Texas Tough (17 page)

At this stage, Acting Sheriff Sweeney was little more than a friend. Solidly married, he wasn't a candidate for seduction. But in exchange for Stella's loaning him interest-free money for his new SUV, he'd delivered a gift-wrapped box of chocolates to the attendant at the county jail. Sweeney had no clue what had been hidden under the chocolates, let alone that it had any connection to Hoyt Axelrod's death. But over the past few weeks Stella had made sure he owed her some small favors. Maybe it was time to call them in.

Blowing one last smoke ring, she snubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and punched in Sweeney's number on her phone.

“What can I do for you, Stella?” His voice was cordial enough, but she sensed a note of discomfort in the question. Maybe he wasn't alone.

“I'd like to report a theft,” she said. “A pistol—a Glock—was stolen from the Blue Coyote a few days ago. I only just now discovered it was missing, but there's a chance it may have been used in a crime.”

There was a pause. “Are you talking about that murder on the Tyler place?
That
Glock?”

“We can't be sure, of course—except that the gun's definitely been stolen.” Stella felt like a fool. The crazy thing was, everything she was telling him was God's truth. “If there's any way you could—”

“I'm sorry, it's out of my hands,” he said. “The gun's been sent to the lab. We can't even be sure it was the murder weapon till we get the autopsy and the ballistics report. But I wouldn't worry. Even if the Glock turns out to be yours, the real criminal's prints should be on it.”

Not unless the real criminal was too stupid to wear gloves or wipe the gun
, Stella thought. “You'll keep me posted, won't you—as a friend?” she asked.

“I'll do what I can.” Abner sounded like a robot. There must be someone with him, maybe a deputy or even that dumpy wife of his who popped out babies like a brood mare. Could she count on Abner to cover for her, or was it, as he'd said, out of his hands?

Swearing, Stella slammed the phone onto the desk. Why now? Just when everything was going so well? She had Garn Prescott under her thumb—especially now that he knew his campaign ads had been paid for with dirty money, and a single anonymous tip to the press could ruin him. Once the organization in Dallas saw proof that she could deliver a U.S. congressman, they'd be begging her to join them. She'd be on her way to having the wealth and power she'd always wanted.

But now she had this mess to deal with. If the gun proved to be hers, and the real murderer wasn't caught, the evidence could cast enough suspicion to bring her down.

The ironic thing was, for once, she and Nick were as innocent as newborn lambs.

 

Listening in the upstairs hallway, Marie had heard enough to get the gist of both of Stella's conversations. After the crash of the phone, she lurked in the shadows hoping to hear more through the thin planks under her bare feet. But there was nothing except the sound of the toilet flushing in the restroom. After a few minutes she crept back to her room, crawled into her bed, and pretended to sleep. Any time now, Stella was bound to show up and question her about the gun. She would need to appear completely clueless.

The tiny room was stifling in the late-morning heat. Marie willed herself to lie still and keep her eyes closed. Beneath the ragged cotton blanket, her body was drenched in sweat. Her heart was pounding.

So far everything she'd planned was falling into place. Stella was running scared. If the cops arrested her or Nick for Coy's murder, the bitch would be at her mercy.

She should be happy, Marie told herself. But all she could feel was a stomach-curdling tension that crept into her throat, making her want to gag.

On the way back from shooting Coy, she'd pulled the Harley off the road and thrown up in the grass. She'd always hated Coy, the way he'd tortured the animals she loved and the way he used to spy on her through that hole he'd made in the bathroom wall. He'd never touched her physically, but she could just imagine what was going through his mind. She'd told herself that killing him would be a pleasure. But she'd been wrong about that. Whatever happened, the memory of murdering her own brother would never go away.

After meeting Sky in the parking lot that night, she'd known she had to act. Wearing her motorcycle gloves, she'd taken the Glock out of the drawer and had ridden her Harley out to Coy's camp. It had been easy enough convincing her brother that he had to get rid of the two guns—the lever-action rifle she'd used to shoot the old man and the twenty-gauge shotgun they'd taken off his ATV.

