The Shadow Catchers

Book 1: Mike Yeager and Peggy Weaver

by Thomas Lakeman

Genres: Literary Fiction; Mystery; Suspense

Synopsis

FBI Special Agent Mike Yeager is in trouble. His most recent case---a child kidnapping, his usual---ended tragically, and the FBI has suspended him. Worse, Mike can't seem to forgive himself. He's run away from everything he knows in Philadelphia to the mountains of Nevada in an attempt to forget.

Now in Nevada, he's stumbled into the world of a killer: in the small town of San Cristobal, one child was killed accidentally---or so it seems---a few weeks before Mike's arrival. The day after he shows up, an adult is murdered, and soon another child disappears. Mike doesn't want to get involved, but he can't help himself, first because as a stranger in town he's got to prove to the local law enforcement that he's not the killer, and second, because he's in the perfect place to solve the case and redeem himself in the eye of the FBI. Not to mention that at least one more child's life is at stake.

Thomas Lakeman is one of those rare talents who has composed a first novel that doesn't read like a debut at all, but instead is written with the precision and tightly drawn suspense of one of the genre's masters.

Release date: October 30, 2007

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 336

Sample

Chapter One

"Okay, now do me," said the waitress at the Silver Star Cafe. "Tell me whatcha see."

Three hours out of Vegas and six miles from nowhere, the Silver Star was supposed to be southern Nevada's oldest eating establishment. Its walls were covered with antique tintypes: cowboys lining up for shots of Nockum Stiff, sporting girls in striped tights, a dead rustler with a sign around his neck that read, this is what happens to cattle theifs in Dyer County. I don't know what I found more disturbing---the satisfied grins of the lynch mob, or the fact that they had misspelled thieves.

"Quit stallin', handsome." The waitress playfully flicked a dishrag at me. "You already told Luther and Bill their whole life stories just by lookin' at ‘em."

I shrugged. "Those guys were easy. They have tattoos."

"I got tattoos," she pouted. "I'm easy."

There were five of us in the diner. Two old-timers with fourteen teeth between them, someone playing video games in the room next door, the waitress---her name was Meghan---and me. It was four o'clock on a Friday: Halloween.

"What'd you say your name was?" She leaned toward me, baldly hinting where one of those tattoos might be.

"Mike."

"Give you some homemade cherry pie, Mike. Now come on, make a girl happy."

I looked her over. Late thirties, sexy in a last-call-at-the-roadhouse way, with a C-section scar smiling over her jeans. There was also a recently chipped front tooth and a badly concealed bruise on her neck. She smiled pretty. But every time she looked away, the life went right out of her eyes.

With the old men it was mostly a game. With Meghan I'd have to be careful. If I gave it to her straight, I could forget about seeing the inside of that Wonderbra. Or I could make a girl happy. A night on the trailer-park mattress, then silence over cornflakes while her kids stared sullenly away. Meghan's fleeting look of desolation as she tried to smile me out the front door. Who knows. I could even wind up trading punches with the slimeball who gave her that bruise.

But what the hell.

"You're a model." I winked. "Twenty-seven, right?"

Meghan smiled. "One slice, comin' right up."

So it's finally come to this, I thought. Ten years of hard-core training at taxpayers' expense, just so I could play mind reader in Where-the-hell, Nevada. Will Profile for Food.

She picked up my empty plates and bumped the kitchen door open with her ass. "Say, how'd you get so good at readin' people, anyh---" Then the color drained from her face.

Everyone was looking through the front window.

Motorcycles flanked the gray hearse as it rumbled down Highway 313, followed by an old green Jeep Cherokee and a long procession of mourners: Dodges and K-cars with bad mufflers and busted headlamps. The faces of the drivers---when I could see them---were solemn and confused.

"Sweet Jesus," someone whispered.

"Who are they burying?" I asked.

Meghan gave me a pinched expression, letting me know I'd crossed some invisible line.

"Mexican boy," she murmured. "Six years old."

"Jesus, that's tragic."

One of the old men snorted. "Damn criminal is what it is. People who let their kids run out in the road---"

Meghan winced. "Shame on you, Luther."

"It's folks like them need shamin'." He slammed his fist down. "Oughtta be the parents who died instead of the kid. If there was any justice."

I glanced over at him. "I'm sure there's a couple of people in that procession who'd agree with you."

He gave a dry chuckle. "Yeah? Like who?"

"The parents."

Luther looked away before I did.

"What exactly happened to him?" I heard myself say.

Nobody answered. These were local matters, private matters, and my car had Pennsylvania tags. The last of the mourners passed, and now the only sound was tinny music from the game room next door.

"Didja see that coffin?" Bill shook his head. "Best piece o' furniture them wetbacks own, and it's goin' right in the ground."

"You hush now." Meghan reddened. "They ain't wetbacks anyhow." Her voice faltered as a red Ford pickup tore down the highway, its right front tire screaming. For a second I took it for a late mourner. Then the truck braked hard into the parking lot, dragging gray dust behind.

