Wolves and Sheep Don't Mix
After years of serving his country as a SEAL and in Special Ops, Clem wanted to retire, to get away from all the chaos and violence that had become ingrained in his life. With his friend and former commanding officer, Capt. Stuart “Skip” Newman, he retreated to the quiet little town of Sommers, Florida. But Clem finds danger lurking behind its peacefulness, and a friendship with a local bad guy turns into a murder investigation. Seeking help, he finds resistance among the townsfolk and outside forces attempting to derail him.
Excerpt:
A low rumble increased in volume, announcing the arrival of a motorcycle. The pane rattled, and a look of anticipation crossed Clem's face as he turned his attention to the parking lot. But it was one of Harley's former gang friends, not the man he wanted to see, and Clem's eyes narrowed. Unconsciously, he touched the gun at his right side. If he could help it, there'd be no trouble at the Silver Feather Cafe today.
The biker was even scruffier than Harley, and he reeked of beer. Clem's sense of smell was acute, but it didn't take an above average sniffer to detect the odor from three tables away when he entered the diner. The man was tall, about six-four, Clem guessed. He lumbered up to the counter and towered over Annie Mae, the coffee pot shaking in her hand as she gaped up at him. He must have thought better of sitting on one of those tiny stools. Instead, he turned and chose a table not far from Clem.
Over his shoulder, he shot. “Get me a coffee, eggs, sausage, bacon, grits, toast, the works, baby.” He hiked one leg up over the chair back and brought it down to sit at a table facing Clem. His icy blue eyes bored into the deputy. “You got a problem, Law Dog?”
“No problem,” Clem replied with a calm tone and a friendly nod. “As long as you behave yourself, everything's good.”
“He don't know that word, Clem.” Jerry the cook piped up from behind the safety of the kitchen wall. “It's got too many syllables.”
People not within easy reach of the biker laughed. His face pinched and his fist tightened on the table surface. He turned to see who spoke the insult. Jerry ducked back into the kitchen as the biker guy growled like a dog. He pointed to the empty window between the dining area and kitchen.
“You better watch it, pencil neck! I'm gunning for you, and you won't always have a wall between you and me!” He sat in his seat again and adjusted himself until his leather vest clung to his body the way he liked it. A newspaper lay on the corner of his table, ignored. Instead, he surveyed the room, eyeing all the patrons until each one squirmed, and his eyes again landed on the deputy in the corner booth.
Clem ignored the intense scrutiny, because he knew that wearing a uniform caused people to do that. In the Navy, whenever he was in his crisp uniform traveling around, whether it was in a foreign port or stateside, people stared. As he developed a collection of ribbons, they stared even more. It got to where he didn't even pay attention. In civilian life, when he settled in Panama, he just wanted to blend in and be anonymous. He'd almost accomplished it, until that guy from the CIA contacted him. In Sommers, he was just another resident who happened to help keep the others safe. He'd collected a few true friends, so that when he and Harley met and developed a friendship, none of them deserted or looked down on him.
“Hey, what's your name,” Clem asked the biker guy as he picked up his cap after paying his bill.
“What's it to ya?” The biker looked up, locking eyes with Clem, challenging him without a word.
“Just wondering if you were a friend of Harley's.” Clem rose from his seat and took a step.
“We used to ride together, but not anymore,” the man replied. “What's it matter to you?”
“Harley is a friend of mine,” Clem replied with a cool, even tone. “I haven't seen him for a few days, and I was hoping maybe you did.”
“If I did, he sure wouldn't wanna be seeing me,” the biker declared, grabbing the handle of his coffee cup and taking a long slurp. “Now, if you don'd mind, I'd like to enjoy my coffee in peace. Why don't you go hassle someone who deserves it?”
Clem looked down at him, fighting the desire to grab the guy by his t-shirt and slam him up against the wall. There was something about the biker that got his sixth sense humming, and he didn't like it. “If I find out you know something about Harley's whereabouts and you're not telling me....”
“What? Whatcha gonna do, Law Dog?” A slur accompanied the name that had been an endearment between friends, but coming from the biker's lips, it sounded like a curse. He stood up and invaded Clem's space, and Clem found himself staring up at dark, angry eyes.
