Sinister (33 page)

Georgina didn’t immediately see Ricki, but when she did, a furtive look came over her face and a flush of emotion stained her cheeks.

“Where’s Ira?” she demanded. “I’ve been toasting the Major into the next world. Thought he might like to join me.”

Georgina’s voice could cut glass. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Ricki said. “Everyone liked the Major.”

“He was a likeable guy. Not true of your father.” She smiled coldly. “Ira’s a two-timing bastard. Always has been.” She pressed a finger to her lips. “I shouldn’t say that to you, should I?”

“Did you come from the Buffalo Lounge?” Ricki asked.

“Aren’t you nosy, nosy.” She ignored Ricki and said to the bartender, “Give me a glass of Jack.”

Big belly had relaxed back in his chair, but his attention was focused on Georgina. It was a revelation to Ricki, who’d never seen her in a dress before. She’d seemed to pride herself on being hard as prairie dirt. Good with a gun. Implacable as stone.

“Is your dad coming here?” Georgina asked, not even looking at Ricki, but something in her tone suggested she really wanted to know.

“I don’t know where he is.”

“Probably between some other woman’s legs.” Her glass of Jack Daniel’s came and she took a big swallow, shuddering as it went down. “You Dillingers,” she said, throwing Ricki a dark look. “Think you own this town and everybody in it. Well, Ira can’t play with me anymore. You can tell him that for me.”

“Maybe you oughta slow down,” Ricki said as Georgina reached for her glass again.

“Maybe you oughta keep your fucking advice to yourself.”

Ricki tried to hold herself back. She really did. Georgina’s husband had just died and it seemed wrong to go after her so soon, but everything just seemed to coalesce in her head: the fire at the foreman’s cottage with Brook inside ... the drugs and the gun Brook had seen in Georgina’s purse ... the way Georgina had focused on Pilar’s champagne glass that day in Emma’s dress shop ... the traces of oxycodone found in the glass beside Pilar’s bed ... the hatred Georgina felt for Pilar . . . anger toward Ira, maybe even mixed with a little jealousy ...

“You were at the lodge with Ira just before the foreman’s cottage went up. And you were around the house the day Pilar was killed. Ira told me you were there. And you have access to the drug that killed her, because of the Major.”

Georgina’s glass stopped halfway to her lips. She was staring straight ahead, refusing or afraid to meet Ricki’s eyes.

“My daughter, Brook, thinks you torched the foreman’s cottage because she was inside and she saw the pills in your purse. Maybe you were planning Pilar’s death all along and you saw an opportunity to get rid of someone who could point the finger at you—my daughter.”

Georgina was shaking her head. “You’re crazy.” But her voice trembled with emotion.

Ricki had been probing and she’d struck a nerve.
Oh, my God,
she thought. Everything felt like it slowed down. “You killed Pilar because she was marrying my father,” Ricki realized.

“I’m through talking to you.” Georgina slid away from the bar and stumbled toward the door.

Ricki immediately punched in Sam’s number on her cell. The bartender, who’d heard most of what they’d said, was staring after Georgina openmouthed. Throwing some bills on the counter, Ricki raced after Georgina, pushing through the door with a straight arm, ready to give chase if necessary.

But Georgina was standing stock-still in the parking lot, staring into the blockade of Delilah, Hunter and Ira, all of them gazing at Georgina as if she were the devil incarnate.

“What did you do to Pilar?” Ira demanded.

With the screech of a banshee, Georgina dug in her purse, yanked out a handgun and aimed it straight at Ira.

 

 

He’d damn near run straight into them. There they were, standing outside the Prairie Dog Saloon. Ira Dillinger, Hunter Kincaid and Delilah.

He’d managed to turn the truck onto a side street rather than go right past them. Even with the changed-out license plates, there was still some damage to his front end, which he’d worked on, but anyone with half an eye would be able to tell he’d run into something.

Goddammit, what had he been thinking?

He had to be careful. So . . . careful.

Parking three streets away from the Prairie Dog, he stepped out into a cold afternoon. He crossed the street, away from them, where he could hide and watch behind a half-fallen fence around the old gas station.

He’d barely gotten in place when Georgina Kincaid suddenly burst from the Prairie Dog with Ricki Dillinger right behind her.

