Showdown in West Texas (9 page)

“What about a car?”

She shook her head. “I didn't even think to look.”

“Any suspects?”

“My parents had no enemies, and we certainly
weren't rich so there was no reason for someone to think there'd be cash in the house.”

“Was anything taken?”

“Nothing.”

“How did he get in?”

Cage thought for a moment she wouldn't answer. Then she drew a breath and slowly released it. “I left the front door unlocked.”

Now it was Cage who remained silent.

“I'd left my bicycle out in the driveway and my dad was afraid my sister, Rachel, would hit it if she came home early from her sleepover. She used to do that sometimes. Even after she was old enough to drive, she never liked spending the night away from home, which is strange, because after she left for college, she never came back.”

“And you're sure you left the door unlocked when you came back in?”

“I must have. I was the last one in that night. And there was no sign of a forced entry. Just that unlocked front door.”

“You were only ten years old,” he said softly.

“I know.”

“You can't blame yourself.”

“I don't.”

But in spite of the denial, Cage was willing to bet that unlocked door had tormented her for years.

“What about fingerprints or tire tracks? There must have been some kind of trace evidence.”

“There was nothing.”

“There was something,” Cage said. “There's always something left behind. It just didn't get found.”

Grace shrugged. “That was twenty-three years ago. We didn't have the kind of forensic technology we have these days. And even now, we both know it's never as easy as those CSI shows make it seem. Especially in a place like Cochise County.”

“Miss Nelda said the authorities were convinced it was someone local because of other incidents that happened. She was kind of vague about that.”

“She must have been talking about the other murders,” Grace said, and she gave him another quick glance.

“What other murders?”

“Ellen and John Lomax. They were ranchers, too. They were found murdered on their kitchen floor the year before my parents were killed.”

“Same M.O.?”

“Similar, except they were killed in the middle of the day. They'd just sat down to lunch. The table was set for three and there was still food on the plates and coffee in the cups. Whoever it was, they had invited him to sit down and eat with them. Their sixteen-year-old daughter got sick at school that day and came home early. She must have seen the killer. Her truck was found in a ravine a few miles from the ranch. She was headed back toward town when her vehicle was forced off the road. She got out to run, but he caught her and shot her in the head. Left her right where she fell. If he was able to do that to her…” Grace swiped another strand of hair from her forehead. “I've often wondered why he spared Lily and me when he must have known we were there that night.”

“Even a monster might have a hard time killing two little girls in cold blood.”

“He didn't seem to have a problem killing the Lomax girl.”

“She was older and that was in the heat of the moment. And it is possible he didn't know you were hiding under the bed.”

“If it was someone local, then he had to have known we were somewhere in the house. Just as he knew that Jenny Lomax would be in school that day.”

“And the police were convinced it was the same perpetrator in your parents' case?”

“The M.O. was close enough that it seemed likely.”

“What did the ballistics reports show?”

“They weren't a match, but that doesn't mean anything. Almost everyone in Cochise County owns more than one gun.”

Something about all this was starting to bother Cage. “Let's just assume it
was
someone local. Someone that still lives around here. Have you ever considered that your return might be making him sweat a little?”

Grace frowned. “Why would he be worried about me? He's gotten away with five murders for this long. Besides, if he thought there was a chance I'd seen something that night, he could have killed me a long time ago.”

“Like I said, whacking a kid might not be so easy, even for him.”

“You're forgetting about my sister,” Grace said. “Lily's lived here all her life. If he's concerned I'll remember something, why hasn't he been worried about her all this time?”

“Put it this way,” Cage said. “If you had to rely on a six-year-old or a ten-year-old witness, which one would you choose?”

“Yeah, I guess. But like I said, this guy has gotten away with murder for twenty-three years. You think he's going to risk his freedom now by coming after me on the off chance I might remember something?”

“All it takes is the right sound,” Cage said. “Or a smell.”

Grace shook her head. “If I was going to remember something about that night, I would have done so by now. There's just nothing to remember because I didn't see anything. Besides, the killer could already be dead for all we know. Or in prison for another crime.”

“That's certainly possible.”

She turned and studied him for a moment. “Why are you so interested in all this?”

He shrugged. “I'm a cop. The notion of a killer going free all this time goes against my grain.”
And somebody around here wants you dead, lady.