Unshaken, Clem took a half step back and replied, “I can guarantee you'll be spending a little time getting to know the inside of a jail cell.”
Crossing his arms in front of himself, the beefy man laughed a low rumbling chuckle. “Yeah, that I'd like to see, especially since you've got no cause, and I have every right to file a complaint on you for harassing me.”
No doubt if the guy walked into headquarters in the county seat, no one would take him seriously. Still, there were other ways that he could make Clem's life miserable. He continued to keep his gaze on the man's face, long enough for the giant ruffian to take his seat. All the while, he kept his eyes on Clem. A brush of his hand against his waistband brought Clem's eyebrow up, his own hand grazing his sidearm in a silent threat.
If he wasn't careful, this could turn into a brawl. Instead of a bullet, Clem shot a disarming smile at the man. “Hey, I'm just concerned for Harley, that's all. He's not in any trouble, I just wanna know he's okay.”
“I ain't seen him in days, Law Dog. He's not part of our gang no more, so I don't really give a flying....”
Clem stood over the biker, his hands clasping his utility belt, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “Hey. These folks don't appreciate language like that around here.”
The biker guy hung his head and refused to look at Clem.
“If you see Harley, tell him that Clem is looking for him. Thought maybe he'd like to go fishing this weekend.”
“I haven't seen him, and I don't plan on it. He... he ain't around here no more.” The biker gave him one last look as Clem started walking away.
Considering that Harley had talked about moving, Clem shouldn't have been surprised. But the fact that the biker remained closed mouthed about Harley's whereabouts, and he gave up that bit of information had Clem's sense of unease shooting through the roof. “What? Where'd he go?”
“I don't have to tell you nothin' without a lawyer, even if I did have something to tell you.” The biker scowled at him.
“I suppose you're right,” Clem smiled, using the expression as a means to curbing his agitation. He tapped his palm on the table. “You have yourself a nice, safe day. Okay?” He resumed his walk out of the diner, a smile on his face, but his gut tossed and turned. Something wasn't right, and he was certain that biker guy knew what it was.
Clem entered the substation, picked up the packet and one message on his desk, and returned to his patrol car with no more than a dozen words passing between him and Monica. She must have thought he was angry at her or something. He would have to make it up to her somehow. For not being paid, the woman did a lot to make his life, and the other deputies' lives, a lot easier. Her father was the village president, and she still lived under his roof. All her needs were taken care of, which meant she had no incentive to get a paying job somewhere else. Clem was grateful for that.
His cell phone rang, and he answered it. “Hello?”
“Clem, it's Monica. I just got a call from Mr. Barkley.”
He sighed. “What is it this time?”
She replied in a bored tone. “He says there's a foul odor coming from somewhere on his property, in the woods. He's too afraid to go check on it himself.”
It was probably a leftover wolf kill. Barkley's land was full of the critters, and they were known to be traveling in packs in the area. “I'll go out there and check on it. Thanks, Monica.” He paused and almost hung up, but he continued. “Sorry about this morning. I had something on my mind.”
“I understand. I'll talk to you later.” The cheerfulness had returned to her voice.
“Yeah.” He closed the connection, dropped his cell into the cup holder in the console, and drove out to Barkley's property. While driving at a crawl up the two tracks of sand and gravel leading to the house, he grabbed his radio and spoke into it.
“Unit nine-six at twenty-four fifty-five Old Town Road. Resident reported odor on property, no one appears to be at home.”
“Copy, unit nine-six.”
The front door was closed, and Barkley's truck wasn't there. He knocked on the door, but the old man didn't answer. Clem stepped off the porch and moved toward the lake. At the water's edge, a wooden dock jutted out from a small beach, and a fishing boat tied to it bobbed in the gentle waves. Clem looked to the right and left, scanning the horizon. The woods came up to the beach on the right, the scrub too thick for a man to walk through without being sliced by the saplings. To the left he found a deer trace. He followed it, and it didn't take long before he detected the distinctive sweet, putrid odor of death. It made his stomach lurch.
