HYBRID: A Thriller Read online

  When the waiter brought her tea, Corey asked to give them a few minutes to look over the menu and then offered her the pretense of a toast. She tilted the bottom of her glass in his direction and the slice of lemon annoyingly rubbed against her elegant nose.

  “So, what do I owe this honor of your driving all the way up here for a dinner with me?” he asked. He slid an arm forward and brushed an index finger across hers.

  She pulled back her hand. “How is the Operation going, Jack?”

  She’d followed Yellowstone’s Operation Wolfstock from the beginning. She was even smack in the middle of the dignitaries from Washington when the first wolves transported from Canada arrived on that snowy January day two years before. But her accounts in the newspaper at the time missed the mark. She wasn’t getting good info. Between phone calls with the prime news outlets on both coasts, he began giving her more time on the phone to help her get the stories straight. That led to meetings in his office for extended interviews, which led to meetings outside the office for extended cocktails, then inside her home for extended lovemaking whenever George was enjoying extended big game killing sprees somewhere around the world.

  George Manning was the global sportsman, no doubt, but Jack Corey was The Man. She was the one who finally broke it off.

  Lately she was probing the Operation deeper than ever. She kept on top of the spending for the program, always calling into park headquarters and asking about budget details. He finally got wind of her call to Washington when she spoke with the financial people in the Interior Department. She wanted to compare the Operation’s budget figures from the superintendent’s office with those from the feds. He might be spending more money on the Operation than allotted from Washington, but that was his call. Robbing Peter to subsidize Paul was standard operating procedure. Everybody did it. She struggled to uncover a story like it was Watergate and she was another Woodward or Bernstein.

  “The Operation’s going better than expected,” Corey said. “The wolves are breeding. Spreading out and claiming territory. We had no idea it would happen this fast.”

  “I still have upset ranchers calling me. They want me to write about the livestock the wolves are slaughtering.”

  Corey shook his head. “That’s just not happening, Claire, at least not anywhere close to the numbers people think. You know that the main lot of your callers are out after money. That’s all. The payoff for each kill claim makes it worth their while to file. Hell, I might do the same if I was in their shoes.” He brought his glass to his lips and took an extra long sip.

  “Where does Superintendent Gilmer stand on all of this?” she asked.

  “He’s just interested in finding out what packs have moved in near Colter. Sometimes I think he believes all those cock and bull stories people come up with.”

  “What killed that Arizona photographer, Jack?”

  He suddenly choked and spit up the wine down the front of his white dress shirt. He grabbed his napkin and wiped at the stain as he coughed. A waiter from across the room rushed in with more napkins and another brought soda water to the rescue.

  After he blotted his shirt, he collected himself and scooted his chair back to the table. “You’re asking about a photographer?”

  “Was he killed by a wolf pack?”

  “Listen to me, I know there’ve been reports about livestock—”

  For the second time she waved off the waiter as he approached the table. “I’m not going to play guessing games with you. Why haven’t we heard anything about his death?”

  “The case is under investigation, Claire. The sheriff’s people are on it. You should be talking with them.”

  “You know they’re not talking. Especially with me.”

  He gulped his drink as he scanned the other diners. “I really don’t want to talk about this here. Let’s have a quiet dinner right now. I’d like to talk about other things.”

  The waiter showed up at the table for the third time and she glared back at him. “Okay, look . . . why don’t you just bring us an appetizer? I don’t know, maybe something that Venetians enjoy?”

  “Some bread and Caponatina would be nice,” Corey said with an uneasy smile. When the waiter left, Claire reached for Corey’s wine, finished it off, and dabbed her lips with a napkin.

  “Forget about the past,” she said. “That’s not what this is about. I asked you about the photographer.”

  “We don’t know yet what caused his death.”

  “Are you even looking at the possibility of wolves?”

  He glanced at the other tables to see if anyone was straining to listen in. The last thing he was going to do was to give even a hint about the experts they were bringing on board to tackle the very problem she was raising.

  She picked up her white linen napkin and squeezed it in her fists. “You’re lying to me.”

  “Why the hell would I lie to you?”

  “Because you don’t want to face the truth. Operation Wolfstock didn’t make it, Jack. You’ve got to face it once and for all.”

  He reached out and touched her arm. “Claire, please. Keep your voice down.”

  “The wolves have got to go. They’re terrorizing the entire area.”

  “I briefed Gilmer this morning. We’re going to get on it.”

  “You’re going to get on it? When do you plan to start?”

  “Soon. It’s in the works.”

  She flung her napkin down onto the table. “In the works?”

  “I’ve got priorities. The busiest weekend of the year is coming up. You know that.”

  “Let me tell you what I know. I’m getting to the bottom of this, and I don’t give a damn where the story leads.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  She got up from her seat. “Never mind. Sorry, I’m just not hungry.”

  Corey reached for her arm. She swatted it away like a wasp and marched off.

