Smoke & Mirrors Read online

  Eleanor’s heart had gone into an eighteen-year-old girl. Her liver had been sectioned to save two recipients, both middle-aged men, and her undamaged kidney had been implanted in a woman.

  Sean finished her cereal and set down the bowl for Nemo, who rose and lapped the milk slowly. She gazed out the window beside her at the opening in the trees where the logging road entered the woods.

  The land was owned by Billy Lyons, a high school friend of Winter’s. He was a lawyer who had missed the hunt because he was in the middle of a trial in Memphis. Winter’s other regular hunting buddy, Larry Ward, friend since middle school, was the chief financial officer for a large securities firm and had pressing obligations that kept him in London. Sean and Winter had decided to make it a family event and rented the motor home to add a degree of comfort not afforded by the one-room, wood-frame shack the men usually shared. The cabin was fine for a group of men, but between the wood-burning stove, mattresses that looked like they’d been salvaged from the side of the road, and an outhouse fifty feet from the back door, it didn’t rise to the level of comfort Sean thought Faith Ann deserved. And Olivia Moment Massey, their child, was at the stage where she walked where she chose to go, wanted to do everything herself, and, when frustrated, was vocal at a disturbing volume. Enough said.

  Nemo went to the door and stared at it, whining once—his signal for wanting to be let outdoors.

  Sean looked out the window and saw something orange moving up the road through the woods. She smiled when she realized that it was Faith Ann wearing a Day-Glo vest. She was alone and without her backpack or her gun. As Sean stared at the approaching child, she saw crimson lines on her cheek, like war paint made in what appeared to be blood. And she was crying.

  Sean ran from the motor home and met Faith Ann before she reached the parking area near the skinning shed.

  As Sean approached, Faith Ann tilted her head and stopped short.

  “He’s dead!” Faith Ann yelled.

  4

  PUTTING ON HIS COAT, RUSH RACED OUT, FOLLOWING Sean and Nemo, his head tilted upward, listening.

  “What’s the deal?” he asked.

  “He’s dead,” Faith Ann said in a strained, trembling voice.

  “Who’s dead?” Rush asked her.

  “Rudolph,” Faith Ann said, sniffing a little but smiling proudly. “A mean old twelve-pointer.”

  “No shit!?” Rush blurted.

  “Rush Massey!” Sean exclaimed. “Watch your language.”

  “A deer has a name?” Rush asked. “Where’s Daddy?”

  “He’s at the food plot,” Faith Ann said. “I came back to get the pull-cart thingie to bring Rudolph back here to be skinned out.”

  “How’d you get the blood on your face?” Sean asked her.

  “Your husband did it,” Faith Ann said, now exasperated. “First blood. It’s this thing you do.”

  “When you kill your first buck you have to get his blood put on you,” Rush explained. “It’s a hunting ritual. Sometimes, depending on local customs, you might even have to take a bite of the heart and swallow it.”

  “Euuuuuwww! I most certainly will not eat any deer heart!” Faith Ann exclaimed.

  “I should hope not,” Sean said.

  “You really killed a deer?” Rush said. “I bet you freaked when you did it.”

  “It wasn’t too bad,” Faith Ann said. “A clean kill isn’t gross. They get hit by cars, brought down by wild dogs, starve, all kinds of ways to die that are worse.”

  “I know all that. I can’t believe you really killed a deer,” Rush said, smiling. “Was it cool?”

  “It was totally necessary,” Faith Ann said. “You see, Rudolph was attacking a smaller deer to take his does away from him after he found them. Rudolph hurt the little deer’s leg and was fixing to kill him. You could just tell. So I just did what had to be done.”

  “You killed a deer in deer-defense?” Rush said, laughing. “That’s got to be the most ridiculous reason for killing a deer in history.”

  “You didn’t see it,” Faith Ann said defensively. “He was really big and mean as a snake. The littler deer was brave, but he was going to lose, and they fight to the death, you know,” she said importantly.

  “Deer don’t fight to the death. Only people do that. Are you sure my daddy didn’t shoot it?” Rush said. “I bet he did.”

  “Of course I shot it. He dropped where he stood like he was poleaxed.”