He pulled out his weapon and kept it ready. If it was a coyote or wolf kill, and any of the other beasts were around, it would make his life more interesting than a scuffle with the biker dude. Having a wild animal latch onto him wasn't how he wanted to spend his morning. His boots crunched dead leaves and twigs with each step. A flapping noise and leaves whispering to the left caused him to peer into the deep woods. Clem stopped and got on his radio.
“Unit nine-six, investigating odor at Barkley property. Quarter mile west in the woods, on a path along the lake.”
“Copy unit nine-six. Proceed with caution.”
“Copy.” Thanks for the obvious. Clem shook his head. At least they knew where he was, in case something happened.
As he walked along the path, the smell seemed to waft and wane. The wind transmitted the unmistakable odor from its source, and the increasing intensity told him that he was getting closer. Clem neared a fire lane that cut through the woods from the lake access road and gave the Department of Natural Resources an approach to the lake. He neared it and saw the dark outline of an old pickup truck. It was ancient with the large sweeping fenders, dark reddish brown rust covering it from bumper to bumper, and it appeared to be so decrepit, he thought it would be a miracle if it ran. If he didn't know better, he would assume that it had been there for decades. A few people in the area owned trucks just as old, if not older, and none of them would be so foolish as to dump one in such a remote place. His mind tried to recall who had one like it, but he came up empty. Someone parked it alongside the road, and its body tilted toward the culvert at a crazy angle.
Clem was only a few steps away, and he knew that it was the source of an overpowering smell. Something dripped from a crack in the passenger window, and he ducked down to see a dark object wedged against the pane. Whatever it was, it was stocky and black. He moved around the front of the truck, wondering if he should open the door. Someone obviously left something nasty in there. It was probably just garbage, and he'd have to spend the rest of his day getting that stench out of his nostrils.
In the end, he decided to open the vehicle. He tried the driver's side door and found it unlocked. He flung it open, and his eyes stopped on the large mass inside. He could only see part of a face that was bloated and unidentifiable. It was the leather vest that gave him away. The wave of decomposition that came pouring out of the truck caused Clem to stagger backwards and hold his hand up over his mouth. His stomach clenched, he turned away, and he lost his breakfast in the other culvert.
Now he knew why Harley hadn't stopped at the diner.
Excerpt:
A low rumble increased in volume, announcing the arrival of a motorcycle. The pane rattled, and a look of anticipation crossed Clem's face as he turned his attention to the parking lot. But it was one of Harley's former gang friends, not the man he wanted to see, and Clem's eyes narrowed. Unconsciously, he touched the gun at his right side. If he could help it, there'd be no trouble at the Silver Feather Cafe today.
The biker was even scruffier than Harley, and he reeked of beer. Clem's sense of smell was acute, but it didn't take an above average sniffer to detect the odor from three tables away when he entered the diner. The man was tall, about six-four, Clem guessed. He lumbered up to the counter and towered over Annie Mae, the coffee pot shaking in her hand as she gaped up at him. He must have thought better of sitting on one of those tiny stools. Instead, he turned and chose a table not far from Clem.
Over his shoulder, he shot. “Get me a coffee, eggs, sausage, bacon, grits, toast, the works, baby.” He hiked one leg up over the chair back and brought it down to sit at a table facing Clem. His icy blue eyes bored into the deputy. “You got a problem, Law Dog?”
“No problem,” Clem replied with a calm tone and a friendly nod. “As long as you behave yourself, everything's good.”
“He don't know that word, Clem.” Jerry the cook piped up from behind the safety of the kitchen wall. “It's got too many syllables.”
People not within easy reach of the biker laughed. His face pinched and his fist tightened on the table surface. He turned to see who spoke the insult. Jerry ducked back into the kitchen as the biker guy growled like a dog. He pointed to the empty window between the dining area and kitchen.
“You better watch it, pencil neck! I'm gunning for you, and you won't always have a wall between you and me!” He sat in his seat again and adjusted himself until his leather vest clung to his body the way he liked it. A newspaper lay on the corner of his table, ignored. Instead, he surveyed the room, eyeing all the patrons until each one squirmed, and his eyes again landed on the deputy in the corner booth.
