Wolf Who Walks Alone: A Raymond Wolf Mystery Novel Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Opening

  - 1 - Girl on the Bus

  - 2 - Man In the High Tower

  - 3 - Iron Horse

  - 4 - Got Gat?

  - 5 - Two Cheeseburgers, Two Orders of Fries

  - 6 - In Route

  - 7 - Going to California

  - 8 - Sheriff's In Town

  - 9 - Crow Canyon Ravine

  - 10 - Gone Girl

  - 11 - Runaways

  - 12 - Cluster Buck

  - 13 - Where's the Sheriff?

  - 14 - Status Update

  - 15 - Four on the Floor

  - 16 - Hands Up, Don't Shoot

  - 17 - Get Out of Jail Free

  - 18 - Bad Guys Arrive

  - 19 - Sexual Tension

  - 20 - Nightmare

  - 21 - Appreciated Closeness

  - 22 - Crow Canyon Repel

  - 23 - Tires Spitting Gravel

  - 24 - Got the Girl

  - 25 - Downed Sheriff

  - 26 - Hostess with the Mostest

  - 27 - Turn Away

  - 28 - Reroute

  - 29 - So Close

  - 30 - Just a Thing

  - 31 - Tale of Two Phones

  - 32 - Full Admission

  - 33 - Delayed Justice

  - 34 - The Binding

  - 35 - Come Together

  - 36 - Down in the Hole

  - 37 - Improvised Explosive Device

  - 38 - Non-Perfect Condition

  - 39 - Needle in a Haystack

  - 40 - Which Door?

  - 41 - Lights Out

  - 42 - Unanticipated Arrival

  - 43 - Right in the Gut

  - 44 - Reunion

  - 45 - Bad Dog

  - 46 - Lost

  - 47 - Armed

  - 48 - Game Changer

  - 49 - Little Rabbit

  - 50 - Blame the Wind

  - 51 - Voices of the Wind

  - 52 - Death Ground

  - 53 - Slow Ride

  - 54 - Hunter is Hunted

  - 55 - Mounted

  - 56 - Doubly Cautious

  - 57 - Cold-blooded Decision

  - 58 - Raven Mocker

  - 59 - Full Bucket

  - 60 - Delicate Sound of Thunder

  - 61 - One Month Later

  Books by Steve R. Yeager

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 Steve R. Yeager

  Cover Copyright © 2016 Steve R. Yeager

  Edited by Kira Plotts

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  SECOND EDITION

  “A battle rages within you, grandson. I see two wolves, and their fight is terrible. One is evil. He is filled with fear, anger, sorrow, self-pity, arrogance, jealousy, lies, and false pride. The other is good. He is love. He is truth and peace. He is humility and kindness, compassion and faith. He is justice.”

  “And which wolf will win, grandmother?”

  “The one that you feed.”

  — Cherokee Legend, Author Unknown

  - 1 -

  GIRL ON THE BUS

  THE VOICE ON the phone asked, “You sure she’s traveling alone?”

  A man with thin filaments of oily blond hair swept back over his scalp said, “Yeah.”

  “She meet the description?”

  “Yeah…track team, high school.”

  “Background clean? Family? Friends?”

  “Nothing that should concern us.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Yeah.”

  A tiny burst of static filled the void.

  “Good, very good. We can’t screw it up this time. So watch her—every step. Got it? I’ll get back to you soon. I’m on my way to see him now, and I don’t think he’ll be too happy with what I have to tell him.”

  The phone call clicked dead. The man with the oily hair pursed his lips and stared out the side window of the bus, watching nothing, nothing at all.

  - 2 -

  MAN IN THE HIGH TOWER

  IN AN OFFICE on the 82nd floor of one of the tallest buildings in New York City, a short, balding man in a well-tailored suit adjusted his cuffs and stared down at the tiny people in the streets crawling about like ants.

  The man was named Quentin Krieg, and he’d made his fortune in the import/export business.

  Quentin maintained his New York offices mostly for the prestige that came along with the fancy letterhead and the million dollar views. But, to him, it was just another place to do business and meet clients who expected such frivolities. He preferred handling the bulk of his business from his sprawling ranch in the Texas hill country north of Loving. Today, though, he was scheduled to meet with a very important client, a man who did not wish to travel to Texas until Quentin had acquired a specific form of entertainment that had been previously agreed upon.

  Exhaling, he lifted his fingertips from the smoked glass and again adjusted the cuffs of his suit. The silky fabric draped about his uniquely shaped physique with a casual grace, masking his numerous bodily imperfections brought about by a tragic accident he’d suffered years ago.

  With an effort of will, he drove his withered legs the dozen or so torturous steps to his desk and seated himself behind it. The desk was a huge, imposing monstrosity constructed from dark wood with lighter inlaid accents. Each accent piece had been hand carved by Brazilian artisans to resemble the various animals he had imported and then hunted on his Texas ranch. Giraffes, tigers, gazelles, warthogs, and even a rare and endangered black rhino, were all represented in minute detail. The carvings were as close as he could come to displaying his trophies in a city like New York with its more awkward sensibilities toward the killing of animals for sport. If they had been human heads, then perhaps having them adorning his walls would not be taken as such an offense. They certainly would be more appropriate for his current environment.

