Bittersweet (28 page)

Taking her AR-15, Mack got out, silently closed her door, and took up a position facing the house, with Ethan's truck off to her right. The air was rich with the fragrance of burning cedar, and a curl of smoke drifted from the chimney. Overhead, the sky was a deep black, the stars were pinpricks of faraway light, and the moon was intermittently clouded over. Behind her the trees were dark and still. She unsnapped the keeper on her holster and loosened the Glock, then pulled back the bolt on her rifle, sliding a round into the chamber. She raised it to her shoulder, steadying her left arm against the cab and sighting the scope on the front door. To her left, Davenport and Jackson got out of the other sheriff's truck and melted into the shadows, heading for the back of the house. To the right, on the other side of Ethan's truck, Coxey and Davies were doing the same.

Murphy, who had been riding with Ethan, had taken cover behind Coxey's SUV. Ethan was out of his truck and standing behind it, using it as a shield. In the shimmering moonlight, Mack saw that he was holding a cell phone to his ear—Krause's, she presumed. After a moment, somebody apparently answered, and he spoke slow and level, loud enough for Mack to hear what he said.

“This is Deputy Sheriff Conroy. I am outside your house, and my men have the place surrounded. I have warrants for the arrest of Thomas and Ronald Perry and a search warrant for this property. Come out with your hands up. Now.”

He stood for a moment, listening. But the person he'd been talking to must have clicked off, for he closed the phone and tossed it into the truck. At that moment, the television in the living room went off and the window went dark. A second or two later, a mercury vapor light blazed at the left side of the house, near the parking area, bathing the grassy space in front with a cool blue light. At the same time, the curtain in the window twitched. Somebody was looking out. Whoever was inside could see the ring of vehicles parked across the field in front of the house and could only guess at the number of armed officers somewhere out there.

Mack tensed, scarcely breathing, holding her rifle steady, half expecting a barrage of shots from one of the front windows. For what seemed a very long time, nothing happened. The silence lengthened. From the left side of the house, she heard the clink of a boot against a stone—Davenport and Jackson, moving around to the back. Somewhere off to the east, a coyote yipped and then another, a cacophony of coyote voices, singing to the moon.

Ethan had picked up the mike to the PA system in his truck and keyed it. He stood, waiting, then spoke into the mike, his voice startlingly loud and deep. “Thomas and Ronald Perry, you're under arrest. Your house is surrounded. Come out with your hands in the air.”

Another long silence. Out of the corner of her eye, Mack caught the flicker of the light going out in the building she thought was a hangar.
Whoever was down there must have heard Ethan on the PA. Then her radio bleeped softly and she heard Davenport: “Rear's secure.”

“Secure back here, too,” Coxey chimed in.

Ethan spoke into the mike again. “We're not messing around. I'm counting down. I want you both out here, hands up, before I get to one. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

The front door opened a crack, and Mack tensed, watching the other windows for any sign of movement, her finger on the trigger of her rifle. “Don't shoot,” a man called. “I'm coming out.” He stepped onto the porch, both hands raised above his head.

Ethan switched on his spotlight, illuminating the man on the porch, who was dressed in jeans, a denim jacket, and cowboy boots. Mack knew at a glance that he wasn't the man she had seen on the drone video.

“Your name, sir?” Ethan said through the PA.

The man cleared his throat. “Ronald. Ronald Perry.” His voice was high and threadlike, frightened.

“Your brother. Thomas Perry. Where is he?”

“Not here,” Perry said. “He's . . . he's down in Uvalde. He won't be home until late.”

Mack keyed the mike on her handheld. “Negative,” she said. “There are two trucks parked to the left of the house. The silver Dodge is registered to Thomas Perry. He's here. And the light that was on in the hangar has just gone out.”

“Roger that, Chambers,” Ethan said.

Mack flipped her goggles down and turned toward the trees, startled, as always, by the sudden change in her vision. Everything was bathed in an eerie green light, patched with darker gray green shadows. She
searched the area behind them visually, watching for movement. Where was the other Perry brother? Still in the hangar? Or moving up the hill toward them?

