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  RAPTOR'S RIDGE

  A MAX BLAKE MYSTERY

  WILLIAM FLORENCE

  WildBluePress.com

  Raptor’s Ridge is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locales, and incidents depicted in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously; any resemblance of any character within this work to an actual person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The exception, of course, is the Oregon setting.

  RAPTOR’S RIDGE published by:

  WILDBLUE PRESS

  P.O. Box 102440

  Denver, Colorado 80250

  Publisher Disclaimer: Any opinions, statements of fact or fiction, descriptions, dialogue, and citations found in this book were provided by the author, and are solely those of the author. The publisher makes no claim as to their veracity or accuracy, and assumes no liability for the content.

  Copyright 2018 by William Florence

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  WILDBLUE PRESS is registered at the U.S. Patent and Trademark Offices.

  ISBN 978-1-947290-75-4 Trade Paperback

  ISBN 978-1-947290-74-7 eBook

  Interior Formatting/Book Cover Design by Elijah Toten

  www.totencreative.com

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  EPILOGUE

  Also by William Florence:

  The Max Blake Mystery series …

  Misery Ridge

  Faraway Ridge

  Snowfall Ridge

  Emerald Ridge

  Emerald Ridge

  Melia Ridge

  Raven’s Ridge

  The Max Blake Western series …

  The Killing Trail

  Trail of Revenge

  Trail to Redemption

  Trail to Dead Man’s Gulch

  Trail from Crooked River

  Acknowledgments

  To Bill Kohlmeyer, for lending not only a stately name but also his vast wisdom from more than 30 years of experience on police matters; Michael J. Parker and Michael McClinton, for their superb legal expertise and treasured friendship; Andrew Bone, Bob LeRoy, and Tim Hannan, for their suggestions and advice during the early days when the manuscript was still evolving; Erin F. Lee, Clifford Corn, Alisa Angelakis, and Janel Foster, for their insightful critiques and timely suggestions as the manuscript took shape; Bernie Knab, whose critical early reading produced key revelations; and Steven P. Jackson of WildBlue Press, for his sage advice on the changing nature of the publishing business.

  Additional Acknowledgments

  Edgar Allen Poe for a passage from “The Raven”

  Bob Nolan for a passage from “Tumbling Tumbleweeds”

  Dylan Thomas for a passage from “A Child’s Christmas in Wales”

  Lewis Carroll for a passage from “The Walrus and the Carpenter”

  Gerald Marks and Seymour Simons for a snippet of “All of Me”

  Cast of Primary Characters

  Raptor’s Ridge

  Dashiell “AJ” Bohn: Timber king, retired multi-billionaire, owner of Raptor’s Ridge

  Audrey Flowers: Former movie star, AJ Bohn’s paramour

  Dr. Floyd Strand: Bohn’s personal physician

  Russell Vineyard: Butler and personal assistant to Bohn

  Edward L. “Ned” McClinton: Bohn’s personal attorney

  Paul Deeker, AKA The Snarl: One of Bohn’s bodyguards

  Tom Deeker: Brother of Paul Deeker and another bodyguard

  Charlie and Francis: Members of the Deeker brothers’ goon squad

  Townies

  Maxwell Blake: Private detective, college professor; former investigative reporter

  Caeli Brown: Max’s girlfriend

  Michael J. Parker: Max Blake’s lawyer

  Dr. Charles Wilson: State medical examiner

  Lawrence Hultz Fuller: County district attorney

  Jim Maddaux: Restaurant owner and Max’s friend

  Todd Wright: Automobile dealership owner and Max’s friend

  Local law enforcement

  Bill Kohlmeyer: Chief of police

  Robert LeRoy: County sheriff

  Ken Chichester: State police liaison officer

  Lieutenant Patrick McDonough: The police chief’s primary aide

  Lieutenant Charles V. Downing: City police officer and shakedown mastermind

  William “Buzzsaw” Stone: Key member of Downing’s shakedown crew

  Ron Clarin: Recalcitrant member of Downing’s shakedown crew

  John Day participants

  Little Cliff Corn: Chief of police

  Betty Sours: Retired high school teacher

  Lucas McCoy: Retired high school principal

  Lieutenant Timothy J. Petrone: Head of the State Police post in Grant County

  Nicholas Drake, AKA Axton Hoyt, et al: Serial killer

  Monte Simmons: Wilderness guide

  Jim Reeves: Horse wrangler

  Fred Chancey: local character

  PROLOGUE

  In the Front Door

  FIVE YEARS EARLIER

  He first spotted her at the local Safeway store and was smitten.

