Texas True (20 page)

Partway up onto the caprock, he pulled out onto an overlook—a spot he knew and liked. The stars were glorious tonight, with moonlight casting the rugged landscape below into ghostly shadows. Pulling the hand brake, he unbuckled and turned in the seat to face his passenger. Her grin flashed in the darkness as she unfastened her seat belt.

“Kiss me, cowboy,” she said.

With a growl of anticipation, he reached over the console and caught her close. Her mouth was like an autumn plum, ripe and sweet and succulent. Hungry for her, he ground his lips onto hers. She tasted of cheap beer and smelled of expensive perfume—a combination that sizzled like lightning through his senses.

His hand pulled the hem of her blouse free of her belt. Beneath the linen fabric, her lace bra was secured by a single front hook that came apart at a touch. His hand slid over one firm, satiny breast so perfectly shaped that it seemed to have been fashioned for the hollow of his palm. She moaned as he thumbed her nipple, her eyes closed, her hips doing a bump and grind against the leather seat. She reached over the gearbox to tug at his belt. Under different conditions, Sky would've been all for it. But in this car? With no protection in his wallet?

“I've got a blanket in the trunk,” she whispered, tickling his ear with her breath.

Sky groaned, thinking of the rocky ground and the snakes and scorpions that called this part of the escarpment home. “Lady,” he muttered, “I'm afraid this isn't going to—”

The squeal of spinning tires on gravel cut off the rest of the sentence. A battered pickup swerved onto the overlook, braking a dozen feet away. Raucous laughter rang from the cab as an empty beer can flew out the window.

“Buckle up.” Sky started the Corvette, slammed it into reverse, and backed onto the road. So much for tonight's romantic adventure. Some things just weren't meant to be.

“Where are we going?” She'd fastened her seat belt and was fumbling to hook the front of her bra.

“Back to town to get you some coffee—hopefully enough to ensure you make it safely home.”

She huddled silently in the seat as he drove. She was pouting, he surmised, or maybe thinking she'd picked up the wrong cowboy. But it occurred to him that she could've done a lot worse. He'd be remiss not to warn her. “What you did tonight, picking up a stray, it could be dangerous,” he said. “Not that long ago, right around here, a young woman was murdered and dumped in a bog. The killer's never been found. For all you know, it could've been me.”

No answer. Hopefully she was rethinking her reckless behavior. Or maybe he was sounding too much like her father.

Sky drove into town and ordered a coffee from the drive-through window at Burger Shack. Thrusting the Styrofoam cup toward her, he swung the Corvette back toward the Blue Coyote. “Finish that and you can have your car back,” he said. “But only if you promise to go home.”

The look she gave him said,
You're not the boss of me!
But by the time Sky pulled up next to his truck, she'd finished the coffee. “Will you be all right?” he asked as he climbed out of her car and offered her the keys.

“I'll be fine.” She snatched them out of his hand. “And don't you dare follow me.”

Sky said he wouldn't, but he did trail her at a distance for the first couple of miles to make sure she could keep the car on the road and that she wasn't going back to the bar to try her luck with another cowboy.

Whoever she was, he'd grown strangely protective of the blasted woman.

Once he was satisfied she'd be all right, he slowed the truck, letting the taillights of the Corvette fade into the night. Then he swung the truck off the main road and took a shortcut back to the ranch.

 

The coffee had been strong enough to jolt Lauren back to full awareness. She drove the lonely road with the headlights on high beam and her eyes wide open. She was headed home, but only because she had no place else to go.

So much for her walk on the wild side.

Tonight's blowup with her father, exacerbated by the fact that it was the one-year anniversary of her fiancé's death, had pushed her over the edge. She'd been fool enough to believe she finally had her life under control after the bouts of drinking and promiscuity that had followed Mike's suicide. But all it had taken was Congressman Garn Prescott, screaming at her and calling her a tramp like her mother, to send her tumbling back into the pit.

She'd driven into town and downed enough beer to lower her inhibitions, but there were no likely prospects among the men in the bar. Deciding to leave, she'd gone to the restroom and returned to find the handsomest cowboy she'd ever seen sitting in her booth—dark as sin, with lean looks and stunning cobalt eyes. It was like the devil had dropped her off an anniversary present.

