Divided Sky Read online

  Divided Sky

  Jeff Carson

  Contents

  David Wolf Series in Order

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  David Wolf Series in Order

  David Wolf Series in Order

  Gut Decision (A David Wolf Short Story)– Sign up for the new release newsletter at http://www.jeffcarson.co/p/newsletter.html and receive a complimentary copy.

  Foreign Deceit (David Wolf Book 1)

  The Silversmith (David Wolf Book 2)

  Alive and Killing (David Wolf Book 3)

  Deadly Conditions (David Wolf Book 4)

  Cold Lake (David Wolf Book 5)

  Smoked Out (David Wolf Book 6)

  To the Bone (David Wolf Book 7)

  Dire (David Wolf Book 8)

  Signature (David Wolf Book 9)

  Dark Mountain (David Wolf Book 10)

  Rain (David Wolf Book 11)

  Drifted (David Wolf Book 12)

  Divided Sky (David Wolf Book 13)

  Chapter 1

  “He’s driving a silver Jeep Rubicon, brand new.”

  Chief Detective David Wolf listened intently, cell phone at his ear, as he steered his department-issued Ford Explorer toward Williams Pass. “Got it.”

  MacLean read the license plate number, but Wolf caught only half of it.

  “What was that? Reception just cut out.”

  The sheriff continued as if Wolf had said nothing. “Anyway, let me know what you find. And stay safe. Like I said, one dead, one missing. Sheriff Roll tells me that given the amount of blood they found, it’s not looking too good for the missing. And then—”

  The line cut out again. Cell reception never reached the zone Wolf had just drove into, and until somebody leveled the Rocky Points Ski Resort it never would. He hung up and put the phone in his center console.

  Wolf drove up through the trees and past the newly renovated ski-base village, the cool summer breeze blowing through his open window. The resort parking lot was crowded for a mid-June Sunday afternoon, proving the town chamber of commerce advertising dollars were being put to good use.

  The road passed the resort bustle and wound along the river, up a thickly wooded seam between the two mountains that delineated the ski area boundary. To the left, grass-carpeted ski runs cut through the pines; to the right, the well-to-do cleared their pieces of forest and erected homes.

  Former sheriff Hal Burton’s home came into view as Wolf drove out of the trees and into a wide meadow. Though Burton’s neighbors were close by Colorado standards, the surrounding walls of forest gave the place a sense of isolation.

  “I can take a leak off the back deck,” Burton had once told him. The American Dream realized.

  Wolf pulled into a dirt driveway, smoothed by a recent grading. The garage door was open, revealing only Burton’s Ford SUV inside. His nephew Jesse Burton’s Jeep Rubicon was nowhere to be seen.

  He parked and stepped out into a warm sun, cooled by the ever-present breeze that persisted at ten thousand feet. A gust in the distance rolled down the mountain, swaying the trees.

  His former boss’s property was uncharacteristically unkempt. The grass surrounding the house was at least knee high, the riding lawnmower parked expectantly outside the garage door, warming in the sun.

  He’d never known Burton to let the grass get that out of control. Or, more precisely, he’d never known Cheryl to let Burton let the grass get that out of control.

  A plastic cup rolling in the wind drew his attention to the shaded side of the house, where an upturned trash bin had been thoroughly destroyed by wildlife, leaving a refuse explosion with a blast radius that reached the far woods, over a football field away.

  He put his hand on the seat of the riding lawnmower and pulled it back quickly as the heat seared his hand.

  Cheryl’s car was also missing from the garage. Judging by the array of power tools spread across her space, she’d been gone for a while. Probably on her annual vacation back east to visit her sister, which would explain the state of the house.

  He opted to climb the steps to the front door rather than walk into the house through the garage. It was never a good idea to startle a bear, and especially when that bear was Hal Burton.

  The sound of the doorbell chimed through the heavy wooden door. No other sound followed. Not a thump, nor a creak of wood.

  He knocked, hard. Still nothing.

  The door was locked, so he walked back down the stairs and made his way into the garage, where he knocked on the door leading inside.

  No answer. He twisted the brass knob and pushed open the door.

  “Hey! Burton! It’s Wolf!”

  Still no answer.

  “Hal! It’s Wolf! I’m coming in!”

  He stepped inside, keeping his footfalls quiet as he waited for sounds of life that never came.

  A dark line of logic snapped together in his mind, one involving Burton’s nephew being a person of interest in a murder case. Maybe Jesse had come north to pay his uncle a visit after all.

  With his gun drawn, he crept into the kitchen, his feet silent on the solid wood floor.

  The room smelled like old food, and it looked like the pile of dishes spilling out of the sink and the overflowing trash bin were culprits.

  “What the hell?” he asked the kitchen under his breath.

