Crosscut (A Nicholas Colt Thriller Book 2) Read online

  I decided two weeks without wheels was appropriate enough. Not only would it teach her a lesson, it would give Juliet a chance for some rare face time with her in the evenings.

  I sat at my computer desk and logged onto the Internet. Donna had promised to forward the autopsy pictures she had gotten from the deputy in Tennessee. Sure enough, there was already a message from her in my inbox. I opened it and downloaded the photographs and the accompanying information.

  A member of the Harvest Angels had murdered Brittney’s sister, Leitha. A cross, tilted slightly to the right, had been carved into her forehead, same as the ones on the victims at the Lambs’ residence.

  I didn’t want to go to Tennessee.

  I didn’t want to investigate these crimes.

  I poured myself another drink and thought about it and fell asleep in front of the fire.

  I drove Brittney to the bus stop the next morning so she wouldn’t have to stand and wait in the cold. She gave me the silent treatment, not even bothering to say bye when she left my car to board the bus.

  Along with everything else, I think she was embarrassed to be seen in my 1996 GMC Jimmy. Can’t say I blame her. Faded silver paint, missing hubcaps, bubbled tint. It’s not much to look at, but it’s paid for and it gets me around. And the cargo space is great for hauling my guitars and amplifiers.

  The bus disappeared into the fog, and I drove the Jimmy on back to the house. I was sitting at my computer with a third cup of coffee when Juliet got home from her shift at the hospital. She shuffled in wearily, hugged me from behind, and kissed my neck.

  “You’re up early,” she said.

  “I had to take Brittney to the bus stop. Did you know she’s seeing someone who’s twenty-one?”

  “Twenty-one? No. Who is it?”

  “Some guy named Justin. He’s a math major in college, supposedly. I caught them making out in the back of her car. I told Brittney you’d talk to her about it. In the meantime, she’s grounded. No car for the next two weeks.”

  “I’ll talk to her. When you say making out—”

  “They still had all their clothes on. The thing is, I told Brittney to go straight home after her tire was changed. That’s mostly why she’s in trouble.”

  I rubbed my eyes, swallowed a mouthful of coffee. It had gotten lukewarm and tasted like singed hair.

  “Are you OK?” Juliet asked. “You look as tired as I feel.”

  “Didn’t sleep worth a shit last night.”

  “How come?”

  “I’m going to show you something, but I have to warn you it’s pretty gruesome.”

  She laughed. “It can’t be any more gruesome than what I encounter at work every night.”

  “Believe me, it is.”

  I clicked on the first image from the file Donna had sent me.

  “My God, Nicholas, that’s horrible. Who is that?”

  “This is Edna Lamb. Actually, this is Edna Lamb’s torso. She was four days shy of her eighty-fourth birthday when she and her daughter-in-law were butchered. Here’s her face. See anything significant?”

  “It looks like a crucifix.”

  “Bingo. Leitha had the exact same mark in the exact same place.”

  “But the man who killed Leitha is dead.”

  “Very.”

  Juliet sipped from my cup as I scrolled through the entire set of autopsy photos. Her stomach for gore—and bad coffee—was stronger than I’d imagined.

  “I’m trying to understand what happened here,” she said. “Is this what they call a copycat?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it’s the Harvest Angels again.”

  Just saying the words out loud made me sick to my stomach. The Harvest Angels were the militant branch of a white supremacist cult called the Chain of Light. I was instrumental in shutting them down in Florida three years ago. During the investigation, I found out they were responsible for the plane crash that killed my first wife and our baby daughter and all the members of my band. I’d helped shut them down in Florida, but rumor had it there were other cells in other places.

  “I thought all those people were in jail now,” Juliet said.

  “The local ones are. These murders took place in Tennessee.”

  “So what does any of this have to do with you?”

  I told her about Donna Wahl’s missing brother, and about Donna wanting me to go up to Tennessee to investigate.

  “I’m thinking about doing it,” I said.

