sending us a fax?”
“A fax?”
“Yeah. It sure looks like it’s from him.”
Her curiosity aroused, the chair squeaked as she pushed away from her screen. “Unless it’s a formal document requiring a legal signature, the only reason he might send a fax,” she said, “is if he’s somewhere out in the woods. Remember he’s got that old beat up cell phone and fax gizmo set up in his Jeep.”
Most of the time, Toronto stormed around the planet with a healthy amount of the latest high tech gadgetry, communications gear, and weaponry available to man. But not when he was out hunting or flying hawks or falcons. He thought it went against the purity and ancient roots of the art to be armed with anything more.
“He wouldn’t be out hunting this time of year,” I said. Toronto’s falconry birds, like ours, had been put up for the season a couple of months before and, except for training and exercise flights, were eating like kings and molting their feathers in their mews .
“True.” Nicole padded around the corner in her sandals and cutoff shorts. Call me biased, but my daughter had developed into quite an attractive young woman. She wore her dark hair shoulder-length. Her eyes curved into delightful ovals and her cheekbones were high as any models. Her skin was nicely tanned and the only flaw in her face, if it could even be called that, was the Pavlicek nose, which was a little wide but otherwise nicely proportioned. “You think he’s in some kind of trouble?”
I finally glanced at the text message on my phone. They were the same words as the ones on the fax. “See for yourself.” I let out a long breath.
“Looks like he really wants to get in touch with us.” She came around the side of my desk as I turned the document toward her.
“COULD REALLY USE YOUR HELP,” both the paper and the text message read. “DEATH IN THE FAMILY. …JAKE.”
2
The buck snorted at our approach, then disappeared, hooves crashing into the pitch-black woods.
Probably curious, and who could blame him? For a moment his great head of antlers had been caught in the glare from the floodlights burning on stanchions out here in the middle of nowhere. The lamps cast an arc of light against the trees overspreading the edge of the clearing and were surrounded by a perimeter of power cords and mark tape, making the location looked like something out of The Blair Witch Project .
From somewhere in his bag of tricks, Toronto had obviously brought in the heavy crime scene artillery. We should have expected as much. My former NYPD partner was nothing if not anal-retentive.
“Sorry again about the timing,” he said, as he scrambled off to check on one of his bank of lights that was flickering.
He knew I was headed away on vacation. But he’d also known I would answer his call for help. After he explained to me in more detail on the phone what had happened, I didn’t hesitate. Loyalty is loyalty, after all, and Jake Toronto would swim through a river full of anacondas for me or Nicole.
He had specified where and when we should wait for him, leaving my truck to plink and pop to silence behind his battered Jeep on the fire road down the mountain. It had been an eighty mile drive over the Blue Ridge, down 1-81, and across 1-64 into the Allegheny highlands. Not exactly next door. I called Marcia from the truck to explain the situation. She seemed to understand, or at least acted as if she did—that is if anyone could understand the obsession Toronto, Nicole, and I shared.
On the drive over, Nicole and I had talked.
“You think Jake’s crazy, Dad?”
“Who, Toronto?” I paused. “Never . . .Crazy like a fox, maybe, always on the edge.”
“That’s what you like about him, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.”
“You ever miss the danger?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know—working the streets on the force.”
“I don’t miss the blood.”
“But you and Jake always seem to be falling into these kind of
“A fax?”
“Yeah. It sure looks like it’s from him.”
Her curiosity aroused, the chair squeaked as she pushed away from her screen. “Unless it’s a formal document requiring a legal signature, the only reason he might send a fax,” she said, “is if he’s somewhere out in the woods. Remember he’s got that old beat up cell phone and fax gizmo set up in his Jeep.”
Most of the time, Toronto stormed around the planet with a healthy amount of the latest high tech gadgetry, communications gear, and weaponry available to man. But not when he was out hunting or flying hawks or falcons. He thought it went against the purity and ancient roots of the art to be armed with anything more.
“He wouldn’t be out hunting this time of year,” I said. Toronto’s falconry birds, like ours, had been put up for the season a couple of months before and, except for training and exercise flights, were eating like kings and molting their feathers in their mews .
“True.” Nicole padded around the corner in her sandals and cutoff shorts. Call me biased, but my daughter had developed into quite an attractive young woman. She wore her dark hair shoulder-length. Her eyes curved into delightful ovals and her cheekbones were high as any models. Her skin was nicely tanned and the only flaw in her face, if it could even be called that, was the Pavlicek nose, which was a little wide but otherwise nicely proportioned. “You think he’s in some kind of trouble?”
I finally glanced at the text message on my phone. They were the same words as the ones on the fax. “See for yourself.” I let out a long breath.
“Looks like he really wants to get in touch with us.” She came around the side of my desk as I turned the document toward her.
“COULD REALLY USE YOUR HELP,” both the paper and the text message read. “DEATH IN THE FAMILY. …JAKE.”
2
The buck snorted at our approach, then disappeared, hooves crashing into the pitch-black woods.
Probably curious, and who could blame him? For a moment his great head of antlers had been caught in the glare from the floodlights burning on stanchions out here in the middle of nowhere. The lamps cast an arc of light against the trees overspreading the edge of the clearing and were surrounded by a perimeter of power cords and mark tape, making the location looked like something out of The Blair Witch Project .
From somewhere in his bag of tricks, Toronto had obviously brought in the heavy crime scene artillery. We should have expected as much. My former NYPD partner was nothing if not anal-retentive.
“Sorry again about the timing,” he said, as he scrambled off to check on one of his bank of lights that was flickering.
He knew I was headed away on vacation. But he’d also known I would answer his call for help. After he explained to me in more detail on the phone what had happened, I didn’t hesitate. Loyalty is loyalty, after all, and Jake Toronto would swim through a river full of anacondas for me or Nicole.
He had specified where and when we should wait for him, leaving my truck to plink and pop to silence behind his battered Jeep on the fire road down the mountain. It had been an eighty mile drive over the Blue Ridge, down 1-81, and across 1-64 into the Allegheny highlands. Not exactly next door. I called Marcia from the truck to explain the situation. She seemed to understand, or at least acted as if she did—that is if anyone could understand the obsession Toronto, Nicole, and I shared.
On the drive over, Nicole and I had talked.
“You think Jake’s crazy, Dad?”
“Who, Toronto?” I paused. “Never . . .Crazy like a fox, maybe, always on the edge.”
“That’s what you like about him, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.”
“You ever miss the danger?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know—working the streets on the force.”
“I don’t miss the blood.”
“But you and Jake always seem to be falling into these kind of
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