THE THIRD BOOK IN THE STUNNING FRANK PAVLICEK SERIES An expert falconer is shot in the back in the wilds of West Virginia. The police believe he was the victim of a hunting accident but PI Frank Pavlicek, a falconer himself, isn’t buying the story. Beatings, bombings, warnings from the FBI, and the arrest of his best friend on trumped-up charges only strengthen Pavlicek’s resolve to follow a bloody trail of lies and corpses that leads to a chilling, terrorist conspiracy. Andy Straka is the author of the widely acclaimed, bestselling Frank Pavlicek PI series and was named by Publishers Weekly as one of "ten rising stars" in crime fiction. Straka is a native of upstate New York, a licensed falconer, and a long-time resident of Virginia, where he is co-founder of the popular Crime Wave at the annual Virginia Festival of the Book. A Cold Quarry A Frank Pavlicek Mystery By Andy Straka Brash Books, LLC Copyright © 2010 Andy Straka All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-941298-77-0 CHAPTER 1 The ski-masked man balanced the business end of the twelve-gauge Mossberg Persuader against my temple with a shaky hand. Of equal concern, he appeared to lack the hard-won experience that might discourage him from pulling the trigger. "You sure you want to do this?" I asked. "Seems like you're overreacting." "Shut up, dick-wad," he said. Did I also happen to mention his limited vocabulary? That and the dark green swath of cloth covering his head and face had almost convinced me of the futility of attempting to reason further with the guy. With his free hand, he was digging in my coat pocket for my truck keys, but that was the least of my worries. "Let's just think about this now —" "I said shut the fuck up!" A few snowflakes twirled like bits of ash among the branches overhead. This peaceful winter mountain scene, I thought for one dark moment, must have made for a quiet place to die. But steam flaring from the nose and mouth holes in the assailant's mask snapped me back to reality. Though he juggled the keys once he had hold of them, the dark barrel didn't move from my face. I was as concerned he might shoot me by accident as I was about his shooting me on purpose. Ironic, because it was a supposed accident that had brought me up here to this spot in the first place. Chester Carew had been a friend and fellow falconer, a lifetime West Virginian from Nitro, an old factory town of about seven thousand souls just downriver from Charleston. Three days before, someone had put a round from a high-powered rifle straight between Chester's shoulder blades not far from where we were standing. The cops, I'd been told, were calling it a hunting accident, an errant shot from some yet-to-be-identified drunk or stoned poacher. I thought they were probably right — neither I nor my friend Jake Toronto, Chester's falconry sponsor, had ever been able to talk the hard-headed old cuss into wearing blaze orange in the woods during deer season when he should have known better. But just to satisfy my own curiosity, and since Chester's funeral wasn't due to begin for another three hours, I'd gotten directions from Toronto, who'd otherwise been circumspect about the whole business so far, and had taken a ride up here to this patch of ridge and fallen scrub oak to have a look around. "This isn't even your land," I said, hoping to distract the gunman. Funny how a piece of weaponry like his could alter the equation between two people. "Never said it was." The acreage was posted and technically now belonged to Carew's estate until it passed through all the vagaries of probate to the old man's widow. The police had left vehicle tracks the size of tractor treads and a shredded trail of crime scene tape to lead me toward where Carew's body had been found. Mr. Ski Mask had popped into view just as soon as I, unarmed and not expecting him, topped a small knoll near the actual scene. At first, I thought he might be one of a group of teens out playing paint ball or something. Until I laid eyes on the shotgun he leveled in my direction, that is. He was obviously not too keen about me being here. "All right, mister. Turn around and start walking. And keep your hands in the air." "Why? So you can shoot me in the back the way you did Chester Carew?" "I said shut up! I didn't shoot nobody. But I'm about to shoot you if you don't get yourself moving." The accent was thickly Southern. The voice sounded young — I guessed early twenties — and scared. I wondered what of. "Okay. Okay." I started to turn. "Wait a minute." What now? "Let me see your wallet." "You want to rob me too, is that it?" "Let me see your friggin' wallet," he demanded. I pulled it out and handed it to him. He flipped it open and looked at my license. "From Virginia," he read. "Frank Pavlicek. ... Oh, Jesus. You're a goddamned private investigator." I stared at him and shrugged. "Shit," he said. He repeated it four times. "What am I going to do with you?" "If you decide to shoot me, they'll