J. Black - The Survivors Club

“I was stupid. A stupid fool, not just once, but twice! He charmed me just like I saw him do with people so many interviews over the years. One stupid moment, and it was like the old days, and you know the saying that there’s no fool like an old fool. It was always that way with us, he was my partner and had my back and I had his, and so I just put any doubts I had aside.

“ I’m the one who’s accountable. It’s up to me to find a way to stop this.”

That was the last line.

George Hanley had written down his suspicions, but he had been cryptic. He had been reluctant to tell all. For self-protection?

It was clear he suspected Michael DeKoven and Jaimie Wolfe of the killings. He knew that Jaimie Wolfe had gone out of her way to meet him. To woo him.

George Hanley knew it was a game. And he knew that sooner or later they would be coming for him.

He was going to try to beat them at their game.

But he hadn’t figured on one thing.

He hadn’t figured on Wade Poole—until it was too late.

Tess reached Jimmy Tune and took notes over the phone. He sent her a summary of the case and suggested she come up. Tess wasn’t sure if this case had any relation to the others, but Hanley’d thought so, so she hit the road and hours later parked in the lot of the Payson Police Department. Jimmy Tune met her in the lobby and led her to the detective room. He introduced her to Manuel Alvarado, the detective who’d worked Sosa.

Thin with a receding hairline, Alvarado had hypnotic eyes. When he talked, you listened. He was in his midforties, a natty dresser. He flipped through his filing cabinet and placed a file on his desk. “We’re converting to electronic,” he said, “but it’s taking a while. And this is an older case.” He pushed it across the desk, those dark eyes like shiny beetles. “I can’t let you photocopy it.”

“That’s okay,” Tess said. She could look at each page and it would be as good as any photocopy.

He remained standing, watching her, as if he didn’t trust her not to take off with it. His eyes never left her.

Tess compared what she had here with what Hanley had put together on his own. He’d done a pretty good job. Once a homicide cop always a homicide cop.

“So the case remains unsolved?”

“That’s the status. It’s headed to our cold case division.”

“But you worked it.”

“Yes, I did.”

“One thing I don’t see here,” Tess said. “The autopsy report says he had a previous wound. Did you look into that?”

He straightened a little. “He was in the service. He was shot in the chest in the opening days of the Iraq War. Fortunately, he survived, although it was touch and go for a while. He recovered, but had PTSD and some related mental health problems.”

“What kind?”

“He took drugs, was arrested twice for domestic situations with his wife and once for being under the influence. That led to a divorce, and he was out of work—threatened his boss, got into bar fights.

“He was on a family camping trip with his family when he was shot. They went to the same place every year.”

“What do you think happened?”

“We were never able to clear the case—there just was no evidence. The trail went cold—all we he had was the bullet.”

He showed her on Google Earth where the campground was. He couldn’t go with her. He gave her distinct instructions as to where the table was, and of course she saw not only the autopsy photos but photos of the picnic area, the blood spatter, and diagrams. Tess didn’t think she needed to drive out there, but she did, anyway. There had been a rain up here recently, and the small creek near the picnic table had plenty of runoff. It was churning. Tess had the place to herself—it was a weekday—and she looked at the spot where she believed he had been shot.

Just out with his family, celebrating his life. A man who had survived a sniper attack once.

That someone could do this for fun.

That they could do this to this soldier. Who, by all accounts, was troubled and suffered deeply from what he’d experienced in Iraq.

Tess thought about Michael DeKoven.

She wondered if he had a sniper rifle. She wondered where he practiced. She wondered who she could talk to who would tell her.

Finally she got back into her Tahoe and drove south.

Next stop: Phoenix.

By the time Michael got back home, he had gone through several stages: fear, despair, and now anger. He parked the 4Runner in the garage and walked to the house. He went to the bathroom off the kitchen, not wanting to create a mess in the master bathroom. Since it was right near the back door it would be easier for cleanup.

Gingerly, he stripped off his jersey and shorts, wincing with pain and ready for a hot shower where he could just stand there and let the water pour over him and he could just…think.

He did. But the water pounded him like needles, and he couldn’t stand to remain under the spray very long. Just get the dirt and dried blood off, pick out a little of the gravel and twigs.

He’d been unable to think too well up to now. But now he was at DeKoven Central, his power base. A man’s home was his castle, and this place was a castle.

He patted himself dry and thought about what he could wear—a silk robe would probably be the best. As he walked into the bedroom he glanced in the large mirror and saw two things. How pale and scared his face looked—

And Martin, on his stomach, sprawled on the bed behind him. Tanned and beautiful.

Asleep.

When he first came into the room it had scared him to see someone here. The first thing he’d felt was fear.

As if fear had been sown into him. He could almost smell it on himself. He looked at Martin, felt the usual appreciation for his lover’s beauty.

He felt it despite the stinging road rash, the bruises. He was raw to the air. Knew that he’d be stiff and in terrible pain tomorrow, his muscles torqued around in all sorts of ways.

If he was going to do anything of a sexual nature, it had to be now.

And there lay Martin. So perfect.

Just what the doctor ordered.

He padded quietly to the walk-in closet. The birchwood dowel, four feet long and a quarter inch in diameter, stood in the corner of the closet, the price sticker still affixed. On the floor beneath was a nylon cord in a loop. Already cut.

He’d stashed it all here for a moment just like this.

The fucker in the truck ran him off the road .

He left that note. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

“The fuck you don’t,” Michael muttered. “You don’t know the half I did.” He grabbed the rope. Martin still sleeping. Jet lag? Michael had always been quick as a snake, and he had rehearsed it so many times and done it more than a few, it went fast. Knee into Martin’s back. Wrap the rope tight around his two wrists, then secure the two ends to the headboard posts.

Martin squeaked.

Bucked.

Cried out.

“It’s okay, Martin,” Michael said, gently running his hand down Martin’s gleaming flank as if quieting a horse. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay, not yet.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID .

“Michael, please!”

“I’m feeling my dark side,” Michael said in way of explanation.

“Please!”

“You have a choice.”

“No!”

“A choice, Martin.” He reached under the bed and groped around for the book. He’d marked the pages with Post-it Notes.