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Chapter 1
The slow burning sensation of bourbon easing its way down his throat fell short of alleviating Glen’s need to escape the day’s events. Glen Karst, a top homicide detective from the Denver Police Department, ordered his second glass of Buffalo Trace--neat.
The Watering Hole, his favorite bar in downtown Wallace, population five thousand, held memories of his childhood when his father and granddad would stop for a cold one while Glen and the other kids spun around on the bar stools, sipping Cokes and eating peanuts.
Closing his eyes, his senses picked up the odor of stale cigarettes mixed with the pungent smell of beer. The music playing on the jukebox might not be the same tunes he grew up with, but then, does country music ever really change? Love, loss and good times, the same old topics with different lyrics sung by new artists, most of which he had never heard. Life’s priorities change, as one grows older. There was a time he could sing along with every song on that jukebox; now the music meant nothing more to him than another way to drown out his thoughts.
He removed his black felt hat to run his fingers through his hair, a habit he developed when something troubled him, perhaps a case with no leads, or the meaningless death of an innocent victim. Today was one of those days. Hat in hand, he spun around on the stool then placed it on his knee. He watched a group of young women dragging their reluctant dates to the dance floor.
He grimaced as he realized he had joined the ranks of the older generation. Wallace might be small town living, located only thirty miles north of Denver, but the youth looked and acted more like city kids. They had brand new cars and pickups, not like the old beaters Glen and his friends were so proud to own. These newer vehicles aided their escape to the city for shopping, movies, and other sources of entertainment.
Years ticking by had brought no change to the bar. The wooden floors were old and worn when he was a boy. Now, although they are cleaned and waxed more routinely, the shiny gray areas caused by foot traffic were even more pronounced. Several new layers of paint failed to brighten the room, probably because the same shade of dark burgundy was used each time someone had the notion to freshen up the place.
New chairs joined old at the heavy wooden tables whose tops had been etched over the years with the names of young people professing their love for one another. He remembered his own artistic carving of a horse, his trademark, on every table. His skill with knife to wood most likely led to his talent as an expert woodworker--a career he set aside to pursue police work.
Downing the last bit of the brown fluid, he turned to request another.
“Damn, it is you. I can’t believe it.”
Glen turned in the direction of the voice. His eyes lit up as a smile spread across his face.
“Son of a bitch. Shane. Shane Porter. What the hell are you doing here?”
Shane reached out to shake hands with his old buddy from his days at Wallace High.
Glen slid down from the bar stool and embraced his old friend with a strong hug while slapping his back. Years ago they would never have hugged each other, but age softens macho attitudes.
“I heard you moved back,” said Shane.
“Yeah, I bought the old Watkins place. Do you still live here?”
“I do. I came back right after college. My dad needed help and I needed a job, you know the rest. Once you start working the land here, the bank owns you and you can’t move away even if you want to.”
Shane stood in contrast to Glen. A little shorter, he carried a good twenty pounds more, mostly around the midsection. His stark black hair, lacking a good haircut, fell over one eye. His habit of running his fingers through it to push it out of the way remained futile. Despite the extra pounds, Shane’s brawny body reflected years of hard work. His aged face reflected the heavy outdoor physical labor he had performed his entire life.
Glen, tanned from the summer months spent on his boat at every free opportunity, sported a close-cropped haircut for his sandy brown hair. He worked out daily with Russian Martial Arts, keeping his body hard and toned. His green eyes sparkled with life while the skin surrounding them took on a puffy tired appearance, the badge of stress and sleep deprivation.
Older than most of the other men in the bar, the two of them still stood out as being irresistibly handsome.
“Pull up a seat, let me buy you a drink,” said Glen.
“Better yet, why don’t you join us?” suggested Shane.
Glen looked past Shane to a table where an attractive blond sat watching them. He rose from his seat then stopped to take a better look. His eyes scanned the room to be certain there was no one else waiting for Shane.
“Is that Tracy?” Glen asked.
“Of course that’s Tracy. Didn’t you know? We were married shortly after I came back.”
Tracy Adams, a cheerleading, barrel racing, straight “A” student from their graduating class was a girl Glen could never forget. Thoughts of her and the years they dated frequently crossed his mind. Life in the past was so simple; living in a small town where people were kind and cared about each other was nothing like city life as a homicide detective, where he had to witness the worst of the worst. His cozy background did nothing to prepare him for the atrocities human beings can inflict on each other.
His eyes caught Shane’s before taking another step.
“Hell, it’s okay, old man. She forgave you a long time ago,” said Shane, patting Glen on the back. “It’s cool.”
Glen followed him to the table. A man who faces danger every day of his life, a man who holds dying people in his arms to hear their last words, a man who has trained himself to fear nothing, now feels uneasy about meeting the girl he left behind. He had promised to return and marry her someday. Instead, he went away to college, became a master woodcrafter then joined the police academy, never once looking back. Even during his marriage to Debbie, reminiscing about home and his youth brought back memories of Tracy.
“I told you it was him,” said Shane proudly.
He pulled out a chair for Glen.
“Hi, Tracy, how’ve you been?”
“That’s it? After all these years, all I get is a ‘Hi Tracy’? You’d better give me a hug and make it feel like you mean it.”
Shane smiled and winked at Glen.
“She’s still as bull-headed as ever. I’ve learned to give in and just let her have her way, it makes life a lot easier.”
Tracy slipped into Glen’s arms, pressing her body close. She kissed him on the cheek.
Glen, uncomfortable from the tight embrace, attempted to pull away.
“I said hug me like you mean it. Remember, I know how that feels,” she whispered.
