Winterkill. P.H. Turner
time to meet this week.”
“That’s fine. The offer of coffee stands. I’ll be in touch.”
My email chimed. I looked at the subject line: news for your Foster Ranch story. One click and the message opened. Stay out of it. I recoiled from the monitor. I clicked back to the inbox. Anonymous. Sweat popped out on my forehead and my hands turned to ice. I didn’t want gossip until I could find out a bit more. I called our tech guy. “Mark, I got an anonymous email from an unhappy viewer. Is there any way you can get me the IP address?”
“Yeah, sure. Everyone has an internet address, but if your guy sent it from a public computer, the machine’s address isn’t going to help. Do we need to call the police, Sawyer?”
“Not yet. But can you see if you are able to pull the IP address?”
“Sure. Forward the email to me and I’ll give it a go this afternoon.”
“Email me what you find out.”
I saved the email and printed a copy for my file. Who was this guy? Was he just trying to scare me?
* * * *
Mark’s answer came right before five. My email had come from a computer at the Cheyenne County Library. Dead end. My desk phone rang while I was reading his email. “Hi Sawyer, it’s Mark. I sent you the search results for the IP address. No way to tell who used a public computer over at the library. I’m not real comfortable with that message you got. Sure you don’t want to make it official and call the police?”
“Not yet, Mark. Could be just someone letting off steam.”
“Call me if you need me.”
Dwayne was loafing in my doorway. I stifled a sigh of exasperation. I hadn’t seen much in this guy that made me want to hear from him.
“Heard you had some unhappy viewers. I might be able to help you with that.” He smirked.
How did Dwayne know about the email? “We’re journalists, Dwayne. We don’t broadcast the news to make people happy. We cover the news the public needs to know to make informed decisions. Remember learning that in J-school?”
“I’m the sports director. J-school isn’t in my past. My viewers love my stories.” He simpered. “Check my Facebook page. Friend me if you like.”
“Happy for you, Dwayne.” I loaded up my laptop and grabbed my bag. “I’ll get in touch if I need your help.” I scooted by him and out into the hall.
10
At four in the morning, my cell jigged out its happy tune. No caller ID. “Hello… Hello?”
No one there.
I was wide awake now thinking about the anonymous email and the blocked call. No coincidences. I pulled on some ratty sweat pants. I needed coffee. Rummaging through the kitchen cabinet turned up an empty coffee bag. I shrank from drinking the cold dregs of coffee in the pot from yesterday morning knowing Starbucks was on my way to work. I decided to run. Nothing cleared my head like loping though the cold dawn. I ran a couple of miles, walked a half mile, and jogged the rest of the way home. By the time I’d showered and driven to town, I just needed coffee to help me write a follow-up story.
Through the drive-through window, I could see Jake and Morgan Hall enjoying their morning brew together. She looked beautiful and like she had slept well. I flipped down the visor mirror looking at the bags under my eyes.
“Ma’am? Ma’am? Here’s your coffee.” The window jockey interrupted my self inspection.
“Thanks.” I fumbled in my bag for the money. I coasted out to the street. Jake and Morgan. Were they an item? Friends? Lovers?
My cell danced. I sloshed coffee trying to put the cup back in the cup holder. “Good morning,” Hunter said. “Hope I caught you before you were too involved with the news business. I want us to go riding on my ranch. How about Saturday afternoon? We’ll picnic up on the ridgeline. What do you say?”
“I haven’t been on a horse in a couple of years,” was my knee-jerk response.
“You’ll be fine.” He laughed. “Sitting a horse is like riding a bike. You never quite forget. I’ve a great little mare for you. Interested?”
“You got me with the words ‘great little mare.’”
“I’ll show you a good time. Pick you up around two on Saturday.”
“I’ll just drive over to your place. No need to come by for me.”
The station was humming with activity when I pushed open the back doors. The lighting techs were setting up for Tobin’s morning shot and Dwayne was shouting at a photog. Clay called out when I rounded the corner by our offices, “Hey kiddo.” There’s that kiddo, again. “Whatcha got on the story from Foster’s place? I gotta plan the six o’clock rundown.”
“Give me a minute for the follow-up story. I’ll have it finished by the time Benita and I leave to interview George Carlisle this afternoon.”
“I thought Carlisle wouldn’t talk to you. How’d you get him to sit for an interview?” Clay asked.
“I appealed to his vanity. Suggested to him that he didn’t want to see this story run without his expert opinion.”
“You on a fishing trip with Carlisle, or you got something?” Clay looked up at me.
“Fishing.”
“He’s an important businessman in the community. I don’t want the station lawyers having to defend a defamation suit.”
“Got it,” I answered, walking out. I turned and called his name softly. “Clay, I’m a professional. No proof. No story.” The tension eased in his face. “And Clay, cut the kiddo, will you?”
He knitted his brows and cocked his head to one side, “Sorry Sawyer. Just a habit. I call everyone kiddo. You don’t like it, I’ll stop.”
“Thanks.”
Benita was standing in the edit bay with two coffees. Bless her. “Thought you might need some extra this morning.”
“Definitely.”
“Clay calls me kiddo, too. I don’t like it either. I keep wondering if he thinks I’m still a kid.”
“It means what it means. Kiddo. An adult-to-child form of address. I haven’t been a kiddo in many years and neither have you. Clay’s a good guy. He’ll deal with it.”
“I hope so.”
“I’ve got about thirty minutes of work here before the Carlisle shoot,” I said.
“I’ll be ready in thirty,” she murmured, engrossed in her editing.
I took my coffee to my office, got comfy and started working the phone. “Hi Sam. Got a minute?”
“One,” he said abruptly. I’m on my way to a cow that has been in breach labor all night. Whatcha need?”
“Did you work any of those old cases of mutilations around here?”
“No. Foster’s bull was my first. I hoping it’s my last, but I don’t believe it.”
“Why do you think it wasn’t a one-time event?”
“Young lady, I can do some research too, you know. Folks that cut up animals for fun don’t just do it one time.”
“Had some aspects of ritual with that tamped down grass and rock cairn,” I said.
“Don’t forget his balls were cut off. And are missing.”
“Hard to overlook that. How many people you think have the skills and tools to do that?”
“That’s