Things had started out pretty much the way she'd expected, with his kisses pushing all the right buttons. She'd been on fire with the need to lose herself in sexual release. But when everything had fallen apart, the wretched man had turned noble on her—noble being the last thing she'd needed tonight. His rejection had hurt more than she'd let on. Driving away from him, she'd blinked back scalding tears.

But by now the coffee was doing its work, easing her back into reality. Tomorrow was a new day, Lauren reminded herself. She would focus on her accounting job, avoiding any encounters with her father. If things got too uncomfortable at home, maybe Beau Tyler could use her help. He'd offered her work, and he'd have a lot on his mind with that ridiculous murder charge to contend with.

Meanwhile she would steer clear of the Blue Coyote. With luck, if she stuck close to home, that scrumptiously maddening cowboy would remain a memory, and nothing more.

 

The web of back roads led Sky to the edge of the bog where Slade Haskell's murder had taken place. Beau, Will, and Jasper had kept him up to date on the investigation, but until now, he'd been too busy to visit the place himself.

Stopping the truck, he found a small but powerful LED flashlight in the glove compartment. The waning moon was bright enough to light his way, but he wanted to see details. Maybe a fresh pair of eyes could spot something others had missed.

On the far side of the bog, the dead cottonwood gleamed bone-white against the darkness. As Sky swung out of the cab, the rank odors of decay and stagnation filled his nostrils. He didn't consider himself superstitious, but traces of the old beliefs were bred into his Comanche blood. Even before two bodies were found here, he'd sensed that this was a place of death and evil—a place he wanted nothing to do with.

Remnants of yellow crime scene tape fluttered from the stakes. There'd been no rain since the discovery of Slade Haskell's body, but the wind had done its own work to erase the signs. In the glow of the flashlight, Sky could make out the twisted, half-buried string that had been used to mark the position of the body. He could no longer see where the 30.30 bullets had been collected from the soil, but a patch of dried, stained mud marked the spot where Slade Haskell's head might have lain.

Beau and Will had told him their theory about how the bullets from Jasper's rifle had been fired from straight above the body. Sky wouldn't put it past Lute to fire a few shots into a recent kill in order to frame a man he hated.

But how the devil had Lute known where and when to find Slade's body?

And if Slade had been killed before being shot with Jasper's rifle, where was the fatal bullet?

The local deputies weren't trained crime scene investigators. They could easily have missed it—especially given that the victim had been shot full of holes with a deer rifle. It probably hadn't occurred to them, or even to the local doctor who served as part-time medical examiner, to look for another cause of death.

Stepping back, Sky moved the light beam over the ground. If Slade had taken a single rifle shot through the head while standing, the bullet would have fallen some distance behind him. But Beau and Will had combed the area for it and found nothing. So maybe it was time to consider other possibilities.

If the weapon that killed Slade had been a high-caliber military-type sniper gun, accurate at more than a thousand yards, the bullet could've retained enough force to penetrate the chassis of the truck that had been parked behind him. There'd been no mention of damage to the heavy-duty vehicle, which had been seized as evidence. But there was also a chance the exiting bullet could have passed over the flatbed and traveled another couple hundred yards into the mesquite before losing momentum. Such a bullet would be hard to find, though not impossible with a metal detector. Jasper owned one of those devices. Maybe they could come back with it tomorrow and make a search.

Sky switched off the flashlight and studied the landscape, weighing another idea. What if the shot had been fired from a distance at a downward angle? It might have gone under the truck, into the ground.

Half a mile to the east, a brushy hill, dotted with junipers, rose above the pastureland. From the top of that hill, moonlight could have given the shooter a clear view of this spot, within easy range of a high-powered rifle.

Spurred by a hunch, he climbed back into his truck, shifted into four-wheel drive, and rumbled across the half mile of rough, open ground to the base of the hill. Switching on the flashlight, he picked an easy route and began to climb. His long strides carried him swiftly upward.

The hill was crowned by a flat outcrop of rock. There would be no tracks to find, but from here, even in the waning moonlight, Sky could see all the way to the place where Slade had died. With a good scope and a high-powered rifle, a man with a steady aim would have no difficulty picking off his target from here.

A careful shooter—a professional—would have left no proof behind. But Sky's instincts told him to look anyway.

