"How about a ride up to Sussex County?" Mike asked Mercer.
"It's after six," I said from the backseat behind Mike. "We won't get there till at least eight o'clock."
"It's going to be eight o'clock no matter where you are, Blondie. Might as well make yourself useful. Close your eyes and enjoy the ride."
Mercer got on his cell to call the sheriff's office in the small village of Colesville, near the spot where Wilson Rasheed's hunting cabin was located. He asked the sergeant he was connected to if anyone there knew the man. There was a pause, then he gave Mike and me a thumbs-up. We listened as he persuaded the sergeant to lead us up the mountainous area to the property.
"They won't go in without us," Mercer said when he was off. "Says Rasheed's a real oddball. Doesn't like people trespassing on his property. They don't exactly want to drop in on him without a reason. He's been known to take a few potshots with a rifle and claim later that he thought he was shooting at a black bear."
"Damn. You better stay in the car when we get there, pal. Hate for the guy to get you in his sights."
I must have fallen asleep once Mike reached the interstate. The smooth road and the light rain tapping on the windshield put me out.
I awakened when Mike got off the highway and stopped at a gas station. He filled the tank and bought coffee and sandwiches, which we ate in the car. The attendant directed us to the small building on the outskirts of town that housed the sheriff's office, where the diminutive Sergeant Edenton was waiting to lead us up to Rasheed's hideaway.
"I'll stop at the property line," he said. "It's a dark, winding drive up. Then you'll have to walk a bit longer."
"I understand he doesn't have a phone," Mike said.
"The man don't believe in creature comforts at all. It's better if he can't see me, 'cause I only show my face when we get complaints about him."
"You know his son?"
"Troy? Haven't seen that troublemaker since he was a teenager. Heard what he got locked up for and just glad it didn't happen around here. You have flashlights?"
"One," Mercer said, holding it up for Edenton to see.
"Let me get you two more," he said, going back into the building and returning with two lantern-sized beams. "You need to stay on the main path. Wilson's got it all booby-trapped up there. Step in the wrong place, you'll find yourself in a bear trap or a hole in the ground."
"Wouldn't it make sense to come back in the morning, in daylight, with an Emergency Services team?" I asked.
"The guy's not a criminal," Mike said. "He's a kook. We don't have time to waste, Coop."
"You're fine on the main path," Edenton said, laughing at me. "Just announce yourselves when you get close to the house. Maybe you send her in first, saying she's the Avon lady."
"We always send her in first. That's how come Mercer and I have lived so long."
Once we followed Sergeant Edenton off the paved town road and up the dirt drive that wound around the small mountain, a blanket of fog descended. Dense evergreens towered over us on both sides, and deep ruts bounced the department car, which had already surrendered its shock absorbers to the potholes of city streets.
Mike had given up air-conditioning in favor of opening all the windows so that we could hear noise, if there was any. Moths attached themselves to the headlights and mosquitoes searched for landing places on my face and hands.
The SUV Edenton was driving tracked the familiar course faster than we did, and he repeatedly stopped to let Mike catch up.
We drove for more than a mile, but the fog made it impossible to tell whether there were any occupied buildings set back from the road. When Edenton finally turned off his engine and got out of his car, his flashlight focused on the red and white metallic surface of the NO TRES- PASSING signs that lined the path.
"You got a plan, Mike?" the sergeant asked.
"Mercer'll back me up. I suppose I'll shout when I get close enough to see the cottage," Mike said. He took his gold shield from his pants pocket and held it up in his palm. "Shine your light on it, Sarge. Does it gleam?"
From a distance of five feet, the rays danced off the metallic badge. But the mist would obscure it from any farther away.
"There should be an old jeep next to the place if he's home. And I'm telling you guys, watch your step," Edenton said.
"Will do. Light a fire and Coop'll roast you some marshmallows. It's one of the few culinary chores I think she can handle."
Mike saluted the sergeant and started off slowly, walking on the right tire track. Mercer was just a few steps behind him.
Edenton seemed embarrassed by his decision to stay back with me. A minute or two later, he opened the rear of his SUV and took out a shotgun, checking to make sure it was loaded. "I'd better give them a hand. You want to sit in the car and lock the doors?"
There was an eerie stillness in the woods around me. "I'll follow you."
We walked for at least five minutes, and although Mike and Mercer could not have been more than fifty yards in front of us, it was impossible to see them.
I stopped short when I heard Mike's voice call out Wilson Rasheed's name.
"Are we close to the cabin?" I asked Edenton.
He swept his light around the foliage. "Should be. I can't pick up any reflectors from the back of the jeep."
"Mr. Rasheed. My name is Chapman. NYPD," Mike was shouting now, and I pressed Edenton's back to move him ahead. "I'm here with some other detectives. We've come to help you, sir, so I'm going to approach your door and knock on it."
I could see Mercer's large frame outlined in the haze by the sergeant's flashlight. Edenton stepped over the hump in the middle of the roadway to the left track, and I advanced closer behind Mercer.
"Where's Mike? Did you lose him?"
"Right up ahead," he said, lifting the light. "See the door?"
I added the beam of my flashlight to the others and could make out the shape of a primitive log cabin. There was no sign of a car close to the place. Mike was standing on the porch, to the side of the front door. There were no lights from within the small structure and no sound except the buzzing of mosquitoes and black flies around my head.
Mike rapped on the door several times. No noise, no response.
He turned around so that his back was against the building. He pocketed the flashlight and drew his gun in his right hand, reaching out to lift the latch with his left. The door opened and swung in, banging several times against an interior wall.
"Give me some light."
Mercer took two steps forward.
Mike swiveled around, and as his right foot landed squarely in front of the door the plank beneath him cracked in half. His foot disappeared into the hole it made, and his gun bounced off the steps as he dropped it in order to grab on to the jamb to keep from falling into the crevice.
Mercer was there with three giant steps, crossing over the hole into the entrance of the shack, supporting Mike under the armpit with one of his enormous hands.
Mike clung to Mercer with both arms and disappeared from my sight into the blackness of the entryway. I started forward before Edenton could, letting my light guide me behind Mercer and taking a big step to avoid the hole Mike had almost fallen into.
Mercer stopped me, bracing me at arm's length. "Stay back, Alex. It's bad."
Edenton came up behind me and shone his flashlight into the room. "My God," he said. "It's Wilson."
The body was laid out on the floor on its back, spread-eagle, the skull crushed, probably by the large rock that rested next to one ear.
The blade of a foot-long bayonet pierced the heart and was impaled in the floorboard beneath the decomposing corpse of Troy Rasheed's father.
FORTY-TWO
Wait outside, Coop," Mike said. "It's raining. I'm better off with you."
"Sarge, how fast can you get some men up here?"