Under The Agent's Protection

With a nod, Everly turned to go. She picked up her coat from the sofa and slid it over her shoulders. “You’re right,” she said. “I didn’t care anything about your privacy, but I need to know what happened to my brother. I snuck into his hotel room and was attacked. That’s why I found you on the internet—”

“Attacked?” Wyatt interrupted. “By whom?”

With a shake of her head, Everly said, “They came up from behind and hit me hard enough to knock me out. When I found out who you are—were—I knew I had to ask for help. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“What did the sheriff say about the attack?” Wyatt really had to stop acting like he cared. Someone might get the wrong idea.

Everly regarded him for a moment. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles. She didn’t just look tired, she looked exhausted. “I imagine Sheriff Haak would be more upset that I broke into Axl’s room than that I’d been assaulted.”

“I’m sure you know that you shouldn’t be driving if you’d lost consciousness.”

“I was healthy enough to drive out here, wasn’t I?”

“No offense, but you look like crap.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You just look like you’ve had a rough day, that’s all.”

“The worst of my life,” she said. Her eyes shone with tears and she looked away.

Wyatt hesitated. Against his better judgment, he could feel his resolve softening slightly. “If you looked me up on the internet, then you can guess why I don’t want to get involved in any suspicious deaths.”

“You think there’s something to investigate?”

“I didn’t say that,” Wyatt retorted. “I meant that there’s no immediate medical reason for your brother to have died.”

“Axl was found on your property, right? You can take me there now and show me where you found him, at least. Maybe we can find his camera. It wasn’t in his room, which means it’s still out there, somewhere. There’s got to be a link or a clue.”

Wyatt refused to admit that she was right. He also refused to admit that he’d already looked for the camera but found nothing. He turned to the floor-to-ceiling windows and saw nothing but the whiteness of the swirling snow. “There’s no real road out to the old schoolhouse, just a rutted track. With weather like this, it’d be easy to get disoriented or stranded. So, I’m not going out there until the weather clears, and neither are you.” He exhaled, realizing that he was about to make the worst decision of his entire life. “I’ll give you a ride back to town while the roads are clear, though. You shouldn’t be driving with a head injury and in a storm, no less.” He held up a hand to stop her protest. “And, I’ll agree to review all the facts and evidence that we have so far. If there’s something that doesn’t seem right about your brother, I’ll talk to Sheriff Haak personally.”

Back in Pleasant Pines, Everly stood on the sidewalk in front of a restaurant. The wind was turning the snow into projectiles that left the skin on her face raw. The lump at the back of her head thumped with each beat of her heart. “Pie?” she said, echoing Wyatt’s last word.

“Yeah, pie. Flaky crust. Filling of choice.”

A lock of hair blew across her face and she pulled it away. “Why pie?”

Wyatt lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “I like pie,” he said. “It’s like a ritual. Helps me think.” Pulling open the glass door, he gestured for her to enter. “Come on. Let’s get out of the cold.”

Everly stepped into Sally’s on Main. Half a dozen booths lined the wall by the door. Opposite was a counter with stools and in between sat several small tables. Aside from another couple in the back booth and a woman behind the counter, the restaurant was empty.

Wyatt slid into a booth halfway back and Everly took the opposite seat. The woman from behind the counter approached with a pen and order pad in hand.

“Hey, sugar,” the older woman said to Wyatt. “What can I get for you?”

“Got some apple pie, Sally?”

“Sure do,” she said. “You want that warmed and served with ice cream?”

“Is there any other way?” asked Wyatt. “And a cup of coffee.”

Sally turned to Everly. “What about you, hon?”

“I’d love some apple pie, thanks.”

The couple from the back of the restaurant stood and walked forward. The man, tall with a shaved head, nodded a greeting at Everly, then glanced at Wyatt and stopped abruptly. “Wyatt? Wyatt Thornton? I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Marcus?” Wyatt got to his feet and shook the other man’s hand. “Marcus Jones, it’s great to see you. What’re you doing in Pleasant Pines?”

“I’m grabbing a late lunch with my friend Chloe Ryder. She’s the local district attorney.” He whistled through his teeth. “I honestly never thought I’d see you again. You disappeared after leaving the Bureau. What are you doing with yourself these days?”

