Last Light (11 page)

In the wake of their sudden silence, a man strode forward, the same one who’d been talking with the cowboys earlier. He was mid-forties, dark blond hair, a little less than average height but with a greater than average swagger. He wore jeans, black cowboy boots, and a khaki shirt with no insignia on it. Could have been a ranch foreman or head of a crew of oil workers.

Could have been. But of course, that wasn’t how TK’s luck worked.

“Howdy, folks,” he said, touching two fingers to his forehead as if tipping a hat. “Welcome to the Sweetbriar. I’m Sheriff Blackwell and you all are under arrest.”

LUCY LOOKED UP
from her computer, rubbed her aching eyes—Nick kept telling her she needed reading glasses, but having to keep track of the cane was bad enough—and glanced around the empty hotel room. Being alone here was so different than being alone back home. Despite the lack of ambience, it felt...exotic.

During her fifteen years with the FBI, she’d never traveled very often. Her usual fieldwork had entailed driving to interviews then back to the office. Even then she was considered old-fashioned for wanting to interview subjects in person in their own environment instead of relying on the phone or Skype.

It was so quiet here. No skitter-skatter of the cat chasing the dog around the hardwood floors, no grunt and whine of the refrigerator defrosting, no leaf blowers or lawn mowers running in the distance. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this alone.

It was only 9:12. Too early to go to bed even with the time-zone difference. Yet she was exhausted. Her foot screamed to be released from the confinement of her AFO brace and her back ached from the unaccustomed sitting for so long on the plane. Despite her injury—or because of it—Lucy had gotten into the habit of spending most of her days in motion. She’d start the morning doing her rehab with either Nick or their mutual former Marine friend, Andre Stone—himself a survivor of burns over sixty percent of his body, courtesy of a bombing in Afghanistan. Andre had to do physical therapy every day to keep his scars from contracting and limiting his mobility.

After rehab, she’d spend the rest of her day doing all the things she never had the chance to do while working full-time: she’d finally planted the vegetable garden she’d always wanted, repainted her and Nick’s bedroom, cleared out the garage which still had unopened boxes from when they moved from Quantico almost three years ago, and she had even dared to tackle organizing Megan’s room—after much protesting, of course. She’d cooked, cleaned, ran errands long overdue, shuttled Megan from karate to soccer to home, walked the dog, did a second round of physical therapy in the afternoon, and had even dared—once—to go to the mall.

Everything a “normal” parent did. It had about driven her crazy. She didn’t know what to talk about with the other moms and dads at Megan’s activities. She couldn’t stand being trapped inside the shooting gallery that was the mall, with all its sound-distorting echoes, lack of cover, and multiple perches for potential snipers. And if she had to smile politely and nod to one more neighbor’s suggestion about how to properly mow their lawn and get rid of their crabgrass, she’d probably pull out her weapon and silence someone permanently.

A nice long bath. No one pounding on the door and calling for “Mom!” as if a lost pair of soccer cleats was a DEFCON Four emergency. No dog or cat nosing their way in to try to join her. No rush because she had to get dinner ready or pick up Megan. Heaven.

The bathroom was remarkably clean—more so than her one at home. Nick was by far a better housekeeper than Lucy would ever be, no matter how much time she had on her hands. He noticed dirt in the nooks and crannies that she was oblivious to. She ran the water as hot as she could stand it, used some bath gel to make a few bubbles, rolled up one towel to use behind her neck, grabbed a washcloth to use as an eye pillow, and climbed in.

Her cell rang. Shit. She lurched halfway out of the tub and grabbed it from the vanity. Nick.

“How’s Texas treating you?”

“So far, so good,” she answered, sinking back into the warm water, except for the hand with the phone. “Is Megan mad about my leaving?”

“So far, so good. You made it through TSA and everything?” It was the first time Lucy had traveled as a civilian with her weapons. As much as Nick hated guns, he hated Lucy being unarmed even more.

“Surprisingly little hassle, actually.”

“How’s the case going?”

“Turns out the man working with the Justice Project, the one who got us here in the first place, is the defendant’s son.” She told him about David Ruiz and his strange head injury.

