Killing monarchs, p.1
Killing Monarchs, page 1
Also by the author
Gunflint Burning: Fire in the Boundary Waters
Opening Goliath
Lost in the Wild
Wolf Kill
Cougar Claw
PRAISE FOR KILLING MONARCHS
“In Killing Monarchs, Cary J. Griffith combines monarch butterflies, a Mexican cartel, and compelling characters—both human and canine—to deliver a chilling thriller you won’t want to put down. Sam Rivers and his wolf-dog partner, Gray, make a terrific, crime-fighting duo!”
—Margaret Mizushima, author of the award-winning Timber Creek K-9 Mysteries, including Striking Range
“What do murders disguised as overdoses, endangered monarch butterflies, and international heroin smugglers have in common? U.S. Fish & Wildlife Special Agent Sam Rivers and Gray, Sam’s rescued wolf-dog hybrid with a nose for narcotics. As the bodies pile up in the Land of 10,000 Lakes, Sam and Gray are on a mission to stop the killer before he claims his next victim. A gripping thriller highlighting the ironclad bond between man and his best friend, Killing Monarchs had me turning pages all night long. Sam Rivers and his faithful wolf dog are my new best friends.”
—Brian Malloy, author of The Year of Ice and After Francesco
“Both thriller and mystery, Killing Monarchs mixes an elementary-school science project with scorpions and drugs. Totally surprising is how butterflies flit into this fast-paced and tantalizing story. Cary Griffith has laid out another fabulous tale, based on solid knowledge of the natural world, with a provocative sense of the deviousness of humankind.”
—Mary Logue, author of The Streel and The Big Sugar
“Killing Monarchs is an exciting, thrilling, and suspenseful page-turner! Griffith weaves together an intriguing mystery with fascinating environmental concerns, young adults facing the reality of their past, and the dangerous world of drug cartels. Sam Rivers, a U.S. Fish & Wildlife agent, is a captivating character, and, as a K-9 handler, I especially enjoyed Rivers’s sidekick, the extraordinary wolf dog, Gray. Together, Rivers and Gray make an outstanding team. Readers will be rooting for them and stay up late to find out what happens next. Killing Monarchs hooked me from the first page, and I couldn’t put it down. I highly recommend this series!”
—Kathleen Donnelly, author of the award-winning National Forest K-9 series and K-9 handler for Sherlock Hounds Detection Canines
“With one sharp eye on the world of nature and another carefully watching the evil antics of two-legged species who roam the earth, Sam Rivers is one part teacher and two parts crime solver. Killing Monarchs floats like a butterfly and stings like a scorpion. Prepare to be schooled.”
—Mark Stevens, author of The Fireballer and The Allison Coil Mystery Series
Cover design: Travis Bryant
Cover photos: Vladimirkarp/Shutterstock (monarch) and John McLaird/Shutterstock
Author photo: Anna McCourt
Editors: Mary Logue, Holly Cross, and Jenna Barron
Proofreader: Emily Beaumont
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Griffith, Cary J., author.
Title: Killing monarchs : dd/ Cary J. Griffith.
Description: First edition. | Cambridge, Minnesota : Adventure Publications, [2023]
Series: A Sam Rivers Mystery
Summary: “As a special agent for the US Fish & Wildlife Service, Sam Rivers has researched and studied a variety of animals. He’s visiting sixth graders at Hopkins Elementary to share photographs of the Monarch butterfly, and he’s brought along his drug-sniffing wolf dog, Gray, to give students a demonstration of his partner’s remarkable skills. Gray finds a sample drug packet, hidden by Sam, but that’s not all. The wolf dog keeps following his nose, leading Sam to a utility room where they discover the school’s janitor, dead. Local police write it off as a drug overdose, but Sam is no stranger to crime scenes. He suspects foul play. When Sam and Gray come upon a second victim, the coincidences are too great to ignore. Sam starts turning over rocks, and what slithers out is more insidious than anyone could have foretold. Sam’s instincts tell him there’ll be more deaths, but those instincts put him at odds with conventional law enforcement. Armed with his knowledge of the natural world and his wolf-dog companion, Sam must uncover answers to questions that few others believe exist”— Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022054436 (print) | LCCN 2022054437 (ebook) ISBN 9781647551759 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781647551766 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3607.R54857 K55 2023 (print) | LCC PS3607.R54857 (ebook) DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022054436
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022054437
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © 2023 by Cary J. Griffith
Killing Monarchs: A Sam Rivers Mystery (book 3)
Published by Adventure Publications
An imprint of AdventureKEEN
310 Garfield St. S.
Cambridge, MN 55008
800-678-7006
adventurepublications.net
All rights reserved
Printed in the USA
For my wife, Anna, great nurturer of milkweeds and monarchs, from spring shoots and eggs to bursting pods and butterflies.
And for the grandkids: Ryder, Cormac, Mylo, and Pieta. It is an honor and blessing to watch you emerge in a metamorphosis all your own.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DAY 1
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
DAY 2
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
DAY 3
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
DAY 4
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
DAY 1
Wednesday, May 21
CHAPTER ONE
There were three in the car. Domina drove, Jon Lockhart sat in the front seat, and Tiburon, the muscle, in back.
