Manifest Intent

By Mike Farris

Scot Anthony, on the cusp of making partner at a major law firm in Dallas, faces the biggest crisis of his young career: Someone is killing off the witnesses in his lawsuit with the federal government. To smoke out the killer, Scot forces the case to trial, even though it means sabotaging reasonable settlement efforts — but the trial is aborted in mid-stream when two more witnesses are killed.
Trying to put the case behind him, Scot and his wife take an impromptu vacation to Maui. Once in paradise, they discover they’ve been followed by the killer, who is tying up loose ends — and Scot is the last loose end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Jan 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463838303

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Colorado sky was crystal clear earlier in the evening, highlighted by a full moon that gradually emerged from its hiding place behind the mountains. Its light reflected off snow-covered ground, painting the white landscape with a pale glow. But clouds, pregnant with tomorrow's snow, soon threatened to obliterate the moon's light. The snow-capped Rockies stretched above a rag-tag collection of frame houses and ski lodges that made up the tiny town of Mountain View. The activity of the town started to subside at sundown until it resembled a virtual ghost town, a status betrayed only by a few lighted windows and smoking chimneys.

Two motels sat side-by-side on the main drag leading into town. The Best Western featured a coffee shop and flashing neon lights, overpowering its neighbor, the more modest Motel 6. Scot Anthony chose the Motel 6 for no reason other than the folksy promise of their down-home TV spokesman to leave the light on for him.

Scot stretched out on the double bed with a green bedspread in a spartanly-furnished room and watched an old black-and-white cowboy shoot-em-up on television as he waited for his ten o'clock meeting. He tried to follow the movie but found himself distracted. Restless.

A glance at the clock on the nightstand, its red digits glowing, told him it was time to leave. He bundled up in his down jacket, slipped bulky ski gloves on his hands, and opened the door. He hustled down the dusky hallway and out the back, where a cold blast of wind greeted him, bringing instant tears to his eyes. The temperature had already dipped into the teens, well on its way to the forecast low of near zero. He pulled his jacket collar up around his chin, ducked his head like a turtle withdrawing into its shell, and turned toward the Best Western.

A foot of powdery snow covered the narrow strip of land that separated the two motel parking lots. Scot stepped high, like a hurdler, glad to be wearing cowboy boots. He reached the adjacent parking lot in five strides, stamped his feet a few times to shake off excess snow, and set off towards the coffee shop, its lights beckoning with promises of warmth. Halfway there, he glanced at the darkened sky. The moon was shut out by the clouds, except for one thin splay of light.

On an impulse, he followed the splay to the ground. It hit beside a large dumpster at the rear of the parking lot, revealing a shadowy lump, like a roll of carpet, just outside the spotlight. Something about the lump grabbed Scot's attention. His pulse quickened, and he veered away from the coffee shop and angled toward the lump.

The clouds opened on cue as he neared, and the moonbeam spread, crossing the lump and exposing it for what it was — a large body, powerfully built. Clad in jeans, brown hiking boots, and a gray down vest over a plaid flannel shirt. Familiar clothes. Scot forgot the stiffness in his legs and broke into a trot until he stood beside the body, lying face up.

A familiar face. Handsome in a rugged way, still bearing ravages of childhood acne and a precariously bent nose, testimony to a wayward elbow on an athletic field. David Turner's face.

Blood streamed from a gaping wound in his neck, accompanied by a gurgling sound. A pool of red painted the ground around his head, melting the snow, venting traces of steam skyward.

Scot dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse. Turner opened his eyes and locked gazes with him.

What happened? Scot spoke in a breathless whisper.

Turner moved his lips to speak; Scot leaned close, straining to hear.

No jokes this time, Turner whispered hoarsely. A spasm wrenched his chest and his eyelids fluttered. Scot cradled Turner's head and held him tightly, but Turner went limp in his arms, his life flowing into the rapidly reddening snow.

Chapter 2

A roughhewn log cabin in a clearing overlooked a lake hidden deep in the Rockies, thirty miles from Mountain View. Evergreens danced around the edge of the clearing, surrounding a small structure. In the midst of a snow-covered rooftop, a chimney emitted faint wisps of smoke, the remains of a dying fire.

In a darkened bedroom, Milt Arnold snored in a double bed, face to the wall, covered by two layers of thick quilts and a faded green comforter. A cheap dresser, nightstand, and an antique rocking chair completed the bedroom ensemble. Nothing fancy, just a fisherman's retreat.

