The Killers Amongst Us: Chimera Dawn Chronicles (11 page)

The young man hesitated. “I’ll need to Xerox your IDs.”

“No problem.”

Shaw handed them over and waited. He doubted he would have
got this far if the guard had seen his van. The guard handed them back and ran
his fingers over his keyboard. He turned the screen toward Shaw. “This is the
only Ted Carter. Graduated in two thousand and eleven.”

“You sure that’s the only one?”

“Sure.”

The photograph looked nothing like the Ted Carter who Amy
was seeing.

SHAW
approached Breakers Pass Main Street. He slowed
and glanced down his street. A news crew was still camped outside his office.
He knew taking the burger van from Hogan without telling him why it was needed
had been a big mistake. It was time for damage limitation, but he couldn’t be
sure he could pull off what he had planned. He drove straight to Hogan’s butchers,
parked and climbed out of the van and entered the store.

There were no customers. Hogan stood behind the counter,
slicing some prime steaks. He looked as though he enjoyed the fruits of his
labor, judging by the oversized potbelly hiding under his apron.

“I hear we have a problem that needs resolving,” Shaw said.

“It needs resolving alright. What were you thinking? How can
I use the van for transporting meat now? I want a new van.”

Shaw realized that explaining the steps they had taken with
the UVPC wouldn’t placate him. Now that all his customers knew about him
carrying a corpse in the refrigerator; it sure wouldn’t calm them down. It had
gone too far for that. He couldn’t blame them. Shaw glared at Hogan.

“Is that before or after you get out of prison?” Shaw asked.

Hogan brought his meat cleaver down on the bench, leaving it
embedded in the wood.

“What for, for telling the truth?”

“Well now, you didn’t tell it all, did you?”

“What d’ya mean?”

“You missed the part about bribing a police officer.”

Hogan’s cheeks reddened.

“I didn’t bribe anyone. Frank offered to tear up the
warrant.”

Shaw hoped that Hogan blushing confirmed his hunch. “But who
suggested the exchange? And whose idea was the free meat?”

Hogan flustered, and wiped his hands on his apron.

“It’s Frank’s word against mine.”

Shaw set him a sour stare, and said, “I suppose that I could
check your till roll from the time Frank arrived here and then left. But maybe
first I should lock you up until I have time to investigate, or...”

“Or what?”

“Or, you can take a look in the van at the present I brought
back from LA and say nice things about me on camera.”

“What present?”

“Come see for yourself. It should resolve our little
misunderstanding.”

Hogan followed Shaw out to the van. A camera crew van stood
at the junction of his street. He wondered if they had spotted Hogan’s van when
he passed by, and they were going to save him a journey. Shaw opened the back
doors to the van.

“There you are; a new chest refrigerator. Now does that
resolve our little problem?”

Hogan scratched the few remaining hairs on his polished
head.

“Hell, yeah. Look, I was mad, that’s all. Frank should have
said what you needed it for.”

“I’ll need the van a little while longer to get the old
refrigerator down to my office.”

The news van stopped with a lurch, its satellite dish on the
roof swaying. A reporter holding a microphone and a camera operator rushed
over.

“Sheriff Shaw, right?” The woman reporter said, and flicked
her hair to one side out of her eyes “Can we have a statement?”

“Sure, fire away.”

The woman wiped her hand down her skirt, coughed, and then
set a composed stance. She placed a finger on her earpiece. He felt old looking
at her. In his eyes, she was young for a reporter. It looked as if someone was
working her features by remote control, when she looked straight at the camera
and set a false smile.

“This is Angela Mayer, speaking to you live from Breakers
Pass. Following the furor over the sheriff taking a body to the LA morgue this
morning—in a burger van of all things—I have Sheriff Shaw here to give us his
side of the story.” The cameraman panned from her to the van and back. “This
strange journey, together with reports that he refused to have a hunting party
search for a wild animal, alleged to have killed the local vet, has many of the
locals calling for his resignation. Especially—as I am told—after the surgery
at the scene of the vet’s death burned to the ground in an arson attack early
this morning. Allegedly, the sheriff left a rooky deputy guarding the premises.”

