Friday, October 18
8:00 A.M.
Near Caddo Lake State Park, Texas
THE WIND CARRIED the smell of manure to Malachi’s nostrils. The nearby wetlands infused their soggy flavor into the east Texas air, and there was no way to stop it from landing on your tongue. Even if you kept your lips shut tight, the stuff would make its way down your nasal passages and eventually wind up in your mouth. Some said it tasted like earth, but the plain truth was the air here tasted like shit. He didn’t mind, though, because it was that same dankness that made everything here green and fertile. Looking around, he thought about how this spread would make good farmland. But from what he could tell, Yolanda Langhorne wasn’t much of a farmer. He’d seen an old cow or two in the pasture, and some chickens, but no crops. He wondered what a woman was doing out here on a washed-up ranch in the first place. Maybe she’d moved out here with her man, and he’d left her high and dry—or around these parts, you might say high and wet.
His shoes made a slurping noise with each forward step.
He smiled. Though Malachi didn’t enjoy killing—he didn’t enjoy anything, really—he found satisfaction in doing something the right way. So he was looking forward to his work today. He wiped his palms on his slacks, leaving red-brown mud streaks on the sides. He could tell by the color, that stain would never come completely out of the fabric. No matter. These were his killing clothes, so he was going to have to burn them anyway. He’d come prepared with a change of outfit in the car.
The natural-wood ranch house up ahead had a ground-hugging profile, long low roof, and attached garage. The place was old but kept up. That and the cows in the pasture meant there would likely be a ranch hand around somewhere. Malachi scanned the horizon and spotted a barn about one hundred yards back from the house.
Despite the early hour, the sun was blazing, and perspiration dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes. He wiped his brow with a hankie he got from his jacket pocket. Today’s job required him to dress the part. Normally, he liked to make a good appearance, but it was too hot out for a suit. He was definitely on the right track. He’d find Dutch Langhorne and the diary soon enough. He only wished he didn’t have to sweat to do it. Stuffing the soiled handkerchief back in his pocket, he passed the house and headed for the barn. He arrived at the entrance, pressed his back against the open door, and carefully edged over until he could peek inside. A Hispanic man, probably in his early thirties, whistled as he mucked out a stall.
Malachi let the door swing open and stepped squarely into the entrance. He could feel the warm light of the sun pouring over his shoulders, spotlighting him, and he imagined that from the perspective of the ranch hand, who’d now turned to face him, he must seem like one of those apparitions people were always claiming to run into around here.
“You lost, mister? Can I help you?”
Mild disappointment rippled through him at the man’s unfazed reaction. Malachi listened intently, and heard a rickety, unpleasant sound coming off the ranch hand. No special treatment needed here. Reaching beneath his jacket and behind him, Malachi gripped the butt of his pistol, which he’d stuffed in his waistband. He drew, aimed, and fired. For obvious reasons, his pistol was equipped with a silencer, so only a faint pop accompanied the muzzle flash.
The man’s expression froze in confusion, as if he literally didn’t know what had hit him.
No reason not to be polite to the target. “I shot you,” Malachi explained.
The man grabbed his gut, sank to his knees, then fell sideways.
Malachi turned around and headed back toward the house.
By the time he’d retraced his steps, he was feeling content again, despite the heat. Maybe he did enjoy killing after all. The front door to the house stood open. He tried to pull open the screen door, but it was locked. He knocked on the frame.
“Be right there, Francisco,” a female’s cheery voice called out.
Then a blond woman appeared. She shaded her eyes, and looked hard at him, and that same look of confusion Francisco had worn came over her.
“I’m afraid I’m lost, ma’am. May I come in and use your phone. Get out of the heat a moment.”
He could feel perspiration wetting his shirt around his armpits.
“Why don’t you take off your jacket?” she asked, a hint of wariness in her voice.
“Quite right. I certainly will, but may I come in?”
“Don’t you have a cell?”
“Can’t get service.”
“Mine works fine out here. Tell me the number, and I’ll make the call for you.”
He scratched his head. She wasn’t as daft as he’d expected.
“Look. I haven’t been completely honest with you. The truth is I work with your son, Dutch—Alex. I’m with the FBI.” He pulled out his wallet and flashed his driver’s license, counting on the fact she couldn’t see well enough through the screen and sun to tell the difference. And if she could tell the difference, then it would be too bad for her.
“You work with Alex?” She opened the door and motioned him inside. “Come on in. Sorry to leave you standing in the heat, but I’m sure you know Alex has me trained to be careful. Let me get you some tea. Or would you rather lemonade? I’ve got fresh, I just squeezed.”
“Water would be fine, Yolanda.”
“Got that, too.” She eyed his jacket, and he thought a hint of suspicion had returned to her face. He shrugged out of it, and laid it across the back of one of the sturdy, living-room chairs, taking care not to turn his back to her. He didn’t want her to spot his pistol, which he’d returned to his waistband.