  “I bet you don’t even know what a poleax is,” Rush said.

  “Duh, it’s an axe on a pole,” Faith Ann said.

  Sean said, “You need me to help you take the cart back?”

  “Go back inside. I’ll help her,” Rush said. “Olivia’s awake. I’d rather eat a deer’s heart than deal with her.”

  Faith Ann went to the skinning shed and opened the doors to the storage room. Inside, among the organized clutter, was a two-wheeled cart. She wrestled it out and righted it, opening it to lower the wheels.

  Rush lay down in the sling, facing the sky. “Wake me up when we get there,” he said.

  Laughing, Faith Ann began pulling Rush toward the plot. Nemo ran ten feet ahead of the kids, the ridge of hair on his back standing like a Mohawk.

  5

  FAITH ANN’S DEER HUNG BY HIS SPREAD BACK LEGS in the open-air shed beside the RV. After Winter had skinned the animal, put the meat in the chiller, and placed the caped head on the concrete floor, Rush suddenly turned. “Somebody’s coming,” he said. “They took the chain off the gate.”

  The north gate to the property was seventy-five yards away down a gravel road that curved through the woods. After a few seconds Winter heard a vehicle approaching. He reflexively touched the handgun at his side. Since the front gate was kept locked, whoever was coming in either had a key or knew where the spare key to the padlock was hidden. Billy Lyons had said he wasn’t coming down, nor were they expecting any of the other men that sometimes hunted on the four hundred acres. He put the wide-bladed skinning knife down and peeled off the surgical gloves he wore to keep his hands blood-free.

  The truck was a silver-gray extended cab Toyota Tundra with large tires and a five-pointed star on the front license plate. The driver cut the motor and climbed out of the cab. There was something familiar about the tall man who walked over to the shed. He wore a short coat that broke above his sidearm, a Colt Python. The letters TCS were emblazoned on the brown baseball cap he wore.

  “Hello,” the man called out as he approached the shed.

  An alert Nemo growled and looked up at Winter.

  “It’s okay, Nemo,” Winter said.

  “Hello, Winter,” the stranger said. “You must be Rush and Faith Ann.”

  “Who are you?” Faith Ann asked as the tall man came into the shed.

  “I’m Brad Barnett,” he said. “I’m the sheriff in Tunica County.”

  “Brad Barnett,” Winter said, shaking the sheriff’s proffered hand. “Billy’s buddy from Ole Miss. I thought you looked familiar. Been a long time.” Barnett was six one or so, forty pounds heavier than he had been the last time Winter had seen him, but he looked as fit and quick as he had years before. He had a pleasant, boyish face and an easy smile, his brown eyes radiated intelligence.

  “Twenty years, give or take,” Brad said. “Who killed the monster?” he asked, bending down and turning the heavy antlers on the animal’s head for a better look.

  “I killed him,” Faith Ann said proudly.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a nicer buck taken in these parts,” Brad said.

  “It was her first one too,” Rush said, smiling. “She killed it in deer-defense.”

  “Deer-defense?” Brad asked.

  “He was beating up this other buck,” the boy said. “Faith Ann decided the fight wasn’t fair, so she rang the bell.”

  “You wanting to hunt?” Massey said.

  “I wish I had time.”

  Nemo sniffed at Brad’s leg, wagging his tail. The sheriff reache
d down, let the dog sniff the back of his hand, then rubbed the animal behind his ears.

  “You smell my dog, Ruger? Last time I saw you, Winter, was homecoming weekend my junior year,” Brad said. “You stayed with Billy. He set you up with a blind date he ended up marrying.”

  “Yeah.” Winter smiled. “And Ole Miss lost that game.”

  “I believe so.”

  Winter saw Brad’s eyes go to his handgun, a custom-made stainless .45 automatic with stag grips.

  “Nice-looking piece,” Brad said. “Wilson or Kimber?”

  “Neither.” Massey took out the .45, ejected the loaded magazine into his hand, pocketed it, ejected the shell from its chamber, let the hammer down gently, and handed the weapon over to Brad. “Custom gun maker named Kase Reeder made it.”