It took him only a few minutes to find the shiny brass shell casing. It was lying in the open, almost as if the shooter had wanted it to be discovered. Using the flashlight and his cell phone, he snapped several photos of the object in place. Then, using the narrow blade of his pocketknife, he picked it up and studied it. He recognized it as a Browning .50 machine-gun round, the type commonly used by military snipers in semiautomatic assault rifles.

Maybe that skinhead bartender had a military background.

Moving carefully, he carried his prize back to the truck and transferred it to a leftover sandwich bag, which he'd turned inside out. Tomorrow he'd bring Jasper out here with his metal detector and search for the bullet.

A
s he drove into town, Will felt more hopeful than at any time since Beau's arrest. The sheriff had demanded proof that Slade was dead before he was shot with Jasper's deer rifle. Thanks to Sky's discovery of the brass shell casing on the hilltop, and the next day's successful search for the matching bullet, he was carrying all the proof he needed—maybe proof enough to clear his brother.

On Tori's advice, Beau had remained at the ranch. But Will would be picking up Tori at home on the way to the sheriff 's office. As Beau's lawyer, she would be there to represent his interests.

“Don't get your hopes up, Will,” she lectured him as he drove. “Axelrod is a stickler for tying up loose ends. As long as there's any basis for suspicion, he'll be keeping Beau at the top of his list.”

“Hellfire, what list?” Will stormed. “As far as I know, the sheriff hasn't even looked at anybody else. What about that tattooed bartender in the Blue Coyote? He looks like a hired hit man to me. And what about Lute? He hated Beau. And now he's got Slade's old job. How did the slimy little weasel make that happen?”

Will was still asking himself those questions when they walked into the wing of the county building that housed the sheriff 's offices and the jail. Glenda Peterson, whose husband owned the town's only gas station, gave them a breezy smile from her side of the reception desk. “The sheriff's expecting you,” she said. “Hang on a minute. I'll let him know you're here.” She pressed a button on the phone and spoke a few words into the receiver. “You two can go right in,” she said.

Sheriff Hoyt Axelrod rose from behind his desk and extended his hand with a smile. “Good to see you, Tori. Will, I got your message. Have a chair. Let's see what you've found.”

Will opened the manila packet he'd brought containing the bullet and casing in plastic bags and the photos of the sites, which Beau had printed from Sky's phone camera. He slid the contents across the desk. “You asked for proof that another shooter killed Slade. Here it is.”

Axelrod scratched his thick mustache, scowling as he studied the evidence. “I'll hang on to this,” he said. “I've no doubt it's what you say it is. Judging from the ammo, I'm guessing the weapon was most likely a Barrett fifty-caliber BMG semiautomatic. Snipers used those guns in Iraq and Afghanistan. Plenty of those babies available at gun shows. I've even got a couple of them down in the evidence room. As far as that goes, there's no way of determining how long that casing was there. For all I know, you could have planted it.”

Will felt a surge of frustration. Why was the sheriff determined to pin this crime on his brother? “Beau doesn't have that kind of gun. Nobody on the ranch owns one either.”

The sheriff raised one grizzled eyebrow. “Maybe not. But Slade Haskell had one. He showed it to me last year, right after he bought it at a gun show. And Slade had a wife.”

 

Natalie was buttoning on a fresh white lab coat, preparing to open her clinic, when the front doorbell rang. Two uniformed sheriff's deputies stood on the porch—younger men she'd seen in town but didn't know by name.

“Dr. Haskell?”

“Yes.” Her pulse lurched. Had something happened to Beau?

One deputy thrust an official-looking paper into her face. “We have a warrant to search your house and examine your late husband's gun safe for evidence.” He made a move as if to enter, but Natalie stood her ground.

“I have nothing to hide,” she said. “Can you tell me what this is all about?”

“We have our orders, ma'am. Now please step aside and open the safe.”

“The safe's in the den. I'll need to get the combination.” Natalie hurried ahead of the two men, willing her legs to support her. Something, she sensed, was terribly wrong. And not knowing what it was only heightened her dread.

Slade's den was the one room she'd closed up and left alone. The new combination to the closet-sized safe, which the locksmith had changed while Natalie was in the hospital, was tucked inside the desk drawer. Natalie had used it only once, when Beau had found the shotgun for her. She hadn't touched the safe since.