She might have looked young, but her mind was sharp as her
tongue. Shaw knew exactly what she was doing. He could feel his already dry
throat choke as the camera faced him, and she thrust the microphone up close to
his face. Shaw gulped, then took a deep breath. This wasn’t time for a smile.
He dug deep, prayed for the right words, and set a neutral expression at the
camera.

“First of all, let me make this clear, we can’t say for
definite what killed the vet. We’ve reason to believe that an animal could be
involved, but it could be a pet dog that she‘d been treating, and the owner
hasn’t yet come forward. So, any talk of a killer wild animal on the loose is
premature. Our investigation is ongoing. A hunting party—as I told the mayor—would
be pointless and only serve to slaughter the local wildlife on which our
community depends for local tourism. What I would say, is to ask anyone who had
a pet at the surgery for overnight treatment, to call me immediately.”

She pulled the microphone away. “So there is no killer wild
animal on the loose?”

“I’m saying, this is a wildlife area and people know to be
wary of approaching black bears and the like. And as for the question of
leaving a rooky deputy guarding the surgery, we have two deputies. That’s what
the town council set as a budget. This is not LA teaming with law enforcement
officers. What I can say, is that the deputy involved is more than competent,
as an ex-Green Beret, and he’s worked for many years in this area as a tourist
guide, and as a tracker. If you have any questions about staffing levels, then
I suggest you direct them to the mayor.

“Thank you for clearing that up, but our viewers—I am
sure—they will want to know, why the burger van?”

Shaw frowned. He knew where this was headed, but he wasn’t
about to let it be his epitaph as town sheriff.

“Look, I worked as a homicide detective in LA for ten years.
Out here in the wilds, we have to improvise. My journey served two purposes.
One was to inform the relatives before they saw any news of their daughter’s
death, which I have. And the other purpose was to get the body to the morgue
for autopsy to determine the cause of death, ASAP, without the tissue
degrading. The rest is a misunderstanding. I think Mr. Hogan could explain.
Isn’t that right?” Shaw said, and turned to Hogan.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right. A failure in communication,
that’s all. The sheriff’s replaced the old chest refrigerator with a new one,”
he said, and pointed into the back of the van. The cameraman focused on the
boxed refrigerator. Shaw noticed a look of disappointment on the reporter’s
face. Her expression turned to a smile as the camera faced her.

“Thank you, Sheriff Shaw. It would seem that the
investigation is in capable hands after all. This is Angela Maher, returning
you to the studio.”

The red LED extinguished on the camera, and the operator
swung it from his shoulder to his side.

“Well that didn’t go the way I thought it would,” said
Angela. “You should go into politics.”

“You mean you thought you’d fry me, like you and the rest of
the town did this morning?”

“Hey, it’s what I’m paid for. The rest you’ll have to take
up with the townspeople. Let me buy you a coffee to make up for what was said
this morning.”

“No thanks, besides all this, we have a missing teenager to
find.”

Angela turned and hurried to her vehicle. She obviously had
no interest in Johno going missing. Shaw was thankful it had been a live feed,
or they might not have bothered to broadcast the interview. All he worried
about was getting the town council to sanction the payment he’d made on his
credit card to buy the refrigerator.

Driving to his office, Shaw’s thoughts turned to Amy and
Ted. He’d already gone outside protocol, by checking to see if Ted had a
criminal record and coming up with a blank. The school photograph of Ted not
matching could have been an admin error at upload. Asking Amy any more
questions about Ted would be tricky. If she knew he was checking out his background,
it could cause a rift. With the fall not too far away, he thought her going to
university would end the relationship. It wasn’t worth the gamble to stir up a
situation because of an admin error. He decided to leave well alone.

