A Knife Edge (17 page)

“Yep.”

Thinking aloud, I continued, “There's no way the knife could have somehow got caught up in the suspension lines, or the wing itself, and come down somewhere between where you found Wright and where you found the chute?”

She shook her head. “The deceased and the knife would have been on a divergent course to the chute, pretty much the instant it was deployed.”

“OK, so let's look at the accidental-death angle. I understand this was a night-training jump.”

“Yep.”

“What if he became disoriented for some reason when he came out of the plane, found himself tumbling, and the chute didn't come out of the bag clean? What if he needed to cut himself
out of the main chute before he could open the reserve, and accidentally sliced through his thigh strap instead?”

“And maybe leprechauns live in my underwear drawer,” she said.

Lucky leprechauns. I glanced at Selwyn. She wasn't smiling. OK, so this theory was dumb, every bit as dumb as the suicide angle.

“You and I both know there's a far more likely scenario that fits the facts,” she said. “I examined the suspension lines and the chute. Everything was in A-one condition. If Wright got in a knife fight with his chute, you'd expect pretty extensive damage to it, right?”

I nodded. “You would. Did you ascertain whether Wright had his second knife on him when he went up? If you can't find it, is there a chance he left it in his locker?”

“You know these people… sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“Special Agent Cooper.” I took a card from a back pocket and placed it on her desk.

She picked it up and checked it over. “Special Agent, as an ex-CCT yourself, you'd know that guys like this are pro airmen with a capital F for fanatic. They do it right. Having all their gear present and accounted for is a given.”

I took a stroll around the room. What Selwyn said was generally true, but professionals did get sloppy, even careless. I once knew a guy in 82nd Airborne who'd done over three thousand jumps—spent his whole life stepping out of planes. And then one day he did a demonstration jump with some buddies. The idea was to land on a pontoon moored in San Francisco Bay. For some reason, he decided not to wear a helmet. There was a wind shift. He made the pontoon OK, only he landed a little hard and hit his head on a bollard. This knocked him out cold and he toppled quietly into the bay. His buddies all high-fived each other while he drowned under their noses.

“Let's say Wright did leave one of his knives behind, and did commit suicide,” said Selwyn. “Do you really think he'd have
cut through the harness with the knife in your hand there, and then have the presence of mind to replace it in its scabbard?”

No, I didn't.

“So, what's the terrain like where Wright came down?” I asked.

“Open, but scrubby with a few trees. The chute drifted and landed in a stand of slash pines half a mile from where the body was found.”

A thought occurred to me. “Those knives are balanced for throwing. It would've come down point first, traveling fast. If the ground's soft, it would have come to a stop four feet under.”

“I know. I personally combed every inch of ground in the vicinity of the deceased for exactly that reason. I found nothing.”

“And I suppose you also scanned with metal detectors?”

Selwyn leaned back against the bench, hands in her pockets, lips pursed. “Turns out the area was a former dump. All sorts of old World War Two scrap was bulldozed into the ground thereabouts, much of it metal. The screen on the scanner lit up like stage lights.” She tilted her head, studying me. “So, are we going to get around to discussing the only theory that fits the facts, or what?”

“You mean the one where the men he jumped with—possibly the leader of the stick—attacked him in midair, used one of Ruben's own knives to cut him out of his harness, and then pulled his rip cord for him?” I said.

“Yeah,” she answered with a crooked smile. “And here I was thinking I was going to have trouble with you.”

Wright was the kind of guy who'd embrace death only if he could take maybe a dozen bad guys with him. He wasn't the suicide type. So that left murder. That meant I was looking for a murderer. I was also looking for a drink. The clock on the wall said so, it being almost 2100 hours.

“You want to join me for a whiskey?” I asked Selwyn. The invitation was purely business, of course.

“Love to, but my man will kill me,” she said, reaching to switch off the laser printer.

“You married?” I asked. She glanced up at me. Maybe I was getting a little personal.

“Was.” She picked up a framed photo from her desk and handed it to me. “My man,” she said. The photo was a family shot—Colonel Selwyn, her husband or partner, and a three-or four-year-old boy. They were standing together on a sandy beach, the water lapping at their toes. All three seemed happy to be there. “My husband, Manny's father, was killed soon after this was taken, in an aircraft accident—a light plane, engine failure. He was a passenger. Manny knows his father, but only through photos and home videos.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. Truly, gravity sucked. Change-the-subject time. “Listen, I'm not sure what your schedule's like tomorrow, but I'd like to go and have a look at where Wrong Way came down.”