They traveled north on Minnesota Highway 169 to the Highway 7 exit. At this hour of the morning the streets were empty, but Domina approached the top of the exit carefully, signaling a left well in advance of the light. As she approached, the light turned yellow and, rather than risk it, she slowed to a stop.
“You could have made that light,” Lockhart said.
“No reason to push it. We got time.”
“How long?” Lockhart said.
“Five minutes to the drop-off. Take you another five to get into position behind those bushes. Then Tibby and me circle the block, park, and knock on Jerry’s door.”
“Tibby” was Tiburon, hunkered in the back seat, staring into the rearview out of obsidian eyes.
Domina wore a pair of custom-made Gaspar black driving gloves and a lightweight jacket with a dark sheen. Her jet-black hair was long on top and shorn butch on both sides, in the style of certain women she hung with in Morelia, south of the border.
“What if he’s early?” Lockhart said.
“Jerry Trailor wouldn’t show up early to a clusterfuck of beauty queens.”
“You sure about the bushes?”
“I checked.” Domina remembered them from previous pickups and had scouted the place. “No way Jerry’s going to see you back there. It’s a blind spot.”
“Just make sure he doesn’t look around,” Lockhart said.
“Jerry’s not the kind of guy to look,” Domina said, remembering. “Jerry rolls.”
Lockhart sniffed and said, “Just make sure.”
Lockhart wore a light gray hiking shirt over a black tee, faded jeans, and a pair of Keen hiking shoes. There was a wide-brimmed hat on the seat beside him and a black day pack balanced on the floor between his legs. He’d acquired the gear from an outlet outside of Dallas eight hours after crossing the Mexican border. The left side of his face and ear looked like he’d been caught between two surgeons having a skin fight. Otherwise, he could have easily passed for a tourist heading out Highway 7 to Minnetonka or Deep Haven or farther west to check out wild country. But the hiking disguise had been unnecessary because in two days’ driving they had not been stopped. Now, less than a mile from their destination, Lockhart swore he could smell something like wet iron, something like blood. But maybe it was the idea of watching Jerry Trailor die.< br />
Domina exhaled, waiting for the light. “Jerry’s going to tell you whatever you need to know. But he doesn’t know jack about your money.”
After a pause, during which Lockhart was careful not to betray his intentions, he said, “We’ll see.”
A crescent moon hung off the eastern horizon like a sickle waiting to drop. The way west, where they were headed, was a cavernous maw.
The light changed and Domina turned. Two blocks from the school she pulled to the curb. “Five minutes.”
Lockhart opened the car door and said, “Tell him to be careful with the pack.”
“Tibby grew up with stingers,” Domina said. “He’ll be careful.”
Inside Ms. Mansfield’s sixth-grade classroom, Jerry Trailor stared at the 2-pound brick of brown heroin, trying to think. Twice a year he fielded shipments from Las Monarcas, the Monarchs, a Michoacán drug cartel. But before, it had always been meth.
Yesterday afternoon, he’d only had time to tuck the shipment into Ms. Mansfield’s refrigerator, careful to change the lock. Then he’d gone out to Walmart and picked up a bottle of Johnson’s Baby Powder.
Every six months he got a little freebie, courtesy of the Monarchs. He’d carve out six, maybe seven good hits and replace the ground crystal with baby powder, nobody the wiser. Stealing from Monarchs was risky, but no way they could track so little replaced so well. And they hadn’t.
After getting the Johnson’s, he’d texted his old pal Suthy.
“Coming into a little extra jack. Maybe we should head over to Shakopee and get some rooms at the casino, do a little partyin’?”
Suthy was in.
But now Jerry stared at the brick of heroin and thought, Baby powder will show up on this stuff like snowdust on sand. No way I should touch it.
But Jerry knew plenty of girls who would jump at a chance for a taste. Jump and kneel and do just about anything else he could imagine, which was plenty. The idea caused a hot fog to swirl below his solar plexus, clouding his mind.
Think . . .
Nobody’d miss a couple, three, maybe four good hits, nicked off at the corners. Two for me. One for Suthy. And a half each for the chiquitas.
He stared at the brick the way a kid stares at a birthday cake with sweet buttercream frosting, candles, and well wishes. It was a gift. A hot-girl gift.
But he had no way to conceal it.
But on a brick this size, who would notice?
Think . . .
He glanced at the clock’s minute hand, same clock on the classroom wall when he was a kid. Same goddamn black-on-white marks he stared at before recess and end of school and last day, waiting for that minute hand to tick, waiting for that freedom bell to ring. Now, it clicked onto the black four, telling Jerry he’d better decide. In 10 minutes, he had to be at the school’s side door, looking relaxed, fist-bumping his old friend Domina, business as usual, just more product passing through.
Jerry knew the smart move. Jerry always knew the smart move. He just had trouble making it.
Lockhart hustled up the street through the dark, approaching the school from its rear. He crossed through shadows to the remote side entrance and crouched behind the row of bushes.