Ethan turned off the PA system. “Down the steps, Perry,” he ordered loudly. “Hands clasped behind your head. Now, turn around backward and walk toward me.” A few moments later: “Stop. Cover me, Murphy. I'm taking him.” He closed the distance to Ronald Perry, pulled his arms down behind his back, and fastened a pair of plastic flex cuffs on him. “You're under arrest.” He began a quick pat down.

Perry stood motionless, head hanging. “What's . . . what's the charge?”

“Suspicion of Lacey Act violations,” Ethan said, straightening. He turned Perry and began marching him toward the truck. “There'll be other charges.” He opened the door of the rear cab. “Get in,” he said brusquely, and shut the door. He pulled out his radio and keyed it. Into it, he said, “Ronald Perry in custody. Davenport, go in through the back. Murphy and I are going in the front. Coxey, you and Davies check the buildings out back. Chambers, you stay where you are until we've secured the house and the outbuildings, then you can start your search.”

Mack heard the curt “Rogers” from Davenport and Coxey but said nothing. Her stomach muscles tightening, she thought that “stay where you are” sounded like another effort to keep her out of trouble, out of harm's way. Was it because she was a game warden, not a deputy? Because she was a woman? And then, another thought: because Ethan was beginning to care for her?

But she had reported seeing the light in the hangar go out. There had been somebody down there, most likely Thomas Perry. The building
should be checked out, and since nobody else was available to do it, she would.

She waited, covering Ethan and Murphy until they had safely crossed the open space in front of the house and gone inside. Then, carrying her rifle, she slipped out from behind her truck, dodged behind Davenport's vehicle, and headed diagonally downhill toward the Quonset hut, now dark. Her goggles allowed her to see everything quite clearly, the shadowy trees to her left, the hill rising steeply to her right as she moved swiftly forward and down. Behind her, she could hear Coxey and Davies stumbling among the outbuildings, Davies cursing as he crashed into what sounded like a metal trash can, and hoped that they didn't see her and take a shot at her. Not much chance of that, though, she thought with some relief. The moon was clouded over, the hillside had gone dark, and they didn't have any optics.

In the green glow of her goggles, the building, its curved metal skin dappled with green gray rust, bulked large and ominous. There was a door on the side toward her and a square window, where she had seen the light. She ignored the door, ducked under the window, and moved silently forward along the wall, to the front of the structure. Looking ahead, she could see that the rectangular area had been regularly mowed so that the grass was short and matted, and there were five or six markers at regular intervals on both sides, each topped with saucer-size plastic reflectors. To the right was a large white-painted metal fuel tank with a pump and hose apparatus at one end. No doubt about it—this was an airstrip.

Inside the building she heard somebody moving around, and a moment later, a door closing. She flipped the safety on her rifle and took a step forward. Then, to her surprise, she heard the deep-throated roar of
a motor turning over, then a blustery
rrhumph-humph-humph
, escalating to a deafening thunder inside the metal drum of the Quonset hut. An airplane engine revving up, a propeller winding up to top speed.

She stepped around the edge of the building just as the airplane—white with a wide blue stripe, its registration number painted in large letters on the fuselage—emerged through the open doors of the hangar and started down the runway, accelerating faster and faster. A light in the plane's nose illuminated the dark turf ahead and flashed from the reflectors. Mack knelt on one knee and raised her rifle, aiming at the closest tire, but even though she was a good marksman, she knew the shot was futile. The plane was moving away from her, and moving too fast, at full power. The flaps were a better target. She fired three quick shots and thought she'd scored a hit, but the target was rapidly moving out of range for anything but a Hail Mary. She lowered her rifle and grabbed her radio.

“Single-engine aircraft taking off on the grass strip. Registration number bravo-one-seven-romeo-hotel.” But even as she spoke, she could hear the shout from the top of the hill. Somebody else was seeing what she was seeing.

