница 13

The radio in Sheriff Carl Haak’s truck crackled a moment before the 911 dispatcher’s voice came through. “You there, Sheriff?” she asked.

Carl looked at the clock on the dashboard. It wasn’t even 7:00 in the morning yet. He lifted the radio’s handset and pressed the talk button. He continued driving as he said, “Go ahead, Rose.”

“A call came in. A body’s been found in the old schoolhouse.”

Carl’s shoulders pinched together with tension and he eased the truck to the side of the road. He only had a couple of weeks left until retirement and looking into another death was not how he wanted to spend his time. Pushing his cowboy hat, emblazoned with a sheriff’s tin star on the band, back on his head, he asked, “A body? Whose?”

“A man by the name of Axl Baker. All the way from Chicago, Illinois.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t know, but the guy who found him didn’t think that it was foul play, if that’s what worries you.”

“What guy?”

“The one who bought the Hampton place a few years back,” said Rose. “Wyatt Thornton.”

The Hampton family hadn’t owned the sprawling piece of land for decades and still Carl knew exactly what property Rose meant. In fact, he passed it every day as he drove to work. “Not foul play? How does Mr. Thornton know?”

“He said there was no sign of injury and that Axl Baker probably died of exposure.”

Rose’s voice was wistful, and Carl knew why. Ever since Wyatt Thornton had moved to the area several years ago, he’d mostly kept to himself. That didn’t mean that his rare appearances in town didn’t cause a commotion—amongst the local women, at least. She continued, “He was so sweet on the phone. As nice as he is handsome. He almost reminds me of a movie star.”

“What would your husband think of you being sweet on Mr. Thornton?”

“Wyatt,” she corrected. “He told me to call him Wyatt, and by the way, Carl, it doesn’t do any harm to look. You know, I’m not dead yet.”

Carl ignored Rose’s comment. Pressing down on the radio’s handset, he asked, “How’d he know it was a natural death? Is he a doctor or something?”

The radio was filled with static, as if Rose was no longer on the other end of the call. The silence stretched. In reality, Carl knew next to nothing about Wyatt Thornton. When the other man first arrived in Pleasant Pines, Sheriff Haak thought about digging into his past.

Yet, Thornton didn’t drink, fight, drive too fast or even listen to his music too loud. In short, he was a model citizen. The job of sheriff was a busy one, more important cases arose and Carl never did get around to investigating Thornton.

Now, he wondered if that decision, made long ago, had been for the best.

Finally, Rose answered. “Honestly,” she said, “I don’t know. He just seemed positive, that’s all.” Another pause. “He’s waiting at the old schoolhouse.”

Pressing the talk button, Carl said, “Find out what you can about the victim.”

“Sure thing, Carl.”

Turning on his lights and siren, Carl swung the truck around on the empty road and dropped his foot on the accelerator. Fifteen minutes later, he was at the turnoff for the old schoolhouse. It was just a wide spot in a dilapidated barbwire fence with low scrub on what used to be a well-worn path.

The ground was covered with frost, and his truck’s undercarriage passed well above any dead bushes or brambles. In the distance stood the one-room building. As he got closer, he saw Thornton and his dog standing by the door.

“Just two weeks,” he mumbled to himself. Then Carl would be moving to South Carolina, where it was warm all the time and there was a beach two blocks from his tiny condominium. He put the truck in Park and killed the engine. The lights went dim and the siren fell silent.

Stepping into the cold, he shrugged on his jacket. The smell of death permeated the air.

“Morning, Mr. Thornton,” he said.

Thornton stepped forward, offering his hand. “Call me Wyatt.”

They shook, then the sheriff turned to business. “Well, Wyatt, can you tell me what happened?”

Wyatt gave a succinct rundown of his typical morning walk that today, ended with the dog finding the body. He concluded with, “There’s no signs of trauma, so I don’t think it’s murder.”

Carl hefted up his jeans by the belt loops. “How can you know that?”

“Experience,” said the other man.

Carl waited for a moment for more information. None was offered. “You a doctor, or something?” he asked, repeating his original assumption.

Wyatt shook his head. “No, I’m not a doctor.”

“A movie star?”

Thornton gave a quiet chuckle. “Not a movie star, either.” After a beat, he added, “I used to work for the Behavioral Sciences Unit of the FBI.”

“You got any identification that says so?” Carl asked.

“What? That says I used to work for the Bureau? I still have my old creds. You can stop by and see them if you want.”

“I might do just that. Then again,” said Carl, “I’m retiring soon. Two weeks then I’m off to South Carolina.”

He waited for Wyatt to say something or offer the expected congratulations. Thornton said nothing. Carl cleared his throat. “One thing I know is that Rose will be excited to hear that we have a real-life G-man in Pleasant Pines.”

“If you don’t mind,” said Wyatt with a lifted palm, “I’d like to keep my former career in the past.”

With a nod, Carl said, “I respect a man of discretion.”

Wyatt gestured with his chin to the schoolhouse. “Sheriff, you should probably get a look at the scene.”

Wyatt walked through the front door and stopped. Carl followed. His gaze was drawn to the corpse at the far side of the room. A dead eye, gone milky white, stared straight at Carl.

Shaking off the skittering sensation that crawled up his spine, he got to work examining the body and the scene. Sure, he’d seen a few deaths in his time on the job—but something about this one just felt wrong.

“If you don’t mind,” said Wyatt. “I want to point out one thing.”

“What is it?” asked Carl.

“The floor’s clean,” Wyatt said.

A beam of sunlight shone from a hole in the roof, illuminating the interior of the structure. Where Carl would’ve normally seen dirt and debris, there was nothing. “Odd,” he agreed. “I would expect at least some dirt collected in a place like this.”

“Me, as well,” said Wyatt.

“How’d you get a name for the corpse?” Carl asked.

“I found his wallet in his pants pocket. He has a license from Illinois. I left it next to the body.”

Carl walked inside and found the wallet. Flipping it open, he found the driver’s license, complete with a picture. He looked back at the body. Even with the post-mortem injuries, they were undoubtedly the same man. Legally speaking, it was all he needed to make a positive identification on a John Doe. Standing, Carl dusted his hands on the seat of his pants. “Looks like this is Axl Baker.”

“I don’t want to disturb anything more than I already have. So, unless you need me,” Wyatt said while stepping toward the door, “I’ll be on my way.”

“I have to get an official statement,” said Carl. He followed outside. “Stop by my office tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock.”

“I’ll see you then,” said Wyatt. He called his dog and set off.

Carl watched until they disappeared below the crest of the hill. Returning to his truck, he picked up the radio. “Rose, you there?”

“I am, Sheriff. What d’you need?”

“Call Doc Lambert. I need him to come out and pick up the body.”

“Sure thing,” she said. “Anything else?”

“Did you get a next of kin for Axl Baker?”

“I did. It’s his sister, one Everly Baker, also of Chicago.”

Carl scribbled Everly’s number on a scrap of paper before signing off. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. Even here, there was a strong signal. He entered the number and held his breath. A woman answered the call.

“Yes?”

“Everly Baker?”

“Yes.” Her voice rose an octave. “Who is this?”

“Ms. Baker.” Carl paused. His temples began to throb, and he held his breath. Calls like this were the worst part of his job. With an exhale, he said, “This is Sheriff Haak in Pleasant Pines, Wyoming. I’m sorry to be bothering you, but I have some awful news...”