Shaw parked outside his office, retrieved his cell phone and
called the Forestry Fire Department headquarters.

“Could I speak to the investigation department? Clive
Rodgers, if he’s still there?”

“One moment, sir, connecting you now.”

“Clive Rodgers speaking.”

“Sheriff Shaw here. I understand that you dealt with the
investigation at the surgery this morning.”

“Yes, I’m just finishing my report. I’ll send you an e-mail
copy.”

“Any physical evidence?”

“The outlet pipe from the heating oil tank. The valve handle
was in the open position. We had to saw it out of a tree trunk, but I have it
bagged. The pipe leading down the slope to the surgery had been disconnected as
it entered the property.”

Shaw pondered. The motive for the arson attack had to be
someone wanting to hide evidence that they had been at the scene of the vet’s
death.

“Listen, could you package it and send it to John Bateman at
LA forensics. I know it’s a long shot, because prints are hard to get from
material recovered after they’ve been exposed to the elements, but maybe their
super glue technique can get a result.”

“Good point. I’ll do that. Like I say, I’ll send the report
today.”

Shaw closed the call. His mind elsewhere, Shaw’s body leapt
at a tapping on his window. All he could see was the curled handle of an
umbrella. Shaw opened the door. Mrs. Fletcher stood back, an umbrella in one
hand, and holding a leather lead in her other hand, with Montague at the end of
it, pulling away from her.

“I doubt it’ll rain Mrs. Fletcher. Not with the drought
we’re having.”

“It makes a good walking stick though, don’t you think, Sheriff?
And if there is a wild animal on the loose, I need something to fight it off,”
she said, and shook the umbrella.

“I guess. What can I do for you?”

Mrs. Fletcher looked around and sidled up to Shaw.

She spoke in a whisper. “I have some news for you. I’ve just
come from the church hall. The women are down there are making sandwiches to
take out to Breakers Lake for the search party. They’re not pleased with you at
all.”

“I already know that, Mrs. Fletcher.”

Shaw turned to walk through the front door to his office.

“Yes, but don’t you want to know the gossip about Maria, the
vet?”

He stopped and turned. Maria’s parents knew nothing of a
relationship and yet they had spoken to her every other day.

“What gossip?” Shaw asked.

“The women sent me away. Can you believe they said Montague
was a health Hazard?”

“But what was the gossip?”

Shaw was tired. Her walking in circles around his question
had him agitated.

“That’s what I’m trying to say if you weren’t so impatient.
It’s your fault, Sheriff, with all this talk of the burger van. I think it has
everyone’s mind on hygiene.”

“Please, Mrs. Fletcher, what have you found out?”

“Just that she had an admirer. If I could have stayed,
perhaps they’d have given me a name.”

FRANK
was sitting on one of the camp chairs the gang
had left behind at the lakeside. The team leader of the mountain rescue team
had the townsfolk split into three grids scouring the mountains, each team having
a shortwave radio. He looked at his wristwatch. It was approaching 4:30 p.m.
Three and a half hours until the light faded. Frank listened in on the rescue
service scanner, but for the last thirty minutes, all he’d heard was static.
Six and a half hours they’d been out there. It was looking grim for Johno. He
glanced at the two helicopters buzzing over the mountains. With thousands of
hectares to search, covered by a canopy of pine trees, and with hidden ravines,
he knew it was going to be down to luck for them to spot Johno from the
choppers.

He rubbed his ankles and wondered if maybe he’d recovered
enough to have a second try at joining the search. He unfolded his map. The
northwesterly whipped his map over his face. He knelt, and picking up pebbles,
he secured the map on the ground. He didn’t know if he could tell Shaw that his
daughter had been out there probably drinking under age. Ted was the only one
old enough to drink liquor. Two dozen empty beer cans and an empty bottle of
vodka was more than Ted could consume at one session. He imagined Johno could
have stumbled off in a drunken stupor. He hoped that for all their sakes, Jonho
would be found alive. All he’d need to do then would be to have a quiet word
with the gang. But if they found him dead, he wasn’t sure what he’d say. Maybe,
he thought, he wouldn’t have to say anything and they’d own up. He knew it
wouldn’t be easy for him to snitch on them, especially seeing as how he’d
downed his own first drink at sixteen. They were just youngsters, doing what
youngsters do.