One of the deputies dusted the dial for prints and took samples. Both men had donned latex gloves. What was going on? Had her house become a crime scene?

Stepping back, the deputy motioned for Natalie to open the safe. She'd had no trouble before. But now her eyes refused to focus on the tiny numbered lines. She handed the paper to the nearest deputy, who worked the combination on the first try. The heavy door swung open to reveal Slade's guns, stored vertically on supporting racks.

“Here's the Barrett.” The taller of the two deputies lifted out an ugly semiautomatic rifle that, to Natalie, looked like nothing more than an assembly of pipes and braces. Slade had taken special pride in owning it.

“Was this your husband's rifle?” the deputy demanded.

“Yes.”

“Has it been fired recently?”

“Not unless Slade took it out on the range before he was killed. If you want to take it, feel free.”

“We don't need your permission, ma'am. It's evidence.” The deputy produced a large, folded plastic bag from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it open while his partner slid the gun inside.
Why?
Natalie asked herself. The only fingerprints on it would be Slade's—and Beau's, of course, since he'd moved the weapon out of the way to get her the shotgun.

Dear God, was that what they were looking for?

“We're done here, ma'am. Thank you for your cooperation.” The deputies walked out as abruptly as they'd come. Natalie stood in silence, staring into the open gun safe. She didn't fully understand what had happened, but she sensed that her shattering world had been dealt a final blow and was about to implode into dust.

The jangle of her cell phone, which she'd slipped into her lab coat, startled her. She snatched it up and glanced at the display name.

“Tori, what is it?” Natalie felt as if she were struggling for air.

“I just spoke with the sheriff. According to him, Slade had a semiautomatic assault rifle, a Barrett.” Tori's voice was taut with strain. “It should be in his gun safe. I know Beau had to open the safe to find your shotgun. Think carefully. Did either of you handle that rifle?”

“I didn't, but Beau did.” Natalie's throat tightened with each word. “He lifted it out of the safe and put it back.”

“Then I've got bad news. Slade was most likely killed with that kind of weapon. Sky found the bullet and casing at the scene. The sheriff 's men will be coming by to collect the one you have. Try to stall them until I get there.”

“Tori, they just left.” Natalie felt her knees giving way. She sank onto the arm of an overstuffed chair. “They took the gun, and it'll have Beau's prints on it.”

 

“There's no way the ballistics will match.” Beau gazed around the circle of gloomy faces. Tori, Will, Sky, and Jasper had joined him in the ranch house parlor to discuss the latest development in the murder case. “They'll run the routine tests, compare the bullets, and that will be the end of it.”

“But that could take time,” Tori said. “The nearest ballistics lab is in Lubbock, and I know for a fact they're backlogged. Meanwhile, the sheriff and the DA will be building their case against you any way they can.”

“What the hell kind of case can they build against an innocent man?” Will exploded with frustration. “Why aren't they looking at anybody else? Like that bartender?”

“About that bartender . . .” Beau had heard back from his friends at the DEA that morning. It wasn't great news, but he had to share what he'd learned. “They ran facial recognition on Sky's photos and got a hit. His real name is Nick Tomescu. He's in the database for some petty crimes like shoplifting and possession but no violence involved. Back in Jersey he was a runner for the Rumanian mob—took a plea deal when he got busted, which may be part of why he's holed up in the boondocks under an alias.”

“But can he shoot?” Jasper demanded.

“Nobody seems to know. He has no military record, and if he's a hit man, he's managed to keep it off the books.”

“So he's not a great candidate for our shooter, but we can't rule him out,” Sky said.

“At least my friends were thorough,” Beau said. “Here's another tidbit they dug up. The man is Stella's younger half brother. They were raised together—same mother, different fathers.”

“So it might look as if he's protecting her,” Tori mused, “but it could be more like Big Sister is protecting him.”

“Let's forget him for now,” Will grumbled. “I don't care if the man's a blasted saint! But if you ask me, Slade and that Stella woman were involved in some illegal business with those trucks. What if Slade knew too much, and Lute was given his job as payment for shutting him up?” His fist crumpled the empty beer can he'd left on the coffee table. “And speaking of Lute, he could be the key to this whole mess. Could he be the shooter?”

