The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set by Ernest Dempsey (non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

"I'm sorry," Sanders said. "I didn't get your name."

"I didn't give it, Sheriff. And if it's the same to you, I'd like to keep it that way. I'm sure you can understand. But, if you need my credentials, I have them right here."

The visitor reached into the other side of his jacket, but the sheriff stopped him. "No, I don't think I want to know. You've given me more than enough." He looked down again at the man he'd trusted so quickly, the man he now believed killed his son.

Thirteen

Cuchara

Sheriff Sanders steered the county police vehicle off the road and onto the gravel driveway leading up the mountain. The empty runs of the old Purgatory Mountain ski resort traced wide, white lines down the slopes, winding through dense stretches of trees.

Sanders stopped at the security gate that sat thirty yards off the road, surrounded by pine and spruce. A metal speaker box with a numbered panel stood to the left, held up by a black metal post. The sheriff reached out and touched the call button, then waited as the heat escaped his car into the cold morning air.

The phone connected to the key panel rang three times before someone answered.

"Sheriff? What brings you here so early? You have information about the killer?"

"Good morning, Tyler," he managed. "And yes, I do."

"That was fast," the voice through the box said, surprised more than skeptical. "Did you arrest him?"

"We're tracking him down," Sanders said, stumbling through the words. He immediately worried he'd given away the fact he was lying. "I think we'll have him soon, probably within the hour. I have some questions, though," he added quickly. "I want to make sure we get the right guy."

A pause on the intercom furthered the sheriff's concern. Had the ruse worked? Or was he going to have to call for backup and go in guns blazing? He didn't like the second option. If the dossier on Trask was as legit as this mysterious stranger suggested, cops could be hurt or killed. Trask would probably hold out in his mountain fortress, picking off approaching officers one by one until an all-out assault took place. National news would cover the siege and subsequent battle. None of that sounded like something Sanders wanted. He did his best not to glance into the back of the county SUV where the stranger hid from sight. Even the slightest look might give away what the sheriff was up to.

"Okay, Sheriff," the voice said through the speaker. "Come on up. Sorry it took me a second. I was making some eggs."

"No problem, Tyler. Be right up."

The iron gate slowly retracted to one side. The chain pulling it bounced along until the path was clear and the motor automatically shut off.

Sanders continued through the opening and watched in his mirror as the gate began to close behind.

"Good job, Sheriff," the stranger said in a deep voice from behind the seat.

Sanders didn't acknowledge the comment. Instead, he remained focused on the twisting road leading up around the backside of the mountain.

The forest engulfed the SUV on all sides with pine, aspen, and spruce. The lush evergreen had always given Sanders a sense of safety and serenity in a chaotic world. Since his wife Lorita left him over a decade ago, he'd always found comfort in the mountains and woods around Cuchara. She'd had her reasons for leaving. He wasn't around enough, and when he was, Sanders didn't always give her enough attention. It was doomed from the start, he supposed, and he was less than shocked when she ran off with another man, a rancher from Wyoming who she met while he was passing through town on business.

In some ways, Sanders had been relieved when she left. But it had been hard on Tripp. The boy was sixteen, so at least it hadn't happened when he was young, but the sheriff often wondered how much his son blamed him for what happened.

Now Tripp was dead, and Sanders had nothing left but his job and the lonely mountains around him.

At the moment, however, he had something else in his possession: revenge.

In his mind, he prettied it up by calling it justice. He'd run through the footage in his imagination of how he wanted this to play out at least a dozen times during the night and again that morning.

His favorite was walking into Tyler's… Billy's cabin and shooting him in the back of the head. But that would be messy, difficult to clean up. He knew people who could handle that kind of work, but he resisted using them. Loose ends were problematic and the more eyeballs that fell on a crime scene, the more lips tended to flap later on down the line.

Sanders had settled on a single plan, one that would be simpler to cover up. He would go in, perhaps have a cup of coffee with Billy, then lure him outside where blood would soak into the ground after the sheriff executed the man who killed his son in cold blood.

A quick wrap up in the black plastic tarp Sanders had stowed in the back of his SUV that morning, a little wash with the hose on the driveway or dirt, and the scene would be pristine—just as if Billy Trask had simply been erased.

Of course, Sanders would have to deal with the man in the back, which is why he brought two pieces of plastic. The stranger was dangerous, there was no doubt about that. But with his attention focused on either arresting Trask or whatever the man's intent might be, Sanders could take out both of them.

The stranger had suggested that he was some kind of government agent, but Sanders knew better. He was no fool. The man would have presented some kind of identification as soon as he introduced himself. That hadn't happened, though he'd offered at the end of their initial meeting.

The sheriff had declined to play the role of the dumb