Frank shook his head and studied the map. He looked at the
three search grids that he’d marked in red felt. He took his marker from his
pocket, and looking around, determined the position of the tents, marking their
location with a cross on the map. Frank couldn’t be sure if the sneaker prints
that he’d found on the silt behind the tents, and running along the shoreline,
were Johno’s. The tracks weren’t in a straight line, and they were unevenly
spaced. The sort of tracks someone would make if they were staggering. He
stroked his chin stubble. His own boots hadn’t made much of an impression in
the silt, but then he wasn’t carrying Johno’s weight. If they were Johno’s,
then he’d turned onto the pebbles in the direction of the search grids.

Thinking back to his Friday nights out, boy’s night was a
tradition he’d managed to keep going ever since he left the army and married
June. At first, the night out helped to rid him of the nightmares he’d suffered
after he returned from Vietnam. But after the memories faded, it just became a
habit, an excuse. He smiled, recalling June was happy to let him have that one
night as long as he returned home to her bed. He didn’t always make it in a
straight line, although he somehow managed to get back to his homestead. Frank
grinned at the recollection that sometimes he missed the bed by twenty yards
and slept in an old chicken coop. He shuddered as he recalled the first time it
happened, and June woke him up with a bucket of cold water.

He studied the map again. Maybe Johno didn’t turn at a
straight right angle as the tracks suggested. When he’d pulled up alongside
Ted’s vehicle as Amy drove off, Ted had said he was in his SUV unable to sleep,
with his window open. He’d have heard Johno if he’d passed by on the pebbles.

The only other direction he could have taken was to turn
right again, and outside the grid-search area. Frank folded his map, placed it
in his pocket, and picking up the scanner, he set off walking. As soon as Frank
entered the woods, he felt at home, crunching pine cones and needles underfoot.
The scents and familiar creature sounds invigorated his entire being, sweeping
away his exhaustion. Only his arthritic pains reminded him that the journey
that lay ahead would be difficult. Twenty yards on, and the level ground gave
way to the upward slope of the mountain. Frank stopped to look around every
five yards or so for the sign of tracks. The slope of the mountainside
steepened. Even sober, the climb was arduous, and he had to grasp at branches
in the undergrowth to pull him upwards. He reached for a branch, and then
stopped. The branch was broken, held together only by a slither of its bark.
Someone had used it as a lever. He looked down at the ground to see a slide
mark parting the fallen foliage. He ran his fingers over the break. The sap was
still moist. A fresh break.

“Johno,” he called out, the critters sounding alarm at the
intrusion of his voice. He strained to listen for a reply, then called again.
No one returned his call. He continued, more alert to his surroundings. The
trees thinned out as he reached a plateau. The cones and needles gave way to
long grass, nurtured by the sunlight, but with the drought, it looked like
swathes of wheat ready for harvesting. Frank took off his hat and scratched at
the few remaining hairs on his head. The grass had three trodden paths. Each
path was spaced around five yards apart. The furthest away to his left was the
widest. It could be deer, or maybe the hunters Amy had seen.

Frank followed the path straight ahead. The ground was dried
out, with no foot tracks visible, and no animal droppings. He arrived at a
cliff face. Looking along to his left, the other pathways all joined along the
cliff face and headed right. Frank froze, there was something shiny off to the
right, and a large patch of flattened grass stalks. Something had lain there.
He knelt, and picked up a dime.