The sun's morning climb heavenward was still an hour away when an alarm shattered the stillness. Milt ventured his hand from beneath the comforter toward the offending sound. His fingers groped in the darkness, climbing along the nightstand, tripping over his reading glasses and cell phone before finally homing in on the button that brought the clatter to a halt. After silencing the ear-shattering din, he withdrew his arm into the security of the covers. He rolled onto his back and laid in the gloom, made all the darker by his thoughts. He willed himself to push them out of his mind, to shut the door after them, but he knew they would come tumbling out again.

Finally he dragged his short frame, clad in long johns, out of bed and headed for the bathroom. When he turned on the light, the coffeemaker clicked on in the kitchen, as if it were on the same circuit. He splashed cold water on his round face to melt away the sleep that crusted in his eyelashes, almost sealing his eyelids. He cocked his head and studied his reflection as he brushed his tobacco-stained teeth. No need to comb his crew cut, which had been powdered with gray for years.

The fresh aroma of brewing coffee snaked its way through the tiny cabin and into the bathroom. Milt wandered into the kitchen, filled a Denver Broncos mug with steaming coffee, and headed back to the bedroom. He bundled up in layer upon layer of cotton and flannel, until he vaguely resembled a multi-colored snowman. Dressed, he slurped down the last of his coffee and returned to the kitchen to fill his thermos.

He opened the refrigerator, an ancient model with the freezer compartment on the bottom, and took out lunch fixings — a package of sliced bologna, tomato, mustard, and a head of lettuce. He placed them on the counter, which hadn't seen a good cleaning in days, emptied the last few slices of bread from the breadbox, and set about making sandwiches. He put the sandwiches in plastic bags and stuffed them in a brown paper sack, along with potato chips, cookies, and the all-important Twinkie — the culprit for his potbelly.

That done, he picked up his trusty tackle box in the corner, grabbed his flashlight off the table, and walked out the back door. He maneuvered his way down the steep slope, weaving back and forth like a drunk strolling home from a bar. He dropped his tackle box at the door of a wooden boathouse, with great chips of white veneer flaking off. He fumbled with the lock for a moment, unable to clearly see what he was doing. The light over the door was out, so he relied on his flashlight and the moon.

After he freed the lock, he swung the door open and walked in. He pulled the string on the light, heard a click but remained engulfed in darkness. Using the flashlight's narrow beam, he opened the garage-type door leading to the lake and piled into a dark blue Four Winns motorboat that was surrounded on three sides by fresh wooden planking, in sharp contrast to the structure of the boathouse itself.

Milt's rods and reels were snuggled against the side of the boat where he left them. He dragged the tackle box down by the rods, planted the thermos and lunch sack against the side of the boat, and plopped into the driver's seat. He turned the key in the ignition. The motor churned sluggishly but wouldn't turn over. He waited a few seconds and tried again. Still no luck.

Damn! he growled. Eileen didn't let him curse at home, but she wasn't here. Damn it to hell. Sonuvabitchin' no good cheap-ass bastard. He paused. Might as well get it out of his system. Sorry-ass piece-a-shit.

He checked the fuel level — half full — and tried the key a third time. The motor mewled for a few seconds, then roared to life. Milt let the motor race, feeding on itself, shifted into reverse, and eased out of the boathouse. He moved the boat into forward gear, made a big sweeping turn, and headed across the lake to his honeyhole.

At a quarter past nine, the phone rang in a two-story brick house on the outskirts of Denver. Wearing a silk Kimono-style robe, Eileen Arnold sat in a leather recliner and sipped coffee while she read The Denver Post. She jumped at the shrill clang of the phone, spilling a few drops of coffee. She set the cup down and dabbed at her robe with a napkin before answering.

Mrs. Arnold? The voice cut in and out.

Yes.

Mrs. Arnold, this is Officer Baker of the Mountain View Police Department. Is your husband home?

No, he's not. May I help you? Tense, anticipatory. A voice that sensed a storm brewing.

I really need to talk to Mr. Arnold. Do you know where he might be reached?

He's gone fishing. She paused. Waiting. Anticipating. What's this all about?

Do you know a David Turner?

Yes, I do. He's a business associate of my husband's. Is something wrong?

Yes, ma'am. I'm afraid he's been killed. We really need to talk to your husband.

Oh, Lord! She fell silent for a moment, trying to make sense of the message. Dave Turner dead? That didn't seem possible. The clouds broke, and a torrent of questions rained out. Was it an accident? Has anyone talked to Mary? Oh, Lord, what happened?

Try to calm down, please. Though the voice exuded authority, it was devoid of compassion. I'm afraid I can't give you any details over the phone, but we think it may have something to do with his business. A pause. You said Mr. Turner was a business associate of your husband's, and that's why we need to talk to him. Can he be reached by phone, wherever he is?

Eileen fought to keep the quiver out of her voice but failed. You can try his cell phone, but he usually doesn't take it out in the boat with him. There's no reception up there. I can tell you how to find the cabin, though.