  The room seemed to shrug back at him. The last time Wolf had been here the place had been shining, spotless, filled with the rich smell of vegetables simmering on the top-of-the-line gas stove. Now it looked like a Sasquatch had taken over and tried to teach itself how to cook.

  “Burton!”

  A moan came from the next room.

  He moved quickly around a granite peninsula, past the kitchen table and into the living room. One of the two thick leather couches creaked with movement.

  Burton lay face down, snoring hard. A pool of drool had collected next to his mouth.

  “Hey.” Wolf slapped the unkempt silver beard. “Burton! You okay?”

  “Huh?” Burton’s eyelids cracked open, revealing a web of broken blood vessels beneath.

  “Are you hurt?” Just as the question came out of his mouth, he caught the stench of alcohol, saw the glass of watered-down scotch on the end table, the empty bottle lying on the floor.

  As the adrenaline dissipated, Wolf relaxed and took in the scene. There were more empty bottles in the kitchen, clumped together on the counter next to the refrigerator.

  He eyed his watch, which read 1:13 pm.

  Burton had gone back to sleep, his head turned toward the back of the couch. Wolf felt his agony and decided to let him be for now.

  He made his way back into the kitchen and stood in the center. Careful to not let too many memories of his own hou
se a year ago flower in his head, he assessed the place with a detective’s eye. This was more than a vacation from proper living while his wife was out of town. This was a full-on bender brought on by Cheryl’s leaving.

  MacLean’s orders came back to him, and now that he thought of it, Jesse Burton could have parked on that shaded, trash-Armageddon side of the house.

  Wolf weaved his way back into the hallway and into a windowed laundry room. He put his face to the cool glass and looked out, seeing only the grassy slope covered in fluttering debris and the woods beyond.

  He took a second to really look at the trash, and saw torn frozen pizza boxes, kids’ cereal, milk cartons, some empty cans of chili. More scotch bottles. The animals that had gotten into these trash cans were probably dragging their rear ends across the forest floor.

  He made his way back to the kitchen, then down a hallway to the staircase leading up.

  He climbed the steps to the second floor and paused at the top to listen for movement but heard nothing.

  He made his way down the hall slowly, his hand on his gun. He stopped at the spare bedroom and could see the bed looked like it had been recently slept in. The air inside was stale and musty.

  Dirty clothing was strewn across the floor, and large-waisted jeans gave him the impression this was all Burton’s stuff. There was a sweatshirt bearing the logo of the Sluice County Sheriff’s Department crumpled on the carpet, a relic from the days before the county merger.

  He backed out of the room, listened for more movement, heard none, and continued on. He passed the bathroom, which was just as uninviting as the rest of the house and moved to the closed door at the end of the hallway.

  He popped open the door to reveal a room so clean it sparkled. The blinds were cracked open, letting in blades of light, which cut across the still air, painting stripes onto a perfectly made king-sized bed.

  He stepped inside, and into a faint scent of Cheryl’s perfume.

  The master bathroom entrance yawned off the left. The bathroom was free of debris, unlike the hallway bathroom outside, though a fine coat of dust covered the fixtures.

  Down the hall he found another room that was being used as a home office. Another scotch bottle, this one half full, stood on the desk, the cork lying next to it. The smell made Wolf’s mouth water, and not in the good way. He felt like a priest with a raised crucifix as he left the room.

  As he trotted down the stairs his phone vibrated and rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw MacLean’s name.

  “Hey.”

  “You there?”

  “Yeah. In his house now.”

  “Sheriff Roll’s blowing up my phone. Any news?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I just got here.”

  MacLean made a noise. “I’ll wait.”

  Wolf walked down the hallway and into the living room. Burton was in the same position, but now one of his arms dangled off the couch.

  Wolf covered the microphone on the bottom of his phone and spoke to the unconscious lump, feigning a conversation. “So…you haven’t heard from him?”

  He waited a few seconds, grunted in response to his own question, then removed his hand and put the phone back to his ear. “He hasn’t heard from him. The kid’s car isn’t here. It’s a no go.”

  MacLean exhaled. “Okay, keep me posted.”

  Wolf watched Burton’s back rise and fall with labored breathing. “What’s Sheriff Roll saying happened down there? I want to relay the facts to Hal. You were breaking up pretty good before.”

  “They’re looking for Jesse Burton for answers. Like I said, he’s a person of interest in that shooting Friday night of that guy down in Ridgway—Alexander Guild.” MacLean said the name like Wolf should know it.

  “And he is?”

  “Lots of money and political connections.”

  Wolf nodded. “Your type of guy.”

  “Not anymore. Apparently, he got a fifty-caliber bullet to the head on his back deck.”

  It was Sunday now, and Wolf had read the story in the newspaper earlier that morning. The article had been light on details. There definitely hadn’t been a mention of calibers or wounds.