“I live in Pleasant Pines.”

“Well, it’s great to see you. Wyatt, this is Chloe. Chloe, Wyatt.”

Chloe, a tall brunette with a fringe of bangs, took Wyatt’s hand. “It’s a pleasure,” she said with a smile.

“Nice to meet you, Chloe,” Wyatt said. “Ah, this is Everly Baker.” He paused, and she wondered how he was going to explain her to the duo. “She’s from Chicago.”

Pleasantries were exchanged and then Wyatt asked, “How’s work? Are you still the special agent in charge in the Denver office?”

“I left the Bureau, if you can believe that.”

“Been there, done that, have the T-shirt.”

Marcus laughed. “Anyway, I joined a private security group out of Denver and we’ve opened an office in Wyoming. What about you? Where are you working now?”

“Me?” Wyatt shook his head. “I quit altogether after what happened in Las Vegas. A quiet life suits me just fine.”

“Maybe you should stop by. You could be a great asset to the team.”

“I’m not much into being a team player anymore,” said Wyatt.

“You never know. Private security might suit you better than a quiet life.”

“Private security,” Wyatt repeated. “What does that mean? Are you a private investigator? Do you find cheating spouses?”

“We are so much more than that.” He took a pad of paper and a pen from his coat pocket and scribbled for a moment. “That’s my cell number. Call and I’ll give you the tour—tell you a few war stories. Hell, some of them might even be true.”

“I’m not interested in work, but thanks.” Wyatt waved away the offered paper.

“Take it,” said Marcus. “You never know when you might need a friend.”

Wyatt folded the sheet of paper placing it in his back pocket.

“Anyway,” said Marcus, “Chloe has to get back to work, and I’ll let you two get back to your date.”

Date. The one word hung in the air, like smoke. It reminded Everly of how handsome Wyatt Thornton was and how very long it had been since she’d actually gone out on a date. “He seems nice,” said Everly once they were alone.

“Marcus Jones is as good as they come.”

Sally returned with their pie and coffee. The conversation stalled as she set everything on the table. Everly took a bite, chewing slowly. The crust was light and buttery, the apples inside sweet, with just a touch of spice. She sighed. “You’re right,” she said. “Best pie ever.”

Wyatt smiled. “I’m glad you like it, but let’s get back to why we’re here to begin with. First, do you know what your brother was supposed to photograph?”

“A wolf-pack migration, I think,” she said. She bit her lip. “I can’t recall the magazine he was on assignment for, but I can find out.”

“Do you think he was targeted because of his work?”

She took a sip of coffee, which was surprisingly good for a diner in Nowheresville, USA. “No way. My brother was a good person and could charm the hell out of anyone. And he was good at what he did, the best photographer I’ve seen. Everyone loved Axl.”

Wyatt scooped a bite of pie into his mouth. “What else?”

Everly’s mind had been so full of possibilities, but now it was empty. Then she remembered. “The sheriff gave me a list of all Axl’s possessions.” She dug through her purse and found the folded note.

Flattening the sheet on the table, she read aloud. “Shirt, shoes, socks, wallet, three credit cards in the name of Axl James Baker. One hundred and twenty dollars in twenty-dollar bills and half of a two-dollar bill.”

“Wait,” said Wyatt. “Go back. Read the last line again, the one about the money.”

“One hundred and twenty dollars in twenty-dollar bills and half of a two-dollar bill.”

“The last case I worked.” He paused.

“The serial killer in Las Vegas,” Everly offered.

“He left a calling card of sorts on each of the victims. To avoid copycat killers, we never shared that fact with the media.” Wyatt paused and took a drink of coffee. “It was half of a two-dollar bill.”

Everly began to tremble. She grasped her hands together and asked with a whisper, “Are you saying...? Did a serial killer murder my brother?”

“It’s worse than that,” said Wyatt.

Everly couldn’t imagine what might be worse. “Really? How is that possible?”

“Not only was your brother murdered, but the killer is on the loose in Pleasant Pines. As that bump on your head proves, he knows exactly who you are—and you could very well be the next victim.”