“What did you do to Pilar?” Ira demanded.

And then Georgina let out a shriek and yanked something from her purse. A gun. Which she aimed at Ira. He damn near gasped himself, but Hunter jumped forward, grabbed his mother and knocked her sideways. The gun she’d reached for spun through the air to slam against a black Ford sedan then clatter to the ground.

And then Sam Featherstone’s Jeep was screeching into the lot and he was out of the vehicle, snapping handcuffs on her, marching Georgina back to the Jeep and placing his hand on her head to duck her inside.

Well, what do you know. He wanted to laugh. Georgina Kincaid. He would bet she was the one who’d set the fires at the Dillingers’, too. He’d kind of suspected that was her work, though he’d kept his thoughts to himself. For an old woman she sure seemed to run hot. The way she’d been looking at Ira when she thought no one noticed could damn near melt steel.

He knew the feeling.

His eyes searched out Delilah, but the group was starting to break up and leave. He waited till they were gone, then he quickly hurried back to his truck. He’d determined that tonight would be the night he would have her.

He figured they might all be going to the sheriff’s department and in that he was right. From a far distance he watched their vehicles park outside the station, making sure to avoid detection. But he wanted to know how this played out. Weak sunlight glinted off the back of Hunter Kincaid’s gray Chevy truck.

His fingers automatically reached into his pocket to rattle the teeth within. A smile spread beneath the brim of his hat.

She’d shifted the focus and it might be all he needed to cut Delilah from the herd.

His mother had pulled out a gun and charged at Ira Dillinger.
Pulled out a gun, intending to kill him.
God. It was unbelievable. No ... that was wrong. It was entirely believable. Georgina played for keeps.

Hunter looked around the reception room of the sheriff’s department. Sam had hauled Georgina into a back room and was questioning her, and Ricki was with him. He, Delilah and Ira were waiting outside, and Ira had called Colton, who was on his way. Probably Nell would come, too. And Tyler.

He hadn’t phoned any of his family yet.

Delilah was right beside him and he felt her hand steal over and clasp his. He wanted to take her in his arms and crush her to him, but this wasn’t the place and there was so much he had to do.

Squeezing her fingers, he reluctantly released her hand. “She set the homestead fire,” he said aloud. Ira looked over at him but didn’t say anything. “It wasn’t any drifter passing through. She set it, and then let the blame fall on me.”

Delilah stirred. “She’s your mother,” she said.

“She’s obsessive.” Hunter hadn’t really thought about his mother’s psyche other than to know she was hard and stubborn. But the events of the last few weeks had revealed a disturbed personality lurking inside her that was darker than anyone had known. “She tried to kill you when she thought it was you with Mia that night,” he told Ira. “She got Judd instead. But she’s wanted you all along. She waited for you and thought she had her opportunity when Rachel died.”

“But then there was Pilar,” Ira said.

Delilah asked, “What’s going to happen to her?” “Depends on how much they can prove, I guess.” Hunter inhaled and exhaled heavily. “She pulled a gun on Ira.”

“Aimed for the heart,” Ira said.

“You think she set the fires?” Delilah asked Hunter.

“The ones at your place. Yes.”

“The church fire?” she asked.

“I think that one just gave her the idea again. She wanted Pilar out of the picture.”

Delilah said dully, “So, she tried to kill Brook? Because she’d seen the pills in her purse.”

Delilah had given him a quick rundown about what Ricki’s daughter had said, and Hunter thought it could very likely be the motivation.

As if he’d read his mind, Ira spoke up. “She wouldn’t kill my granddaughter.”

Wouldn’t she?
Hunter didn’t know what all Georgina’s reasons were, but he believed her capable of anything.

Outside they heard car doors slamming, and Hunter looked through the front window to see Colton, Tyler and Nell heading for the station’s front door. He felt bone-tired and said to Delilah, “I gotta talk to Emma.”

“Want me to come?” she asked.

“Think I need to do this alone. I’ll call you later.”

“Don’t disappear on me again,” she said in a low voice. “I mean it.”

He would have kissed her to reassure her if the door wasn’t already opening, allowing in a cold breath of air and the rest of the Dillingers.