And then something happened that Mack would marvel at for the rest of her life. The plane seemed to have nearly reached its lift-off speed when the light on its nose illuminated a huge white-tailed buck as large as an elk, wearing an enormous rack of antlers. It was standing still as a statue in the middle of the grassy strip, head turned toward the onrushing aircraft, unafraid. The pilot must have seen it at about the same time, for the plane nosed up, then swerved sharply to the left, its left wing dipping down. The left wingtip caught the ground, and the plane swung violently around. Above, on the hill, more shouts.

And then, as Mack sucked in her breath, the right wing rose up and the plane cartwheeled, the left wing crumpling under it. It landed with a loud crash, upside down, and burst into flames.

Antlered head high, the buck stood watching, then trotted briskly toward the trees, its white tail a proud
flag.

American bittersweet (
Celastrus scandens
) is not just a pretty plant. It has a long history of use by Native Americans and by the colonists who copied their medical practices. The root was boiled and pounded into a poultice or made into an ointment to treat burns, skin sores, eruptions, cancers, and rheumatism. A tea was used to treat liver ailments and dysentery. A stronger tea was used to cause uterine contractions during and after childbirth, and as an abortifacient. Bark extracts are thought to be cardioactive, so modern herbalists generally avoid the use of this plant.

Oriental bittersweet (
Celastrus orbiculatus
) has its medicinal uses as well. In its native Asia, it is employed for the treatment of paralysis, circulatory problems, headache, toothache, and snake bites. Ongoing research is exploring its possible antitumor activity.

Both vines are highly decorative. But do remember that Oriental bittersweet is an invasive pest. Please hang out the UNWELCOME sign and don't let it move into your neighborhood!

China Bayles
“Native Plants for Wildlife Gardens”
Pecan Springs Enterprise

“And then what?” Ruby dropped her duster and stared at me over her shop counter. “Come on, China—you can't stop there! What happened to the pilot? Was he
killed
?”

“You bet,” I said. “And if you ask me, that was poetic justice. He died
in a crash-and-burn, just the way Sue Ellen died. And that white-tailed buck—” I shook my head, marveling. “Quite an amazing coincidence, that deer showing up on the airstrip just as the killer was about to take off. Mack was astonished at the way the buck behaved. She couldn't stop talking about it.”

“That was no coincidence,” Ruby said, very seriously. “That was the universe, which has its own ways of settling scores.”

I regarded her, both eyebrows raised. “I hadn't thought of it that way.”

“Well, do. Everybody knows how long it takes to work through the justice system, and even then things don't always turn out the way they should.”

“Yes,” I replied, with irony. I pulled Ruby's stool out from behind the counter and sat down, hooking my heels over the rungs. “Sometimes diabolically clever defense attorneys derail justice, don't they?”

It was the Monday after Thanksgiving, and we weren't open for business, but that didn't mean we had the day off. Both Ruby and I were working, even though we weren't waiting on customers. I had gone in about eight thirty to make out book and herb orders, stocking up for the holiday season. I had just gotten started when the UPS delivery guy came, bringing me an entirely new shipment of bittersweet—the
right
bittersweet, this time, with the apologies of the Michigan wreath maker and a promise to never again substitute Oriental for American bittersweet.

Miss T dropped in right after the UPS guy, to see if we were going to want her to work that week. She is short and chubby and loves bright colors. Today's outfit was a bright chartreuse sweatshirt over dark green pants, and her hair (pulled up and twisted to keep it out of her way) was a soft burnt orange. “In honor of Thanksgiving,” she said with a laugh. “And of course, the Texas win over Texas Tech. Wasn't that a great game?”

I shanghaied her immediately, and the two of us spent a pleasant hour hanging wreaths and making the shop pretty for the winter holidays. That kind of creative work is one of the reasons I love Thyme and Seasons—it's almost like play, rather than work. And being able to share it with a friend and helper, like Miss T, makes it all the more interesting and fun. When we finished our work, the shop looked and smelled like the holidays, and Miss T went on her way with a hug and a smile—a great start to the week for both of us.