Yes, ma'am, directions'll be fine. And an address, if there is one. With that and a GPS we’ll find it. Give me his cell number, too.

After rattling off the number, it took a few minutes for Eileen to explain which lake and what cabin. Her directions were confusing, but with a few probing questions, the caller ultimately got it straight and drew the conversation to a close.

Thank you very much, Mrs. Arnold. We'll have Mr. Arnold get in touch with you after we've talked to him.

If you find him on the lake, it may take some doing to get his attention. He gets a little tunnel-visioned when he's in his boat.

I'm sure we'll get his attention, ma'am.

Milt Arnold had landed a few nice-sized trout on the far side of the lake, along a towering stretch of snow-dusted Douglas firs. He made his way south along the bank, working his fly rod in and out, in and out. Just a flick of the wrist, in and out.

He preferred fly-fishing in streams, donning rubber hip-waders, slinging a wicker creel over his shoulder like a holster, and wading into the cold water up to his ass. The boat was different. In his boat, he normally preferred to work his spin-cast rod, but the beds along the bank demanded fly-fishing. Besides, he had cast until his shoulder hurt that morning, with no luck.

As Milt worked his way down the bank, the sun beat on his back, warming the temperature to above freezing. As he started to enjoy himself, the tension eased. Space developed between his upper and lower teeth, and the knot in his cheek unraveled. All his troubles seemed miles away. At least for the moment.

He loved being on this lake, hidden from all his problems. Out here, with the clear air, the fresh smell of evergreens, and sparkling water, all seemed right. He knew it was a dream world — it ain't Kansas, Toto — but he would live in it for a while longer.

A midnight blue Nissan Maxima cruised its way up the mountain road leading to the small lake in the middle of the evergreens. It wound its way around curves, up and down small changes in grade, but always with a general tilt higher. Four lanes had long since narrowed to two lanes, and concrete gave way to dirt and gravel. The driver, bundled in a parka and ski mask, didn't know the altitude but began to have difficulty breathing.

The Maxima moved around a sharp curve and crossed a one-lane bridge. The driver slowed, looking for a turnoff. A path headed off to the right at an angle from the dirt road, so the driver turned and crept slowly forward. Within a hundred yards, the heavy forest seemed to swallow up the narrow path and smother the car, which barely idled forward as tree branches ran their fingernails down its sides. Tedious driving, but damage to a rental car was not a good idea.

After thirty minutes the car crossed a narrow bridge spanning a creek and negotiated a sharp turn around a large pine tree, its branches burdened with snow. The path abruptly spilled out of the dense forest into a clearing dominated by a log cabin on a bluff, its lawn sloping down to a lake that glittered in the sunlight.

It matched Eileen Arnold's description.

The driver parked under cover of the trees, got out of the car, and skirted the clearing to get closer to the cabin. The only sign of life was an unidentifiable figure in a boat across the water. The intruder moved to the cabin, turned the knob, and pushed the unlocked back door open. Almost the whole interior was visible from the door, except what looked to be a small bathroom off one of the bedrooms.

No one stirred inside.

Milt worked the fly rod along the edge of the same bank he had worked for the past hour. The fish, if any were there, had long since figured out the fraud and shunned the multi-hued fly. Milt seemed oblivious to the fact that he hadn't caught so much as a weed for at least forty minutes. He flew on autopilot, flicking his wrist almost by rote, whipping the fly in and out, in and out, as if wholly unaware of his movements. His carefree attitude of earlier had fled like a refugee escaping an invading army, and his mind churned in turmoil.

Suddenly he decided he had been on the lake long enough. He pulled in his line and laid the fly rod along the side of the boat. He crossed over to the driver's seat and turned the key. The motor groaned and sputtered but didn't turn over. He tried again, but still no luck.

Sonuvabitch!

The motor fired up on the next try, maybe in response to Milt's swift kick to its side. He let it idle for a few minutes, listening carefully, but couldn't hear anything out of the ordinary. Just the steady roar. He couldn't do anything anyway, even if he found the trouble, since his tools were in the boathouse.

He put the boat in gear and started back across the lake.

As the distant hum of a boat's motor reached the open back door of the cabin, the ski-masked driver hurried out and scrambled down the hill to the boathouse. The door stood slightly ajar, revealing the new decking. Another door inside stood to the right of the main door — a closet or storage room. Old cane fishing poles, a couple of paddles, and an axe with a dulled head leaned against that door.

The buzz of the motor droned closer. Impulsively, the intruder stepped inside, grabbed the axe, and backed around to the corner of the boathouse. The boat was just coming into view, Milt Arnold, clearly recognizable with his crewcut, at the wheel.

