It had been thirty minutes since the exchange of gunfire. All man-made sounds had faded away, replaced by the night chorus of ten thousand types of wildlife and the residual rain hitting the canopy of trees a hundred feet over his head. Ben had been in the forest for over an hour, and his eyes had achieved a keen nocturnal dilation.
The small house of stone and timber stood dark. Ben imagined the builder had intended it to last, and though long ignored, the structure stood firm in the deep uncharted forest that probably predated Columbus. With only the waning moon to betray his position, Ben crept close enough to the cabin to peer through one of its many broken windows. It was hard to make out anything in the dim interior.
Ben climbed the three steps to the cabin entrance and pushed the door open, holding the trooper’s forty-caliber handgun at the ready and surveying the part of the room he could see from the doorway. There seemed to be no signs of recent human activity or occupation.
He stepped fully into the small room and, in that instant, sensed movement behind him. Instinctively he spun to confront whoever it was, but the darkness was replaced by a brilliant light that burned away his night vision. A hard blow caught him in his chest, and Ben fell to the floor in a heap.
The blinding light remained in his eyes, and a voice came from somewhere in the brightness. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on out here, but drop the piece.” The voice carried authority.
Ben peered into the light, trying to shade his eyes with one hand, and caught a glimpse of a large figure. He slowly lowered his weapon to the floor; the light followed the gun. Though his vision was still light dazzled, Ben made out the shape of a man in uniform, the glint of metal on his chest.
“Shove it away. Give it a good push.”
Ben did as he was told. The gun skittered away and, by the sound of the impact, hit the cabin wall.
“Now what?” he asked.
“I’ll tell ya now what,” the man said. “You’re going to tell me who the hell you are and what you have to do with this.”
The flashlight beam shifted until it partially illuminated a dead man stretched out on the cabin floor. Ben’s eyes still burned, but he could see that a good amount of blood covered the wood plank floor. The dead man, dressed in a flannel shirt and trousers, had been stoutly built and well muscled. In the dim gray light, he could tell little more about the scene. He turned back to the man currently in charge.
The man shifted and the white light once again shined in Ben’s face. Ben raised a hand to shield himself.
“I’m Ben Sawyer. I got nothing on what happened here.”
“Ben Sawyer.” From the man’s tone of voice, Ben felt that he was being studied. He knew he must look frightful—covered with fresh blood that still seeped from his head wound, soaked from old blood, sweat, and rain, pasty white with exhaustion. “You look like you’ve gone a few rounds. What brings you to the middle of nowhere?”
Ben studied the other man, picking up on the brown uniform of county law enforcement. He had few reasons to trust a cop. “Am I under arrest, officer?”
“Say what now?”
“I said, am I under arrest? If I am, I’d like to know the charge and you can get me to an attorney.”
“You aren’t from around here, are you, Sawyer?”
“Am I arrested or not?”
The voice turned serious. “Let me tell you how it is. I’ll be damned if that son of a bitch right there, who by the way died at my hands in case you’re wondering whether or not I mean business, ain’t none other than Harlan Lee.
“Harlan ain’t been seen around here for more than fifteen years. Last I heard he was doing life in the state penitentiary, but apparently there was a change in living arrangements and no one bothered to tell me. Then you come slinking in here armed with a hand cannon. I suppose I could probably just go ahead and oblige you, take your ass into custody until I figure it out.”
Ben swallowed hard at the news that the dead man was Harlan Lee. Would he still be able to prove Alex’s innocence? His better judgment and instinct still told him not to trust the cop, but sooner or later, Ben knew, he had to rejoin the world of law and order. He squinted into the dark, trying to see his captor. “You’re a deputy, I take it?”
“Sheriff, actually. Sheriff Scott Jamison, Florence County.”
Ben cringed, remembering McKenzie’s reference to his friendship with Jamison.
“Sheriff Jamison.” With his head, Ben motioned to the body. “You say you know this guy? This is Harlan Lee?”
“Don’t work that way, Sawyer. I ask the questions. I know that comes off like TV bullshit, but it’s true.”
Ben ignored the comment. “But you say this man is Harlan Lee?”
Jamison didn’t bite and waggled his gun barrel. “On your feet. My patrol truck is parked up the road. You can sit there while I get some deputies out here to sort through this shit.”
“All right, Sheriff,” Ben said. He decided to share a few more facts. “My name is Ben Sawyer. I’m a police sergeant out of Newberg down in Waukesha County. I’ve been investigating a string of murders that I think Lee was probably responsible for. One was a cop killed in Danville, Illinois. A second cop got shot. She works for me.” Ben was hoping that would be enough.
“You sure you ain’t the Lone Ranger? A cop from Newberg coming all the way out here to investigate crimes that occurred in another state?”
“You’re right, that doesn’t sound very good,” Ben admitted. “A civilian was murdered down in Newberg, and my wife has been arrested for it. Long story, but I’ve got reason to believe Harlan Lee did the killing and is trying to put it on her. A friend of mine from the PD started asking questions. She wound up shot in Danville.”
Jamison gave up nothing. “Go on.”
“Bill Petite? You might know him—used to be the district attorney here in Florence County. He’s locked up in Red Cliff for killing a woman, his girlfriend or something. I’m betting Harlan was good for that one too.”
“Yeah, I heard about Petite. Did strike me as odd,” Jamison said. “Especially when you put it in with everything else.”
“Everything else?” Ben glanced away, then back into the light. He could barely make out Jamison, who seemed to be leaning casually against a wooden table, his gun held at the low ready.
“I mean not only Petite but also Henry Lipinski. Former sheriff of Florence County. My predecessor, you might say. Lipinski is the one who ran the scam on Harlan all those years ago.”
