Chief pulled his truck off the service road and onto Dorril Drive, the main street of Berritts Hills.

“How you want to handle this?” Moss asked. “Should we inform the locals?”

“Ever meet Chambers?”

“Once, about six years ago. He had a fugitive situation. We put together a road block for him.”

“What did you think of him?”

“He’s an idiot.”

Chief smiled. “I guess we still should let him know what’s going on. I’d hate to step on any toes." 

Moss nodded. 

Chief pulled the truck up in front of the Sheriff’s Department, cut the engine and set the brake before leading Moss to the building.

The Sheriff was at his desk immersed in paperwork. His khaki shirtsleeves were rolled up; the meat of his beefy arms choked, like sausages, as the fabric cut tightly into them. Perspiration peppered his upper lip and moistened his forehead like early morning dew on an over ripe peach. He had to lean far forward around his bulk to write upon the forms scattered about his cigarette marred desk. He looked up when Moss clicked the door closed, his pen suspended, gripped between his plump fingers as he assessed his visitors.

“Chief Broden,” he grunted. “And Sergeant Moss, isn’t it?”

Moss nodded and glanced at Broden. “Mind like a steel trap.”

Unaffected, Chambers asked, “What brings you here?”

“We have a line on Blackney,” Chief answered.

Chambers leaned back and folded his hands on the top of his gut, tucking his thumbs into his belt. “I see. You think he’s holed up here?”

“Not exactly.” Chief moved farther into the office and took a seat across from the man. He leaned on the desk and stared into Chambers’s face. “We’re looking for a man named Smiley Bennet. Fred and he were trapping buddies years back. We think this Smiley is either putting Fred and his son up, or may know where we can get in touch.”

“Have you ever heard of him?” Moss asked.

“A trapper?”

“He’s in his mid to late sixties. Long gray beard, colorless eyes…blind,” Chief added.

Chambers nodded. “I know him.”

He pushed his chair away from his desk and strained to his feet, his knees screaming in alarm. Then he crossed the room to a set of filing carnets. He slid open the top drawer of the first cabinet and rifled through its contents. After a moment his chubby digits landed on a manila folder and he pulled it loose, then slammed the drawer. He handed the folder to Chief and returned to his seat.

Chief leafed through the file with Moss peering over his shoulder.

“It’s not much, I admit,” said Chambers. “I’ve picked him up for vagrancy and panhandling on occasion.”

“Says here no permanent address,” Chief noticed.

“None on record. He lives somewhere in the hills, probably in a log cabin he built himself. He pays no land taxes, and it is doubtful the land the cabin sits on belongs to him.”

“Probably to keep from purchasing the land and paying taxes,” Moss suggested.

“That’s the way I figure it. But nobody complains about trespassing and the man’s lived there for years. Chances are he’ll die out there alone and no one will be the wiser. I see no reason to bring him in.”

“Not even for tax evasion?” Moss asked, ever the Federal man.

Chambers regarded him. “What’s the point? He doesn’t own the land. He’ll be forced to move. He is old and blind, but self-sufficient only because he knows every inch of the land that surrounds him. Take him from that environment and he’d be helpless. He’d become a tax burden instead of a contributing member of society.”

Chief looked from the sheriff to Moss. Then he asked Chambers, “Do you have any idea how to find him?”

“You’re in luck.”

“How’s that?”

“Today is Friday, and like every Friday, Bennet comes to town to purchase supplies and sell his furs.”

“Where?”

“Dillon’s Outpost.” He squinted at Chief.  “Used to be old Hanner’s place. The old trading post at the north edge of town.”

Chief rose and outstretched his hand. “Thank you, Chambers.”

“One more thing, Broden,” Chambers said as Chief and Moss made their way to the door. Chief turned. “People around here are very protective of that old man. You might proceed cautiously or he may be warned from you.”

“How do you suggest we approach this?”

“Not officially. Carefully. If you need any assistance I’ll be happy to loan you officers.”

“I’d appreciate that, Chambers. I’ll let you know.”

After returning to the truck, Chief put it into gear and headed to the north end of town.

“What do you think?”  he asked Moss.

Moss looked at Broden, then down at himself. “I think I should do the questioning since I’m out of uniform.”

Chief drove past the trading post and let Moss out. He waited as Moss entered the store, then pulled the truck around and backed farther into the woods and out of sight.

•  •  •  •  •

The inside of the trading post was arranged in the shape of a horseshoe. The attendant ran the cash register in the middle of a semicircular counter space made up of both empty and full crates, and sacks of dry goods. Dried meats hung from the rafters and near the weathered boards that made up its outer wall space, stacks of pelts, leather and horse tack sat waiting for takers.

A miniature fruit and vegetable market occupied the back section just beyond the counter. The proprietor and a customer were busy haggling over the price of a bushel of green beans.

The proprietor wore a red and black checked flannel shirt and a pair of faded denim overalls. He glanced up and nodded, as Moss' entrance set the bell above the trading post door in motion.

Moss wandered the store, picking up and examining several items. Then he returned his attention to the man in overalls and his customer. He watched as the final deal was hashed out, hands were shook and the customer walked out, the bushel of beans in his possession. No money exchange hands.