  “But you’re not a private investigator anymore. I don’t want you to be a private investigator anymore.”

  “How can I just leave it alone? If it is the Harvest Angels—”

  “So every time these neo-Nazi fuckwads kill someone, you’re going to go hunt them down? That’s crazy, Nicholas.”

  “Not every time. Just this time.”

  “What about the band?”

  “That’s no problem. I know plenty of guys who would jump at the chance to sub for us.”

  “Do you still love her?”

  “Who?”

  “Donna.”

  “Jules, that was a long time ago. Come here.” I put my arm around her waist and gently pulled her toward me, guiding her to sit on my lap. “You’re the only one I love. And that’s forever.”

  We kissed, long and deep, and then Juliet rested her head on my shoulder. “I still don’t want you to go.”

  “It’ll only be for a few days.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She kissed my ear, making soft, warm circles with her tongue. “I should go to bed now,” she whispered. “Want to come tuck me in?”

  “I’d love to.”

  I drove Brittney’s Camry to the tire store and had them patch her tire and change the oil. I had decided to use it for my trip to Tennessee. With it gone, Brittney wouldn’t be as tempted to fudge on her punishment. She could always take my Jimmy for a spin, but I doubted she would.

  I stopped at the grocery store and bought some steaks and a bag of charcoal briquettes for the grill. I wanted us to have a nice family dinner together before I left. Then I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon doing some research on the computer and making some phone calls. I called Donna and told her I was going to take the job after all. We came to an agreement on a retainer and an hourly rate, and she said she would have the money wired to Mont Falcon. And I called Pete Strong, the private investigator in Nashville I’d told Donna about, and let him know I was coming up and would need some help.

  “What kind of help?” he said.

  “I’m going to need a temporary license, some credentials I can show people I interview, and so forth.”

  “When are you coming?”

  “I should be up there by late tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be staying at the motel in Mont Falcon.”

  “Cool,” Pete said. “I’m going to be in the area tomorrow anyway, so I’ll meet you there. Just give me a call when you get in. I’ll bring the stuff you need.”

  “Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

  “You owe me ten, but who’s counting?”

  Pete and I disconnected, and I sat there for a while and wondered if I was doing the right thing.

  Brittney sauntered in a little after two o’clock. Her backpack—which weighed approximately the same as a stack of bricks—slid off her shoulder and landed with a thud on the foyer floor. She stabbed at her phone with her thumbs, trying her best to ignore me as she made a beeline toward her bedroom.

  “Still not talking to me?” I said.

  She glanced up, her thumbs still working feverishly on the touch screen. “Huh?”

  “Put the phone down and come over here. Please.”

  She finished the text she was working on, walked to my desk, plopped down on the carpet, and sat Indian-style. “What?”

  “How was school?”

  “We got our interims today. I got all As except English.”

  “What did you get in English?”

  “I got a B. Beca
use of stupid Hamlet.”

  “Nothing wrong with a B. I’m very proud of you.”

  She started to get up. “Bs won’t get me into the University of Florida. I have homework. I’ll be in my room, OK?”

  “Wait a minute. I wanted to tell you, I’m going to be leaving town for a few days.”

  “Why?”

  “I have some business up in Tennessee.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “I’m going to go visit an old friend. I’ll only be gone for a few days.”

  “Isn’t your band supposed to play?”

  “Rick Moody and his crew are going to cover for us.”

  “Oh. OK.”

  “I’m taking your car.”

  Her jaw dropped and her eyes got big. “What? What am I supposed to drive? And don’t even say that piece of—”

  “Hey. That’s enough. You’re not supposed to drive anything, because you’re grounded. Remember? And keep your voice down. Your mom’s trying to sleep.”

  “You’re impossible, Dad. You better not tear my car up.”

  She rose then and stomped to her bedroom and shut the door.

  At least she didn’t slam it this time.