“You don't think it goes against mine? We're talking about my parents here. I've dreamed about catching the person or persons responsible for as long as I can remember. It's the reason I entered law enforcement in the first place. But I'm a realist. In the past two years alone, the Mexican police have reported over five thousand—that's
five thousand
—gangland-style killings, and that violence is starting to spill across the border. That's where I have to direct this department's resources and manpower. I can't indulge myself in trying to solve a twenty-three-year-old homicide case. Not even when it's as close to me as this one. My duty is to protect the citizens of Cochise County to the best of my ability, and that's exactly what I intend to do.”

Admirable,
Cage thought. But luckily, he wasn't hampered by such noble constraints.

They'd been traveling south since they'd left Jericho Pass and the low walls of an arroyo eventually gave way to a high bluff that ran parallel to the road.

Grace nodded toward the window. “Red Rock Canyon,” she told him.

She'd slipped on her sunglasses earlier and now she pulled them down her nose so that she could study the striated formations over the rims. “There's a legend about this place. One of the south-facing walls has a pictograph of a giant thunderbird which some say marks the tomb of a monstrous winged predator who once fed on the tribes that lived in this area. On moonless nights, the lights that can be seen moving through the canyon are the souls of his victims, trying to find a passage to heaven. Others say the thunderbird guards a secret door behind which is a fortune in gold.”

“Nothing like a good legend to lighten the mood,” Cage said. “I've always been a sucker for ghost stories.”

“Then you'll want to see Willow Springs,” she said.

“What's Willow Springs?”

“A ghost town about twenty miles from here. But if you want to visit it, I wouldn't advise taking your car. The trail is pretty rugged. You'll need a four-wheel drive.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” he said. “So, what's the scoop on that place?”

“It was once a thriving mercury-mining town and now there's nothing left but deserted mine shafts, a few crumbling buildings and the ghost of the murdered sheriff who still roams the streets, trying to protect the town from the marauders who gunned him down in a spectacular shoot-out.”

“Sounds like a Clint Eastwood movie.”

“I'm sure it is,” she said with a smile, and then she sobered.

Up ahead, two squad cars and a county coroner's SUV were pulled to the side of the road. Cage felt that little jolt in his gut that he used to get before every mission.

Just like old times,
he thought and for a moment he sat there and savored the feeling, no matter how fleeting, of being back in the game.

About a hundred yards off the road, two uniformed deputies and two men in plain clothes stood gazing down at something on the ground. When they saw Grace, one of them raised a hand and waved her over.

“That's Raymond Cruz,” she said, referring to the taller of the two men in jeans. “He's one of our detectives. The guy standing next to him is the county coroner, Ellis Lovejoy.”

“Great name for a coroner,” Cage said.

“Isn't it?”

As they neared the crime scene, Cage could hear the sputter of radio transmissions and the sound stirred about a million memories. Different town, different cops, different scenery for sure. But the old thrill was still there.

He hung back, not wanting to overstep his bounds, but he was itching to get a look at the victim. The deputies and Detective Cruz stepped back to make room for Grace, and she stood for a moment, gazing down at the ground with them. Then she took off her sunglasses and knelt beside the body.

“Who called it in?”

“A couple of teenagers on four-wheelers spotted him,” Cruz told her. “They left tracks all over the damn place.”

“I don't guess we know who he is yet, do we?”

“We don't have a name, but Mac here thinks the guy may be related to Cecelia Suarez.”

Cage saw Grace's head jerk up. “Colt McKinney's housekeeper?”

Cruz nodded. “He says he saw them together one night at the Blue Moon. Cecelia said he was her brother.”

“When was this, Mac?”

One of the deputies shifted closer to Grace. “Couple weeks ago, maybe closer to three. I saw them arguing out in the parking lot. Looked like the guy was starting to get out of line so I went over to break things up and make sure Cecelia was okay. She just laughed it off and said her brother couldn't hold his liquor. She called him
la endeble,
which didn't sit too well with him.”

“Did you hear his name?”

“She never called him by name, and I didn't really get that good a look at him. It was pretty dark in the parking lot and I didn't have my flashlight with me. But I'm pretty sure this is the same guy.”

“How sure is pretty sure?”

“I'm not willing to swear on it, but you don't see a scar like that very often.”

“Has anyone talked to Cecelia yet?” Grace asked. “We'll need to get her over to the morgue for an ID.”