“Buying or selling?” asked the man moving steadily towards Moss.

“Neither, actually.” Moss extended his hand. “Name’s Joe Cotton. I’m a private investigator out of Tucson.”

“Private Investigator?” The man shook Moss' hand. “And what brings you to Berritts and my shop?”

“I’m looking for a man. I’ve traced him to this town. Local sheriff says he may come by here.”

The man eyed Moss speculatively. “What’s this man done?”

“Oh, he’s done nothing. A distant relative left him some money. About three-grand, actually.”

“Three-grand?” asked the man with renewed interest. “What’s the guy’s name. If he’s a customer here, I know him.”

“He goes by the name of Smiley. Smiley Bennet.”

“Bennet?” He scratched his beard and shook his head. “Smiley Bennet? I wasn’t aware he had a family. Are you sure you have the right name?”

“I had to trace through a lot of records down several family trees, mind you. Samuel B. Bennet kept sloppy track of his extended family. He made a small fortune in oil out in Tucson, but then Black Tuesday pretty much broke him, I guess, like all of us. Anyway, the man spent the majority of his life separating himself from the rest of his family. But now that he’s dying, he wants to make sure his money stays in the Bennet family. He hired me eight months ago to trace down any living relative. What can I say? That trace led me here. A little late, Bennet cashed in his chips last month. If the money is not claimed by a family member within the next six months, the state of Arizona will take it.”

“Is this on the level?” 

“I assure you,” Moss said deliberately. “I am quite on the level.”

“Well, Smiley’s not due here until after four. He usually checks his route before coming in. If you want to come back then, I’ll introduce you. Smiley’s rather wary of strangers.”

“Then you don’t know where he lives?”

“Nobody around here does. If you want to talk to Smiley, ever-body knows, you got to catch 'im here.”

Moss nodded and tried on a sly smile. “Thank you–”

“Wolf.”

“Excuse me?”

“Wolf’s what they call me. Wolf Thompson.”

Moss extended his hand. “Well, thank you, Mr. Wolf Thompson. I’ll be back around four.”

The two men shook hands and Moss departed. He caught sight of Chief parked just outside the tree line and made his way to the truck.

“Well?” Chief asked as Moss climbed in the cab.

“Proprietor, man by the name of Wolf, says Bennet usually gets in after checking his traps about four. Only now he may have help.”

“He could be by any time.”

“Yep.”

Chief pointed across the street. “There’s a café over there. We could sit and wait.”

“On one condition,” Moss said. “You go home and change.”

Chief nodded. “I’d blow the stake out.”

Chief put the truck in gear and drove to the café. He pulled past it and down the side street to let Moss out. “I’ll see you around eleven, Mort.”

“If I’m not here. It means he showed up earlier than anticipated. I’ll call this café if I get anywhere and give you my location.”

“Just wait for me before moving in this time. Blackney isn’t the kind of man to go after on your own. The son of a bitch damn near killed me last fall. And he came close to burying you alive." 

Moss nodded. “Don’t worry. I'll only answer to stupid once.”

The café was one of those quaint numbers; the decor trying a too hard to look provincial and pulling off pretentious. A tall, skinny man with a waxed mustache and soft features met Moss at the door.

“Here for brunch?” he asked.

“Just coffee, please.”

The man’s hopeful expression soured into a level sneer. “This way.” His sudden snide manner irritated the hell out of Moss.

“I’d prefer to be seated at the window.”

“Very well, sir,” the waiter said in the high nasal twang of an English butler pretending to be French. Moss followed him through the establishment, taking a mental note of its spindly legged chairs that hardly looked capable of supporting the weight of full grown human beings; black lacquer tables with red and white checked table cloths. The room was sparse, airy. The floor, polished white oak. Several copper pots of Boston ivy obscured part of the view out of the windows at the front of the restaurant. It was to these windows and the stylish table in front of them, that Moss was led and seated.

“May I leave a menu?” the waiter asked once Moss was in place. “In case the gentleman changes his mind?”

“The gentleman won’t,” Moss assured him. “Coffee, no cream, no sugar.”

“Very well, sir.”

Moss shifted his weight in the chair and gazed out the window, his concentration directed at the building across the way.

*  *  *  *  *

Chief pulled into his drive and slid the stick shift into neutral before setting the parking brake. He wasted no time on his way to the front door and once inside, went directly up the stairs to the master bedroom, pulling his shirt off as he moved.

He stopped momentarily to gaze out the window. Hoover was tied securely in the back yard, intently ripping the bark off a stick. Clumps of mud and bark specked his tongue and hung from his lips. Kelly sat close by, drawing circles in the dirt. Maggy was also in the yard, hanging up sheets on a clothesline that stretched from the porch to the oak and then back again. Chief took a deep breath and left the window. After removing a clean shirt and a pair of jeans from his bureau, he quickly changed and returned downstairs.

Chief crossed the slate foyer and headed toward his office where he found Mike sitting at the desk, dividing his concentration between the log in front of him and a note pad. 

“Back so soon?” Mike asked when he noticed Chief in the doorway.

