The Rusty Gun War Heroes and Good Citizen’s Memorial Cemetery was located a few miles outside of the city limits, and it had been designated as a national historic site when a grouping of headstones had been discovered by a farmer on his property.
The headstones belonged to five men who’d fought and died at the Alamo. It was tough luck for the farmer to lose his land, but a great opportunity to put Rusty Gun on the map, even if it was the historical map of Texas that almost no one ever read.
Almost a hundred years later, the farmer’s land now held hundreds of graves. Agatha loved cemeteries. Each and every headstone told a story.
She fidgeted with the zipper on her windbreaker as Hank parked next to the two patrol cruisers just off the gravel road. She was still in the yoga pants and t-shirt she’d worn to meet Heather for breakfast, but at least the yoga pants were black, and the windbreaker made her look a little less like someone who’d just rolled out of bed and put her hair in a ponytail.
She had a routine in the mornings—wake up, go for a run to help clear the cobwebs, drink coffee in the shower to keep clearing the cobwebs, and then throw on whatever clothes were at the top of the pile and the most comfortable to write in. It’s a system that had worked for her for years. But sometimes she had to go out in public.
The five historic graves were in the far southwest corner of the cemetery, and surrounded by a thick copse of pecan trees, which was why it had taken the farmer decades to discover them.
The November air was cool, and there were more cops in the area than she thought were employed.
“I’ve visited this cemetery twice a month since I moved here,” Hank said, “and I never knew this place existed.”
Agatha nodded. “I grew up here, and I’d forgotten these graves were here until Coil mentioned them. I think I saw them once when I was a kid, but I didn’t have much interest in the significance back then.”
Deputies Joe Springer and Jimmie James were standing just on the outside of the barrier they’d created around the gravesites, and she and Hank walked toward them.
“What do you think?” Hank asked them.
James blew out a breath. Despite the cool temperatures, sweat beaded on his upper lip. “It ain’t high school kids,” he said.
“How you figure?” Hank asked.
Jimmie James was an experienced cop, but he’d bounced around between about as many agencies as he had years under his belt. He found his first troubles with the Houston Police Department, but his natural street instincts made him a valuable pickup for any department that would tolerate him.
“I worked on a burglary task force back in Houston, so I know the tools of the trade. Whoever made those markings on the coffin knew what they were doing,” James said. “I’ve seen better, but I’ve also seen the wreck that high school vandals make. Those scrapings ain’t from pranksters. They’re from pros.”
“Good catch,” Hank said.”
James nodded, pleased. “I’m off-duty and about to head home, but don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.” James rambled off and went to let Coil know he was clocking out.
“How about you, Springer?” Hank asked.
Springer was in his mid-twenties, and in looks, he was the exact opposite of James’s rugged disposition. Blistering Texas summers took some getting used to, but Hank didn’t know how Springer survived them with his soft, pale skin and ginger buzz cut.
“I’ve been on duty since this morning” Springer said, “but other than the disturbance over at the cafe I haven’t heard anything much about this. Didn’t figure it was that big of a deal, or everyone would’ve been talking about it already.”
“See anything suspicious on your patrol this morning?” Hank asked. “Maybe a car or a van? A naked guy on horseback?”
Springer wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box, and Hank had a feeling his days at the sheriff’s office were numbered. Springer looked at him with a perplexed expression, his forehead wrinkling in thought. Hank was surprised smoke wasn’t coming out of his ears.
“Oh yeah,” Springer said. “I saw a guy on a bike.” He grinned, obviously proud of himself.
“A bicycle?” Hank asked.
“No,” Springer said. “One like you ride. A Honda.”
“It’s Harley,” Hank said.
“Yes, sir,” Springer said, nodding. “I see Ms. Harley right there.”
“No, the motorcycle is a Harley Davidson.”
“Ha,” Springer said. “Just like y’all. Did you ever think about that?”
“No, I never realized,” Hank said. “What did the guy on the motorcycle look like?”
“He was ugly.”
Hank had never met a cop with as little investigative skills as Springer, and he shook his head.
“You’ve been a big help, Springer,” Hank said and walked away before he strangled the guy. He was grateful Springer was Coil’s problem and not his own. Hank would’ve fired the guy on the spot if he’d been assigned to his task force, but he was no longer in charge. Thank God.
Hank walked beneath the shaded area and ducked under the crime scene tape. Only two of the five graves were disturbed, and the coffins had been well made and of good quality to have lasted so long with little deterioration.
The algae-covered, dark-gray headstones were hard to make out in the shaded grove. He popped out a small flashlight from his pocket and flashed a beam across the hand-engraved stones.
“Figured it out?” Hank asked Agatha.
“I think so,” Agatha said, kneeling closer to the open casket on the very end of the row. “Someone dug up these two graves.”
Hank snorted out a laugh.
“It doesn’t seem like high school kids,” she said. “It’s not like grave robbing is really on the list of school traditions. Toilet papering and writing on cars in shoe polish, but not desecrating graves.”