“I'll swing by there on my way back to the station,” Cruz said. “Unless you want to do it. Might be easier coming from a woman.”

He didn't seem to mean any disrespect by the comment, and Grace didn't appear to take offense. She glanced up at the coroner. “Any guess as to the time of death?”

“Based on algor mortis, I'd say at least ten hours, but it gets pretty cool out here at night.” He shrugged, which seemed to mean,
Your guess is as good as mine.

Grace stood and glanced over her shoulder at Cage. “Come take a look. Tell me what you think.”

The other cops dispersed as Cage moved up beside Grace. The victim lay facedown in the dirt, hands tied behind his back, long black hair matted with blood.

Grace handed Cage a pair of gloves and he snapped them on as he knelt. His hand poised over the victim's head, he said, “Mind if I take a look?”

“Be my guest.”

He parted the matted hair until he could see the entrance wound at the back of the man's skull.

“Looks about the size of a .357 Magnum.”

“Yep, that's what it looks like all right,” the coroner agreed. “But we won't know for sure until we dig that slug out.”

The victim was facing away from Cage, and he moved around to the other side, this time lifting the hair away from the man's features.

He was Hispanic, early twenties with a wicked-looking scar that curved around his throat. Cage had seen that scar before. He knew who this man was.

He was the guy who'd gone out the bathroom window in San Miguel, leaving his wife behind to be slaughtered with all the others.

It appeared that someone else was being dealt a little divine retribution, Cage thought grimly.

 

“S
HERIFF
S
TEELE
! Y
OU BETTER
come take a look at this,” one of the deputies hollered. He was standing at the base of a rock outcropping that looked a bit like that winged monster Grace had told Cage about earlier.

This time Cage didn't wait for an invitation. He picked his way through the rugged terrain behind her.

At first he thought the mound of loose stones was a grave. Then he saw the candles and the grim reaper figurines, and he glanced over at Grace. Her face had gone almost white.

“What is this?”

“It's an altar,” she said in a clipped tone.

“What's it doing out here?”

“The same thing he is.” She nodded toward the corpse. “Paying tribute to
Santa Muerte.
The patron saint of death.”

Cage's gaze narrowed as he watched her. He could tell she was upset and trying very hard not to show it to everyone in attendance. “Are you saying this is a ritual killing instead of a gangland hit?”

“I'm saying it could be both,” Grace said. “Probably is both. The worship of
Santa Muerte
is a cult that's become popular with a certain criminal element in Mexico, especially the enforcers who work for the drug cartels. It has its roots in Santeria, but the followers have come to be known as
narcosatánicos.
”

She bent and picked up one of the figurines. Even under the burning sun, the empty-eyed deity looked eerie and haunting. Somehow evil.

Grace ran her gloved finger along the curve of the scythe. “If you go across the border, you see these things all over the place, especially in Nuevo Laredo. Shops, cemeteries, graffiti on city walls. Sometimes you even see it on the drug runners' bulletproof SUVs.”

“That's pretty brazen.”

“Until now, our main concern was the danger of abduction posed to American citizens crossing over the border, but then sheriff's deputies in Laredo started finding evidence of ritualistic ceremonies in stash houses that they raided. Gruesome stuff—blood-filled bowls, animal sacrifices, you name it.”

She tossed the figurine back on the makeshift altar. “What we're seeing is a culture of death,” she said. “And it's right here in our own backyard.”

 

T
HEY BOTH SAID VERY LITTLE
on the way back to town. Grace was too preoccupied—and worried—by what they'd found at the crime scene to try and make small talk.

Dale seemed distracted, too. His head was turned toward the window, but somehow Grace didn't think he was watching the scenery.

“Does this change things for you?” she finally asked.

It took him a moment to respond. He turned, but only to stare out the windshield. “It changes things,” he said. “It changes everything, but not in the way you mean.”

She frowned at his vagueness. “What do you mean?”

He looked at her then, and his blue eyes seemed to burn right through her. Grace felt a quiver in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to look away, but found that she couldn't.

“That guy back there…”

“Yeah? What about him?”

“He—”

Whatever he'd been about to tell her was cut short by the sound of a shotgun blast a split second before the back windshield in the truck disintegrated. Glass from the exploding window peppered Grace's arm and the side of her face, and she jumped, as much from the shock as the pain.