  Absolutely smitten.

  He considered the idea and laughed.

  Smitten, he thought. Such an old-fashioned word. But it’s exactly right.

  He watched her waltz past the cereal boxes and breakfast snacks and knew – he just knew – that she was exactly what he’d been searching for.

  And what better way to find a young housewife, he thought, than to hang out at the local supermarket and … shop the aisles?

  She was spectacular, he quickly decided, with wavy blonde hair and radiant, sparkling blue eyes that reminded him of the cheerleaders they show on TV during the Saturday afternoon football games – the extraordinarily pretty ones, where the cameras move in close as the girls smile and kick their trim legs high in the air. She had a natural wholesomeness about her that was both eye-catching and alluring – and he knew that he had to have her.

  Right now.

  The only question was how he would pull it off.

  It was true that he’d been thinking about such a moment for weeks, but he didn’t want to be impulsive. Impulsive could get you killed – something he’d learned first-hand in Special Ops, when a buddy with a quick temper and a penchant for mayhem and sniffing out trouble didn’t make it home.
br />   But he had to have her anyway, after all of that field time and all of the months that he’d spent away from civilization and any semblance of what rational people would call a normal life.

  And he knew in that instant – in that single blink of an eye as she unknowingly sashayed past, without so much as a sideways glance – that this was going to be his new life.

  My new normal ...

  He smiled when he noticed the curves beneath the sweater and her perfect white teeth – All the better to eat you with, my dear – and the large wedding ring that she proudly wore on her left hand. Even from a dozen feet away, he could tell that the ring was extravagant, and he thought of it now as his to keep: a trophy of sorts, just like the ones he’d saved from the battlefield.

  He had to get to her first, however, which was no easy task. This wasn’t Afghanistan or Iraq. He was in a grocery store in suburban north San Diego, and he knew that security cameras and rent-a-cops and Neighborhood Watch associations and common, everyday busybodies could thwart his best tactical efforts if he moved without proper caution.

  He decided on a loaf of Italian bread and a tin of coffee and left the store after paying with cash in the express line. He walked swiftly across the parking lot, pulling his ball cap low across his forehead to keep his face shielded from the surveillance cameras that were strategically mounted on light poles. He climbed into the non-descript white panel van that he’d liberated the night before from a used car lot in Chula Vista, focused his eyes on the storefront, and waited patiently.

  She was out of the store eight minutes later with three plastic bags filled with groceries, which she loaded into a sporty green Subaru wagon a couple of lanes over from where he was parked. He started the van and headed toward the exit, which spilled shoppers onto a busy thoroughfare. Urban planning was his friend. All supermarket traffic was forced to exit to the right, and he took that turn and moments later pulled into another parking lot down the street – one that serviced a strip mall with a dozen or more smaller shops – and immediately looped around in a quick half-circle so that the van was ready to again enter the main thoroughfare.

  When the Subaru carrying his delectable target passed by, he merged into the passing traffic and tagged along at a discreet distance.

  The Subaru turned left at a traffic signal, wound its way through a narrow residential neighborhood, turned left at another major cross street, turned right three blocks later, and eventually passed a sign that welcomed visitors to the Oaks North Golf Club.

  Perfect, he thought. No wonder she looks so … wholesome.

  When she pulled into the driveway of a rambling one-story ranch home that was painted in moderate earth tones appropriate to the subdivision’s codes, he continued past at a slow pace and noted that the sign above the front door read, simply, The Walkers.

  What could be easier?

  He wound his way toward the golf course, pulled into a parking lot, climbed into the back of the van, and decided on a San Diego Gas & Electric uniform from the many selections that he’d left hanging inside flimsy, see-through laundry bags.

  The van was in her driveway twelve minutes later, and he pulled a SDG&E ball cap tight on his head. He leaned across the front seat and grabbed the clipboard and cheap plastic pen from the passenger’s seat, then left the van and stepped smartly up the concrete walkway with a confident, unhurried stride that belied the jackhammer racing of his pulse.

  “Mrs. Walker?” he asked as she opened the front door and looked at him inquiringly.

  “That’s right,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  You have no idea … he thought, maintaining his sincere grin.

  “Mrs. Alice Walker?” he asked, this time examining the clipboard in his hand as though it held pertinent information.

  “No, Terri Ann Walker,” she said, a crease of doubt instantly shading her forehead.

  He stared harder at the clipboard, looking momentarily confused, and ran his index finger along imaginary lines, then smiled fleetingly. “Oh, yes, here it is,” he said. “Sorry. You are Mrs. Terri Ann Walker, of 17995 Cumana Terrace – that’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s me. Is something wrong?”