The axe-wielding driver bore him no malice. Arnold was simply an obstacle to a goal — no more and no less. This was business.

Milt rounded the narrow point of land that jutted into the small sound, slowed the boat, and aimed for the opening centered inside the boathouse's garage doors. He had just eased up on the throttle, homing in on the target, when he heard a pinging noise in the motor, like the sound of a Jew's harp.

Goddamnit!

He revved the engine and the sound disappeared. He eased up again and the Jew's harp pinged with a vengeance. He eased the boat into the slip with expert precision, dropped it into neutral, and tied off to the dock.

Shadows hid much of the interior, but enough light shone in from the outside to allow him to work. He raised the motor, lifting the propellers just out of the water. With the motor still idling and pinging, he walked to the back of the boat and leaned over the motor's casing.

The driver, axe gripped in a gloved hand, moved to the front of the boathouse and peered through the cracked door. The bow of the boat was visible, but Arnold was not. From the back of the boat came familiar sounds of a mechanic working, the clang of metal tools on metal parts, accompanied by the obligatory oaths and curses. The motor's rough idling sound filled the small boathouse.

The driver pushed the door open a bit farther. Milt Arnold, his back to the door, leaned over the raised motor.

The killer grabbed the axe with both hands and slipped inside as quietly as possible, caution the watchword. A few more feet and it wouldn't matter if Arnold turned around. He would never hear anything again.

Milt had exhausted his knowledge of boat motors — which consisted of taking off the casing, tapping the motor with a wrench, and listening — but still couldn't pinpoint the source of the pinging noise. Wiping his hands on a small towel, he straightened and turned around.

The last thing he saw was the cold steel of a blunt axe-head accelerating toward his face.

The killer watched Arnold tumble backward over the motor and into the water. The body plunged briefly beneath the surface before floating to the top. The killer reached with the axe and hooked Arnold's belt, then pulled him to the boat until his upturned face rested just beneath the propeller of the raised motor. The killer walked along the dock to the driver's seat, knelt, and pushed down a knob marked Drop Motor. The motor lowered with a whirring sound, the propeller driving Arnold's head and torso beneath the surface.

After no more than a second or two, the assassin shoved the throttle forward and then jumped back. The boat lurched ahead, splintering planks as it shot aground at the front of the boathouse. Behind, Milt Arnold's body was propelled into the lake, his face no longer recognizable, compliments of the spinning propeller.

The dastardly deed now done, the killer rinsed off the blood from the axe-head, returned it to its original place in the closet, and left.

Chapter 3

About the time Eileen Arnold received her phone call, light started weaving its way through a gap in the heavy curtain at Motel 6. It spilled over the small table and white plastic chairs in front of the window, and eased its way to the sleeping figure in blood-spattered clothes lying motionless on the bed. The television flickered, its volume turned low, and a local weatherman pointed to a high-pressure system over the Rockies. Outside, a fresh layer of snow sparkled in the morning sun like a field of diamonds. The kiss of the air was crisp and the wind brisk.

The telephone rang, rousting Scot from his troubled sleep.

Is this Mr. Anthony? a man's voice asked after Scot answered. It sounded strangely familiar to him. He sat up in bed and swung his legs over the side.

Yes, it is.

This is Sergeant McElroy of the Mountain View Police Department. We met last night.

Scot nodded in recognition. I remember.

We'd like you to come down to the station and answer a few more questions about Mr. Turner, if you don't mind.

Scot's heart pounded, reverberating into his head. He looked at his jeans, stained a dark red. It wasn’t a dream. David Turner really was dead.

If you'll give me time to shower, I'll be right down. He hoped the quiver in his voice wasn't noticeable. How do I get there from here?

There's a car already on the way.

Scot replaced the phone in its cradle. He stood to his full six feet, stripped off the bloodstained clothes and kicked them into a pile, then stepped into a hot shower.

The water needles pricked at his skin, stirring nerves that had deadened overnight. He soaped up with the tiny bar of motel soap and scrubbed his muscular frame with a rough washcloth, almost abrading his skin. He had to remove all the blood — like Lady Macbeth, scrubbing and scrubbing at the damned spot, until his skin felt raw and chapped. At last, mercifully, he turned off the water and tossed the towel on the floor of the tub.

He dried off with a thin towel, stepped in front of the mirror, and half-heartedly combed his hair before getting dressed. Scot had a full head of dark brown hair, with an inbred curl. Nicole, his wife of three years, often said he combed his hair but once a day — in the morning — and that come rain or wind, he never touched it again. Though he denied that, he knew she was more right than wrong. Other than occasionally running his hand through it, that was about it for his hair