“Ninety-nine?”
Cam thought about it. He couldn’t quite define what his reservation was. “Kenny screwed up, got burned by Judge Bellamy, hated her, and made no bones about it. Everybody knows that. Plus, he thought that electric chair was positively wonderful. Plus…”
“Yeah?”
“Kenny’s one of those cops who live for the edge. He likes being a cop and he likes chasing the bad guys. It’s his whole life. That’s why I don’t think he’d jeopardize any of that by doing vigilante stuff.”
“Unless he was getting a little jaded, maybe?”
Cam shrugged. “I don’t know. We all get bored occasionally. Kenny could get that way. I just don’t believe he’d act on it. Probably why he spends all his off-duty time chasing women. He can get as much or as little excitement as he wants.”
“Okay, because I think I need an inside man as well as an outside man. I want to fold him into what you’re doing. I’ll also talk to McLain. If he has anything on any of my people, he’ll have to show me.”
“You want me to go through Kenny?”
“No, I want you to come to me, exclusively. But if I need to move assets in your direction, I’ll use Kenny. In the meantime, write me up a statement on what happened tonight. Mail it to me at my home address. You taking those dogs with you?”
“Absolutely,” Cam said.
“Great idea,” the sheriff said. “No question about whose side they’re on.”
36
Finding White Eye Mitchell turned out to be easy. Cam drove out to Pineville, county seat for Carrigan County, and rented a cabin. He used his personal credit card to pay for it, so Jaspreet and her tigers would know where he was. He took one day just to settle in and tried some trout fishing, which gave the sheriff time to send his credentials and badge. The following day, he checked in with the Carrigan County Sheriff’s Office and told them he was looking for Mitchell. The man was known locally as one of the backcountry guides who took clients out into the Smokies. One sergeant said that Mitchell was in his late sixties, maybe older, possibly part Indian, part who knew what, but not someone they considered a problem. They’d even used him a couple of times to help search for missing hikers. That said, no one in the Sheriff’s Office could tell him how or where to find the man. He supposedly lived up on the edge of the park, but beyond that, no data. They suggested a tour of the roadside gin mills in Carrigan and perhaps Cherokee County and in the towns up on the margins of the Indian reservation. “Just ask around,” the sergeant recommended. “Eventually, the word will get to him, and more than likely he’ll find you.”
Cam piled the shepherds into the truck late that afternoon and dutifully made said rounds, bought more barely touched beers than he had in a long while, and struck out across the board. Only one bartender said he recognized the name, and none of the locals had seen Mitchell for a long time, especially now that fall had arrived and with it the end of the heavy tourist season. Cam told everyone he talked to that he was staying in the Blue Valley cabins off Route 16, that there was no trouble, and that he only wanted to talk to Mitchell. He got back to the cabin just before 11:00 P.M., brought in some firewood from the front porch for the woodstove, let the dogs run around for ten minutes, brought them back in, and hit the sack. The other cabins appeared to be empty, which was no surprise, given the season and the altitude.
The next morning, he was awakened by a low growl from Frack, who was standing in front of the cabin’s single wooden door, hackles up. Frick was trying to see out the front windows, but the outside shutters were still pulled closed. Cam checked the time and saw that it was just after 7:00 A.M. He got out of bed and pulled on jeans, boots, and a shirt over his long johns. Then he found the Peacemaker, checked the loads, and quietly ordered both dogs to sit. He opened the front door and found a swarthy, gray-bearded man sitting in one of the wooden rockers with his back to Cam. He was wearing one of those black mountain-man slouch hats Cam had seen for sale in some of the saloons the previous night, a sheepskin-collared denim jacket, jeans, gloves, and intricately tooled boots with, the tops of which were covered in deerskin. The man looked sideways at Cam, revealing why they called him “White Eye.” His pupils were a disturbing silver color, reminding Cam of animated ball bearings.
“You lookin’ to talk to me?” the man asked in a gravely voice.
“You Mitchell?” Cam asked.
The man nodded once. “Let me gather up these dogs,” Cam said.
“Ain’t no need,” Mitchell said. “Dogs don’t bother me none. And I ain’t carryin’, so you can put that hog leg away, you want to.”
Cam hefted the. 45 and then stuffed it into his belt. “Come on in, then. We’ll get us some coffee.”
The man got up and walked through the door, following Cam. Both dogs stared at him, and he stopped and put out both hands, palms down, in their direction. Frick came over first and sniffed cautiously, then Frack. They seemed very interested in the scent of his jacket. Mitchell sank down into a squat and deliberately bared the back of his neck to Frack, who sniffed again for a good fifteen seconds, established his dominance, and then walked away. Frick came closer and did the same thing, running her nose over the back of his head and hair before she, too, walked away and sat down next to Frack in a corner of the room. Cam could see that they were both watching Mitchell, but there was no longer any tension in their pose. The mountain man had, for the moment anyway, completely disarmed them.
Cam got the makings for coffee going and invited Mitchell to take a seat at the table in the single room, which doubled as a living room and eating area. Mitchell took off his hat and coat and put them on the floor. He was whip-thin and his gray-white hair was shiny with oil and pulled into a tight ponytail. His clothes smelled of wood smoke, but they were clean. Cam got out two mugs and sat down at the table. The gun in his belt pinched his belly, but he ignored it. He rubbed his own growing beard, wondering if it would ever get as expansive as Mitchell’s. It was certainly going to be as gray.
“I’m a lieutenant in the Manceford County Sheriff’s Office,” he said, trying not to stare at those ball bearing-like eyes. Mitchell nodded. His hands were down on the table and bore signs of the outdoors.
“I need to know what a cat dancer is,” Cam said.
Mitchell regarded him for a moment. “Why you askin’ me?” he said.
“A man told me I should ask you,” Cam replied. “A man called James Marlor. You know him?”
Cam saw no flicker of recognition in Mitchell’s eyes at the mention of Marlor’s name. “Nope,” Mitchell said calmly.
“Well, he’s dead,” Cam said. “Killed himself. Lost his wife and daughter in a holdup that went bad back in Manceford County.”
Mitchell blinked, looked away for an instant, but didn’t say anything.
“Before he killed himself, he caught up with the two holdup men who had killed his family. Caught up with them, took them prisoner, and then put them in a homemade electric chair and fried them.”
Mitchell’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “Sounds right,” he said.
“Well, officially, we cops take a dim view of citizens doing that kind of shit.”
“Officially,” Mitchell said.
“Yeah,” Cam agreed.
“What’s that all got to do with me?” Mitchell asked.
Cam hesitated. He didn’t know this man, or what his relationship had been to James Marlor, if any. Or to rogue cops who were not from Manceford County. The coffee smelled ready. He got up and poured them both a cup. He decided to keep the Bellamy bombing out of it. “I caught up with Marlor. Talked to him before he died.”
“You mean before he killed hisself,” Mitchell interjected.
“Right. Just before he did that. There are certain aspects of the case we couldn’t figure out. He cleared up some of them, but he then suggested I come out here and ask you about cat dancers. He named you specifically. Made no sense to me, but here I am.”