Ben stared blankly at him. His dumbfounded expression must have amused Jamison, who gave a short laugh and continued. “Damn, Sawyer, I thought you were the hotshot Lone Ranger. Don’t you even know what this shit is all about? If you want to put all this on Lee, you need to get your facts straight.”
“Sorry, Sheriff,” Ben said. “Fill me in.”
“Back about twenty years ago, Jedidiah Lee owned a hundred sixty acres of land in the big woods. This cabin sits right about in the middle of what was the Lee homestead for more than a hundred years. I guess you could say old Jed took advantage of the remoteness of his surroundings.
“He was known to cultivate a crop that was in very high demand by some of the folks around the state. The law—that would be the fella named Lipinski—didn’t have a problem with what Jed was growing, but he didn’t like that Jed wouldn’t cut him in on it. Time came when Lipinski and some of his crooked friends decided Jed needed to be brought to heel. They decided to hit Jed where it would hurt him the most.”
Jamison’s demeanor had changed when he’d begun the story. Ben heard strong emotion in his voice, slowly building anger.
“Lipinski waited until Jed’s son, Harlan, took a load of product downstate, then got into cahoots with some of his ass-bag associates down in your neck of the woods. Newberg PD pulled Harlan over on a traffic stop and planted evidence on him from a homicide case—the weapon used to kill some small-time dope dealer from just outside of Tipler, more than a hundred miles away.”
Jamison snorted. “As if Harlan would give two shits about how that boy worked his crop. Anyway, they used that trumped-up bullshit to search the Lees’ cabin, where they found more so-called evidence, not to mention a hundred-plus acres of mature marijuana plants.”
Ben asked, “What happened after that?”
“Lipinski burned the grow and arrested Harlan for murder. The boy said he’d take his chances on a trial. But when Lipinski threatened to charge the old man in federal court with drug manufacturing, cultivation, distribution…” Ben heard pity in Jamison’s voice.
“Suffice it to say the old man would’ve died in prison. Harlan took a plea, got twenty-five to life.”
“And Jedidiah?”
“Sold off most of the homestead trying to buy off Lipinski. Trying to get his boy an early out. Tried up until the day he died. Here in this cabin.”
Ben studied the face that remained a shadowy outline. “So what about Lipinski?”
The sheriff laughed. The force of it shifted the light to the ceiling for a moment, allowing Ben his first good look at the man. “He got himself arrested. Just like Petite. Turns out he was a freak for kiddie porn.”
It struck Ben as interesting the sheriff didn’t know of Lipinski’s alleged suicide.
“Wasn’t there some guy down in Danville?” Ben asked. “Named Donaldson?”
“Yeah. If memory serves, Donaldson was the snitch who claimed Harlan confessed to the killing while they were locked up together. It was just more bullshit the cops came up with to make sure Harlan didn’t weasel out from under the murder rap.
“So you say your wife is hooked up for a killing down in Newberg. Is she related to that lying sack of shit Lars Norgaard? Word is that old bastard stroked out.”
“Mind if I stand up, Sheriff?” Ben asked, stroking the back of his swollen scalp.
The voice came out of the light smooth as polished metal. “Why not? Nobody here but us cops.”
Ben stood, wavering on his feet, and reached for a heavy wooden chair to steady himself. “Whew. Feels like I’ve been run over by a truck. Talk about your crooked cops, I didn’t even tell you about the run-in I had with a Wisconsin state trooper. I tell you, Sheriff, it’s been a hell of a day.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Jamison’s voice tightened. “Tell me, Sawyer. What led you to Harlan? How’d you figure he was good for all this?”
Ben’s pulse picked up; he let adrenaline flood his body but took measures to give no outward signs. He allowed himself one last look at the body laid out nearby, not surprised to see that the man who had been identified as Harlan Lee, wore green uniform trousers and an unbuttoned flannel shirt.
“Funny how that came about, Sheriff,” he said, then dropped his voice and added, “Guess I’d better sit down. Still feeling a little groggy.”
He pulled on the chair as if to sit, then swung it into the light.
Gun and light both fell to the ground. Ben heard the glass bulb break. Blackness swallowed the room so suddenly that Ben felt a wave of vertigo and tilted on his feet. The other man was unaffected and leaped onto Ben, propelling him into the sharp corner of a beam. Hot pain shot through his body and he would have fallen if not for the other man’s boxer’s grasp.
Ben pushed off and tried to ready himself.
Two stinging blows struck his jaw; a third went to his cheek, and when Ben tried to strike back he caught nothing but black air. A fist smashed his ear, knocking him to his knees. A kick to the side of his head grounded him, and Ben struggled to remain conscious. He made out the shape of a boot coming toward his head. He managed to deflect the blow and heard his opponent hit the ground. Ben was on him in an instant.
Unseen hands and fists smashed hard against his body and head. Ben pressed himself against his opponent’s chest; the awkward angle made the man’s blows glance off and largely ineffective. Ben’s thumb found his opponent’s eye socket and dug in deep. Both the man’s hands grabbed at Ben’s arm, but he managed to push deeper and felt the eye muscle grip and moisten his thumb.
Ben took two more blows to the chin, but he kept working the man’s eye, pushing his thumb deeper. He used his other hand to deliver a blow to his enemy’s mouth, then struck him repeatedly about the face and head. Sure now of their relative positions, Ben used both hands to clamp down on the neck, concentrating on his windpipe. The ridges and the circular muscles were pronounced under the pressure of his grip.
He squeezed harder, compressing it completely. The blows directed at his body and face grew weaker, became nothing more than flaying slaps of a desperate and dying man. This was it. This was his moment. Ben bore down, held tight, and did his best to strangle the life out of Harlan Lee.