Six Cut Kill

  Titles by David R Lewis

  Nosferati Series

  BLOODTRAIL

  BLOODLINE

  Crockett Series

  FEAR OF THE FATHER

  GRAVE PROMISE

  SITUATIONAL FLEXIBILITY

  ABDUCTED

  WITNESS REJECTION

  UNDERCOVER

  BEHIND THE BADGE

  SIX CUT KILL

  Trail Series

  DEER RUN TRAIL

  NODAWAY TRAIL

  CALICO TRAIL

  PAYBACK TRAIL

  OGALLALA TRAIL

  KILLDEER TRAIL

  CUTTHROAT TRAIL

  GLORY TRAIL

  Stand Alones:

  COWBOYS AND INDIANS

  ONCE UPON AGAIN

  INCIDENTS AMONG THE SAVAGES

  WRITER’S BLOCK

  ENDLESS JOURNEY (nonfiction)

  SIX CUT KILL

  (The Feel of the Steel)

  By David R. Lewis

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 David R Lewis

  ISBN: 9781370858699

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally; and any resemblance to people, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  All Rights Reserved

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. No portion of this book may be reproduced without the consent of the author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  PROLOGUE

  Carol Ann

  As it turned out the karate lessons didn’t help. She hadn’t wanted to take them in the first place. But, when she left Clinton, Missouri bound for school in Springfield, her mother, absolutely committed to keeping her only child safe in the sinful big city, had insisted. She’d even coughed up the money and demanded to see some sort of diploma or certificate to prove her late-in-life daughter could protect herself.

  “Carol Ann, you just can’t be too careful. There’s all kinds of people where you’re going. God knows Clinton’s gettin’ bad enough, all them tourists goin’ to the lake and such, but Springfield is a real city! Why there’s Ay-rabs and Negroes and Mexicans and Jews and all sorts of people at that school. You just stay with the whites, don’t go out alone at night, find a Baptist church, and take some self-defense lessons. You’re a good girl. Lord, I don’t know why you wanna go off to someplace like that anyway. You could stay right here with your momma, go to work at the Bass Pro boat place, apply yourself, and be a shift supervisor in just a few years. You could save your money for when you get married and start a family. Lord knows I got plenty of room in this old house.”

  Carol Ann ran. Four years later she had acquired a degree in business administration with a minor in public relations, a brown belt in some nondescript Americanized version of martial arts, and an abortion. She had also acquired a considerably different attitude about life than when she’d been second runner-up to Miss Henry County during her third year in high school. She returned home for a short time, found her mother to be even more unaware and stifling, and began to apply for jobs all over the country, with a hopeful eye on Denver or Santa Fe. When Carol Ann was actually hired by the Downtown Marriott in Kansas City, her mother tried again.

  “It is beyond me why you want to go all that way! We got motels where you could work right here in Clinton. You could stay at home here with me. The weather starts warmin’ up this spring, you could git on right back out at the marina on the lake. They’re nice folks. You worked out there in housekeepin’ two summers with me when you was in high school. I bet they’d love to have you back. Then maybe next fall you could git on at Bass Pro. Lord, Carol Ann, Kansas City is a big place! There’s all kinds of people live up there. They got murders and gangs, nightclubs and those bars where men go…it’s no place for a good girl like you! Pretty and innocent as you are, you ain’t got no business someplace like that!”

  With eleven hundred dollars in her pocket, Carol Ann found an efficiency apartment on Jarboe Street and began her new life in the exciting world of hotel management as a Marriott trainee. She became a desk clerk on the evening shift at five hundred and seventeen dollars a week.

  Parking, always an expensive and precious commodity in downtown Kansas City, was provided by the hotel in its underground lot. Those who worked the evening shift usually couldn’t find a spot there, however, and parked across the street beneath Barney Allis Plaza. When the weather was nice, a half-block walk out the front door of the Marriott brought Carol Ann to her parking facility. If the weather was harsh, underground tunnels connected several of the hotels and venues in the area to parking facilities so the patrons and tourists wouldn’t have to venture above ground onto the mean streets. In Kansas City, while some of the streets are very mean, downtown is usually safe. Carol Ann was not afraid, but she did purchase a 60,000-volt hand-held Taser, which she kept in her purse as she walked to her car, usually parked beneath Barney Allis Plaza.

  The walk could be a little scary late at night, the click of her heels echoing off the distant cement walls, the press of thousands of tons of concrete above her, the low ceiling, festooned with pipes, damp and dripping onto a floor stained by leaky transmissions and oil pans. She dealt with it. She was young, she worked out in the Marriott health club three times a week, she knew karate, and she had her Taser. The Taser didn’t help any more than the karate did.