  “I’m afraid there is, ma’am, though there’s really no need to panic, I assure you,” he said, looking into her eyes once again.

  God, she’s even better than I thought …

  “I’m Drake Nichols, from the gas company. We’ve had reports of a leak in the area, and I’ve been sent to check the neighborhood and make sure we don’t have a major problem. I’ve already seen to a couple of your neighbors’ homes” – he waved his free arm to the east, pulling the clipboard closer to his chest – “and wondered if you’d mind if I checked …”

  “No, please – it’s fine,” she interrupted. “What do you need from me?”

  Don’t get me started …

  “I just need to check the connection around the side of the house,” he said, flashing his best Everything’s-under-control smile. “But the first stop’s always here, at the front door. I didn’t want you to see someone poking around and think that I was trying to …”

  He paused and grinned shyly, letting her fill in the unfinished thought.

  “No, that’s not a problem at all,” she said. “Go right ahead. The gas meter – is that what you need?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The meter is on that side of house” – she pointed toward the west – “over there.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “Better safe than sorry, I always say. I’ll let you know if I find a problem, of course.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’d appreciate that – thank you.”

  He tugged on the bill of the ball cap, just as they used to do it in the old cowboy movies, and stepped quickly off the porch – ever the smiling, accommodating professional – moving quickly around the west side of the house.

  No husband home, he thought. She’d have called him right away when I rang the bell.

  No toys in the yard, either. Better yet.

  He spotted the meter, drew up close enough to examine the dials, pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket and held it next to the metal, as though he were taking a reading, shook his head back and forth – just in case she’s looking through the window – and then headed back to the front door again, making imaginary notes on the clipboard as he walked.

  He rang the bell and stepped in close. She opened the door promptly, a questioning look on her face, and asked, “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m afraid not, ma’am. There’s a potential problem, I’m sad to say – good thing I caught it when I did.” He noted the look of concern that flashed across her face and knew that he had her. “If you’ll let me in for just one minute, I’ll check to make sure the gas levels are all right before I work on the connection. If they aren’t, you’ll need to evacuate the house for a few minutes, until everything is …”

  “No, of course – come in, please,” she said, stepping aside so that he could easily pass. “Should I get out of the house right now, while you check?”

  “That’s not necessary, Mrs. Walker,” he said as he stepped inside, keeping his body between his target and the door. “In fact, I much prefer it this way.”

  He glanced at his watch – not quite 1 p.m. – and smiled again. He figured that he had at least two hours, perhaps three if he wanted to push things.

  Plenty of time …

  He abandoned the van three blocks from the ocean, wiping it down to remove any lingering fingerprints before packing the gas company uniform that had so easily disarmed his prey into a paper grocery bag.

  As he headed toward a busy business district five blocks away, he began to hum and then silently sang a few lines of an old jazz tune that suddenly ran through his head:

  “All of me. Why not take all of me?

  Can’t you see, I’m no good without you …”

  That made him laugh out loud, and he co
uld hear Louis Armstrong and Billie Holliday and even Willie Nelson, almost as though they were standing next to him at that very moment.

  He swerved into an alley two blocks later and dropped the paper bag into an open dumpster. He left the alley for the sidewalk on the main thoroughfare a moment later, still humming happily to himself. It occurred to him that the plan he’d successfully orchestrated that day to capture the attention of the lovely Terri Ann Walker was modestly efficient, given its hasty execution – the thought of the word made him laugh aloud – but it would need some perfecting if he wanted to use it again.

  It’s all about the details, he thought. One after another, like rats in the desert – a place for everything and everything in its place.

  He began to run the myriad little niceties of the just-finished encounter through his mind, again and again, as he boarded a city bus that would return him to the flophouse he was renting by the week. He took a seat close to the exit doors and admitted during the evaluation that some things went better than others and that the next time he encountered a woman with such considerable allure, he would be smarter, and he would plan more thoroughly, and he would take fewer chances, and – best of all – he would allow himself more time.

  He stuck his hand into his jeans pocket and wrapped his fingers around the large wedding ring that he’d slipped from Mrs. Walker’s finger, just before she’d slipped away for good.

  On this first day of the hunt, Old Saint Nick, as he sometimes called himself, didn’t learn all of the tricks and trademarks that he would use in his future encounters with the Terri Ann Walkers of this world.

  But he had to admit that it was a start – a hell of a good start, in fact.

  And if it went well …

  … there’s plenty more where that came from.