“Tonal agnosia,” he diagnosed from her description.

“That’s what he called it.”

“I’ve seen it a few times. Don’t put too much stock in his human lie detector abilities,” Nick warned.

Hah. She knew it. “Or the fact that he can’t lie as well?”

“It’s not that simple. It’s like when you listen to a politician’s speech. Even if you don’t like them, don’t believe anything they say, after awhile you find yourself nodding and agreeing with them. That doesn’t happen with patients with tonal agnosia—not if they can see the speaker. The words to them are empty. There’s no emotion behind them, so they cue in on the body language. And since most politicians aren’t one hundred percent sincere, they can detect the disconnect between the two.”

Lucy was intrigued. “So what about someone who believes their lies, like a psychopath?”

He laughed. “It’s not like there have been enough of these cases that there have been studies done like that. I’m just saying while it might indeed be a good BS meter, it’s not something he should stake his life on or anything.”

“Have to say, I think the poor guy actually believes it. Like he needed something good to come out of his trauma.”

“Sounds like he still has a lot of healing to do,” he said in his counselor’s tone. “And your team from the Beacon Group? What are they like?”

She paused. “Not sure. I’m here with TK. She’s former Marine, was an MP—but not an investigator. Most of her file has been redacted. Classified. Way she handles herself, I think she spent some time outside the wire, as Andre would say.”

“Not a Hobbit, then.”

“Fobbit,” she corrected, knowing he’d fumbled the military slang on purpose to make her smile. Fobbits were military personnel who never left the safety of their base to go past the razor wire perimeter. “No. She’s seen real action. Do you know what Cultural Affairs does? Or what a FET is?”

“Cultural Affairs works with human intelligence, not spies per se, so much as working with the actual native civilians living in war zones. Soothes things over with local leaders, tries to leave places better than before we arrived.”

“Building schools, winning hearts?”

“Right. And FETs are Female Engagement Teams. They embedded women with the guys on the front lines, usually Special Ops, raiding suspected insurgent strongholds.”

“Makes sense. Afghani women would talk to another woman before a man.”

“Not just that—the women could search women and their quarters without offending the males in the family. And often the tribal leaders had more respect for our warrior women than for the guys. So the women in the FETs could gain valuable intel and de-escalate situations the guys couldn’t. But sometimes they’d end up in the thick of things.”

“So she probably did see action.”

“I’m sure she did. FETs worked alongside SEALs, Force Recon, Marine Special Ops, and occasionally were even loaned out to the Rangers—until the Army set up their own female teams. They’d go on missions with their assigned units, in pairs or alone, the only women on a team of men who lived and trained together, moving fast, carrying their gear, ready for action—but without the extensive training the male operators have.”

“Sounds pretty heavy-duty.” And risky—thrown into that kind of volatile environment with little to no training. Probably a good thing the military was revamping its stance on women.

“It was. Think TK might have a problem now that she’s back in civilian life? I imagine since the women weren’t given the full combat training their male counterparts received, it would be especially difficult for someone like her to make the transition.” He sounded guarded. Worried about her not having backup.

“It’s a case from thirty years ago,” she reminded him. “We’re just here to sort through whatever paperwork that’s left and ask a few old-timers questions about anything they can remember.”

“Still. I wish you were there with Taylor or Walden.” Her old team.

“Me, too. TK’s okay—she’s just so damn young. Out at the bar now while I’m soaking my achy old bones in a hot tub. How sad is that?”

“You’re in the tub? Now?” A thrill of anticipation colored his voice. “Because Megan’s in her room and I’m all alone in ours.”

“Hmm...What are you wearing?” she asked in a sultry tone.

Before he could reply, movement at the doorway caught her eye. Something dark against the white tile floor. “Nick,” she screeched, sitting up, splashing water and not caring.

“What? What is it?”

“A scorpion. There’s a damn scorpion. Coming right at me.” Her gun—where was her gun?—out of reach on the nightstand, damn it.

His laughter didn’t help. “Don’t shoot it,” he said, reading her mind. “It’s not going to crawl into the tub with you.”