I returned to the task of ordering, but not for long. When I heard Ruby come in, I poured two cups of hot tea, put a half dozen of Cass' chai tea cookies on a plate, and carried everything into the Crystal Cave. Ruby—dressed in purple pants, a purple and blue psychedelic sweatshirt, and a purple bandana tied over her crinkly red hair—was starting on her Monday chores.

She disregarded my comment about diabolical defense attorneys. “So the universe took the judgment out of human hands,” she said with satisfaction. She leaned both elbows on the counter, picked up her teacup, and sipped. “What happened when Mack went to look for her fawns? Did she find them?”

“They aren't
her
fawns,” I replied. “They belong to the state of Texas—at least, that's what the state claims. But yes, she found them in the high-fenced pen where Doc Masters had spotted them. She was able to confirm that the tattoos had been changed and that the animals had originally been registered to Three Gates. She also found a box of semen straws in the freezer, a couple of pieces of Three Gates equipment in the barn, and enough fingerprint evidence to tie Jack Krause to the thefts. DNA will likely confirm that the semen was stolen from Three Gates.”

“What about the smuggled deer?”

“There were several animals in the pen that didn't come from Three Gates. It's impossible to say where they might have come from. But Mack found invoices that appear to document the transfer of deer to several trophy ranchers in South Texas. She'll track those down, and if there's enough evidence, the appropriate charges will be filed. The Lacey Act is a powerful tool for prosecution. A good thing, too. Takes the case into federal court.”

“And the murders?”

“Both Krause and Ronald Perry are cooperating with the sheriff's office. By which I mean,” I added, “that they've confessed to theft and Lacey violations, but they're blaming both homicides on the dead Perry brother. Jack Krause is claiming that he doesn't know diddly about either murder. Ronald Perry is claiming that he was in the dark about both killings until the cops told him, and that his brother was a paranoid psychopath whose behavior was completely unpredictable.”

“A paranoid psychopath who was taken out by a mysterious buck with magnificent antlers,” Ruby said with a lofty satisfaction, munching on a cookie. “The goddess was seeking justice.”

“Maybe,” I conceded, not wanting to get into an argument over whether the buck was or was not a tool of celestial intervention. “It turns out that Doc Masters had been a good friend of the Perrys' father. He seems to have held off on telling Mack where he had seen the stolen fawns because he wanted to talk to Ronald Perry first—maybe try to get him to go state's evidence on the theft, which would have meant a lighter sentence for both of the Perrys.”

“But the psychopathic brother preempted that by shooting Doc Masters,” Ruby said.

I nodded soberly. “The ballistic evidence is still out, but a twenty-two
caliber semiautomatic pistol with Thomas' prints all over it was found in the Perry house. I'm guessing it'll be a match for the twenty-two slug the autopsy surgeon dug out of the old vet.” I sighed. “And as for the murder of Sue Ellen—well, we've got that crime on the drone video, thanks to Amy and her friends. What we don't have yet is evidence that Krause and Ronald Perry either knew about the murders or were somehow involved.”

But the investigation, as they say, was ongoing. Perry and Krause were lawyering up and would probably bail later in the week, and their trials, of course, were still to come. It seemed like an open-and-shut case to me, and in this matter, I was on the side of the angels. If there was any evidence at all of collusion, I wanted to see those guys charged with conspiring to take the lives of a perfectly lovely cowgirl and a much-admired veterinarian.

But Ruby was right. Justice doesn't always work the way it's supposed to, and it's usually about as slow as molasses in December. And even if the prosecuting attorney manages to get the convictions she's looking for, the wily defense attorney will almost always file an appeal, with the aim of delaying justice as long as possible. Except, of course, in the case of Lucky Perry, who'd gotten the final verdict swiftly.

“Thanks to Amy and her friends,” Ruby repeated. She shook her head, deeply troubled. “I can't get my mind around the fact that Amy was
there
, doing
that.
She didn't say a word to me about where exactly she was going or what she was planning. She told me that she was taking a couple of days of R and R in San Antonio.” Her voice rose. “And
I
was keeping little Grace!” Her shoulders slumped. “It feels like she doesn't trust me, China.”