Clem ignored the intense scrutiny, because he knew that wearing a uniform caused people to do that. In the Navy, whenever he was in his crisp uniform traveling around, whether it was in a foreign port or stateside, people stared. As he developed a collection of ribbons, they stared even more. It got to where he didn't even pay attention. In civilian life, when he settled in Panama, he just wanted to blend in and be anonymous. He'd almost accomplished it, until that guy from the CIA contacted him. In Sommers, he was just another resident who happened to help keep the others safe. He'd collected a few true friends, so that when he and Harley met and developed a friendship, none of them deserted or looked down on him.
“Hey, what's your name,” Clem asked the biker guy as he picked up his cap after paying his bill.
“What's it to ya?” The biker looked up, locking eyes with Clem, challenging him without a word.
“Just wondering if you were a friend of Harley's.” Clem rose from his seat and took a step.
“We used to ride together, but not anymore,” the man replied. “What's it matter to you?”
“Harley is a friend of mine,” Clem replied with a cool, even tone. “I haven't seen him for a few days, and I was hoping maybe you did.”
“If I did, he sure wouldn't wanna be seeing me,” the biker declared, grabbing the handle of his coffee cup and taking a long slurp. “Now, if you don'd mind, I'd like to enjoy my coffee in peace. Why don't you go hassle someone who deserves it?”
Clem looked down at him, fighting the desire to grab the guy by his t-shirt and slam him up against the wall. There was something about the biker that got his sixth sense humming, and he didn't like it. “If I find out you know something about Harley's whereabouts and you're not telling me....”
“What? Whatcha gonna do, Law Dog?” A slur accompanied the name that had been an endearment between friends, but coming from the biker's lips, it sounded like a curse. He stood up and invaded Clem's space, and Clem found himself staring up at dark, angry eyes.
Unshaken, Clem took a half step back and replied, “I can guarantee you'll be spending a little time getting to know the inside of a jail cell.”
Crossing his arms in front of himself, the beefy man laughed a low rumbling chuckle. “Yeah, that I'd like to see, especially since you've got no cause, and I have every right to file a complaint on you for harassing me.”
No doubt if the guy walked into headquarters in the county seat, no one would take him seriously. Still, there were other ways that he could make Clem's life miserable. He continued to keep his gaze on the man's face, long enough for the giant ruffian to take his seat. All the while, he kept his eyes on Clem. A brush of his hand against his waistband brought Clem's eyebrow up, his own hand grazing his sidearm in a silent threat.
If he wasn't careful, this could turn into a brawl. Instead of a bullet, Clem shot a disarming smile at the man. “Hey, I'm just concerned for Harley, that's all. He's not in any trouble, I just wanna know he's okay.”
“I ain't seen him in days, Law Dog. He's not part of our gang no more, so I don't really give a flying....”
Clem stood over the biker, his hands clasping his utility belt, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “Hey. These folks don't appreciate language like that around here.”
The biker guy hung his head and refused to look at Clem.
“If you see Harley, tell him that Clem is looking for him. Thought maybe he'd like to go fishing this weekend.”
“I haven't seen him, and I don't plan on it. He... he ain't around here no more.” The biker gave him one last look as Clem started walking away.
Considering that Harley had talked about moving, Clem shouldn't have been surprised. But the fact that the biker remained closed mouthed about Harley's whereabouts, and he gave up that bit of information had Clem's sense of unease shooting through the roof. “What? Where'd he go?”
“I don't have to tell you nothin' without a lawyer, even if I did have something to tell you.” The biker scowled at him.
“I suppose you're right,” Clem smiled, using the expression as a means to curbing his agitation. He tapped his palm on the table. “You have yourself a nice, safe day. Okay?” He resumed his walk out of the diner, a smile on his face, but his gut tossed and turned. Something wasn't right, and he was certain that biker guy knew what it was.