  The phone on the desktop buzzed. He leaned over and punched the lit button.

  “Sir, Mr. Vaughn is still waiting in the lobby.”

  He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and let out a thin rush of air. “Yes, you may send him in.”

  Twin oak doors opened, and a Mr. Jonathan Vaughn crossed the threshold, treading lightly on socked feet. Quentin watched the man carefully, detesting every step the man took. Vaughn came to a silent stop a yard from the ornate desk and wrapped his hands behind his back and squared up his shoulders. Even in the coldness of the air-conditioned office, a tiny bead of sweat glistened above his eyebrow.

  “Do you know why I have summoned you to meet with me here?”

  Vaughn nodded and tilted his head back, exposing his throat.

  Quentin noted the foolishness of the action as he brushed a fingertip across the desk’s polished surface. On the blotter pad in front of him rested an ornate box. He lifted the lid slowly and reached inside the padded interior and brought out a single item. He set that object next to the box and settled back in his plush chair.

  The long silver object was a cartridge for a Weatherby .460 Magnum, the largest hunting rifle commercially available. While there were bigger custom-made guns, the Weatherby .460 Magnum was one that Quentin could still effectively wield
given his current condition. The standard cartridges for it were tipped with 500-grain, round-nose, copper-jacketed bullets that were capable of delivering nearly eight thousand foot-pounds of bone-crunching force.

  Quentin’s ammunition was somewhat different from the standard loads. His had been specially made using nickel alloy cases and specially cast silver bullets. Each was bright, shiny, and extremely deadly.

  Watching Vaughn for reaction, Quentin leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desktop. He rolled the long gleaming cartridge between his thumb and fingers.

  A slight widening of the eyes was the only hint Vaughn revealed, which Quentin somewhat appreciated.

  “Care to hold it?” he asked as he leaned across the desk and extended to hand over the heavy silver round.

  Vaughn shook his head no and then coughed into his fist.

  “Good,” Quentin said. “Very well, then. We can dispense with this for now.” He returned the metallic cartridge to the box and closed the lid, then drummed his fingertips on the desktop. The noise rang hollow in the silent space.

  A brief look of relief swam in Vaughn’s eyes, followed by a new flicker of fearful, back-against-the-wall calculations.

  Quentin stopped drumming his fingers. “Let me get right to the point and dispense with what could become a lengthy back and forth between us. I am already aware of what has transpired, and it is indeed unfortunate.”

  Vaughn frowned as he nodded, looking down.

  Quentin waited until their eyes met again. “I am pleased that you appreciate the situation and have tacitly admitted your failure.” He leaned forward in his chair, sliding his elbows across the desk’s surface. “I trust that you have learned a valuable lesson?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, good… Perhaps, then, I have also made an error?”

  “No, sir. It was my fault entirely.”

  “Then do you have a remedy to propose that will benefit us both?”

  Vaughn hesitated, opening his mouth and closing it several times. Finally, he widened his stance and sucked in a breath.

  “Sir, please do not reject this outright, or take what I am about to say as an excuse for my…failure. But I have already set another operation in motion. The target is similar, if not identical, and I think you will be pleased with my selection. I promise you, this time, every outcome has been accounted for. There will be no loose ends. I only need your approval to continue to move forward with the operation.”

  Quentin considered this for a long moment. He would have advised against starting a new acquisition without his explicit approval, but, in his line of business and its rapidly shifting requirements and need for compartmentalization, some things could not be helped. In many cases, too, he admired those who took initiative. But in this case? Here? He was not so certain. Maybe a change was in order.

  Maybe—

  He sighed. “It was not simply a series of unfortunate events that brought us to this point, Mr. Vaughn. Recognize that it was an error in your judgment to not supply the proper resources to accomplish the job as it was outlined for you. We were perfectly clear in that regard, were we not?”

  “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.”

  There was a long pause before Quentin spoke next. “I’m glad that you accept this. Regardless of your previous failure, I am left without what is necessary and already promised to another. Do you understand the compromising position this puts me in?”

  Vaughn swallowed thickly. “Sir, just give me two more days. That’s all I ask. I just need—sir, the match is perfect, I assure you. I-I can—”

  Quentin nodded for him to go on.

  Vaughn licked his lips. “I’ve already got my best man on this job, and I will personally oversee the operation until delivery.”

  “And who is this ‘best man’ you have assigned?”

  “His name is Rodney Pinnock. I trust him completely. He’s the one who helped when we had all that trouble in Philadelphia with the Armenians.”

  Quentin drummed his fingers on the desk once again. He drew a breath and stopped drumming. “I am acting against my better judgment here, but you leave me little choice.”

  Vaughn nodded slowly.

  Quentin tilted back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “You may continue your current operation—but you’d better deliver.”

  Vaughn nodded again and deflated a bit. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Do I need to remind you of the schedule we are on?”

