The Saint of Wolves and Butchers - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Alex Grecian is the nationally bestselling author of The Yard, The Black Country, The Devil's Workshop, The Harvest Man, and Lost and Gone Forever, as well as the critically acclaimed graphic novels Proof and Rasputin. Grecian lives in Kansas with his wife and son.

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chapter one

Trooper Skottie Foster refilled her coffee and gave the counterman a nod, headed back out to her vehicle. She snugged her cup down into the well next to her and pulled her Explorer around to the west side of the 24/7 Travel Store, where a bright green Toyota pickup sat low on its back tires in the lot. She filled out a tow report form on the computer mounted between the Explorer’s seats and pulled up OpenFox, the software used by the department to run tag checks. She stepped out and approached the vehicle on the driver’s side.

Thanksgiving was three days away, and the sky was flat and gray. Dizzy snowflakes eddied about, but there was no breeze, and she was sweating under her heavy uniform jacket.

Skottie had been with the Kansas Highway Patrol for nearly six months, transferred in from Illinois. She’d grown up in Kansas, had left at the first opportunity, started her career and a family in Chicago. Now she was back, living in her mother’s house and hoping for a fresh start, for a stable environment for her daughter, for some distance from everything that had recently gone wrong in her life.

She had been required to go through twenty-two weeks of retraining after returning to Kansas, and she had used the time to adjust to her new circumstances. Back on active duty, she had been surprised to discover she was one of only a handful of female troopers in western Kansas, and one of three African Americans, but despite the usual stumbling blocks that came with any new position, she had encountered very little hostility or disrespect. She was tall, five feet nine inches, and slim, with skin the exact shade and color of her eyes. She kept her carefully braided hair pulled back low against her neck so that she could position her hat properly when regulations ­demanded that she appear in full uniform.

She had been watching the Toyota for two days as she made her rounds and had seen no one approach it. The wheel wells were crusted with rust and the paint had peeled off along one side, leaving a dappled surface like a bruise. There was a toolbox tucked up under the back window in the bed of the truck, big and heavy, long enough to hide a body inside.

She peered through the window to make sure the cab was empty. The driver’s-side door was unlocked, and she pulled it open, releasing a heavy odor of must and disuse. The radio had been pulled from the dash, the mats had been taken from the floor, the glove box was open and empty. She wrote down the VIN from the inside of the door and closed it, then walked around to the back and flipped open the toolbox. An ancient ball-peen hammer, a length of bicycle chain, a cheap pair of rusty pliers, blue rubber crumbling away from the handles. She closed the box and went back to her vehicle.

She plugged the tag number into OpenFox and it spit out the VIN, which she checked against her notes, and the name of the truck’s registered owner: Wes Weber. She unhooked her radio and called the information in to Sarah, the dispatcher in Norton.

A small stack of postcards was clipped to the back of the Explorer’s sun visor. She pulled one off the top and filled it out with Wes ­Weber’s address and a short note, letting him know his truck was being towed from the rest stop and where he could claim it. A moment later, Sarah called back.

“Norton to One-Eleven?”

“Here,” Skottie said.

“Wrong case number on that.”

Skottie frowned and checked her notes. “I see it.”

“Go ahead with the last three.”

She read off the corrected case number and hung the handset back up, set the postcard on the seat beside her, and put the Explorer in gear. Sarah would call the tow company and Skottie would drop the postcard in a mailbox at the end of her shift. She guessed Wes Weber would not show up to claim his property. The Toyota wouldn’t bring much at auction and was undoubtedly destined for a scrap yard somewhere.

She headed toward the westbound ramp to the highway, but slowed when she saw a vehicle parked on the shoulder, its hazards blinking. She pulled in behind it and lit up the blue and red array atop her Explorer. A little boy waved at her from the back window as she put her hat on. She walked up to the driver’s side, where a Hispanic woman was already rolling down the window, a sheepish grin on her face. A baby crawled across the back seat, clutching a french fry in one chubby fist, a stringer of drool dangling from its chin. The little boy was yelling at the baby in Spanish.

“Sorry, Officer,” the woman said.

“What’s the trouble?”

“Just need a second.” The woman turned her head and yelled at the boy. “Hurry up and get her in her seat.” She turned back to Skottie. “She got out. Wanted a fry.”

Skottie nodded, watching the boy wrestle the baby girl up into the car seat behind the driver. The baby was oblivious, eyes only for the mangled french fry that circled her open mouth, waiting patiently for contact. Fast food as incitement for developing motor skills.

She leaned forward and caught the boy’s eye. “What’s your name?”

He looked up, his eyes wide, as if he’d been caught in a criminal act, and the french fry went up his nose. The baby started to laugh, and the boy looked at her and smiled. He looked back at Skottie, the fry still dangling. “My name is Miguel.”

“You take care of your sister, Miguel.” The fry dropped into his lap and the baby laughed again.

“She’s not my sister. She’s my niece.”

Skottie looked at him.

“But I’ll take good care of her, ma’am,” Miguel said.

Skottie saluted him and turned back to his mother, or maybe she was his sister. “Don’t proceed until the children are secured, okay?”

“I won’t, Officer. Don’t worry,” the woman said. “It’s why I’m pulled over in the first place.”

Behind her, a black Jeep Wrangler zoomed down the ramp. She caught a brief glimpse of a man behind the wheel and someone in the passenger seat that she first thought was another big man wearing a fur coat. Staring at the license plate—it was a rental—she belatedly realized the passenger wasn’t human.

Skottie focused her gaze on the woman in front of her and the two struggling children. Miguel had stuck the french fry back in his nose, but his niece was no longer amused.

“All right, ma’am,” Skottie said. “Travel safe now.”

She walked quickly back to her vehicle and turned off the array, pulled around the woman’s idling car, and accelerated out onto I–70. She saw the Jeep again five minutes later, parked at a rest stop west of Russell. A man in a gray peacoat was standing near the passenger side with the door open. Skottie pulled into the lot and coasted along the low wooden fence that bordered a tree-lined oasis with restrooms, a few vending machines, and a big grassy field for drivers to stroll and stretch their legs. There were no other vehicles in sight, but a dog was running back and forth at the far end of the field. It was hard to gauge the dog’s size from a distance, but it had a bushy black mane and looked for all the world like a lion.

When he saw her, the man stepped back from the Jeep and smiled. He put his hands out at waist level and stood very still. He might have been a statue, something carved out of marble. He was very tall and very thin. His face was angular and unlined, and she would have guessed he was roughly thirty-five years old, except for his carefully tousled gray hair. He wore a light...