  I left home early the next morning. On the way to the interstate, I stopped by my camper on Lake Barkley to pick up my favorite carry weapon, a .38-caliber revolver I call Little Bill. When we got married, Juliet made it clear she didn’t want a bunch of guns in the house, so I keep most of my collection locked in the Airstream. Most. There’s a loaded .357 Magnum strapped to the bottom of our bed frame at home, a gun that could stop a moose. I coaxed Juliet to the firing range one day and taught her how to shoot it accurately, against the advice of some friends. The friends were joking. I think.

  I drove up the gravel driveway to my campsite, killed the engine, and got out. The sandy-haired dog we call Bud trotted from behind my camper with a length of nylon rope clenched in his teeth. Bud has some Great Dane in him. He looks like a Labrador on steroids. Dylan Crawford, my friend Joe’s son, likes to think Bud is his dog, but Bud belongs to nobody. I like that about him. He showed up at the lake one day a few years ago, mangy and half-starved. Joe took him to the vet and got him straightened out, and he’s been the community pet ever since.

  I played tug-of-war with him for a few minutes, and then gave him a vigorous back rub.

  “I gotta go, Bud.”

  He dropped the rope and wagged his tail, obviously hoping I might let him tag along.

  “Maybe next time,” I said, scratching his ears. I opened the Airstream, got Little Bill and a box of .38 shells. There was a moldy loaf of bread on the table, so I grabbed it on my way out and tossed it into the rusty drum we use for burning trash. Bud looked at me as though I were insane. I gave him one last pat on the head, started the Camry, and pointed it toward Tennessee.

  I made it to Mont Falcon at around four in the afternoon. Less than a mile from the exit ramp there was a Piggly Wiggly, a Sunoco station, and a motel attached to a restaurant called Moe’s Ribs. I parked and walked up to a swinging glass door that said LOBBY. Patchy remnants of snow dotted the landscape.

  The clerk stood hunched over a computer keyboard at the counter. Midsixties, saggy wrinkled face, bright red hair showing gray at the roots. She glanced up at me through a pair of lenses that could have doubled for drink coasters. Her name tag said Beulah.

  “Be right with you,” she said.

  There was a vending machine against the wall where you could buy forgotten necessities like toothbrushes and razors, along with miniature books of crossword puzzles and cheap decks of playing cards. Beside the vending machine, a beige steel rack held a bunch of brochures with information on local attractions. I picked up one about a fishing rodeo and dreamed of warmer days.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I need a room, please.”

  “Just the one night?”

  “I’ll be here a few days.”

  “Would you like a king, or two queens?”

  “A king is fine.”

  She did her thing on the keyboard. “Do you qualify for our senior citizen discount?”

  She obviously didn’t know I had a .38 holstered under my jacket.

  I opened the door to what could have been any cheap motel room in any part of the country. Garish drapes and bedspread, a framed print of ducks flying over a pond, carpeting in a variety of greenish hues meant to camouflage stains. A lot of people had enjoyed a lot of cigarettes in there. I tossed my suitcase on the bed. Home sweet home.

  I flipped open my cell phone and punched in Pete Strong’s number before I realized there was no signal. I opened my suitcase and plugged in my netbook, but there wasn’t any Wi-Fi, either. I used the room phone to call the front desk. Beulah answered on the second ring.

  “May I help you?”

  “This is Nicholas Colt in two oh eight. I can’t find a jack in the wall for Internet access. Can I switch to another room? Nonsmoking, maybe?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Colt, but none of our rooms have Internet access. We usually have a computer here at the lobby that is available to guests, but I’m afraid it’s not working right now. Some kind of virus or something, the manager said. And we don’t really have nonsmoking rooms. Sorry.”

  “I’m not getting any signal on my cell phone, either.”

  “Sorry, that’s always a problem at this particular spot on the mountain. They’re supposed to be putting up a new tower sometime soon. Least that’s what I heard. I can give you a full refund now if you’re not happy with the room.”

  “That’s all right. Thank you.”