  Carol Ann noticed nothing amiss as she descended on the escalator to the sub-level. She felt no fear as she stepped onto the gritty cement floor. No harbinger of things to come alerted her as she turned to her right to cross beneath the moving stairway. He was in front of her so quickly that he appeared to wink into sight from thin air. He made the six cuts in just over three seconds. So rapidly did he act, Carol Ann remained on her feet through the taking of her life. She didn’t scream; she didn’t resist; she didn’t protest. The only sounds came from the ripping of the blade and the tiny gurgles forced from Carol Ann’s throat by the impact of the thrusts. He was moving away from her as she fell, her head bouncing once on the cruel floor, her sightless eyes staring blankly upward at the underside of the escalator, her confused mind unable to fathom what had happened, the silence of her quiet heart thundering in her dying ears.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was only the middle of April, but enough winter snow and early spring rain had arrived to fill Crockett’s small lake to the spillway overflow. He was pleased. The bluegill and crappie were doing well and growing. Plant life was obvious in the shallow areas. The water, even with the spring influx, was reasonably clear; and he had deer, turkey, and assorted other critters in abundance. He smiled as he flexed his shoulder. The pain and discomfort from the bullet wound near the base of his neck was little more than a memory and much less important than the fact that, by September, he’d have panfish at a pound or more, and two pound bass the spring after that. He was still a county cop, but he was on less than full-time duty. He worked weekends now and then, was ready to fill in if somebody was off sick, and remained on call for serious stuff but, unless Dale Smoot really needed him, he was on inactive status.

  He lighted his third Sherman of the day and peered into the water at the end of the dock checking on the rank and file of hybrid bluegill waiting for the possibility of a free lunch. His attention was grabbed by Stitch, roun
ding the corner of the point of land fifty yards away, lazily paddling his canoe in Crockett’s direction. The old hippie slid into the end of the dock with a quiet thump, clambered out of the little Old Towne Discovery, and handed Crockett a cold Guinness.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure, man. You get ‘em?”

  “Yeah. The truck left about thirty minutes ago. Three thousand eight to ten inch bass, forty thousand fathead minnows, and a dozen grass carp.”

  “That it?”

  “That’s it. All stocked.”

  “Far out. Considerin’ how much bread you spent on this lake an’ all them fish, dude, if you ate lobster every day for the rest a your life, how long would ya have to live to, like, equal your investment, man?”

  Crockett thought a moment. “Another hundred and thirty-eight years,” he said.

  Stitch grinned. “An’ them lobster just show up on your plate, man. You gotta go out an’ hunt for these other fuckers.”

  “You trying to make some kinda point here, Stitch?”

  “Not me, dude. I’m just explorin’ the financial equivalency between eatin’ lobster as opposed to chasin’ a bunch a crappie around. Not to mention you gotta clean ‘em and cook ‘em and do dishes and the rest a that shit, man.”

  “Is there a conclusion in this examination someplace?”

  “Yeah. Considerin’ the fact that I, like, live on this lake that you installed, an’ that a significant number of the fish you have loaded this fucker up with are gonna cruise by my crib, I can sum up my evaluation of the situation in two words, dude.”

  “And those would be?”

  “Far out.”

  Crockett smiled. “Took the words right out of my mouth,” he said.

  Dundee, Crockett’s Cattle Dog and Australian Shepard mix canine came bouncing down the slope to the dock and thrust herself on Stitch for a pat. In her wake came Satin, Crockett’s relatively new wife, carrying his reactively old cell phone. She gave Stitch a kiss on the cheek and handed the phone and a slip of paper to Crockett.

  “You left this in the house,” she said. “Got a call from a woman named Mazy. I told her you’d call her back.”

  “Mazy?”

  “Uh-huh. Isn’t that your old flame from down on Truman Lake?”

  “Yeah. I told her never to call me if you might be around. Guess I’m busted.”

  “Yep,” Satin said. “I get the house. You can have the lake. Maybe Stitch’ll let you live with him. Now I have to find an attorney.”

  “Wonder what she wants?” Crockett said.

  “Her cell number is on that piece of paper. Call her.”

  “You’re being awfully good about this, dear.”

  “The restraining order will be here by noon tomorrow,” Satin said. “You better bring your A-game tonight.” She started back up the hill.

  “That’s the chick at that marina where I stayed with you guys for a while, huh?” Stitch said.

  “That’s her.”

  “Where them fuckers cut her dog’s head off ‘cause she an’ her father-in-law wouldn’t sell out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m goin’ up to your crib an’ help Satin find a lawyer. That chick wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important, man.”

  Crockett watched Stitch walk away and memories of Mazy and her father-in-law, Zebulon, flew around his head like humming birds. He spent some of the best time of his life in their company at Watkins Marina, before Ruby was killed and before Satin and he were new. He sighed, consulted the piece of paper, and punched in the numbers. Lord, what now?

  Mazy answered on the third ring.

  “Hey, kid. It’s Crockett. What’s up?”

  “Hiya, Crockett. Long time since I heard that voice.”

  “Likewise. You okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Zeb?”

  “He’s okay, too. Hasn’t lost a step.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I, uh, I need to see you, Crockett. Don’t get all shook up. This isn’t about me or you, or the business or anything.”

  “Okay. I’ll be down tomorrow early afternoon.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “Doncha even want to know why?”