Lute had told her about the bog, and Marie had made sure she knew the way. Telling Coy it was the perfect place to ditch the two guns, she'd taken him there on the back of the motorcycle. She remembered the sweaty heat of his body behind her, the familiar, unwashed stench of him. And she remembered the trust in his eyes when she'd told him to take the guns, walk out to the deepest part of the bog, and shove them under the water with a big rock to anchor them down.

Coy had followed her instructions without a moment's hesitation. Marie had waited on the dry edge until Coy reached the middle of the bog. Then she'd drawn the Glock and pumped three shots into his back.

On the way back to her bike, she'd tossed the pistol in the cattails.

A sharp rap on the door jerked Marie's thoughts back to the present. “You in there, girl?” The voice was Stella's. No surprise there.

“Yeah. . . . Just a minute.” Marie mumbled the words and made sure Stella could hear the creak of rusty springs as she rolled out of bed. Her fingers fumbled with the chain lock on the door.

“Wha . . . ?” she muttered, squinting at Stella through the narrow opening.

Stella shoved her way in. She was dressed for work in her usual silk shirt and tight denim skirt, but her feet were clad in rubber flip-flops, the toes adorned with corn plasters. Her high-heeled, red cowgirl boots wouldn't go on until the bar was about to open.

“Sit down before you fall down, girl,” she snapped. “Look at you! Have you been drinking? You know that isn't allowed here unless you pay!”

Marie sank onto the edge of the bed. “Just tired, that's all. I worked late, and it's hard to get to sleep in this heat. If I could have a fan—”

“You want a fan, buy your own.” Stella loomed over her, hands on her hips. “That's not why I'm here. There's a gun missing from the drawer under the cash register. If you know anything about it, you'd better fess up now.”

“Gun?” Marie looked blank. “What kind of gun? Was I supposed to know it was there?”

Stella gave a huff of impatience. “Did you see anybody near that drawer? Anybody opening it or taking anything out?”

“No. Nigel's always right there. How could anybody even get close?”

“What about when the bar's closed? Have you heard any noises downstairs? If you've let anybody inside, so help me—”

“No!” Marie was all wide, innocent eyes. “I'd never do that. But I'm a pretty sound sleeper once I go under. Somebody could've broken in, I guess. Maybe they were looking for money and found the gun.”

Stella scowled, deepening the creases in her heavy makeup. “A fine lot of help you are! Let me know if you see or hear anything. Meanwhile, as long as you're up, you might as well get dressed and make yourself useful. The floor could use a good scrubbing before we open, and you can wash the windows, too. I'm not paying you good money to sleep.”

“Bitch!”
Marie muttered as Stella sashayed back down the hall toward the stairs. For two cents she'd tell the woman where she could shove this crappy job. But the stakes had become too high for that. And Marie was too close to getting what she wanted. She would have to be patient a little longer.

So far she'd been lucky. If the gun led the cops to Stella or Nick, and if either of them was arrested, the door would be open to make her move. But luck wouldn't be enough. She would need to be tough and smart. Play her cards right, and she could have it all. Make one mistake, and she could end up as dead as her two brothers.

 

Four days after Coy Fletcher's body was found in the bog, Will sold off two hundred head of Rimrock cattle. The buyer was a feed lot owner out of Lubbock, the price so low that it made Will heartsick. But at least the money would help feed the rest of the herd for a few extra weeks—maybe until the drought broke, if it ever did.

Was he just throwing good money after bad?

Will asked himself that question as he stood on the porch the morning after the sale, sipping his coffee and watching the cruel sun rise over the plains to the east. The summer's heat had sucked every last drop of moisture out of the soil. The grass had long since crumbled to yellow dust. Even hardy, deep-rooted trees like the cedars were turning brown and dropping their foliage at a passing touch.