Glen chuckled; relieved the dim lights of the bar hid his blush.
He squeezed Tracy, picked her up off of her feet and twirled her around in a circle. He wanted to hide his discomfort through his actions.
He set her back on her feet. She stumbled to regain her balance and he caught her, wondering if she faked that move.
“Now that’s more like it. I knew you had it in you,” she said.
“Are you here alone? Where’s your wife?”
In the short year since Glen had returned to Wallace, there was one thing he learned had not changed and that was the local gossip. No one moves into the area without the entire town knowing their whole life story. Tracy had to know he was divorced. She was fishing for details.
“No wife, just me and my dogs.”
“Glen lives at the old Watkins place. Remember, I told you I thought that might be him out there,” said Shane.
“Yeah, but you also told me that guy was a detective.”
She turned to Glen, “I thought you were going to be a vet. So which is it?”
“I’m a cop.”
“Where’s your badge?” she asked.
Glen slipped his hand into his back pocket then opened the black leather case containing his badge.
Tracy ran her fingers over the shiny gold metal.
“So, this is for real then. You’re the guy Sheriff Tate complains about around town,” she said.
Tate and Glen rubbed each other wrong from the day Glen moved to Wallace. He wanted to return to his roots to break away from the hectic life he lived in Denver. Coming home each night to his own slice of heaven in the country, he had hoped, would allow him to relax and find enjoyment in the simple pleasures of life.
One of his first days back, he discovered his neighbor’s accidental death wasn’t an accident. He made the mistake of following professional courtesy and pointing out the evidence to Tate.
Sheriff Tate, a smaller framed man with a big mouth and an ego to match, refused to accept Glen’s information. As the days and weeks passed, Glen discovered a serial killer lived among the residents of Wallace unnoticed by the sheriff or the citizens.
Eventually, Glen proved his suspicions but not without Tate trying to convince everyone in town that Glen may be involved. He tries to steer clear of Tate, but Tate is always looking for an opportunity to taunt him.
Glen shook his head in disgust as he returned the badge to his pocket.
“That would be me.”
“Then you’re the one who solved all those murders here last year?” she asked.
“That would also be correct. Enough about me. Tell me what the two of you have been up to.”
“Nothing as exciting as your life, I’m sure,” said Shane. “We’ve got two kids, both boys, Kane and Randy. We live on Dad’s farm and raise cattle. Kane’s really into it but Randy prefers computers, so we don’t push the cowboy thing with him.”
“Are you farming the land?” asked Glen.
“Nope, I don’t have any desire, whatsoever, to sit on my butt all day in a tractor. Give me a horse any day. Do you still ride?”
“I haven’t been on a horse in years,” said Glen.
“I don’t want to talk about us, I want to hear about you,” said Tracy.
“Yeah,” said Shane. “When I walked over to the bar where you were sitting you looked lost in thought.”
“Just another rough day,” said Glen. He motioned to the bartender for another drink.
“What happened?” pressed Tracy.
Shane was right, Tracy doesn’t back down. He thought maybe he should share a few details of his day to appease her then make a polite excuse to leave.
“I work with this woman cop. I noticed she had a few bruises one day when she came to work. She didn’t want to talk to me about it. I pressed her a little and she got pissed so I backed off. A few days later she showed up with a black eye. She said she was playing ball with one of her kids and got hit in the face with a plastic bat. I’ve spent enough years on the force dealing with domestic violence and crimes against women that I knew she was lying to me.”
“Was her husband abusing her?” asked Tracy.
Glen looked at Tracy who appeared to be hanging on every word, making him feel even more uncomfortable. He took a large swallow of bourbon.
“I kept a close watch on her. She wasn’t my partner but I managed to place myself in situations where I’d bump into her on a regular basis. I knew if I could befriend her, she’d open up.”
“Did it work?” asked Tracy.
“Oh, it worked alright. One day I noticed how slowly she eased her body into a chair at the office. I asked her to step out into the hall with me. When she did, I asked her to lift up the back of her shirt. She refused at first, but she knew that I knew. I was livid. Her entire back was one huge bruise.”
“What’d you do?” asked Shane.
“I knew what I had to do, but I wanted it to be her decision. I showed her a stack of files containing photos of women beaten to death by their husbands. When she saw the photos of the kids who were beaten, she broke. I talked her into making a police report, but I would have done it if she hadn‘t.”
“Then you should be feeling good, not bad,” said Tracy.
“I thought I would, but she reamed me a new one today for tearing apart their family. Her kids are angry with her for putting their dad in jail. Her parents and her in-laws didn’t believe her. They assumed, since she was a cop, she could take care of herself and there’s no way her husband could’ve been beating her.”
“I don’t get it,” said Shane. “Why would she blame you for that? She did the right thing.”
“Women who are involved in spousal abuse are so brainwashed into believing they must’ve done something to cause the beatings. The fact that she’s a cop and should know better couldn’t bring her beyond his emotional control. I’m sure when he gets out she’ll take him back.”
He tipped his glass to finish the last few drops.
Shane and Tracy looked at each other, not knowing how to respond to the story he shared.
“On that pleasant note, I think it’s time for me to head home,” said Glen.
“No wait,” said Shane. “What are you doing Saturday?”
“I don’t know yet. Why?”
“I wanna see if a saddle still fits your butt. Wanna help me wean calves? I could use the help and I’ve got a couple of outstanding cutting horses. All you have to do is hang on tight.
Unless, of course, you think you’re too old and weak to handle a full day of hard labor.”
“Hard labor, hell. I’ll bet I can still ride circles around you. I’ll be there at dawn.”
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