  “You can tell me tomorrow.”

  “Jesus, Crockett. You are somethin’ else.”

  Crockett smiled. “You still short?” he asked.

  Mazy disconnected.

  When Crockett got to the house, Stitch and Satin were sitting in the porch swing, Dundee was lying in a corner of the deck; and Nudge, Crockett’s immense tomcat, was perched on the railing and lashing his tail.

  “Find an attorney?” he asked.

  Satin shook her head. “Tried three,” she said. “Two were in prison, and one was in rehab. Guess you’re stuck with me.”

  “Wanna go for a ride tomorrow?”

  “A ride? On your motorcycle?”

  “Yeah. Down to Truman Lake.”

  “To see my predecessor, no doubt.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Not me,” Satin went on.

  Crockett smiled. “Afraid you’ll cramp my style?”

  “You don’t have any style. It’s your best feature.”

  Crockett turned to Stitch. “How ‘bout you?”

  “Sure. The Guzzi needs to stretch its legs. I like it down there. Be nice to see Zeb an’ them.”

  “Great. I told Mazy we’d be there early afternoon. Leave around ten?”

  “Cool.”

  Satin peered at him for a moment. “You okay with this, Crockett?” she asked. “Lot of history there.”

  “I’m okay. How ‘bout you?”

  Satin smiled. “I’m fine,” she said. “Lot of history here, too.”

  Crockett was checking the old Gold Star’s oil when Stitch arrived on his Moto Guzzi the next morning. Stitch eyeballed the classic BSA.

  “When’s the last time you had that sled runnin’, man?” he asked.

  “Middle of last October,” Crockett replied, wiping his hands on a shop towel.

  “Think that ol’ stove’ll start?”

  “It will if I can hang in there long enough.”

  “Got any oxygen in the house? I don’t wanna have to give ya mouth-to-mouth, ya know?”

  Crockett slipped on his helmet and gloves, tickled the Amil grand prix carburetors, set the choke, opened the compression release, snicked the transmission into neutral, grabbed the clutch just in case, opened the throttle halfway, carefully pushed the kick starter through its cycle a couple of times until it stopped at the top of the stroke, launched himself into the air, and drove the kick starter downward with all his weight. Nothing. He repeated the procedure eight times before the old bike fired. He quickly closed the compression release and feathered the throttle to keep it running until the crackles and pops settled into the throaty BSA burble. Panting from the workout, he glanced at Stitch.

  Grinning, Stitch held his hand in the air, index finger extended, lowered the hand, pushed a button on his handlebar with the index finger, and the Moto Guzzi purred to life. Glaring at him, Crockett propelled himself and the Gold Star down the driveway. Stitch maintained a discrete distance to avoid any flying gravel and chuckled. Crockett and that old Beezer were a helluva pair.

  They arrived in Clinton, Missouri a little after noon and stopped at a Golden Corral for lunch, Stitch comfortable and relaxed, Crockett stretching out kinks and battling residual vibration effects. About one-thirty they rolled into the parking lot at Watkins Marina, got off their bikes, and walked down to the bait shop. Mazy was behind the counter. She grinned and advanced on Crockett, giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She did the same thing with Stitch, then backed up and looked at the two of them.

  “Motorcycles?” she asked.

  “Ol’ Crockett hit his second childhood, man,” Stitch said. “I just hang out to keep him from believin’ his own publicity.”

  “I know how tough t
hat can be,” Mazy said. “Zeb’s putting in a pontoon boat. You two say hello to him while I go up to the motel and put on some fresh coffee. C’mon up when you’re done, and we’ll talk.”

  “About what?” Crockett asked.

  “About murder,” Mazy said.

  After Mazy left, Crockett and Stitch wandered out of the shop and onto the floating dock. Stitch looked around.

  “I forgot how pretty this place is, man. I can see why you hung out here an’ shit.”

  Crockett smiled with the memories and didn’t reply. The two of them stood quietly for a moment, appreciating the scenery and lake until Stitch spoke again.

  “Whoa! Bigfoot alert!”

  Crockett followed Stitch’s eye-line up the dock to see an immense furry form galumphing their way. Laughing, he dropped to one knee and addressed the oncoming apparition.

  “Munch!”

  The huge dog slammed on the brakes twenty-feet distant and peered at them, his nose working furiously.

  “You grew up!” Crockett said.

  “Blarf!” the dog replied and threw himself at Crockett, knocking him backward to his butt and dispensing canine spit from a tongue about a foot and a half wide as he wiggled like a puppy.

  Grunting with exertion and laughter, Crockett wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck and hung on while Munch wooled him around, issuing little yips of excitement.

  “I wonder if he remembers ya, man.” Stitch said.

  Through his giggles, Crockett managed to get out a few words. “Munch! Quit it! Sit, godammit!”

  The dog’s massive backside hit the deck with an audible thump; and he actually sat, a tail the size of a sewer pipe whipping furiously back and forth. Crockett sat on the boards in front of him, rubbing the fur on his chest.