“Who?”

“Wrong Way—the deceased. That's what we called Ruben Wright. If you could walk me around the area, it'd save me some time.”

Colonel Selwyn picked up a briefcase and motioned me toward the door. “OK, but it'll have to be first thing in the morning. I'm taking a half day—being a mom, you know.”

“ Oh-nine-thirty good for you?” I asked.

“Yep. You'll need a four-wheel drive.” Selwyn flicked off the interior lights after we stepped outside. Motion-sensitive lights took over, pushing back the twilight. Insects began strafing runs on the bulbs.

“Is the officers' club still worth a stopover?” I asked.

“Sure—if you like testosterone over ice. Otherwise, head on over to Destin. Plenty of good places there. Try The Funkster. The beer's cold, the music's good—if you like blues. Can't miss it. On the left as you come into town.”

Destin. I'd had some wild nights in that town, but that was in another life. We exchanged thanks, and I stood by my vehicle and watched the DI drive off until the lights on the building behind me switched off.

F
our black guys on steel guitars, a snare set, and an accordion were cooking up some zydeco music that brought gators and marsh gas to mind. The bar was weathered, smelled of beer sweat, and was bathed in neon from Miller Lite and Budweiser signs on the walls. The place was full, though perhaps not compared with when the summer-vacation crowds got thirsty. I ordered a Glen Keith on the rocks and found a spot among the wallflowers, watching the talent with one eye and the band with the other.

I'd barely settled in when I heard someone with a broad English accent yell behind me. “That was a fuckin' wanker's shot, mate.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Three men were playing pool.

“And you're a fuckin' tosser,” roared one of them over the music.

I heard the guy beside me grumble to his drinking buddy, “Those goddamn SAS assholes get away with murder.”

So the loudmouths were British Special Air Service—SAS. That accounted for the accents. I didn't need to be a cop to sense a situation brewing. They were drinking shots of something bright green. Maybe it wasn't the alcohol they were reacting to but the artificial coloring. Lined up on a windowsill behind them was a collection of over twenty shot glasses. That was a lot
of artificial coloring. The apparent ringleader, and the oldest of the three, had light-colored hair dyed blond at the tips and brushed forward like he'd stepped out of Julius Caesar's Rome. He had narrow brown eyes and pale skin strewn with freckles, and was slightly taller and thicker set than his comrades. The Brits were showing off to a couple of attractive local twenty-somethings occupying the other pool table, both of whom were doing their best to ignore the attention.

“Eh, ‘ave you ladies ever sampled the delights of an English lad?” I heard the guy with the Roman haircut inquire.

Again, no response from the women. They were being polite, but standoffish. It seemed to me they just wanted to play their game in peace.

“Basically, luv, what ‘e was sayin' was ‘ave you ever gobbled an English knob?” said another.

His buddies thought this comment uproariously funny. One of the men had to steady himself with his cue stick, using it as a crutch to stop himself from sinking to his knees.

I glanced beside me. Knuckles were bunching.

“Limey assholes,” I heard another guy say beneath his breath. He took a step forward, into my line of sight. He looked like a Special Ops guy, one of ours, pumped muscle with a bony skull shining beneath hair cut as short as pig bristle.

The guy with the blonded tips sauntered on vaguely wobbly legs over to the objects of their attention. He put out his hand toward the woman's butt as she leaned over the cushion to play a shot. I took a couple of steps toward them. It was a nice butt, so I knew where he was coming from. I also knew where he was going if it landed—into a Dumpster out back, especially if she objected. I took another step and, before my left hand knew what was going on, my right had reached out and caught his by the wrist.

The Englishman turned. “‘Ere … wot's your fuckin' problem, mate … ?”

“OSI,” I said. I held my shield in his face. I could tell his eyes were having trouble focusing. My mind went blank at this point. Where to from here? My reflexes were aware, even if my
brain wasn't, that someone had to do something before two teams of trained killers quite possibly put that training into practice on each other.

“Yeah… and…?” One of his buddies pushed forward into my space as I let his friend's wrist go.

