Blood Lines (26 page)

The skinny biker working on the lock raked his long hair back with a hand. “Almost. This ain't as easy as picking your nose.”

“Get it done.” Victor glanced around. He knew Fat Mike was right. They had no business being there.

But he hadn't gotten to tell Bobby Lee good-bye in a respectful manner. He owed his son that much, and he wanted to do it while he was still mostly intact. He knew the coroner would get around to gutting Bobby Lee at some point, even though everyone knew exactly what—and who—had killed him.

Victor didn't like thinking about that. He was of half a mind to steal his son's body and provide his own burial. Except that he had no place to put him, and he wasn't going to bury Bobby Lee out in the woods where the animals could have at him.

“You said there's only one security guard on duty?” Victor asked Fat Mike.

“Yeah.” Fat Mike belched again. “But I really think this is a bad idea. If we get caught—”

“Ain't gonna be no ‘we.' It's gonna be me. I'm going in there. And if
I
get caught, then I'm gonna make my new buddies at the FBI pull my fat outta the fire.”

“They may let you get all nice and toasty before they do that.”

“I'm doing this,” Victor said in a cold, dead voice.

Fat Mike wouldn't meet his eyes. “Something else you should probably know.”

“Well spit it out.”

“I found out who rolled over on Bobby Lee.”

“I already know that. His girlfriend.”

Fat Mike looked at him in surprise.

“My FBI buddies told me that. She got caught holding by the Charlotte PD. She says she fell over on Bobby Lee because she's pregnant and don't want the baby born while she's in jail. I figure she just didn't want to do no slam.”

“Yeah. You're probably right.”

The biker at the back door stood.

“Give up?” Victor asked.

“Nah, bro.” He grinned. “I got it. Even took out the alarm.” He pulled on the door and it swung open almost soundlessly.

Victor nodded. “Way to fire. Gimme a few minutes. Wait here and I'll be back.” He stepped into the morgue.

>> Rafter M Ranch

>> Outside Fort Davis, Texas

>> 0306 Hours (Central Time Zone)

Tyrel went back to his bedroom and switched on the light. As always, his bed was neatly made, the spread pulled tight enough that a quarter would bounce if dropped on it.

The bed had been one of the points of contention he'd had with his wife. No matter how hard she'd tried, she could never make it well enough to suit him. She'd finally given up in exasperation and let him do it. And he had, every morning they'd been together.

The Army had taught Tyrel how to make a bed. The Army had taught him a lot of things. Not all of those things had been good.

He went to the closet, stood on tiptoe, and slid away the secret panel he'd placed there. He'd built the ranch house for his wife. Every stick of it had been put there by his hand. He knew it completely, and he'd built it to be a fortress that would keep the rest of the world at bay.

But at the very heart of it, he'd hidden the darkness that consumed his soul.

Everything he'd brought back from Vietnam, other than the guilt, had been carefully packed away in the olive drab ammo box.

He carried the box back to the bed and sat down. He unlatched the lid, then slowly and meticulously began to take out things he hadn't seen in over forty years.

Medals, mementos, and photographs soon littered the bed. He'd never paid much attention to the medals. He didn't even know why he'd kept them. Except that his daddy had.

His daddy had kept his in an ammo box too, but he'd kept the ammo box out in his shop. Earl McHenry had been a carpenter by trade. He'd taught Tyrel everything he'd wanted to learn, which wasn't ever as much as his daddy had wanted to teach him. Thankfully it had been enough to build the house. And in doing that, Tyrel had taught himself other things.

He focused on the pictures. It didn't take him long to find Victor Gant.

Gant looked like the devil incarnate. He stood there smiling with his M14 on the ground beside him. He'd refused to give up his rifle for the M16 the Army had started bringing en masse into the war effort.

A pack of unfiltered cigarettes rode under his helmet band. He wore his uniform shirt open. His dog tags lay against his broad, naked chest. He'd been twenty-four or twenty-five.

Tyrel had been twenty-one at the time.

Victor Gant, already a veteran of ambushes and firefights, had seemed like a mythical hero when he swaggered through the jungle and the bars servicemen haunted in those days.

Tyrel had been swept under Gant's influence. But for whatever reason, Tyrel had never been asked into the inner circle.

Gripped by the old fear that had haunted him for over forty years, Tyrel sorted through the pictures. He dreaded finding what he was looking for, but he couldn't help searching for it.

Then, a couple dozen black-and-white photographs later, Tyrel found the one he was looking for.

Dennis Hinton sat on the prow of a PBR that was tied up in the Qui Nhon harbor. He was bare-chested and quiet and looked almost embarrassed in the picture. His hair was so blond it looked white against his tanned skin. Other rigid-hulled swift boats, designated Patrol Boat, River, and called Pibbers or Riverines, were visible in the bay waters behind him.