Clem entered the substation, picked up the packet and one message on his desk, and returned to his patrol car with no more than a dozen words passing between him and Monica. She must have thought he was angry at her or something. He would have to make it up to her somehow. For not being paid, the woman did a lot to make his life, and the other deputies' lives, a lot easier. Her father was the village president, and she still lived under his roof. All her needs were taken care of, which meant she had no incentive to get a paying job somewhere else. Clem was grateful for that.
His cell phone rang, and he answered it. “Hello?”
“Clem, it's Monica. I just got a call from Mr. Barkley.”
He sighed. “What is it this time?”
She replied in a bored tone. “He says there's a foul odor coming from somewhere on his property, in the woods. He's too afraid to go check on it himself.”
It was probably a leftover wolf kill. Barkley's land was full of the critters, and they were known to be traveling in packs in the area. “I'll go out there and check on it. Thanks, Monica.” He paused and almost hung up, but he continued. “Sorry about this morning. I had something on my mind.”
“I understand. I'll talk to you later.” The cheerfulness had returned to her voice.
“Yeah.” He closed the connection, dropped his cell into the cup holder in the console, and drove out to Barkley's property. While driving at a crawl up the two tracks of sand and gravel leading to the house, he grabbed his radio and spoke into it.
“Unit nine-six at twenty-four fifty-five Old Town Road. Resident reported odor on property, no one appears to be at home.”
“Copy, unit nine-six.”
The front door was closed, and Barkley's truck wasn't there. He knocked on the door, but the old man didn't answer. Clem stepped off the porch and moved toward the lake. At the water's edge, a wooden dock jutted out from a small beach, and a fishing boat tied to it bobbed in the gentle waves. Clem looked to the right and left, scanning the horizon. The woods came up to the beach on the right, the scrub too thick for a man to walk through without being sliced by the saplings. To the left he found a deer trace. He followed it, and it didn't take long before he detected the distinctive sweet, putrid odor of death. It made his stomach lurch.
He pulled out his weapon and kept it ready. If it was a coyote or wolf kill, and any of the other beasts were around, it would make his life more interesting than a scuffle with the biker dude. Having a wild animal latch onto him wasn't how he wanted to spend his morning. His boots crunched dead leaves and twigs with each step. A flapping noise and leaves whispering to the left caused him to peer into the deep woods. Clem stopped and got on his radio.
“Unit nine-six, investigating odor at Barkley property. Quarter mile west in the woods, on a path along the lake.”
“Copy unit nine-six. Proceed with caution.”
“Copy.” Thanks for the obvious. Clem shook his head. At least they knew where he was, in case something happened.
As he walked along the path, the smell seemed to waft and wane. The wind transmitted the unmistakable odor from its source, and the increasing intensity told him that he was getting closer. Clem neared a fire lane that cut through the woods from the lake access road and gave the Department of Natural Resources an approach to the lake. He neared it and saw the dark outline of an old pickup truck. It was ancient with the large sweeping fenders, dark reddish brown rust covering it from bumper to bumper, and it appeared to be so decrepit, he thought it would be a miracle if it ran. If he didn't know better, he would assume that it had been there for decades. A few people in the area owned trucks just as old, if not older, and none of them would be so foolish as to dump one in such a remote place. His mind tried to recall who had one like it, but he came up empty. Someone parked it alongside the road, and its body tilted toward the culvert at a crazy angle.
Clem was only a few steps away, and he knew that it was the source of an overpowering smell. Something dripped from a crack in the passenger window, and he ducked down to see a dark object wedged against the pane. Whatever it was, it was stocky and black. He moved around the front of the truck, wondering if he should open the door. Someone obviously left something nasty in there. It was probably just garbage, and he'd have to spend the rest of his day getting that stench out of his nostrils.
In the end, he decided to open the vehicle. He tried the driver's side door and found it unlocked. He flung it open, and his eyes stopped on the large mass inside. He could only see part of a face that was bloated and unidentifiable. It was the leather vest that gave him away. The wave of decomposition that came pouring out of the truck caused Clem to stagger backwards and hold his hand up over his mouth. His stomach clenched, he turned away, and he lost his breakfast in the other culvert.
Now he knew why Harley hadn't stopped at the diner.