Luther scratched his jaw. "Hell, that's Dale." The floorboards creaked as Dale came into the diner.

He was six and a half feet tall, three hundred pounds on the hoof. His mouth was surprisingly childlike, lost in a brick-red beard. Dale wore shitkicker boots and a yellow Windbreaker labeled Dyer County Fire and Emergency Rescue. He didn't look like he was there to check the extinguishers. His right hand was pale and blotched, all gooseflesh. Probably just out of a cast. Every few seconds it flexed and extended, as though he were trying to bring it back to life.

"'Lo, Dale." The waitress tried to smile.

"Rob here?" His voice was thick and slow. As Dale touched his cap I noticed a deep crease in his left temple. An old scar, badly healed. The words semper fi were stamped on the gold ring on his little finger.

Meghan was wringing her hands. "Robbie's over in the game room. Been here maybe---whatya think, Luther? An hour?"

"Near about." Luther nodded. "Every day at three, he's here."

Dale barely saw me as he lumbered past: I was just some guy eating lunch. As he entered the game room, the diner began to breathe again.

"Oh boy." Meghan passed a hand over her forehead. "You don't think---"

"Reckon I don't." Luther's eyes dropped to his fried apple pie. "Ain't no trouble of mine."

If Robbie had been a deadbeat gambler or some redneck Romeo with a hard-on for Dale's sweetheart, I might have agreed. But something that old man said bothered me. Every day at three, he's here. Three o'clock is when school lets out.

I shifted for a better view of the game room.

Robbie was small for his age---seven or eight, maybe forty pounds. He had to stand on a box to reach the video game controls. His slender legs were clad in metal braces. A brand-new walker stood beside the machine. As Dale's shadow fell over him, the boy said something too soft to hear. Dale put his hand under the boy's armpit and lifted him like a puppet.

Robbie yelped. "I need my walker."

Dale grabbed the walker, tucked it under his right arm and started for the door. I kept my eyes on Dale. Again he brushed past me without looking. Then Robbie came within reach of my arms, and for one awful second his brown eyes gazed deep into my own.

My hand tightened on the brass rail.

"Excuse me." But Dale didn't stop. I turned to the waitress.

"Call the police," I said. "Now."

"Don't be crazy." She grabbed at my wrist.

"Just do it."

By the time I got to the parking lot, Dale was fumbling for his keys with Robbie pinned beneath his left arm. Whatever he planned to do to the boy, he was damned well going to do in private. I was thirty feet away, walking steady. My palms were sweating.

Dale flung the walker into the bed of the truck, where it landed with a dull clatter. Robbie screamed.

"Let go!" Robbie swung his thin legs, clawed at Dale's shirt. "Leave me alone! I hate you!"

His fingernails swiped Dale's left eye. The keys flew from Dale's hand and disappeared under the front tire.

"God damn it!" Dale took the boy's face in one enormous hand. "Cut this shit out! Tell me what the fuck she said!"

Robbie bit his lip.

"Look at me when I talk to you, Robbie!"

"Let go of me! You're not my daddy!"

"Dale." I was ten feet away.

He turned. "Who the hell are you?"

"My name is Mike." I spoke softly enough to make him lean forward. "Is everything okay?"

"Fuck you care?" His breathing slowed a little.

"I'm a little worried about Robbie." I could feel the blood in my temples. Why was I doing this? I didn't have any authority here, not anymore. And I sure as hell didn't look forward to getting pounded. But Robbie was watching.

Dale's hand slipped from Robbie's face, leaving a bright red mark on the boy's cheek. "Never mind about Robbie. He's fine."

"Come on, Dale. He's scared out of his mind."

Dale drew back slightly, balancing on the razor's edge.

"Just take it easy," I said. "And let's do the right thing."

For a second he seemed about to let go. I reminded myself not to move until he was at least two strides away from the kid. Then we both heard it, a keening sound on the wind. Police sirens. Dale's face went white.

"You son of a bitch." He pushed the boy hard, trying to get him into the cab. Robbie slipped and collapsed on the pavement. I reached to stop his fall and that pushed the trigger. A moment later Dale hurtled toward me.

He drove the first punch---a haymaker, straight at my solar plexus. I darted to one side and his fist rammed against my ribcage, sending a dagger of pain through my lungs. Then he landed a left to my jaw. My head snapped back and the ground swung around me. I was going down. I feinted with my left, hooked the back of his leg with my instep and slammed his chin backward. We both fell hard, but I was ready for it. He wasn't. He instinctively threw out his hand to break his fall: the wrong hand.

"Motherfucker!" Dale bellowed, taking three hundred pounds hard on the pavement.

By instinct, I reached for my pancake holster...but of course it wasn't there. Dale had a killer look in his eye, and the squad car was still half a mile away. I had to take my shot before he got his feet under him. Throwing all my weight into my stride, I ran up and planted my toe as hard as I could into the cleft of that dent in his skull.