  He slammed his fist down on the table, knocking over the bottle of Merlot. That’s okay, he thought. He sat with the wine flooding the table and streaming onto the floor. She always overreacted; loved drama. She had been pushing too much of her ass into his business like she was a hotshot reporter who was going to get to the “truth.”

  The truth was that he was in charge. Operation Wolfstock was his priority more than anyone’s. She’d been messing with him all along. Playing him for a fool. That game was over. She would learn soon enough that you don’t play that way with The Man.

  TWELVE

  Winslow Memorial Funeral Home stood isolated at the end of the block. Except for the town hall, it claimed the largest lot of any other building in town. Dieter learned from Josh that the Winslow family had settled Colter in the early part of the century and that the youngest of six sons had built the colonial brick structure over a three-year period in the 1950s.

  More than one neighbor or friend of Josh’s had been “laid out” there.

  “Edna Turley promised me she’d help me out tonight,” Josh said. “Edna’s worked as a clerk and assistant to David Godfrey Winslow going on twenty years, if she’s been there a day.” He pulled into a front parking space and flipped off his headlights.

  Already dark, spotlights that were distributed among holly bushes highlighted the building and the garish sign in front. Only one dim light shone inside. Dieter still didn’t understand why they had to arrive so late, but left it to Josh’s judgment.

  Josh twisted the knob on the front door, but it was locked. He banged on the door, but no one answered. He cupped his hands to stare through the stained glass, and then stepped back and shook his head. “Just don’t understand. She said she’d be here. Had plenty of bookkeeping to catch up on, she told me.”

  He paced along the front porch, cussing under his breath as he peeked into every window until he realized the futility of it all. Although he wasn’t going to say it to Josh, Dieter felt a wave of relief. He followed his partner back to the pickup. Josh turned on the ignition and moved down the
driveway to the street, mumbling to himself. Suddenly, he stopped and shoved the transmission into reverse, turned around, and pulled to the back of the building. He jumped out and gave a jerk on the doorknob of a back door. He strolled back to the truck. “Come on out, Doc. I’ve got an idea.”

  Dieter didn’t like the sound of idea. Edna Turley wasn’t there. They’d been stood up. What else was there to do? He hopped down as Josh opened the glove compartment and retrieved a flathead screwdriver and a homemade strip of shaped sheet metal with a wooden handle.

  Dieter couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Wait a minute. I’m not going to—”

  “Don’t worry about a thing.”

  “This isn’t the way we planned it, Josh. I’m not about to risk getting in trouble with the law.”

  “I’ll just say that Edna asked me to come out here for emergency repairs or something like that. For all I know she fainted or had a heart attack. Could be laying in there in need of medical attention and here we are no more than thirty feet away while she’s at death’s door. What would they think of us just driving away into the dark as if she was some kind of nobody who we don’t care about? Now how could we answer to that, Doc?”

  Dieter looked away. It was a ridiculous development. He waited in the truck as Josh headed for the rear of the building. Josh must’ve known what they were getting into before they drove out. One hell of a trick to play on him. He had never given a waking thought to try any such shenanigans. He wanted to think long and hard about it, but there wasn’t a lot to think long and hard about. The only sane decision was clear. He should walk away—either that or run. Climbing down from the truck, he searched the darkness to make certain no passerby could see them and cautiously moved toward Josh at the rear of the building.

  “They have the place alarmed, you know,” Dieter said. “There’s a warning sign out front that I saw when we drove up—some company’s Security System.”

  Ignoring him, Josh jiggled and pried with his tools between the lock and doorjamb. He explained as he worked that Mr. Winslow was never happy with the alarm system that he had put in three years before. It was too easy to be set off by the wind. Edna said that it didn’t take too many calls in the middle of the night before Winslow lost his patience and disconnected the whole damn thing. He told her the warning signs were all they actually needed and he still kicked himself for buying all the wires and gadgets and electrical stuff that came with the stupid-ass signs.

  “Look, Josh. Forgive me, but I don’t want to be an accomplice to breaking and entering.”

  “Relax. We’re not breaking anything. We’re just entering.”

  Dieter stood watch, prepared to run at the first sound of an alarm. He hitched his trousers up a notch because he didn’t want to get a cuff caught under his foot while he ran. He surveyed the vacant field behind the place as if expecting someone to leap out of the bushes.

  The back door squeaked open.

  Josh motioned for him to follow, but Dieter hesitated. Josh motioned again, this time waving urgently. Dieter looked around, now realizing it was too damned late. If he were going to leave, he should’ve left when Josh exited the truck with a set of burglar tools. He took one last deep breath and moved toward the open door.

  When they entered, a dim light shone at the end of a dark corridor. He crept along behind Josh, placing each foot lightly on the carpeted floor while occasionally glancing back over his shoulder. Near the end of the hall, Josh stopped and held out his hand for Dieter to halt, then edged his head around the corner.

  Dieter stood with his back and damp palms flat against the wall.

  Josh continued his slow-motion walk and Dieter followed. An antique lamp on a mahogany credenza lit one wall of the foyer, casting a hue of dingy yellow over the area. A three-tiered chandelier hung from the ceiling. Heavy draperies of depressing burgundy covered the windows and thick upholstered chairs with high backs lined the walls. Two more hallways split off the foyer. Josh pointed for Dieter to take the left and he headed for the right.