Apparently satisfied he wasn’t hiding anything under his jacket, she turned and headed into the kitchen. He followed, leaving enough space between them to keep her comfortable. He leaned his hip against the counter and watched her turn on the faucet, allowing the first bit of water, which was brown from the minerals, to flush away before filling his jelly-jar glass.
That was thoughtful of her.
About then, he noticed a pleasant vibration, though it did not rise to the level of a hum, coming off her. He accepted the water and gulped it greedily. It was damn muggy in this unholy swamp town. “What’s a cultured woman such as yourself doing in place like this?” He was curious. Despite her selection of drink ware, the woman looked classy, like an aging supermodel: platinum hair, high cheekbones and a statuesque, hourglass figure. She had the same piercing blue eyes as her son, Dutch. Certainly didn’t look like she belonged on a ranch in the middle of Nowhere, Texas.
“My parents immigrated from Holland when I was sixteen.”
So she was raised in Europe. That explained the cultured air she had about her . . . and the slight accent.
“My dad worked as a cook when we arrived in the United States. Eventually, he saved enough to buy this place. It kept us fed and clothed and even turned enough profit for my parents to send me to UT Dallas. Anyway, about ten years ago, when they died, I decided to come back here and keep it going as best I could.” She pulled back her shoulders. “I may not look like it, but I have a degree in animal husbandry. The place still turns a living—a small one—but it’s enough for me. You said you work with Alex.” Her smile suddenly faded, and she placed her hand on her heart. “Nothing’s happened? I mean nothing else . . .”
He took three full breaths before answering, letting her squirm and worry. He wasn’t sure why, since she’d been perfectly nice to him, letting the dirty part of the water rinse down the drain and all. Then he made a show of reassuring her. “No. No. No. Not to worry. I’m not here with bad news . . .” He rested his chin in his hand. “Not really.”
Her complexion paled, and she leaned back grabbing the counter for support. “What do you mean, not really?”
“I have a message to deliver—from the Bureau. Is he here?” He doubted Dutch would be foolish enough to come to such an obvious place as his mother’s ranch, but he didn’t doubt he would’ve been in touch with her. And Spenser and Cassidy had thought it worthwhile to make the journey. Too bad they were dead.
“He’s not here. But you can leave the message with me, and the next time he gets in touch, I’ll give it to him.”
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
“Yesterday morning. What’s the message?”
“Classified.”
Yolanda straightened her back and walked past him, careful not to touch him as she sidled around him in the cozy kitchen. “I’ll see you out then.”
He went to the living room and sat down, still keeping his pistol from her view.
“Alex isn’t here.” She held up her hand. “I’m sure your next question is do I know where he is?” She shook her head. “The answer is no. So, now that you’ve had your water, and your answers, since you don’t want to leave a message, I’d like you to get back in your car and drive away.” A flush crept up her neck. “I know why you’re here. You think my son murdered his wife.”
“And you don’t? Your son is capable of murder—he’s killed in the past, after all.” Malachi meant Tesarak. It paid to do research because it made you believable. It was one of the things that separated him from all the other, mediocre hit men out there.
“That was self-defense.”
“Of course it was.” As if that mattered. But obviously Yolanda Langhorne was one of those fools who believed every life held value. “I guess it’s time to stop with the half-truths. You’re far too intelligent to be fooled.”
“Spit it out or be on your way.” She planted her hands on her hips.
“I’m sorry to tell you, but Alex is going to be charged with his wife’s murder. The Bureau wants him to turn himself in, but now he’s fled. That makes him look guilty. You understand?”
She nodded.
“So if you know where he might’ve gone . . .”
She closed her eyes, thinking, then opened them again. “Not a clue.”
“You must have some idea. Some sense of where he might go when he’s in trouble.”
Her gaze arrowed to a photograph on a side table. Malachi rose, walked over to the table and picked up the picture. “Where was this taken?”
She shook her head again. “I-I can’t recall. It was so long ago.”
“Try.”
“I-I can’t remember.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out a cell phone. Her finger poised on a button. 911? Somehow, she’d realized he wasn’t FBI—even though he’d mentioned Tesarak indirectly and worn a polyester suit. He thought he’d done a good job of acting. But now he’d spooked her, and she wasn’t going to give him anything more.
The good thing was the way she trembled when he picked up that photograph told him everything he needed to know. All he had to do was figure out where the photo was taken, and that was where he’d find his target.
Yolanda whisked her hand toward the door, gesturing for him to go.
He grabbed the butt of his pistol, and then, remembering the drinking water and the pleasant sounds coming off her, he changed his mind. He’d had a nice chat with Yolanda. He’d enjoyed her hospitality. She didn’t quite hum, but he didn’t feel right just shooting her. He slipped his hand off his gun.
For Yolanda, he needn’t go hog wild, but something more personal than a bullet would be appropriate. He bent down, lifted his trouser leg, and unsheathed his knife.