He continued onward, when the cliff face turned a corner. As
he rounded the bend, the grass turned green. Water trickled down the rocks from
a spring onto a twelve foot, wide ledge, and he felt softness underfoot. He
could see tracks in the mud. There were plenty of tracks; animal and human. One
track stood out. A sneaker footprint. The same circle on the sole as the one by
the shoreline. Frank put on his hat, then took out his cell phone from his
pants pocket. He took photos of the tracks, and then closed his cell, putting
it back in his pocket. He’d seen some of the tracks before at the vet’s
property. The tracks didn’t make sense. A single dog had made tracks up to six
feet from the edge of the precipice, and then they stopped, replaced by human
barefoot tracks, converging with the sneaker tracks. The barefoot tracks veered
to the left, around the cliff face, with multiple large cat tracks following.
At the very edge of the precipice was one sneaker sole track.

He dropped to his knees, and shimmied to the precipice. His
body trembled as he looked down at the ravine. It was too steep to climb down.
The stream at the bottom that fed the lake was almost a trickle, with green
undergrowth at either side. Frank strained his eyes. A patch of green seemed
brighter than the rest. He slipped his hand in his pocket and took out his cell
phone. Selecting the camera mode, he pressed the zoom to the maximum.

“Shit, it’s Johno.”

His pulse rate increased as he fumbled to put his phone
away. Cupping his hands to either side of his mouth, he shouted.

“Johno, are you okay.”

There was no response, and no way down there without a full
set of mountaineering equipment. Frank rolled over, then slipped the strap to
his scanner from his shoulder. He grabbed the microphone from its cradle and
pressed the button.”

“Anyone, can you get me a helicopter. I’ve found the target,
Fox Two, over.”

“What’s your location, Fox Two, This is Whirly Bird One,
over.”

Frank’s hands trembled as he took his map from his jacket
pocket. The frequency was buzzing with a jumble of voices. He thumbed the
microphone button.

“Get off the damn air, ya’ll. Whirly Bird One, map reference
C for Charlie, two, H for Hector, one, three. South West of the map grid. He’s
in the ravine. I’m on a ledge above and I reckon I’m half-way up the mountain,
Fox Two, over.”

“ETA five minutes, Whirly Bird One, out.”

An adrenalin rush took away his aches and pains. For a brief
moment, he felt as though he were a youngster again, calling in an air strike.
Frank wasn’t about to get caught in the downdraught, he’d made that mistake
once before in Vietnam. He moved to the cliff face, pressed his back to the
rock and waited. The helicopter was two minutes early, when it thundered
overhead. The spotter saw him, waved, then the chopper turned and hovered over
the ravine.

“Whirly Bird One, Target directly below, Fox Two, over.

“Affirmative, Whirly Bird One, out.”

Frank watched as two of the crew descended on a cable with a
stretcher. It took maybe fifteen minutes before the stretcher came back into
view with the crew, and they were hauled into the chopper. The second chopper
arrived and hovered nearby.

“Whirly Bird One, any news for his parents, Fox Two, over?”

“Target safely onboard. He’s unconscious, but good vital
signs. We’re taking him to the UCLA medical center in LA. Whirly Bird One, out.”

Frank thanked God inwardly. He needed to improvise quickly.
His ankles were throbbing.

“Any chance of a lift to the beach? I’ve twisted my ankle,”
he lied.

“Fox Two, we’ll take you, Whirly Bird Two, out.”

Frank grinned as they pulled him inside the chopper, his
thoughts once more taking him back to his youth in the Army. He was beginning
to think that being a deputy was better than being a tourist guide. He knew
that until twenty-four hours ago, his mind hadn’t been attuned to the job, not
taking it seriously. Frank considered it akin to being in the boy scouts, when
compared to his army days. He decided he owed it to Shaw to up his game. Frank’s
thoughts turned to the vet, then to Johno. Guilt struck him for feeling elated
that their misfortune had revived his zest for life, and the drudgery of having
to work. On the journey to the lake, he looked out of the cockpit and over what
he considered his domain.

Something was out there. Something he didn’t understand.