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Just great, he had an FBI criminal profiler for a “partner.”

Thorpe wondered if the free time he’d been given was actually rope with which to hang himself. He also questioned whether other investigators in the unit were being outfitted with GPS tracking devices. Maybe he wasn’t the only officer under suspicion.

The FBI had been involved in the investigation for less than twenty-four hours. The only loose end that could have unraveled so fast was Kaleb Moment. But if the kid had gone straight to the feds, Thorpe figured he’d be sitting in a jail cell right now instead of trekking through the woods with a rifle strapped to his chest. Thorpe decided he’d have to do a little investigating of his own. But first he needed to collect the remains of Thadius Shaw and dispose of them somewhere far from his property.

Thorpe neared his barn and heard a low-pitched growl. A few moments of silence were followed by the thrashings of a large animal with bad intentions. Not wanting to lose an appendage to his own dog, Thorpe called out. Recognizing his master’s voice, the shepherd slowed but appeared unsure of the man with the bulky NVDs on his head. Trixie. When she got close enough to identify Thorpe’s scent, her hackles lowered and her ears perked up. She greeted him with a wagging tail and licks to the face. Several seconds later, Al joined the party.

“Good to see you, guys. I reckon that means there’s no trouble on the Ponderosa.” After a quick ear scratching, he sent the two dogs out on a search of the property. No reason to take chances.

Thorpe connected the electrical cords to the Christmas lights in the tree line. He scanned the woods for movement. The dogs roamed the property seemingly unconcerned. He felt secure to move about but kept the AR shouldered as walked toward his front door.

For peace of mind, Thorpe had placed drops of candle wax in the crevices of the doors and windows. A broken seal would indicate he’d had a visitor while away. The front door appeared to be intact.

Thorpe called his dogs, unlocked the door, and gave the order to search. He immediately knew something was wrong. Al and Trixie lingered in certain areas, pausing to gather information through their sense of smell. Muzzles to the floor, the dogs disappeared into Thorpe’s darkened bedroom.

Thorpe retreated from the doorway into the shadows. Acutely aware of his surroundings, he remained still and tried to gauge from where the attack would come.

Was someone inside, or was his attention being purposely diverted?

Al and Trixie hadn’t made a sound. Not wanting to give away his position but fearing for his dogs, Thorpe called the two animals and then changed positions. Unharmed, the shepherds scrambled out the door and located their hunkered-down master. Maybe no one occupied his house now, but he was sure someone had been inside during his absence. Thorpe ordered Al and Trixie to stay while he went forward to clear his residence.

Clearing structures of armed men is dangerous work. Doing so safely, with one person, is impossible. There are countless angles from which one can be targeted inside a multi-roomed building—and every time one moves, those angles change. Nevertheless, Thorpe searched each room until satisfied the interior was secure. Finished, he exited the front and circled around to the back door where he found a compromised seal; no question now, there had been an intruder.

The discovery was disconcerting. He doubted Phipps had the knowledge or resources to enter his home without engaging his dogs. And they didn’t appear to be injured or lethargic from having been drugged.

Had the FBI searched his residence while he was at work?

Thorpe re-entered his home and called his dogs. He followed Al and Trixie through the rooms, taking note of where they lingered. Whoever had been in his house spent considerable time in his closets and dresser drawers—common places for hiding objects.

Thorpe was constantly amazed during search warrant services. No matter how smart criminals thought they were, they almost always hid their illicit treasures in a bedroom closet. Without fail, there would be something illegal somewhere in the master bedroom. Regular citizens used the same location to hide their valuables. Burglars know that, it’s the first place they look after yanking the flat screen off the living room wall.

Someone had been in Thorpe’s house looking for some thing—not someone.

ACROSS THE GRAVEL ROAD FROM Thorpe’s property, forty yards east of the out of season Christmas-light display, a patch of forest floor inched into the darkened recesses of timber. In the blackness, the pile of burlap and jute with intertwined natural foliage rose from the ground and walked away on two legs. The man inside the self-constructed ghillie suit made scarcely a sound as he glided deeper and deeper into the woods.

Sunday

February 11

Morning

IN LITTLE OVER AN HOUR, Thorpe was expected to report to SID, where he’d squander another day shackled to the beguiling Agent Collins. Earlier, he’d dropped Al and Trixie off at the K-9 center located on the grounds of TPD’s Training Academy. Fearing for his dogs’ safety, Thorpe had talked the sergeant over the K-9 unit into housing them for a few days while he “took care of some business.”

Before meeting Collins, Thorpe wanted to have a word with Hull. The supervisor over Homicide hadn’t been answering his cell or pager. Thorpe had called the Detective Division and learned that Hull was in a meeting with the FBI. Wanting to speak with the man as soon as he was free, Thorpe had started toward the Main Station. He was pulling the borrowed Mustang into the underground parking area when Hull finally returned his calls.

“Can you spare a minute for a chat?” Thorpe asked.

“Yeah, bud. Let’s do a face-to-face. What’s your twenty?”

“Just drove underneath you.”

“How ‘bout I meet you at the River Parks Café? Say ten minutes?”

“See you there,” Thorpe confirmed.

Thorpe put away his phone and left the parking garage. Hull must have been near people he didn’t trust; he’d never before referred to Thorpe as “bud.” The detective clearly wasn’t comfortable speaking over the phone. And he’d suggested they meet at the café—even though both men were already at the Main Station. The café was a small outdoor eatery on the banks of the Arkansas River. In weather like this, the place wouldn’t even be open for business.

The café sat nearby. Thorpe bypassed its parking area and stationed himself on the northeast corner of 31st and Riverside Drive. Ten minutes later, Thorpe called Hull on his cell.

“You ninety-seven yet?” Thorpe asked, using the ten-code officers used when arriving on scene.

“I’m pulling in now.”

Thorpe changed the meeting place. “I’m hungry. How ‘bout we meet at BBD instead?”

BBD was local talk for Brookside by Day, a popular restaurant in the Brookside area. The Brookside district featured several trendy restaurants, cafes, and bars. BBD should be bustling with church crowds at this time; the accompanying chatter would provide excellent background noise to muffle any conversation the two men might have.

“Okay…am I a monkey or something?” Hull asked.

“See you there in five,” Thorpe replied. Then to himself, “A monkey or something?” and let out a short laugh as he deciphered Hull’s meaning.

Waiting, Thorpe watched Hull turn from southbound Riverside Drive onto East 31st Street. Thorpe stayed put for a couple of minutes, trying to ascertain whether or not Hull was in fact “a monkey.” If the man did have a tail, it was cast in the air and not dragging the ground. Thorpe scanned the sky then drove to the new destination another mile to the east. He parked behind BBD and walked in the back entrance. He found Hull waiting inside.