  “You said something about a missing person. And it wasn’t looking good for him.”

  “Yeah. Ouray County sheriff’s department went to Jesse’s friend’s house, a guy named Kyle Farmer. Kyle wasn’t there, but they found a bunch of blood and now they’re looking for Jesse for answers. The details are fuzzy. Roll’s talking a mile a minute. Flustered. Sounds like he’s medicating the stress with way too much coffee.”

  Burton shifted on the couch, still dead to the world.

  “But they think Jesse’s responsible,” Wolf said.

  “He’s running, isn’t he?” MacLean scoffed. “I don’t know. Roll also said Jesse’s girlfriend claims she was with him the whole night. So, it seems like he has an alibi. But …”

  “But he’s running.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want me to talk to Burton?” MacLean asked. “Explain the situation?”

  “No need. I’ll relay everything.”

  “All right. And as I was saying before our call cut out, we have to talk today. Me and you. Come to my office when you’re back.”

  “What are you doing in the office on a Sunday?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  Wolf hung up and stared at the wall. Why not let it wait until Monday?

  He shook his head and stared down at Burton.

  The man’s face was still pressed into the couch, and his snoring seemed to come with more effort than it should have.

  He remembered thinking the same thing while standing over Jack when he was a baby. Wolf had learned his lesson quickly by trying to roll his son over into what he deemed a more comfortable position. Jack had woken with a howl and had kept screaming for hours after that.

  Wolf bent over, lifted his hand and smacked the side of Burton’s face.

  “Get up!”

  Burton bounced. “The hell?”

  “Hey!”

  “What? What?” Burton sat upright, mouth hanging open and eyes fluttering. “Who the hell?”

  “Wake up.”

  Burton squinted and pressed a hand to his temple. “What are you doing here?”

  “They got a BOLO out on your nephew. Ouray County SD is looking for him in connection with a murder and a misper.”

  Burton smacked his mouth and rubbed his scalp in response. A dying animal wheeze came from his chest.

  “Have you heard from him?”

  No answer.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “No.”

  Wolf took a deep breath, hoping for patience, and repeated the whole spiel.

  Burton stared at Wolf, incomprehension morphing to pain-laced concern. “Murder? Missing person? You have to start from the beginning.”

  Wolf explained how Sheriff Roll of Ouray County called MacLean, and told Burton about the man shot down in Ridgway two days ago, and how one of Jesse’s friends had gone missing, leaving a trail of blood.

  “And they think Jesse’s responsible?”

  “He’s running, isn’t he?” Wolf said, repeating MacLean’s earlier words. “Have you heard from him?”

  “No, I haven’t heard from him.”

  “Where’s your phone?”

  Burton patted his sweatpants, which looked like they had no pockets, then looked over at the end table.

  “Shit, I don’t know.” He brought his hand to his forehead.

  Wolf knew that look of self-loathing all too well. A sympathetic spike of pain slammed through his own skull, and he felt the hangover like it was in his own head, much like the sensation of pain that occasionally shot through his missing left pinkie finger.

  “There.” Wolf pointed to the crack in the couch, where Burton’s phone was wedged inside.

  Burton brought the device to his lap. Wolf watched the old man struggle to turn it on.

  “Let
me see that,” he said.

  Burton pulled it away and flicked him a look. He reached over and plucked a glass from the end table, brought it to his lips and drank it down, like he had all the time in the world.

  “Ah. So thirsty.”

  Wolf grabbed the glass out of his hand. “How about some water?”

  “Water. Yes. Please.”

  Wolf walked to the kitchen sink and rinsed out the glass, then filled it with cold water.

  He held out the glass, but Burton ignored him, his attention riveted on his cell.

  “What is it?” Wolf bent over and looked, but Burton lowered the phone before Wolf could see the screen.

  “Shit.” The word came out like Burton had forgotten something extremely important.

  Wolf had uttered that same hungover word countless times. It was the sound a drunk made after waking up and the first wave of reality crashed against his unwillingness to deal with it.

  “Shit.” Burton’s bloodshot eyes swiveled up to Wolf.

  Wolf held out his hand.

  Thoughts danced behind Burton’s eyes, and his gaze lowered and moved to a place Wolf couldn’t reach.

  Wolf pinched the phone and pulled. “Can I?”

  Burton resisted at first, then let it slip from his grip.

  A text message glowed on the screen.

  Hey Uncle Hal. I’m in trouble. Really in trouble. They think I killed that Alexander Guild guy but I didn’t. Looks like something happened to Kyle. His family is coming after me and I’m scared. Remember when you said you would help whenever I needed it? Well, I could really use some help now. My life is in ruins. It’s going to be in RUINS. Please come.