She kept her gaze focused on the ugly creature with its menacing barbed tail. “I don’t care. How the hell am I going to get any sleep knowing there are scorpions in my damn room?”

The scorpion continued its scuttling across the tiles, seemingly oblivious to the human nearby.

“Relax. They’re all over Texas. Ask TK. She was in Afghanistan. She’ll know how to deal with them.”

Not reassuring. “I have to get out of this tub sometime.”

The scorpion paused at the edge of the vanity, seemed to look back over its shoulder at her as if it had finally noticed her presence. It did not seem impressed—or intimidated.

Instead, it moved forward and vanished.

“Damn. It’s gone. Somewhere under the vanity.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Hell no. Only thing worse than a scorpion I can see is one I can’t. And who knows how many of its cousins are lurking around?”

His laughter was not helpful in the slightest.

BY THE TIME
Drew closed the door on the back of the ambulance and the medics sped away with Alan Martin barely clinging to life, his hands and shirt were covered in blood. While he’d tended to the boy, Ortiz, his lone Hispanic and female deputy, had arrived, finished securing the house, called the coroner and the state crime techs, photographed the scene, and had begun taking witness statements from Roscoe and Caleb Blackwell.

“Boss, I think you’re going to want to hear this,” she called to him as he futilely wiped his bloody hands with a wet-wipe. “Boy saw someone leaving the scene.”

Caleb Blackwell stood beside his father, his back pressed against their pickup truck. The kid was short for his age and a bit on the pudgy side. He looked scared; there was even a whiff of urine coming off him. Not that Drew blamed the boy—he’d almost lost it himself and he’d seen traffic and farming accidents that resembled scenes from
The
Texas Chainsaw Massacre
.

Drew crouched down so he was at eye level. He didn’t have kids of his own, but he doubted Caleb was the kind who’d have many friends—even if his father wasn’t the most powerful man in the county and his mother the biggest bitch. He’d never heard anyone in Blackwell County say a kind word about Carole Lytle Blackwell, formerly of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Not that it stopped her from attending every civic and social event as if she were the queen and they were her subjects.

He’d heard rumors about Roscoe sleeping around—wouldn’t blame the man, but he was surprised Carole put up with it. One of those so-called modern marriages, he guessed.

“You want to tell me what you saw, son?” Drew asked Caleb.

Roscoe tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder. “You heard the sheriff. Tell him.”

“Well, I was riding my bike here,” Caleb began, his voice strung tighter than barbed wire. Almost as high-pitched as any girl. “Coming up the lane from the highway.”

“What did you see?” Drew asked, trying to keep his patience. Hard to do with another boy’s blood soaked into his shirt, stinking up every breath he took.

“Coming the other way. A red pickup. I’ve seen it around before. It was going real fast, swerving.” Caleb’s voice grew more animated and he whisked one hand through the air back and forth like a whip snake. “Almost ran me off the road.”

“Tell me about the truck. Any distinguishing marks?”

“There was a dent right in the middle of the front bumper, like it’d run into a fence post or something. And the windshield had a big crack on the passenger side.”

Drew straightened, a cold feeling churning through his gut. He knew that truck. “Did you see who was driving?”

“Two guys. I don’t know the older one’s name, but the younger guy, I’ve seen him play football. Mike Manning. He was the driver.”

Drew turned, glanced at the house and then the road. Mike Manning. Goddamn it. He never would have guessed—kid had come so far, was so close to making it out of here, had a scholarship and everything. “I watched Mike play last night. How the hell—”

“Had to be the older brother, Dicky,” Roscoe said. “I’ve found him and Ronnie Powell stoned out of their minds, in my fields, trying to mess with my cattle, more than one occasion. Lord only knows what kind of drugs they’ve gotten their hands on.” He gave Caleb a little shove. “Get your bike, ride home to your mother. I’ve got work to do.”

“Now, Roscoe, hold on there,” Drew said, understanding what kind of “work” was so urgent. “You need to let me handle this. Keep everything legal. We owe it to them.” He nodded in the direction of the house. “Lily and Peter and their baby.”