“We've been looking for some tourists—civilians—who took a Humvee for a joyride,” I improvised. “Couldn't help but catch your accents.”

“Yeah? And just where were these tourists from?”

“New Zealand,” I said.

“ New-fuckin'-Zealand? Can't you tell a fuckin' Englishman when you hear one, Mr. Plod?”

“Watch your language, buddy,” I said. “Ladies present.” In fact, the two ladies had vacated the area. I also noticed that the band had stopped and that several SOC Neanderthals were now standing behind me, shoulders interlocked, in case I called for backup.

“This is bullshit, boss,” said one of the three Brits, a short guy with no lips and a busted-up nose, the only one of the trio aware that the attention of the whole bar was fixed on our little show. “The music's fucked and the buggers don't even have football up on the telly. More fuckin' hockey. C'mon. It's time to fuck off out of here anyway…”

I glanced over my shoulder at one of the aforementioned “tellys.” Ice hockey was playing. Ice hockey.
Canadian
ice hockey. What was wrong with the NFL? Hell, I'd even settle for croquet over Canadian ice hockey. Maybe the guy had a point. Maybe I should leave, too.

The three Englishmen pushed past with a drunken swagger. I could ignore attitude much easier than a swinging pool cue. I kept an eye on the door to make sure no one else followed them out. No one did.

“Hey, nicely done,” said one of the SOC guys who'd backed me up.

There was something familiar about the guy's face. I knew him from somewhere. As I was trying to sort through the
Identi-Kit pictures in my head, he said, “Hey—it's Vin. Vin Cooper, right?”

I still couldn't make the connection.

“Drew McNaught,” he said. “Remember?”

The dime dropped. “Yeah, Drew… Didn't recognize you there for a second… How ya doin', buddy!”

“It
is
you!” McNaught and I shook hands. “Goddamn it. Long time, Vin. What you doin' round these parts, brother?”

I told him about OSI. He told me he was instructing static line parachute jumps.

We got past the small talk and current affairs—the events in San Francisco—and moved on to old times. McNaught and I had been in combat together back when I did completely stupid things. As part of Operation Allied Force, we'd jumped onto a hill in Kosovo to plant an aircraft navigation beacon so that our airmen would be able to pin the tail on the donkey. Trouble began the moment we landed. The weather unex pectedly closed in and our extraction was canceled. Also, a platoon-sized band of Serb militiamen saw us put down and tried to outflank us. From the way they moved, we guessed they were farm boys and were most probably out to settle old scores with their neighbors, but that didn't make their bullets any less lethal. They outnumbered us seven to one, and took potshots at us as we retreated toward UN ground, severely wounding one of our guys. McNaught was the ranking non-com on that mission, a hard and fearless man. On the second night of our retreat, he crept into their bivouac and killed five of them, taking their heads, without being discovered. The Serbs broke off the engagement that morning. Perhaps they no longer liked the odds.

On a more personal level, McNaught was also the father of twins and cried in movies, if my memory served me correctly. But that was a long time ago and maybe he'd toughened up. He introduced his buddy Marco. I shook the guy's hand, which was calloused, and felt like a brick in my palm.

The band hung around till about eleven p.m. and so did
McNaught, Marco, and I. A couple of interesting facts emerged by about my sixth or seventh single malt. The first of which—and perhaps the most surprising—was that McNaught had divorced and come out of the closet, and that he and Marco were on a date. The other interesting thing I learned was that one of the Limeys I'd shown the front door to earlier was Staff Sergeant Chris Butler, the same man who'd possibly helped Master Sergeant Ruben Wright on his one-way ride to the refrigerator.

E
arly the following morning, I found myself beside an area the size of a basketball court outlined with yellow crime-scene tape. Colonel Selwyn didn't end up making the trip. Her son had come down with something, and so company was limited to a map and a hand held GPS. It was reasonably open ground peppered here and there with scrub and low trees, surrounded on three sides with thick pine forest and a cleared hill on the fourth. The air was thick with the smell of pine sap, wet grass, and decaying peat. It might once have been a dump but nature was doing a reasonable job of reclaiming it. I put on the sterile over-boots so that I could walk around the scene without introducing anything new to it, though my caution was probably unnecessary; in the open air, new material was being brought into the site and taken away constantly by the wind and insects. Proving my point, a couple of squirrels scampered about, picking up bits of foliage.