  I hung up. Sorry seemed to be the word of the day. But this was the only lodging anywhere near Black Creek, where Donna’s brother had disappeared, so I was stuck with the primitive accommodations. I felt like Daniel Boone. I wondered if I would have to shoot a squirrel for dinner and rub two sticks together to get a fire going. I used my credit card to call Pete from the room phone.

  “Strong Investigations.”

  “Pete, this is Nicholas Colt. Just got in.”

  “Hey, Nicholas. I’m on my way down there now. How was your trip?”

  “Lots of trees and curvy roads.”

  “You should come up here in the fall sometime. It’s quite spectacular.”

  “I can imagine. How far off are you?”

  “Should be there in thirty minutes.”

  “Cool. I’m in room 208 at the motel.”

  “See you in a bit.”

  I stretched out on the bed and stared at the nicotine-stained ceiling.

  “Derek Wahl used to work in Nashville,” Pete said.

  We were sitting in a booth at Moe’s Ribs. I’d told him about my history with the Harvest Angels three years ago.

  A waitress named Millie kept giving Pete strange looks, as though serving coffee to an African-American man was a little bit more than she could take. Pete didn’t show it, but I knew he must have been uncomfortable. The place was crawling with crew cuts, flannel shirts, and sour expressions.

  “Derek was a cop in Nashville?” I said.

  “Yeah, but he shot and killed a guy one night. Was never the same after that.”

  “You knew him?”

  “I did a little research, talked to some guys he used to work with. It happened on the interstate one night. Guy named William Mullins in a Firebird doing eighty in a sixty-five. Derek paced him, then switched on the flashers. The Firebird sped up. Around the Kentucky border, it blew a tire and rolled and Mullins got out and hightailed it through a cornfield. When Derek caught up to him, Mullins reached into his pocket and started to pull something out. Derek thought it was a gun. He fired one shot and killed the guy. The gun turned out to be a homemade crack pipe. Mullins was on probation, probably just wanted to ditch the pipe before Derek cuffed him.”

  “So Derek was terminated?”

  “Resigned. The guys I talked to said he just couldn’t take the stress of the city anymore. That’s when he move
d and took the job in Black Creek. But get this: Mullins was from Black Creek. Still had family there.”

  I motioned for Millie to bring us some more coffee. She came with a pot that looked like it might have been on the burner since breakfast. I stopped her before she filled our cups, and asked if she would mind bringing some that was freshly made. I asked politely.

  “This is the freshest we got,” she said.

  “Then dump that forty-weight shit and make some more,” I said.

  She frowned. “It’ll take about fifteen minutes.”

  “Great. Gives me something to look forward to.”

  I heard her say some people under her breath as she slogged back toward the kitchen.

  Pete laughed. “The coffee really wasn’t that bad.”

  “But fresh is better. For two bucks a cup, I don’t think it’s too much to ask.”

  “Mullins had a brother who didn’t live far from the Lambs, where the double homicide took place,” Pete said.

  “What’s the brother’s name?”

  “Harvey. Harvey Mullins. I even have an address for you.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  Pete lifted his briefcase, set it on the table, and opened it. “Here’s the paperwork you’ll need to work under my license while you’re in Tennessee. I wish I could run the case with you, but I’m just too busy at the moment.”

  He handed me an envelope and a laminated ID card.

  “Appreciate it. You ready to order some dinner?”

  “I think I’ll pass. I’m not feeling exactly welcome here, if you know what I mean.”

  “Fuck it, man. Let’s eat.”

  “Next time you’re in Nashville, give me a holler. I’ll take you to a rib joint that makes this place look like a livestock trough.”

  “You’re on, my friend.”

  We stood and shook hands. A few minutes after Pete left, Millie showed up with the fresh pot of coffee. She smiled. “Will it be just you for dinner tonight?”

  I was starving. I hadn’t eaten anything since I left Florida. I ordered a full rack of ribs and a baked potato and salad. There were some pies on display in a glass case on the counter, and I was already thinking about a slice of apple with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top for dessert.