  “Beauty,” Brad said, turning the gun to read what was inscribed on the weapon. “Flagstaff, Arizona. I’m not familiar with his work.”

  “It was a gift from my wife, Sean,” Winter said. “Faith Ann’s great uncle read about it in a handgun magazine. When Sean asked him what she could get me for my last birthday, he called Reeder and he made it for me. First .45 I’ve ever carried, but it’s the most accurate gun I’ve ever owned.”

  Brad whistled and handed the Reeder Rekon Kommander back to Massey, who reloaded it and slipped it back into its holster, snapping the thumb brake closed.

  “Billy told me you were the sheriff in Tunica now,” Winter said.

  “He told me you’re off the job,” Brad said. “Something about working for a big security company.”

  “I’m just a consultant on protection programs for their corporate clients.”

  “Who’s mounting the head for you?” Brad asked.

  “Calvin Patton,” Winter said. “He’s at his shop now. That’s why I’m hurrying.”

  “Patton’s about the best there is around here,” Brad said. He looked at Faith Ann. “You know what kind of mount you want?”

  “A left-hand sneak mount,” she said. “I’m going to put it over our fireplace.”

  “Good choice,” Brad said.

  “Faith Ann always knows what she wants,” Winter said.

  “That way he’ll always look like he’s smelling that other buck’s heated-up does just around the corner in the kitchen,” Rush said.

  “What brings you way down here?” Winter asked Brad.

  “Well, fact is, Billy told me you were out here. I called him to find out where you were.”

  Winter was perplexed. “Why are you looking for me?”

  “Well, your name came up and I wondered, if you had some time, maybe you could take a couple of hours and visit Tunica County,” Brad said. “I tried to call the number he gave me but there was no answer.”

  “I don’t have my cell on.”

  “I hate to interrupt your hunt, but I sure could use your help.”

  The motor home door opened and Sean came out carrying Olivia on her hip. She strode over and stood beside Winter.

  “My wife, Sean,” Winter said. “Sean, this is Tunica County sheriff Brad Barnett. He’s an old friend of Billy’s. We spent a wild homecoming weekend together at Ole Miss some years back.”

  Sean’s smile was warm and her eyes sparkled with interest and kindness. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “This is Olivia, our daughter. She’s two and very shy.”

  As if on command, Olivia hid her face in Sean’s down vest, then peeked at Brad and smiled.

  “Cooww go moo,” she said, pointing at the deer.

  “Cow,” Rush said, laughing.

  “What’s going on in Tunica County?” Winter asked.

  “I’d like to have your input on a case I have.”

  “What kind of case?” Winter asked.

  “Homicide,” Brad replied.

  Sean Massey’s smile remained in place, but her eyes changed.

  “Cool,” Rush said.

  “I was a deputy U.S. marshal,” Winter said. “If you need my opinion on how to locate a fugitive, or how to best serve a warrant, I’m your man. Other than that…” He shrugged.

  “I understand all that. Just a quick look. Three hours, tops.”

  “I wouldn’t be any help with it,” Winter said.

  “This one looks like a professional killing. It’s the first one like it I’ve run across, and I think I’m in over my head.”

  “The Mississippi Bureau investigators are your best bet,” Winter said.

  “I have a nineteen-year-old victim who was shot from almost half a mile away with a high-powered rifle. It will be treated as an accidental shooting because it’s hunting season. Other than a polished casing, I’ve got nothing but some boot prints and tire treads. She’s a local girl who finished high school last year. She was a young black girl from a good, hard-working family.”

  “Maybe she was a target of opportunity.”

  “It’s possible, but the place I’m talking about isn’t one anybody would just happen upon.”

  Sean Massey was silent, thinking. “Rush, Faith Ann,” she said. “Come in and wash your hands. Lunch is ready. Sheriff Barnett, will you join us?”

  “I’d love to, but I’m sort of in a hurry.”

  Winter watched the family until the door closed, then turned his now-serious eyes on Brad. “What’s the real deal here, Brad?” Winter said. “I know my reputation better than anybody. You have a killing with a rifle, and I’m close by hunting with a rifle? I haven’t left this land in two days. And half the people on earth can shoot a rifle better than I do.”