The morning was still and black. An hour before dawn was supposed to be the coldest time of the day, but it was already 70 degrees and humid, crazy climate for Minnesota three days before Memorial Day weekend. It was as though Lockhart had walked across the street to his colonial casa in Morelia, Mexico, instead of the dark side entrance to Hopkins Elementary.
When he had imagined his homecoming, he had always imagined it cold, the ice man cometh. But now Minnesota had gone all global warming on him and he was going to have to improvise. Now, he thought, the devil rides a hot wind, bringing grim reckoning.
The idea did nothing to assuage the throb that spread across his scarred left cheek. He reached up to rub it and thought, Fuckin’ Minnesota. The irony of a perfect Twin Cities spring making his burn scar ache should have made him smile. But Jon Lockhart wasn’t the kind of man to smile about anything.
He heard Domina’s car approach along the dark side street.
There was a faint click from inside the school’s side door. It pushed open . . . 6, maybe 7 inches.
Lockhart remained still, his back pressed against the redbrick wall. The door’s narrow opening faced a small walk that stretched 30 feet to the side street.
The door narrowed to a 1-inch crack.
The car pulled to a nearby curb and the idling engine turned off. A pair of car doors opened and shut. Then steps started up the walk. When they grew close, the door swung open and Jerry said, “Hey, Doms. You bring this heat from Mexico?”
Even though it had been five years, Lockhart, hidden behind the bushes, recognized Jerry’s voice.
“The only things I bring from home are these guns,” Domina said, turning her arms and flexing her biceps.
Domina and Jerry laughed, familiar.
Domina—“Doms”—was short and solid through the shoulders. Beneath her driving jacket, her stout arms were covered with tattoos, one of them a crucifix with a highly stylized image of Jesus, hands and feet weeping blood. Doms wore black jeans, a black Billie Eilish T-shirt, and an oversize dark-blue hat with “A’s” emblazoned above the bill, for Oakland. The bill was turned off-center, resting on ears with black steel earrings piercing her cartilage.
Tiburon was two heads taller than Doms and wore a dark-blue Twins baseball cap with the bill turned sideways. His Jack Daniel’s T-shirt was too tight for his ample chest and belly. The pack hung over one shoulder, riding on his back like Quasimodo’s hump.
Jerry thought the way Tiburon’s hat was turned sideways made him look stupid. But he didn’t know the man, so he only nodded and said, “Hola, compadre. ¿Qué pasa?” like a wannabe Mexican gangster.
Tiburon shrugged.
“How ya’ been, Jerry?” Doms said. Doms had been raised in Iowa by Mexican immigrants, so she sounded Upper Midwestern. But if she wanted, she could affect an accent as thick as a Michoacán Monarcas.
Doms reached out, and she and Jerry did some kind of secret handshake, slapping each others’ palms.
“I been hangin’,” Jerry said.
“Tiburon’s my mule,” Doms said, pointing to the pack.
“Damn straight,” Jerry said, holding out his fist toward the big man, ready to bump knuckles. But Tiburon only stared.
“He’s not so good with the English,” Doms said.
Jerry dropped his fist and shrugged. “No problemo. I ain’t so good with the Mexican.”
The three disappeared inside and the door swung shut.
Jon Lockhart waited 30 seconds. Then he pushed off the wall and hurried to the side entrance, reaching into his pocket for a key. He put his good ear to the metal and heard voices echo down a hall, turn a corner, and fade.
Once inside, Lockhart saw a long, poorly lit hallway with rows of lockers down either side, ending at a pair of closed glass doors. In front of the doors, there was an opening, and down the left he heard Domina talking, and then someone, Jerry, laughed.
Lockhart followed without a sound.
“Here it is,” Jerry said, stopping in front of a classroom door with “Ms. Mansfield” posted on the wall. Jerry’s chrome chain hung almost to his knee. His long-sleeve work shirt was rolled up to his elbows, revealing the start of tattoos that ran to his shoulders, one of them an ornate cross, just like Doms’s, from their time in the Arrowhead Juvenile Detention Center in Duluth, when they thought the shared Jesus would keep their gang safe. Jerry made a kind of flourish, pulling on the chain until the keys jangled out of his pocket.
“What happened to the piercings, Jerry?” Doms asked.
A long time ago, when they were both in juvie, Doms presided over Jerry’s first piercing. His left cheek. One of the kids in the yard held a match to a 2-inch shingle nail until it turned white hot. Doms could still remember how Jerry had tried to act tough about it, like he could handle the pain. And for five seconds, while the hot metal burned through his cheek, he kept still. But as soon as they pulled the nail out, Jerry howled and danced like a jumping bean.
A half dozen onlookers laughed like a pack of hyenas.
Before they got out of juvie, he did it two more times: one in the lip, another in the ear lobe.
But that was more than four years ago.
“Policy, man,” Jerry said. “The school district won’t hire you with face piercings or too many tattoos. These tats are bad enough,” he added, nodding to his arms. “Got to wear a long-sleeve shirt during the day so the brats don’t see.” Jerry inserted the key into the door and let them in.