The shock traveled all the way to my hip. I'd struck something harder than bone. Dale's head swung away and his eyes rolled like he'd touched lightning. Then his cheek hit the pavement. Blood trickled from his ear.

"Okay, that's enough." I leaned over, out of breath. "Robbie, stay where you are. It's gonna...be all right."

Dale slumped against the side of his truck---making a soft sound, like a dove cooing.

"I didn't want to do that," I said. "You were losing control. I had to stop you."

He only looked at me in confusion, as if wondering who the hell I was and what he was doing on the ground. Then, in a clear soft voice, he spoke.

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Just then." His eyes rolled upward. "Did you hear a baby cry?"

At that moment all I could hear were the sirens of a sand-colored Crown Victoria as it pulled to a stop.

The crest on the side read, Dyer County Sheriff's Department,

"Day early for Sattidy wrasslin', ain't it boys?"

The lead officer, small and compact, wore desert-drab plainclothes. A gold detective's shield dangled from his worn leather belt. He stood from the vehicle, his narrow yellow eyes checking for danger. His deputy was an aimless-looking goof with fresh acne scars. Both of them wore black armbands and carried twelve-gauge shotguns.

The detective's lips curled in amusement. "Now what's this looks like to you, Clyde?"

"'Pears to be dis-orderly conduct, Tippet." Clyde whistled. "Damn, Dale. You let that little wart of a guy break your hand all over again?"

Dale looked up. "I have to go home now."

"Lieutenant." I looked Tippet straight in the eye. "My name's Mike Yeager. I---"

"I'll getcher name when I want it." Tippet sneered. "And keep those hands clear of your body. I just got called from a funeral, and I'm in no mood for shit."

I held my palms out. "Look, I'm the one who told the waitress to call in. I saw this man grab that young boy over there, and---"

"Boy?" He glanced around. "Ain't no boy."

I looked back at the tailgate. Robbie was gone. So was the metal walker.

"Clyde, you see any boy ‘round here?"

"Guess he musta run off." Clyde nodded back to me. "All right, sir. Need you to turn ‘round slow and face the vehicle. Keep your legs apart and put your palms together behind your back."

"You too, Dale." Tippet kept a tactical distance, a park ranger eyeing a wounded grizzly.

"Cassie's gone," Dale said with dull certainty.

Tippet threw a weary glance at his partner. "We go through this twice a week, Dale. Your daughter ain't gone nowhere."

"She wasn't at school when I went to get her." Dale furrowed his brow. "Somebody said they saw her talking to Robbie. So I thought..." His voice trailed off.

"Mean to tell me that was Robbie McIntosh you grabbed hold of?" Tippet rolled his eyes. "Dale, for chrissake."

Clyde cleared his throat. "Tip, maybe we oughta call this one in."

Tippet barely nodded. "Dale, if I go check on your daughter, you ain't gonna give us no trouble---right?"

Dale stumbled to his feet. "I gotta look for my Cassie. Maybe she's home by now."

"Shoulda thought about your little girl before you got in a fight."

"We'll call the Maidstones for ya." Clyde circled behind Dale. "They'll keep a look out for Cassie."

The cuffs trembled in the deputy's hands as he fumbled to get them around Dale's huge wrists. I stood still and waited my turn, certain that Clyde didn't know what the hell he was doing. With his back to me, it wouldn't be too much of a job to get the jump on him. I could even try and take that twelve-gauge away if I felt crazy enough. And that bothered me. A dumb local cop can get a man killed.

But then there was Tippet, covering his partner with a shotgun on tight choke. He looked like he might enjoy having me resist arrest.

"All right, sir. What was that name again?" The cuffs bit my wrists as Clyde forced them home.

"Yeager. Michael Francis Yeager."

"On your way down to Las Vegas, Mr. Yeager?"

"Just came to take pictures of the mountains."

Tippet cocked an eyebrow. "What do you do for a living exactly?"

"Right now exactly nothing." I glanced over to my car. "My cameras are in the old Nash over there."

A rattlesnake gleam shone in Tippet's eyes. "Get his wallet."

Clyde started to reach into my hip pocket. "In my jacket," I said. The deputy warily plucked out my billfold.

"Whatta we got there, Clyde?"

"Outastate license." He held it up for his partner. "Filla-delf-yuh, P-A. Subject is five foot seven, one hunnert and sixty pounds. Age, forty-two. Black hair, blue eyes. Organ donor. I guess he about donated some organs today."

Tippet frowned. Keep lookin'."

Clyde continued to flip through the wallet. "Holy Christ. Tip, check this shit out."

"Whatya got?"

"Holy Christ on a mother-lovin' pony." Clyde held up the laminated ID card. "This fella's FBI."

"FBI my ass." Tippet leaned over Clyde's shoulder. Then he gave a low whistle. "Well, shit on a brick. That right, Mr. Yeager? Are you FBI?"

I sighed. "Once upon a time."

Copyright © 2006 by Thomas Lakeman