Even with all the military hardware around him and the M14 in his hands, Denny looked like a child. They all had.

Except for Victor Gant. Gant had been dark and virile, his eyes cold and merciless. When it came to killing, Victor had been one of the most efficient predators Tyrel had ever met.

This man isn't going to let the death of his son go unchallenged,
Tyrel told himself.

If there was ever a man who lived to get his pound of flesh from anyone who crossed him, it was Victor Gant.

But that night Denny had died—
No. The night you killed Denny,
Tyrel amended—Victor Gant had become a savior. He'd gotten Tyrel out of the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

At least, that was what Tyrel had thought at the time. That was before everything he'd done had followed him home and staked out a piece of his hopes and dreams for the last forty years.

Without warning, Tyrel's hands started to shake. His vision misted. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm and thought he was going to be sick.

26

>> Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner

>> 618 North College Street

>> Charlotte, North Carolina

>> 0420 Hours

Victor Gant walked fearlessly through the morgue. His boots thumped against the tiled floor. The red glare of the exit signs shone against the floor's surface and made it look like coals burned underneath. Almost as if he were walking above the pits of hell.

Victor's quick research had indicated that the offices closed down at five and that everyone went home shortly after that. An answering service picked up any after-hours calls.

Except for the lone security guard, Victor had the place to himself. They'd gotten a description of the layout from a Mexican janitor who'd worked there until he was busted selling weed. After the question was raised at the bar, Shaky Carl had come up with the ex-janitor's name.

In minutes, Victor was in the vault. The book listing the locations of the bodies—apparently nobody completely trusted the computer systems—was on the desk.

Victor plucked a pair of disposable surgical gloves from a box near the chemicals and equipment, then strode to the desk and flipped through the book's pages and found the latest entries.

Bobby Lee's name was there.

Stomach tight and temples pounding, Victor tossed the book back onto the desk and stepped over to the vault area. He took hold of the handle and pulled.

The table extended outward soundlessly.

There wasn't enough light to see clearly, so Victor took his Zippo from his pocket and spun the striker. The yellow and blue flame climbed upward and brightened the room.

Even though he'd steeled himself for what he was about to see, Victor's heart thudded to a stop inside his chest.

Bobby Lee lay on the table. Two bullets had punched through his face, leaving hideous wounds behind. His lower jaw was shattered and torn loose. The second bullet had punched through his cheek under his right eye.

Then Victor's heart restarted with an explosion that filled him to bursting and quickly subsided.

“I will kill the man that killed you,” Victor whispered. “I never gave you any promises while you were alive, but I promise you that now.”

He bent down and kissed his dead son's forehead.

A footstep scuffed the floor outside the room.

>> Intensive Care Unit

>> Presbyterian Hospital

>> Charlotte, North Carolina

>> 0423 Hours

“Hey, Don.”

Don rolled over on his side and pulled the blanket up over his shoulder. If he was lucky, Shel would forget about him for another ten minutes and he could get some more sleep. All he needed was a few more minutes and he'd be—

“Hey, man, come on. Wake up.”

Don ignored Shel.

“Don.” Shel's voice was louder now. He had always been the one more like their daddy. Shel and Daddy always got up at the crack of dawn, even if both of them had gotten to bed late the night before.

“Hey.”

Exasperated, Don said, “Give it a rest, Shel. A few more minutes isn't going to kill anybody.”

“Your phone is ringing. Wake up.”

Worn to the bone, Don rolled over and looked up at the dark ceiling while he waited for his brain to make the necessary connections. Then he remembered; he was in the hospital in North Carolina with Shel.

“You awake?” Shel asked.

“Yeah.” Don listened. “I don't hear a phone.”

“That's because it stopped ringing.”

“Oh.” Don groaned as he sat up.

“So how's that chair for sleeping?” Shel taunted.

“Remember when we had to sleep out in the barn when the cows were calving?”

“Yeah.”

“Those were good times by comparison.”

“I remember. Me and Daddy would be awake all night, and you'd sleep most of it away.”

Don heard the country accent come back into Shel's words. It was funny listening to it happen. Shel had cleaned up his diction a lot after he'd entered the Marines. A lot of the men he'd served with had been merciless about accents, and he'd had a bad one.

“Not my fault. I've always needed more sleep than you guys.” Don rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes.

“You going to see who called?”

“What time is it?”

“About four thirty.”

Don thought about that. “Joanie and the kids won't be up by now.” Then he factored in the time difference. “It's three thirty in Texas.” Since it wasn't the family, that narrowed the possibility to a parishioner at his church. Don had a reputation for being a good counselor and a lot of people had his cell phone number.