The stench of antiseptic hung in the air and Carl Haak’s eyes watered. He leaned against the stainless steel counter and concentrated on the feeling of cold metal against his hip. The corpse of Axl Baker was laid out on a table, a cloth pulled up to his chest.

“My initial finding,” said Doctor Lambert, “is that the deceased had a blood-alcohol content of point-one-five.”

“That’s good and drunk,” said the sheriff, “and well above the legal limit, but not enough to cause death.”

Doctor Lambert was a slight man with gray hair and a pointy beard. The combination always put Carl in the mind of a billy goat. Doc Lambert stroked the end of his beard for a moment. “I don’t think so, either.”

“Then why do we have a corpse?”

“My best guess? Our Mr. Baker drank too much, got lost and either laid down to sleep it off or he passed out in the old schoolhouse. The alcohol would’ve slowed his circulation, making it easier for hypothermia to set in. He simply never woke up.”

“Are you willing to put that as the cause on a death certificate?”

Doctor Lambert stroked his beard again. “There’s no other explanation. No other trauma. No bruising anywhere. No signs of cardiac arrest. Nothing.” With a nod, he moved to the counter next to Carl and a tablet computer. After typing in a few notes, he said, “I’m calling it. Cause of death is accidental exposure. I’ll file the paperwork with the county office and the body will be ready for transport first thing in the morning.”

Carl quickly thanked the doctor and pushed open the door. He took in deep, gulping breaths as he strode down the basement hallway. A set of stairs led to the hospital’s ground floor. He avoided the main entrance and emergency room, sneaking out a side door instead.

A cold wind hit him in the face and blew away the remaining odor from the morgue. He pulled up the collar of his coat and shouldered his way through the gathering snow. Only two weeks, Carl reminded himself, and he’d be done with the bitter cold. Done with this job. Until then, a few things remained to be done.

He needed to meet with Axl Baker’s sister. And he was dreading the conversation.

Figuring she’d have checked into the Pleasant Pines Inn—since it was the only lodging in town—he headed in that direction. Walking down Main Street, he glanced in the window of Sally’s and stumbled. There, in one of the middle booths, sat Everly Baker along with Wyatt Thornton. No time like the present, he thought, so he pushed open the door and entered the restaurant.

Everly looked up and Carl lifted a hand in greeting. As he approached the booth, he said, “I saw you from outside and decided to stop. I hope you don’t mind, but I have news.”

Wyatt moved over in his seat, making room for Carl. “I’m glad you’re here, Sheriff. We have something for you, too.”

Carl didn’t exactly ignore the comment, but he didn’t want to be distracted. “I just spoke to the medical examiner. It seems your brother had a good bit of alcohol in his system. It decreases circulation and the cold and exposure likely affected his body temperature as well, no matter how good an outdoorsman you tell us he was.” He removed his hat, set it on the table and sat. “I’m sorry, Ms. Baker, but your brother’s death has been ruled as accidental.”

Everly’s cheeks reddened. “That’s impossible.”

“I know this is a shock and not what you’d hoped we’d find.” He wasn’t sure how to proceed and be delicate at the same time. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“It’s impossible,” she said again. “We have proof that he was murdered.”

Carl leaned back in the booth, looking skeptical. “Proof? What kind of proof.”

Wyatt spoke then. “When I was with the FBI, I investigated a string of killings. All the victims were white males and each body was left with half of a two-dollar bill in their pocket or wallet.”

“So?”

Wyatt pushed a sheet of paper in front of Carl. The sheriff recognized the list of Axl Baker’s belongings. Pointing to a line on the page, Wyatt said, “See...here—a two-dollar bill, and only half of it found with the body.”

“And this is your proof? That doesn’t mean anything. He could’ve gotten that money anywhere.”

“Tell me if I’m wrong but isn’t it odd to find only half a bill?” asked Everly.

“You’re wrong,” said Carl. “All you have is circumstantial evidence. You’re playing guessing games.”

“All the victims in Las Vegas had very high blood-alcohol content and had been left for dead.”

“Let me get this straight—you’re telling me that a murderer was killing people with booze? I’ve been a police officer for a long time. Too much drink will make you sick long before it’ll kill you. It’d be a tough way to murder someone.”

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