“Get down!” she screamed as the truck veered off the road and another blast took off the side mirror.

Grace slid down in the seat, contorting herself to keep her head below the rear window opening while flooring the accelerator. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dale twist in the seat to get a look out the back.

“It's coming from the top of the canyon,” he yelled.

Grace headed straight for a stand of mesquite bushes. It wasn't much cover, but it was the only thing around for miles.

As she swung the truck around and slammed on the brakes, Dale opened the door and jumped out. The entire front seat was covered in glass, and Grace could feel the chunks slice into her skin like a cheese grater as she slid across to the passenger side and rolled out behind him.

Keeping her head down, she made her way toward the front of the vehicle where Dale hunkered in the dirt, peering around the bumper.

“I saw a flash,” he said. “Just to the right of that juniper tree.”

Grace gripped her gun as she eased around him to have a look.

“What's the quickest way to the top?” he asked.

“There's a trail about a mile down the road.”

“He'll be long gone by then.” He took another peek around the bumper. “Cover me,” he said.

“What?”

“Cover me.”

Before Grace could protest, he darted around the truck and sprinted toward the canyon.

“Idiot,” she muttered as she watched him zigzag across the open expanse.

Buckshot tore through the scrub brush at his feet, kicking up trails of tiny dirt clouds, and for a moment as he staggered, Grace thought he might have been hit.

She got off several rounds before a spray of slugs pinged across the side of the truck, ripping through the metal as though it were tin foil and forcing her back behind the wheel well in shock.

Grace's heart was pumping so hard, she could feel the beat in her temples. But her hand was still steady, thank God. She waited a split second, then popped up over the hood and started firing. She didn't stop until Dale reached the base of the canyon where he could take cover. Then she retreated behind the truck and slid down in the dirt, her back against the tire as she reloaded.

She wiped sweat from her eyes and her hand came back bloody. For some reason, the story she'd told Dale earlier about Willow Springs popped into her head, and she felt an unexpected kinship with the sheriff whose ghost still wandered those deserted streets, waiting for his final showdown.

 

T
HE BLAST OF BUCKSHOT
was so close that Cage was momentarily rattled and he lost his footing as he dodged and twisted through an obstacle course of scrub
brush, prickly pear and cacti. As his knee gave way, he thought for sure he was going down, but somehow he managed to stay on his feet and now the sound of gunfire behind him spurred him on. Grace was giving him some cover.

By the time he reached the base of the canyon, he was breathing hard and swearing. And he had a wrenching pain in his leg that started at the kneecap and shot all the way up his thigh.

What the hell had he been thinking? He couldn't handle a climb that rugged.

But climb he did, his feet slipping and sliding in the loose shale. The narrow canyon held the heat like a kiln, and by the time Cage reached the top, he was panting and sweating and his knee had gone almost numb, which helped him at that moment but he knew he would pay for it later.

He didn't bother with cover now. No shots had been fired for the past several minutes and Cage had only been halfway to the top when he heard the sound of a retreating ATV. He kept going anyway, and when he made it to the top, he gave Grace the all-clear sign before he scoured the ground for shell casings and tire tracks.

She came up after him, and as her head popped up over the canyon rim, Cage saw the thin rivulets of blood that ran down the side of her face where she'd been pelted by the exploding glass.

“Find anything?”

Cage was still poking around in the dirt. “ATV tracks,” he said. “Looks like a four-wheeler.”

She walked over to have a look, and he handed her a handkerchief. “You're bleeding.”

“Thanks.” When she reached for the handkerchief, he noticed that her hand was all cut up, too.

“Are you okay?”

She turned her hand over and briefly examined the wounds. “Yeah, it's just scratches. Looks a lot worse than it is.”

“You'll need to put something on them. You don't want them to get infected.”

She didn't seem too concerned as she squatted in the dirt to examine the tire tracks. “He must have gone down the trail on the other side,” she said.

“Does anyone live around here?”

Grace stood and wound the handkerchief around her bleeding hand. He could see dots of blood already showing through the linen.

“There's a ranch about a mile and a half north of here.”

“Who owns it?”

She glanced at him. “Jesse Nance.”

“Do you know if he has a four-wheeler?”

“Everyone around here has a four-wheeler,” she said. “Ranchers use them nowadays instead of horses. But what on earth makes you think that Jesse would open fire on us like that?”