The Children of the Wolf

By Karl Tutt

Priss Maybry is good at what she does . . . removing human trash from the streets of Miami. But sometimes you get dirty . . . even damaged . . . and nothing will wash off the stench. She hides her vulnerability behind a mask of sandpaper and grit, but in her business, sometimes its just not enough. A predator is on the loose, and a deranged maniac. She needs to get them both, before they get her again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karl Tutt
• Release date: Mar 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310561375

Karl Tutt

Karl Tutt is a retired English teacher from a dropout prevention program in Florida. He is a veteran cruiser who has published several sailing articles in national publications. His two new offerings, The Children of the Wolf and The House at Hull, continue the mastery of murder and mayhem demonstrated in the Ghostcatcher series with T.K Fleming, and his female sleuth, Dee Rabow, in the Diabla series. Quick, engaging, and satisfying . . . those words describe the approach that has lured thousands of readers to the pages of his murder mysteries.

Book preview

The

Children

of

the

Wolf

by

Karl Tutt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Karl Tutt 2015

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Thanks to Carolyn, my patient reader, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.

Chapter One

Bartolomieu was a strange name for a Mexican guy --- his mother, long gone, God bless her --- her had been Portuguese. Anyway, Bart’s Bebida Mexicano was a good name for the bar he owned --- or at least what the thugs allowed him to own. He’d been lucky. On Tuesdays, the gang bangers came around. He paid them the going rate for protection, and mostly kept the junkies and the hookers out of his place. A few of the regulars even felt comfortable bringing their kids in to play Foosball or pool while the adults soaked up cold cerveza, or the shots of Cuervo Gold, watched soccer, and sometimes sang along with the Hispanic tunes that filled the jukebox.

That didn’t mean that Pepe and Maria Elena were allowed near the place. He was simply afraid. In his mind, kids and booze just didn’t mix --- not anytime, anyplace. Both of them had barely survived a tough time after their mother’s death. She was darkly beautiful, intelligent, but the thing that defined her was her devotion and unqualified love for her children.

Pepe had just turned ten. He was confused, but soccer, baseball, and a budding awareness of young girls on the edge of blossoming, dominated his young consciousness. Maria Elena was a different story.

At twelve, she had just started her period. Her breasts were quietly exploding and the hips were taking a feminine shape that earned sly looks from the older boys at school.

They’d all watched while Estrella, Bart’s very own star, his wife of fifteen years, had faded --- the TB ravaging her body and finally her mind. She shrank, and they all shrank with her. He heard the death rattle in her throat, watched the blood bubble from her lips while the doctors simply shook their heads, and the nurses made the sign of the cross over their breasts.

He didn’t realize all that was happening at the time. He was consumed with grief, guilt, and a paralyzing fear that he tried to keep below the surface. He simply couldn’t face a life without Estrella. He cursed himself for his ignorance. The real victim was his girl, Maria Elena. A light in her life had become a shadow, lost in the black clouds that he hoped were not her future. The child, the one who needed her even more, had adored her mother. And now that love ---- that salvation and deliverance --- was gone . . . buried in a cold metal box beneath six feet of gray, moldy, sand.

Maria Elena had disappeared before --- a day or two --- but he’d found her at the home of friends, seeking some sort of solace and comfort in families that were still whole. They’d been kind. One even volunteered to take her in until she had healed. But there was no balm in Gilead . . . . nothing that could close up the black hole in her being. It had now been four days. Bart had searched, but now he was frantic. He didn’t expect help in Tijuana, from the police or anyone else. The corruption was rampant, and it was simply that he often felt nobody cared. He decided to make the call.

Chapter Two

Big Mig liked what he saw. The one on the left. The black hair cascading over her shoulders, the round hips, the sexuality lurking just below the soft olive skin. She was young and ripe. It meant big bucks. Lobo would be proud. His clients would stand in line, fists full of cash, for this one.

Miguel wasn’t just big. He was huge. 6’7", probably 270 lbs. after a good day at the gym. Hands like blushing meat hooks. Solid, burnished muscle, and plenty of it. He could inspire terror. He didn’t mind. In this business, it was a good thing to have a reputation like his. Still, even with the dark uni-brow and eyes that danced with violence, some had called him handsome. He didn’t believe it. He believed in Lobo, terror, and maybe money. That was it. But he tried on his least threatening smile and nodded to the budding Mexican beauties as they passed within an arm’s length. He mumbled a soft greeting. They giggled and went on. Maybe he was a bit handsome after all. He made mental notes . . . time, place. These girls were to be remembered . . . perhaps even marked.

Lobo had taken Miguel off the streets of Tijuana not long after both his parents and his baby sister had found eternal rest --- that’s the way he liked to think of it --- in a barren stretch of desert just to the south. Drugs --- it was always drugs --- and after Lobo had heard the whole story, he helped Mig settle the score. His family was gone, but so were the four mangy jackals. Lobo had smiled as Miguel had crushed the larynx of two of them with his bare hands. He could still hear the gurgle of death, watch as the dogs’ eyes bulged, listen to their feeble cries for mercy. The other two accomplices joined them, a well-placed 9 mm slug in the backs of each of their skulls.

Since then, Mig had done whatever Lobo had commanded --- no questions. Mig guessed his final destination was hell, but Lobo treated him like a son. And the money, the girls, and the cocaine were all good. At