“See anything else?” he asked.
“Tool scratches on the edges of the casket and beneath the lid look like they were made with professional tools, and they were careful not to damage the material. These caskets are a work of art. They would’ve been very expensive back in that time period.”
Hank was impressed. “Did you speak with Deputy James earlier?” he asked.
“No, I saw y’all talking and didn’t want to interrupt,” she said. “Why?”
“He had the same observations, but he also worked in a specialized burglary task force and knew what to look for. You on the other hand, unless there’s a history of being a very sexy cat burglar, are on fire this morning.”
“And what does that mean?”
“You start the day with breakfast and a fight, and now you’re deciphering clues to a crime scene. On fire.”
“It’s been a full day,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’ll need to go home and take a nap before too much longer.”
“What’s got you so on edge?” he asked, seeing the flash of anger in her eyes. Something was brewing inside her, and he had no idea what it was.
“People messing with my friends and my town,” Agatha snarled. “I’m just sick of it. And I’m not going to sit back and stay silent anymore.”
Hank only nodded. He didn’t think it was that at all. There was something much deeper bothering Agatha. “You’re right about the markings from professional burglary tools. Whoever lifted this lid wanted to make sure there was no damage. But the question is, why be so careful only to leave the lid off and the skeletal remains exposed?”
“Because they weren’t trying to conceal the theft,” Agatha said. “They got whatever it is they came for.”
“I wonder what was in there,” Hank said, waving his light around the inside of the first open coffin.
“Whatever it was had to be historic and valuable,” Agatha said. “We’ll figure it out soon enough.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” a deep voice said behind Agatha. “But neither of you will be figuring anything out about this case. This is now under the jurisdiction of the FBI’s historic preservation section’s authority. And you need to vacate the premises.”
“Excuse me?” Agatha asked, turning around.
Hank winced. Deciding not to sit back and stay silent anymore wasn’t the best tactic to take with the FBI.
The agent in question was a modern-day giant. He had to be close to seven feet tall. His skin was black as midnight, and he was dressed in a simple black suit, pressed white shirt and a black tie—standard FBI issue—and he held a leather wallet with a bright gold badge in his hand.
Hank, who stood a solid six feet-two inches had to crane his neck to look up at the official credentials. He’d recognized the man’s voice before he’d turned to look at him, and it had been years since he’d seen him.
“Is there a reason you’re still standing there?” the agent asked. “What don’t you understand? This is a federal historic site, and we are now in charge.”
“And how did the FBI happen to hear about two graves being unearthed in the middle of nowhere?” Agatha asked. “Seems a little suspicious to me.”
“We received a call from a concerned citizen. The president of the historical society was worried more historic graves would be destroyed before anything was done to stop it.”
“Dot,” Agatha growled.
“That’s her,” the agent said. “And apparently she’s right to be concerned because you’re out here tramping on my crime scene.”
“I don’t tramp anywhere,” Agatha said. “I know what I’m doing, and I was invited here by the sheriff. I’ve probably got more investigative skills in the tip of my finger than an FBI suit that sits at a desk all day.”
Hank’s eyes just about fell out of his head. Agatha must have lost her mind. If she wasn’t careful, they’d all end up in trouble.
“Oh really?” the agent asked. “Why don’t you show me your badge, and we’ll go from there.”
“Show him our badge, Hank,” she said, and Hank just closed his eyes and shook his head. Lost her mind. That was the only explanation. But he came up from the crouched position where he’d been watching the show and put himself between Agatha and the agent.
“Hello Sam,” Hank said, holding out a hand in greeting.
The man’s once granite stone expression lit up with a giant smile as he took the offered hand.
“Hammerin Hank Davidson,” he said, pulling Hank into a one-armed hug.
“How ya been?” Hank asked.
“Not too bad,” Sam said. “I thought you were retired.”
“Wait a second,” Agatha said. “You know each other?”
“Aggie, this is Sam Jakes. He and I started out at the Philly PD together,” Hank said. “He was smart enough to escape full-time to the FBI. It’s been years. And I did retire,” he added.
Jakes shoved his credentials back in his pants pocket and reached down to shake her hand. Agatha took it tentatively.
“Man,” Jakes said. “It’s like you fell off the planet. No one at the bureau has a clue where you went off to. The guys miss you.”
“I needed the space,” Hank said. “Tell them I miss them too.”
“I understand, but the bureau could sure use you. Ain’t nobody tracked down killers like Hammerin Hank,” Jakes said.
“It turns out I’m still of use around here,” Hank said. “Coil appointed me as special investigative detective.”
“Not this time, buddy,” Jakes said.
“I beg your pardon?” Hank asked, shocked.
“Best thing y’all can do is head home and let me get to work. The FBI doesn’t need local help on this.”
“Are you serious?” Hank asked, the first hint of anger coming into his voice.
“Dead serious.”