  Totally asinine!

  Dieter inched down his hallway until out of sight of the front door. Everything around him was pitch-black. He stood and stuck his hand into his pocket, fumbling for his keys. When he pulled out the key ring, a stash of coins fell to the floor.

  Slow down!

  He didn’t move while he switched on the penlight attached to the ring and searched the carpet around his feet, gathering the change. He continued down the hall with the narrow shaft of light leading the way. When he came to a door, he pulled it slightly open and examined the room through the crack with the penlight. Boxes and assorted supplies were piled high on shelves.

  He closed the door and moved farther along, shifting the beam over the walls and floor until he found another door. He held the light up to it and read the sign: PREP ROOM. When he opened the door, the raw odor of embalming fluid drifted out. The light beam revealed white cabinets and cluttered counter tops. A long bulge under a lime green sheet appeared on a stainless steel table that tilted toward a sink.

  Is that the Madison River victim? An electric chill crept over him and he stiffened.

  He took a few deep breaths. Something about the scene didn’t make sense. If that was the body of the victim, shouldn’t it be refrigerated? On the other hand, if the medical examiner were coming early the next morning, the body could’ve been brought out for an overnight warming.

  Someone came jogging down the corridor.

  He snapped off his penlight and pressed his shoulder blades back against the wall.

  Josh barged into the room. “Doc, where are you?”

  Dieter turned the penlight back on and shined it toward him.

  “Get that light out of my eyes!”

  “Sorry.”

  “A patrol car just pulled up in front. We gotta get out of here.”

  Holy Crap!

  THIRTEEN

  Deputy Preston Cody was making his rounds as he drove down South Myrtle Street when he received the call. They had never called him from home before. His boss said he just received intel from someone claiming two suspicious characters were hanging around the Winslow funeral home. Preston was on top of it. He’d been working the night shift the last two years alone. That was when he was in charge and that was a big deal. “At night this town is mine,” he’d often tell friends.

  He arrived at the front of Winslow’s with his headlights off and jumped out, careful to close the car door without slamming. The walkway was clear in both directions. The area around the funeral home too dark to get a good look. He walked cautiously to the pillared front entrance. With his flashlight in one hand, he fumbled with a fat ring of assorted keys with the other until he found the one marked Winslow N/Alm.

  Edna Turley had left a lamp on, a routine of hers. He’d been told many times the need to have Winslow’s checked during the night shift. Edna had blabbed that plenty of weirdoes were out looking for bodies, a fact that shocked Preston at first, but he wondered if that was on account of too many movies that had come and gone about body snatchers. Then he heard that Edna told the sheriff’s office about what had circulated in funeral home newsletters over the years—all about freaks breaking in and messing with bodies, especially young women’s bodies, doing things about as disgusting as you can think of with a female body. Edna damn well didn’t want that going on at Winslow Memorial. Dirty neckro-maniac freaks was the term she used.

  Those stories were more reasons that Preston never liked funeral homes. He was never comfortable being in one, what with all the smells of a corpse mingling with those of flower arrangements and the gawks of depressing people. But he especially didn’t like being alone in a funeral home after dark. It just wasn’t an inviting atmosphere, that was all.

  After closing the massive front door behind him, he walked through the parlor with his flashlight beaming.

  ***

  “There’s no exit down the hall?” Dieter asked after Josh rushed into the room and gentl
y closed the door.

  “No, and we can’t get out the back door without running through the foyer. Shine your light down here.” Josh stooped to open the cabinet doors under the counter.

  “What the heck are you doing?” Dieter whispered, dumbfounded.

  “We gotta hide.”

  Hide?

  This stupid game had to end. They’d both be arrested, booked and charged with breaking and entering. Mug shots would show up in the Weekly Reporter. One thing was certain, in this part of the country it would be the end of his career. He’d practiced veterinary medicine long enough to know the rules of the game. Animal docs were no different from people docs. They were expected to be upright citizens in the community.

  But even worse, how would he explain it all to Michael and Megan?

  Josh pushed the cabinet doors back in. “No room here.”

  Dieter shined the light into a corner where there was a narrow door. Josh rushed to it and discovered a broom closet.

  “Only one of us can squeeze in here,” Josh said.

  Dieter shined the light back around the room.

  “Wait a minute,” Josh whispered. He tiptoed to a cold storage bin for cadavers against the wall and turned around with a determined look and a nod toward it.

  “Okay, Josh. Let’s walk out of here right—”

  “We’re not giving up that quick.” Josh pulled open the long upper drawer of the bin where bodies awaiting embalming were stored. “Come on, Doc. Hurry. I sure can’t fit in there.”

  They both heard the front door of the funeral home creak open, then quickly shut. Dieter held onto the countertop and slid his legs one at a time down the steel surface that felt like an iceberg. Josh pushed the drawer to within an inch of closing.