Without Mercy (Body Farm 10)

“I did ask him that.”

“At the time,” he went on, “Steve thought it was a weird question. Thought it came outta left field, or outta a certain lower part of your anatomy. Actually, though, it was a brilliant question.”

My Spidey Sense was starting to tingle. “Go on.”

“Turns out Satterfield and Shiflett were thick as thieves. They developed quite the bromance, apparently.”

I drew back and gave the phone a puzzled, questioning look. “They had a sexual relationship?”

“God, no,” said Meffert. “Not as far as I know, anyhow. Buddies. Brotherly love. Well, brotherly hate, more like it. They were both mixed up with skinhead groups, neo-Nazis, neo-Klan. It all kinda runs together, you know? Anything that helps the whites and hurt the blacks and the browns—the ‘mud people,’ they called ’em.”

“But how did Shiflett and Satterfield even meet? Satterfield was in prison for more than twenty years. Did Shiflett do time there, too?”

“No, but that’s where they met. They met through Satterfield’s cellmate. Guy name of Stubbs. Shiflett was in the army with Stubbs—they served in Afghanistan together, ten or twelve years ago.”

Now my Spidey Sense was shrieking. I sat bolt upright in my chair, then leaned forward, closer to the phone, as if by getting right next to it, I could hear better and therefore hear a different name. “Stubbs? Did you say Satterfield’s cellmate was named Stubbs?”

“Yeah. Stubbs.”

“Tell me you’re not talking about Tilden Stubbs. Militant racist? Doing time for stealing weapons from the army?”

“I am. He was,” said Meffert.

“Come again?”

“Was doing time. Did the time. Served five years. Got out a month ago.”

“Wait. He’s out? Crap. I hate to hear that, Bubba.”

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.” Meffert’s tone seemed to suggest that he had something else to say, but he was silent.

“Bubba? You got more bad news?”

“Yeah.” He drew out the word—easing into it on the front end, dragging out the vowels, trailing off reluctantly at the end. “This is where it gets creepy, Doc.”

“You’re saying that neo-Nazis, militias, and army heists aren’t creepy?”

“Not compared to this.”

“Hell, Bubba. You do know how to sugarcoat the pill, don’t you? Just spill it. What is it you’re so worried about telling me?”

“The Cooke County case—the murder by bear?”

“Yeah? What about it? Creepy, for sure, but I already know all about it.”

“No, you don’t. That was supposed to be you. Chained to the tree.”

“What?” My skin prickled, my hackles rose, and sweat popped out on my forehead.

“I heard it from two different inmates.”

“But that’s crazy,” I said. “I never heard of Jimmy Ray Shiflett. Why in hell would some Cooke County redneck want to chain me to a tree and feed me to a bear?”

“It wasn’t Shiflett.”

“What do you mean?”

“Shiflett wasn’t the one planning to do it to you. Wasn’t Stubbs, either.”

A wave of nausea crashed over me as his meaning sank in. “Satterfield,” I breathed.

“Satterfield. Satterfield must’ve told Stubbs about it. Maybe Satterfield told Shiflett, too. Or maybe Shiflett heard it from Stubbs on a prison visit. Doesn’t matter. It was completely Satterfield’s plan. For you.”

WHEN I CALLED ANGELA PRICE TO RELAY MEFFERT’S update, she agreed that the Satterfield task force needed to discuss it. An hour later, I dialed a special phone number, to join a conference call that Price’s assistant had set up. Rattled as I was, I kept misdialing the second set of numbers, the sequence needed to connect me with Price’s group, rather than some other group of, say, investment bankers or Las Vegas bookies or whoever else was huddled around phones at this particular moment.

After my third botched attempt to make the connection—

and my third string of profanities—Peggy came through the doorway from the outer office. “Let me help,” she said. She came behind the desk and stood beside me, leaning forward to read the numbers I had scrawled on a notepad. She put the phone on speaker to free up her hands. Her left hand deftly dialed the numbers; her right hand came to rest on my shoulder, a calming weight that seemed to add some ballast and balance to my unsteady keel. Reaching up with my right hand, I laid it on hers and gave a grateful squeeze. Funny thing: I still didn’t know how to talk to her, except as my secretary, but somehow her hand and my hand were better at bridging the awkward gap.

A computerized voice in my phone announced, “You have joined the conference. There are five other people in the conference.” Peggy slid her hand off my shoulder, tiptoed from the room, and closed the door. “Hello, it’s Bill Brockton,” I said. “Am I the last one to the party?”

“I think so,” said Price. “A couple of folks couldn’t make it, but I think we’ve got most of the key players. From the TBI, we’ve got Special Agents Meffert and Morgan. From ATF, Special Agent Kidder. From KPD, Captain Decker. And our retired behavioral consultant, Pete Brubaker.”

“Can’t think of anybody I’d rather have on the case,” I said. “Where do we start?”

“Agent Meffert,” she said, “would you start us off? Tell us what you learned at the prison.”

“Sure,” he said and led the group through the connections between Satterfield, Stubbs, and Shiflett.

“Sounds like a real shitstorm’s brewing,” said someone. “This is Kidder, by the way.”

“Say some more, Agent Kidder,” said Price.