  “No, sir. I understand it completely, and I assure you that everything will go as planned this time. In fact, I swear it.”

  “Of course it will. Two days, Mr. Vaughn—that is all.” Quentin held up two fingers to emphasize his point.

  “Yes, sir. Two days.”

  Jonathan Vaughn turned and left the office through the double doors. Quentin watched him go, eyeing the bald spot on the back of the man’s rather oblong skull, thinking it would make a nice target.

  Aim small, miss small.

  He waited for the twin mahogany doors to close. Then he began to cluck his tongue while contemplating a rather troubling decision. He had others out there who could get the same job done, but that meant he would have to escalate their status and set them in motion—today if at all possible. Relying on a single source for this job had been his biggest mistake. One he would not soon repeat, or admit to.

  And maybe if—?

  Leaning back, he withdrew a notepad from the left-hand drawer, set it on the blotter next to the wooden box, and stabbed halfway down the page with his index finger, marking a number. He lifted the telephone receiver and dialed a 9, bypassing his secretary for an outside line, then dialed the number.

  “Sir?”

  “It has already been set in motion. I was too late to alter the course. Instead of watching him, I expect you to find Mr. Vaughn and take over the operation.”

  “Understood. It will be just as you said. Sir, if I might ask, who’s he working with on this?”

  “A man by the name of Rodney Pinnock.”

  “Yeah…yeah, I know the guy by reputation. From Philly, right? I’ll reach out to him after I finish with Vaughn.”

  “Very well. And might I remind you that speed is of the essence.”

  “Understood, sir. You can count on me to deliver. I will—”

  Quentin stabbed the button to hang up. He stared at the simple wooden box in front of him for a few more seconds, then swept it aside. What he truly wanted to do to Vaughn would not be possible now, and maybe never. There was a client that required diversion and delay that he needed to see to, and that took priority.

  “This better work out,” he muttered to himself. The man he had promised to deliver the girl to was not one that could so easily be crossed—or delayed.

  He lifted himself to his feet, knowing he only had a precious few minutes to prepare before making another call. But at least now he had a patsy to blame it all on and a way forward.

  Business 101.

  With considerable effort, he hobbled his way back to the large floor-to-ceiling office windows, leaned against a pane of smoky glass, and again stared down at the tiny people crawling about below.

  - 3 -

  IRON HORSE

  RAYMOND WOLF WAS a big guy. He could have played in the National Football League if he had so desired. A defensive tackle, maybe, given his speed. Offensive lineman even, given his six-foot-six height and great mass of bone, muscle, and sinew. But he did not like gridiron football. He did not have much time for sports, or the desire to play them. He preferred traveling the open roads, watching the long ribbon of gray asphalt stretch out to the horizon, all baked and cracked by an undaunted sun. He like listening to the voices on the wind, and to the soothing rumble of the twin-cylinder engine of his Indian Chief motorcycle, which itself had to be custom fit to accommodate his imposing frame.

  Today, he was traveling through Nebraska and not necessarily running away from anything, nor traveling to anything, just traveling whereve
r the road might take him, through a countryside filled with a whole lot of nothing.

  Alongside the road, to his left and right, the occasional scrawny tree passed the time, and the even more infrequent rutted track scribbled off to some lonely homestead in the distance. According to a road sign a mile or so back, the small town of Crow Canyon lay another ten miles ahead. Below the square green town marker was another sign, a much smaller one, this one in blue—the familiar fork and knife symbol that indicated at least one place to eat lay ahead, which struck him as good.

  Because, like his namesake, he was always hungry.

  The miles ticked past, and the scant outlines of the town appeared, squat and shimmering on the horizon. As he left the fields of brown chaff behind, a gas station on the right-hand side of the road resolved into twin pumps sitting on a concrete island with a mini-market just behind it, storefront cluttered with signs. Beyond that was an auto repair shop with corrugated tin walls and a weathered red logo hanging above a rollup door. A bit farther down the road from that was a strip of small-town America, with short, squat buildings, a couple of aged street lamps, and drooping wires hanging overhead. In the far distance, a single stop sign and cross street marked the opposite edge of town.

  As he approached the main drag, he found there wasn’t much to look at. The town appeared almost half-completed. Like they had gone out as far as they had wanted to go and decided not to build any further, or had just given up.

  Wolf took his hand off the throttle and put it on his thigh, letting the bike coast against the tall gears. As the speed bled away, he spotted the promised diner tucked inside a small strip of stuccoed facades. Out front along the sidewalk were square concrete barriers containing a few barren trees interspersed with angled parking spaces, all empty, except for a rusting blue pickup truck.

  After backing his bike against the curb, he flipped down the kickstand. The road as far as he could see in either direction was deserted, as were the sidewalks—except for a few scrawny trees in planter boxes that clung to life. He hung his helmet from the bike’s handlebars, ran a hand over his head to pull his hair back, and peered through the diner’s front window. Like the town, the diner also appeared deserted, but a sign on the front stated otherwise.