The morning breeze stirred the vanes of the old windmill that pumped water from a deep underground well. At least there was wind. But how long would the water last with nothing going down to replenish it? How long could they hold out here if the place became a dust bowl like the one that had sent families trekking out of Oklahoma in the 1930s?

A hundred yards beyond the house he could hear the thrum of the backhoe and see the firebreak Beau had put the cowhands to clearing. The men had been working in shifts through the night, from dusk until chore time, after which the morning sun became too hot to stand. After three nights of backbreaking toil, the eight-foot strip of bare earth made an outward arc on both sides of the drive, giving some protection to the house and other dwellings. The work wouldn't be finished until it fronted the eastern approach to the barns and sheds. On the west, they would depend on the escarpment to keep them safe. Up on the caprock the fire danger was even greater. But God willing, no fire would be able to jump the rocky, bare escarpment in either direction.

On the morning news, Will had seen more wildfires, one of them in the next county to the east. Ranches had been destroyed, stock lost, and two people killed trying to save their property. Would the firebreak be enough to hold back leaping flames? Will could only hope. Gazing out at the seared landscape, he murmured a half-voiced prayer.

He felt a tug on his arm. Erin's fresh young face grinned up at him. “Daddy, Bernice says to tell you breakfast is ready.”

He gave her a smile and squeezed her shoulder. Right now his daughter was the only brightness in his world. Nothing mattered more than keeping her safe. Later today he would call Tori about taking her back to town until the worst of the danger was over. Erin would balk at leaving the ranch and her beloved foal, but it was what her mother would want. At least he and Tori saw eye to eye on some things.

Will was finishing his plate when Beau came in to join him. Unshaven and weary, he'd spent the predawn hours on the firebreak. His head and hands were damp from a dousing at the outside tap.

“I got an early morning call from Abner.” He slid out his chair and took his place on the opposite side of the table. “He heard from the lab in Lubbock. The three slugs taken from the body are a match to the Glock found at the crime scene. Looks like the poor devil was shot in the back.”

“No surprise there.” Will downed the last of his coffee. “How come Abner's calling you? Are you moonlighting as his new deputy?”

“Not quite.” Beau paused to thank Bernice for the heaping plate she set in front of him. “But Abner's been treating me like his best buddy since he found out I worked for the DEA. Since this is his first murder case, he's pretty stoked about it. Even though it's against protocol, he wanted to share the news.”

“What about the gun? Have they tracked the owner?”

“Here's where it gets interesting. The Glock's registered to Stella Rawlins. But there's only one set of fingerprints on it, and they aren't hers.”

“How do they know? You told me she wasn't in the system.”

“According to Abner, the prints on the grip were weathered and pretty faint. But the prints on the magazine were pristine. Every one of them was a match to Nikolas Tomescu.”

“Our tattooed friend Nigel. Does Sky know?”

“Yes. I caught up with him on his way to the tack room.”

“How did he react to the news?”

“You know Sky. You can't tell what he's thinking.” Beau scooped up a forkful of eggs. “Abner's waiting for a warrant from the judge. Then he'll go with a couple of deputies to make the arrest.”

“Damned shame, he's been a good bartender and tough enough to keep the place civilized.” Will rose. “Anyway, it's one less thing to worry about. Finish eating and get cleaned up. I'll see you outside.”

Will strode out the back door and headed for the barn. The sun was up. He could already feel its heat shriveling his skin. It was going to be a long day.

 

Stella was sitting at the bar enjoying a smoke while Nick and the waitress—whatever the hell her name was—finished polishing the tables and chairs. The Blue Coyote might not be the classiest place in Texas, but she did like things clean.

They'd almost finished when she heard a business-like knock at the front door. Glancing through the plastic blind slats, she could see Abner in uniform, flanked by two deputies—clean-cut young men who looked like ex-military. A cramp tightened in the pit of her stomach. This couldn't be anything good. But she had to let them in.

Abner avoided her eyes as they walked in and whipped out their badges. Clearly he'd had no choice except to make the arrest. But the little Judas would pay the price later on.