Once outside Hunter inhaled a deep lungful of air. Yanking out his cell phone, he walked through the deepening twilight to his truck. But he didn’t place the call to his sister. Tired as he was, his mind was moving on a line of its own. The old homestead house. There were tire tracks through the shrinking snow, which led away and onto Kincaid land. They could be from Sam and his deputies, but they could be from whoever had chased down Delilah.

He and Delilah had gone to the old homestead to try to learn something about the truck that had slammed into her, but had encountered Ira instead and the mission had gone sideways. But the tracks had maybe been left by the man lying in wait, and Ira had said the tracks weren’t his.

Putting back the cell phone, he grabbed up his keys. He’d go to the old homestead and check out—

Pain exploded in his skull as something hard smacked into his head, throwing him against the side of his truck. He tried to grab for the sides of the truck bed, but he slipped down, the world blackening, turning into a long, dark tunnel.

At the end of the tunnel stood a pair of black alligator boots.

Hunter lost consciousness.

 

 

As soon as Hunter left, Delilah wanted to, too. She was going to have to cadge a ride with Ira, but realized he was looking pretty worn down as well. “Let me take you home, Dad.”

“Ricki might need my statement,” he muttered.

“She can get it later. And if she needs support, everyone’s here.”

“Georgina tried to kill me.” He sounded more in wonder of that fact than fearful.

“I was there.”

“You really think she tried to kill Brook?”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“But Pilar . . .”

“Yeah.”

She talked him into letting her drive, and after saying their good-byes to everyone—with Colton giving her a surreptitious nod of approval in getting Ira out of there—they headed home.

Her father went straight to his den and his bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Some of Mrs. Mac’s sandwiches were still in the refrigerator, and as she pulled out the platter, Sabrina came in from the great room where Rourke and Brook were still watching television. “Georgina pulled a gun on Ira?” Sabrina asked quietly.

“She sure did.” Delilah gave her a quick rundown as she readied a plate for Ira.

“Is Hunter going to be all right?” she asked.

She sure as hell hoped so. “He’s probably with Emma.”

She took her father the plate with a ham sandwich, which Ira glanced at but ignored. “Eat something,” she told him, and he seemed to surface enough to pick up half a sandwich and take a bite.

Sabrina was clearly babysitting, and as Delilah passed by the great room she heard Brook asking dozens of questions.

Delilah was heading in to help Sabrina out when her cell phone buzzed with a text. Hunter! She read the message eagerly: Meet me at the old homestead. I found something.

The old homestead. Their meeting place.

“Sabrina, I’m going out,” she called.

“Where’re you going?” she yelled back.

“To meet Hunter.”

She still had the keys to her father’s Dodge truck and she hurried to the garage. Night had fallen and she stopped as she backed out, checking in the glove box for a flashlight. It was there. Her father always had one. Hunter probably had one, too, but it could be blasted dark on the prairie at night.

It wasn’t all that far to the homestead road and she drove as fast as she dared. Had Hunter learned something about the truck that rammed into her?

His truck was parked in front of the old homestead and the open front door gaped like a black tooth. Glancing toward the pine tree, she hoped to see a light there. Hoped he hadn’t gone inside the house.

What the hell was this about?

Grabbing the flashlight, she stepped from the cab. “Hunter?” she called, her finger searching for the switch.

She heard movement beside his truck and turned her head.

She was suddenly on the ground, her head aching. He’d hit her. Someone had hit her! Before she could collect her wits about her, he’d jerked back both her arms and was whipping them together behind her back with twine. She struggled with all her might, but he was fast. He threw her face down into the dirt, hitting her jaw against the ground so hard that she saw stars.

She slowly surfaced to realize her hands were behind her back and he’d bound them to her feet, bowing her backward in a painful arc.

Then he squatted down and shined the flashlight in her face. All she could see was bright light crowned by a black Stetson.

“Who are you?” she asked in an unsteady voice.

“You know me,” he said. The voice was familiar. He turned the flashlight on himself and she blinked until she recognized him.

“Tom . . . Unger?” The oilman from Century Petroleum?

“The name’s Garth Dillinger, cousin.”

“Garth . . . Lila’s son? I—what are you doing?”