  “Well, I don’t think you were involved, but somebody wanted me to,” Brad said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a plastic bag containing a business card. Winter took it and did a double take as he recognized the card.

  It read WINTER JAMES MASSEY, DEPUTY U.S. MARSHAL. It was definitely his, with the Charlotte, North Carolina, address and phone numbers.

  “That was left at the scene where the shooter set up. Best I can come up with is that he wanted me to think you were there. Anybody else might have believed that was the case, but I know better.”

  Winter had a hard time forming his thoughts, his eyes locked on the card.

  “I can make time,” Winter said firmly, handing back the card. Somebody was calling him out.

  6

  BACK INSIDE THE MOTOR HOME, WINTER WAS WASHING his hands at the bathroom sink when Sean appeared in the doorway behind him. “Your buddy is still sitting in his truck outside,” Sean said.

  “He’s waiting for me,” Winter said. He dried his hands and passed by her. Taking off his shirt, he went into the bedroom to change clothes. Sean followed him and eased the door closed. “Wants me to go with him to look at a crime scene.”

  “So you’re going to take a quick trip to Tunica to look at this crime scene.”

  “Two, three hours. I’ll put the head in the Jeep, if you don’t mind taking it to Calvin. There’s a map in the bedroom. Don’t leave the gate unlocked and keep an eye open. Keep the Walther close.”

  “I always keep the Walther close. So why the concern?” she asked.

  “The killer left one of my old marshal cards at the crime scene. That’s why Brad’s here.”

  “He doesn’t think you…?”

  “No, he doesn’t think I left it. At least he says he doesn’t,” Winter told her. “I have to check this out. Best to be very careful until I know what’s going on. And get ready to pull out. We’re done hunting.”

  He pulled on a pair of jeans, ran his belt through the loops and slipped it under the magazine pouch and his holster. He stuffed his wallet into his back pocket and put on his chukkas. Sean led him from the room and picked up his jacket.

  “Kids, I have to go out for a while with Sheriff Barnett,” he said to their inquisitive faces.

  He was at the door when Sean said, “Mr. Massey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” She put her hands on her hips and frowned.

  He made a s
how of patting his pockets while he suppressed a smile. “Wallet. Weapon. I don’t think so.”

  “Winter Massey!” she said, shaking her head. “Think about it.”

  “She wants her good-bye kissy kiss,” Rush said.

  “Kiss her good, Winter!” Faith Ann called out.

  “Do it, Daddy!” Rush said, puckering clownishly. “Plant one on her she’ll remember.”

  Winter pushed his hair back dramatically, gathered Sean into his arms, leaned her back, and gave her a kiss that drew applause from Faith Ann and Rush. Olivia joined in, clapping and laughing, unaware of what the celebration was all about.

  “Cowboy love!” Faith Ann squealed.

  7

  THE MISSISSIPPI DELTA IS AN ALLUVIAL PLAIN shaped like a spear point, seventy-five miles across at its widest and stretching two hundred and twenty-five miles north from Vicksburg to just south of Memphis, Tennessee. Winter often joked that if it weren’t for the trees, you could stand on a kitchen chair and see the levee from the other side of the Delta.

  The murder had occurred on Six Oaks, a cotton plantation eight miles from downtown Tunica. There was nothing obvious to distinguish it from most of the working plantations Winter was personally familiar with. Vast fields with the occasional narrow, dead-looking stream, thin ribbons of woodland serving as windbreaks. The cotton had been harvested, and the left-behind wisps of white cotton fiber gave the landscape the appearance of an oceanic thorn field after the stampede of a vast herd of terrified sheep.

  The farmhouse was set back a quarter mile from a collection of equipment and storage sheds, on a spacious green meadow surrounded by bleak cotton fields. Six large white oak trees lined the driveway, which curved before a two-story white wooden house with a high-peaked roof covered with slate shingles. The wraparound porch had cypress lattice on the sides, which supported climbing ivy. To the right of the house, separated by an expanse of cobblestone, stood a four-car garage, whose white clapboard exterior mirrored that of the house. The grounds were dotted with mature magnolias and oaks, flowerbeds, azaleas, rosebushes, and boxwoods.