“On my way out,” Chief answered, then explained, “Chambers said Bennet might spook if one of his friends warned him the police were looking for him. Mort’s keeping an eye on the most likely spot the man will show.”

“Then you have a strong lead?”

“Every Friday the man shows up at this one particular trading post after running his traps. He usually shows around four. But Mort and I agree he has help now, so he may show earlier.”

“So you’re going to stake the place out?”

“That’s the general idea.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. How about you? Come up with anything?”

“The way I figure it, this cult must still be practicing, somewhere, Chief. I mean as old as it was and as long as it was active, I don’t believe they would just disband after their leader was shot down. The names are in code, for starters, and they had no way of knowing that the authorities retrieved this book. I think they just hung low for a while. I hope the answer to where they’d go next is buried in here somewhere.” He indicated the ledger.

“And Fred's connection?”

“Not sure. So far it’s just a connection through his parents. But that whole era is lost.”

“What about his journal? Mort and I only got as far as his wife’s transgressions.”

“I can’t see how you managed that, Bossman. It’s the most twisted writing I’ve ever tried to decipher. Fred's symbolism is lost on me. That's why I'm concentrating on this ledger.”

“Mort couldn't even get a handle on it, that’s why we high-tailed it for Melrose yesterday.”

“Freedman have any ideas?”

“Some. But I think he missed the mark.”

“There is something I found interesting at the back.”

“What’s that?”

“It was reclaimed in ’23, boss.” Mike rose and let Chief sit in his seat. “Here, the chapters on Jonas are buried in the middle. They are written backwards on the inside pages...here...and here.”

Chief whispered. “I wonder how they got it back?”

“It mentions that. The book was in the possession of the Messenger. I don’t know who that would be. It was retrieved after the Messenger was “put on ice.” The information was added back after the fact up until August 7th. I assume that was the date it was returned to the cult.”

Chief stared, his mind working out the dates.

“There’s one more thing, Chief.”

“What’s that?”

Mike looked at him. His eyes showing a mixture of subdued horror and indecision. “I think you’d better read it for yourself.”

“And you don’t think it will wait until we get back?”

“No, sir. You might want to corner that Smiley character on this.”

“I see. Let’s see it.”

“Start here,” Mike said indicating the second paragraph on the page. “And read through here.”

Chief read silently and quickly to himself. When he finished he gently pushed the book aside, but made no move to get up, or redirect his attention.

It was a long while before he whispered, “Jesus Christ.” His face was red with anger when his eyes met Mike’s. “They killed Sam’s family.” Chief ran his hands through his hair. Then setting them on the desk, he pushed himself free and stood. “Those sons' of bitches killed Sam’s wife and child.”

Chief regarded Mike. “He was working on something in ’23, but swore it had nothing to do with my investigation into the boys’ murders. He and Fred were being cagey. And Bennet’s name was also mentioned in connection to Fred and Sam. Shit, Mike. Sam claimed it was all about the land back then. He was lying to me. He must have got close, and they killed his family to take him off the scent. And it worked. Sam turned to the drink after that. He blamed himself for their deaths. He must not have known how close he was, or he’d have suspected foul play.”

“He must have taken notes, Chief.”

Chief nodded. “Everything he had... everything not destroyed when his house blew last summer, is over at the courthouse. Legally, it belongs to my daughter. As her guardian, I guess it belongs to me. But we’ve already gone through it, Mike.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t really know what we were looking for back then. Maybe we can cross reference his papers with that log in some way.”

Chief nodded. “Okay. Call over to the courthouse and have it all sent over. We’ll go through it later.”

“Yes, sir,” Mike answered and watched as Chief went to the door. “Chief?”

Chief turned.

“They set the bomb, didn’t they? That cult.”

Chief nodded. “I’m sure they did. He must have started up his investigation again. His recovery made them nervous.” Chief’s expression shifted in thought. 

“What is it?”

“Something Fred said to me when I started the investigation into Sam’s murder. He asked me what was going on in Sam’s life when he turned to the drink and insinuated that he was continuing an investigation started a long time ago.”

“In ‘23?”

“That’s when he turned to the drink. Fred knew, Mike. God damn him he knew and didn’t say anything.”

“Maybe he couldn’t. He was trapped by them too, Chief.”

“He and Sam. I wonder.”

“What?”

“Were they actually working the case together or did their paths cross over it? Shit.” Chief headed for the door but stopped abruptly and turned to Mike. “August 7th was when Donny Crebs’s body was found.”

“And?”

“What if Sam had the log? What if that’s what he was using to put his case together? Donny drowns and Sam goes to the hospital. Charlotte takes ill and needs a nurse’s care.”

“You think the nurse took it back?”

“It’s reaching, Mike. We’re skating on the very thin ice of speculation, but I don’t like the coincidence.”

“Wouldn’t that make Sam the 'Messenger' then?”

Chief rubbed his chin. “Who needed to be put on ice? Possibly.”

"Chief? There's something else, we should think about."

"Yeah?"

"Kelly. She knew, boss. She said the ‘bird’ killed Sam. The bird did kill, Sam.”

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