I was sympathetic. “But look at it this way, dear. If Amy hadn't been
there
, doing
that
, Thomas Perry might have gotten away with Sue Ellen's murder.”

Ruby pulled down her gingery eyebrows and pursed her lips. “I really don't see—”

“It's like this,” I said patiently. “Amy insisted to Chris that they bring the drone video to me, because she was hoping I could keep them out of trouble. As it happened, I was the one who knew about the thefts at Three Gates and could put that information together with Mack's information about Doc Masters and the fawns at the Bar Bee ranch. Which gave Mack and her hunky deputy the ability to consider all the moving parts and figure out what had to be done. Amy's role was absolutely crucial.” I smiled. “You might credit the universe or the goddess or whatever for arranging that little piece of synchronicity, as well.”

“Maybe.” Ruby sighed. “But that's not the only issue here, China. What was Amy doing there with Chris? Is she . . . is she involved with him? Romantically, I mean. And why didn't she tell me what she was doing, where she was going?”

“I don't know,” I said honestly. “She was definitely surprised to see me, and uneasy, but I couldn't begin to guess about her relationship with Chris. And I don't know why she didn't tell you about the drone project—unless she thought you would disapprove of her trespassing on private property in order to get photos of that pigeon shoot. Would you?”

“I suppose,” Ruby conceded. “It's one thing to carry a sign and join a protest march. It's another to do something you can get arrested for. Especially if you're a mom.”

“Well, I don't know about that,” I said. “There are some things worth getting arrested for. And as far as Chris is concerned, aren't we getting ahead of ourselves? I mean, for all we know, this little episode was exactly what it seemed—three young people with a big idea, a powerful new tool, and a mission. Nobody would have found out what they were up to if they
hadn't somehow managed to video a murder-in-progress. That was a coincidence they couldn't have imagined.”

Or maybe it wasn't a coincidence. Maybe it was just another piece of the universal design that was put in place to make everything work out okay in the end. But if that was true, why did the arrangements have to include the deaths of two very good people? Whoever was in charge of such things must not have been paying attention when that happened.

“The real truth,” Ruby said disconsolately, “is that I would hate to see anything or anybody come between Amy and Kate, especially for little Grace's sake. The girls are the only parents she's known.”

“That's not true,” I protested. “Even if Amy and Kate split up, she'll have you. You're an important part of her life. And a stable part. You'll always be here for Grace.” I eyed her. “You know, you could always just
ask
your daughter what's going on. Maybe she'll tell you.”

Ruby pulled her mouth down. “I already know the answer,” she said glumly. “Remember when I said I wasn't getting good vibes about Amy's weekend plans? That I didn't like the guy she was going to meet in San Antonio? The guy who turned out to be Chris? I was right, China. He has dangerous ideas—dangerous for Amy, that is. There's going to be trouble. Serious trouble.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, understanding. Ruby's gift—the crystal ball she carries around inside her head, or her heart—had given her another glimpse into the future. And she didn't like what she saw.

“I'm sorry, too,” Ruby said simply. “And there's not a damn thing I can do about it.” After a moment, she added, “You haven't told me about Sam. How is he? What's your mother going to do for help there at the ranch?”

My turn to be glum. “Two problems. He developed a blood clot in his
leg and an infection in his lungs. He's still in the hospital, under treatment. Leatha has found a place to stay in Kerrville so she doesn't have to drive back and forth. And they agreed, both of them, to delay the opening of their nature sanctuary. Leatha and I emailed the people who made reservations and explained the situation. While we were working on it, I realized how hard it was for her to do. She's really invested in the idea. And who knows? Maybe Sam will recover enough to allow them to go on with their plans. The guest lodge is finished and waiting whenever they're up to it.”

I paused, wanting to say that things were changing for me: that I was beginning to accept the obligations of an only daughter, to realize that the next chapters of my life might include my mother in ways that would likely alter our relationship. The change might be a while in coming, but it somehow seemed massive to me, on the order of the San Francisco earthquake, and I was having a hard time putting it into words.