“Getting payback,” he said, smiling. Then he hauled her up as if she weighed nothing and tossed her into the back of Hunter’s truck. Hunter was already there, unconscious, lying beside her, a mat of blood on the side of his head. “Oh, he’s not dead. Yet,” Garth said at her gasp. “Had to hit him a little harder than you to convince him to stay down.”

With that he scrabbled around and found an old blanket, threw it over them, slammed into the truck and suddenly they were bumping alongside the homestead down a track that led past fence posts, then through a gap that led onto Kincaid land.

 

 

Ricki glanced at the clock on her cell phone and said, “I gotta get back to the Prairie Dog. The bartender I want to talk to came on at six.”

It had been hours with Georgina, and though the Kincaid matriarch had lost it out in the Prairie Dog parking lot, she’d lapsed into sullen silence now, angry and cold. And she’d asked for a lawyer.

Georgina was in the end cell, and there was no one else in the jail. Sam motioned for them both to head to his office and when they were inside, he closed the door behind them.

Ricki said, “I want to ask about the boots.”

“I’ll come with you,” Sam said.

“We caught one of our firebugs. Maybe we’ll catch the other.”

The ride was interminable. Delilah had no idea where they were. She tried to talk to Hunter, but he was out cold.

She was freezing herself. And terrified. And worried sick about Hunter. Garth Dillinger . . . how . . . why?

Suddenly the truck jerked to a stop. Delilah braced herself, but her limbs were strained to breaking and she had no strength. He threw back the blanket and pulled her out as easily as he’d put her in. Dropped her onto the cold ground for a moment, then hauled Hunter out of the vehicle. He slung Hunter over his shoulder, but it took a hell of a lot more effort as he strode toward one of a series of cabins.

The Kincaid cabins. Delilah had never seen them, but there were only two finished, with several others in varying stages of completion.
Georgina’s folly,
her father had called it. But now Garth Dillinger was using them.

She heard his stomping steps as he came for her and she braced herself.

“Won’t be long now,” Garth said, hauling her up. The twine cut into her wrists, but she was so cold she hardly felt it.

Then they were in the end cabin and she was glad to see there was a fire in the fireplace. Skinny limbs from a pine tree were stacked and burning, their needles crackling. “We’re gonna fuck like animals,” he whispered to her. “In front of your boyfriend.”

Delilah’s teeth were chattering. Her eyes were on Hunter. He was lying on his side, his hands tied in front of him, his legs tied as well, but he wasn’t in the joint-wrenching bow she was.

And then Garth pulled a knife out of a backpack, its blade glowing yellow and red in the firelight.

 

 

Hal Bremmerton was hard at work mixing drinks and taking more orders when Sam and Ricki walked into the Prairie Dog. As soon as he saw them, he nodded once, as if he’d been expecting them. They had to wait a few minutes until he was free, but then he came down the bar to where they were standing.

“Black alligator boots?” he asked. “Carrie told me. I know two guys who wear them.”

“Really,” Ricki said. “Who?”

“Well, there’s Ronnie over there at the dartboard. See?”

Ricki and Sam looked at the men playing darts. One of them was indeed wearing black alligator boots, but he was a slight man and nowhere near six foot two or three, which was what they’d determined Black Hat must be.

“Who else?” Sam asked.

“One of the Century Petroleum guys. The younger one.”

“Tom Unger?” Ricki said.

“That’s the one. He’s only been in once, maybe twice. If you’d asked Carrie about his ‘amazing blue eyes’ rather than his boots, she woulda known who you wanted.”

“Thanks,” Ricki said.

She and Sam moved outside and Sam said, “They’re staying at the Tumbleweed.”

They slammed the doors to the Jeep and ran the five blocks to the motel. The girl at the desk looked up at them in alarm, but when Sam showed her his badge she quickly relinquished the number for Unger’s room on the second floor. They were quickly heading for the stairs when they ran into the older Century Petroleum man. Len Mercer, Ricki remembered.

Mercer looked from one to the other of them. “What’s up?” “Is Tom Unger here?” Sam asked tautly.

“Don’t think so.” He looked through the windows to the parking lot. “His truck’s not here.”

“What kind of truck does he have?” Ricki asked quickly.

“Chevy. White. What’s going on?”

Sam didn’t bother to answer. “We’ll check his room,” he told Ricki grimly, and left Len Mercer staring after them.