“I'd pick him as the one who stole Jasper's gun and fired the shots into the body to frame Beau,” Sky said. “But Lute never had a steady aim. Even lying down, with a high-powered scope, he'd have been damned lucky to make the shot from that hill. But if he didn't do it, maybe he knows who did.”

“So where is the little bastard?” Will demanded.

“Somewhere between here and that ranch in Mexico where he was hauling hay,” Sky said. “Leave Lute to me.”

The conversation might have continued, but just then Bernice, who'd kept up with all that was happening, came rushing in from the kitchen. “Come look at the TV! Hurry! You're not going to believe this!”

With no time to turn on the big set in the den, they raced after her to crowd around the miniature TV that sat on a shelf above the kitchen countertop. The local newscast was just beginning. On the screen, a gaggle of reporters clustered below a podium erected on the steps of the county building. Looming behind the podium, his uniformed chest glittering with the medals and awards he'd won over the years, stood Sheriff Hoyt Axelrod.

“Thank you for coming, friends.” He beamed like a Texas-style Santa Claus as he surveyed his small but enthusiastically cheering audience. “I've invited you here to share this great moment and to say that it's time for our party to replace Garn Prescott, a Washington insider who puts his own interests above those of the people he represents. It's time for a new face in Washington—the face of a man with a proven record, a man who stands for law and order and justice. That is why . . .” The silence implied a drumroll. “That is why I stand before you today as a candidate for the United States Congress from the twenty-fourth district of the great state of Texas!”

 

Sky sat on the porch of the brick duplex he called home, scowling down at the unopened manila envelope that lay across his knees. On the day the will was read, he'd slid it under his mattress and resolved to ignore it. But try as he might, he couldn't stop its secrets from troubling his mind.

Lifting his head, Sky gazed across the yard toward the sprawling ranch house. The rosy light of sunset lent a glow to its gray river-stone walls. But tonight a shadow had fallen over the Tyler home, and he'd had a hand in casting it.

When he'd searched out the bullet that killed Slade Haskell, he had only meant to help. But in the sheriff 's eyes, the discovery had stacked the evidence deeper against Beau.

On top of all that, Sky had failed to find Lute.

Tonight, in his present frame of mind, Bull's mysterious bequest mocked him like a silent rebuke. Maybe he should just light a match to the damned envelope and walk away.

“What's wrong? You look like a thundercloud.” Jasper had come out of his front door, letting the screen slam behind him. Dragging his rocker to Sky's side of the porch, he sat down.

“Been watching the news,” he said when Sky didn't answer.

“More about the sheriff running for Congress. If you ask me, choosing between Axelrod and Garn Prescott's about like choosing between a coyote and a skunk.”

Sky gave the old man a quiet smile. He appreciated the humor, but he didn't feel like laughing.

“What's that in your lap?” Jasper frowned at the sealed envelope. “Don't tell me you haven't opened it yet.”

“I'm not sure I want to. I once read a story about Pandora's box, how she opened it and let loose a world of trouble. What if I'm holding a Pandora's box?”

Jasper didn't answer. Sky stared at him, the realization breaking like dawn. “You know what's in it, don't you?”

The old man nodded. “I was there when Bull sealed it and gave it to that big-city lawyer. Do you want me to tell you what's inside?”

“I was thinking maybe I should just burn it.”

Jasper leaned back in his rocker, his eyes half closed. “You're a strange one, Sky Fletcher. Must be the Comanche in you. They aren't exactly the most cheerful folks God put down on the planet. Not the ones I've known at least. Always wandering around with gloomy faces, expecting the worst.”

“This isn't what you'd call a cheerful time,” Sky said.

“No, but it'll all come right. Things usually do.”

“I wish I had your faith. With the sheriff running for Congress and wanting to look like a hero, he won't give Beau a chance. The last thing he wants is for folks to find out he arrested an innocent man.”

“Hoyt Axelrod is a pompous rooster, but he's smart. If we want to beat him, we'll just have to be smarter.” Jasper scratched the head of the aging Border collie, who'd plopped down at his feet. “But getting back to that envelope you're too stubborn to open. I promise you it's no Pandora's box. Bull wasn't one for fancy words, but he set quite a store by you—more than he ever let on. What's in there will tell you what you meant to him.”