“I’m sorry, Maggie,” I said. “I understand this is a bad time to leave, with the hurricane coming, and I understand why you’re upset, especially after Buckshot’s death. I don’t want to go. Please believe me when I say that I don’t want to go. But there’s a little four-year-old boy in grave danger, and I need to help him.”
We stood in the garage, where I searched through the Tahoe’s equipment locker, making sure I had everything I needed. When I pulled out a Kevlar vest and strapped it on over my white T-shirt, Maggie gasped.
“This is to be careful,” I said, sorry I hadn’t driven down the road and found someplace else to get dressed, someplace where she wouldn’t have seen me. How could I be so thoughtless when I knew she was already frightened? “Maggie, listen, I’ve called the office, and two troopers have volunteered to back me up. They’re already on their way downtown. I won’t be alone. And I’ll be careful.”
“Mom, let the others go,” my daughter said, tears cascading down her cheeks. “You don’t have to go! You don’t have to!”
“Please believe me, I don’t have any other choice,” I said. Looking at her, tears welling in her eyes, I felt an ache in my chest, as if my heart couldn’t bear to do this to her. But I was still thinking through all the evidence, trying to interpret the clues. What I suspected was that to play out his game, his fantasy, Benoit had the boy somewhere in downtown Houston. My best guess was near the I-45 and I-10 underpass, where the two lines intersected on my map, the ones Reverend Fred had drawn connecting the locations where the bulls were found, north to south and east with west. It seemed logical that Benoit, playing out his awful game, had plotted out that area, since the overlapping of those two highways had to be considered Houston’s major crossroads. On the reverend’s map, that intersection fell directly in the center of the inner circle.
Outside, the hurricane blew in all around us, powered by what felt like an unquenchable fury. With every passing minute, the winds grew stronger. Although at the ranch we were still at the northern fringe of the storm, the limbs of heavy oaks danced like puppets controlled by a commanding hand, and the tall, thin-trunked pines bent nearly in half, bowing to the storm’s great power. I had no illusions about escaping the full brunt of the hurricane. Where I was going, I’d be driving directly into the gale.
Yet I couldn’t stay home. The troopers didn’t know the case and could underestimate Benoit’s capabilities. I couldn’t put them in that danger, risk that they’d end up like Buckshot, whose death already hung heavy on my conscience. Besides, time to reconsider was something I didn’t have. Each second I hesitated, the storm grew more potent, its driving rains fueling floods, the destruction of its treacherous winds. I had to leave quickly. Otherwise Joey Warner would die, and Peter Benoit would escape. All would be lost.
In a rush, I grabbed a black slicker from the locker, unrolled it with a snap of the wrist, then made sure the flaps identifying me as law enforcement, the badge painted on the front and “Texas Rangers” written across the back, were rolled up and secured, not visible. In this particular scenario, I didn’t need to advertise my approach, not in the darkness, where the reflective yellow lettering could glow in streetlights or flash in bursts of lightning. I hadn’t forgotten how Benoit had sidled up behind me at the plantation, unheard even in the stillness of a calm afternoon. This time, I wanted the element of surprise on my side, not his.
Searching through the locker, I chose a waterproof flashlight, which I hung on my belt, and a pair of night vision goggles, then I double-checked my Colt .45 in its holster, making sure I had backup ammunition. Instead of a shotgun, I chose a Bushmaster semiautomatic, a .223-caliber, and made sure it was loaded. I wrapped the black, assault-type rifle along with more ammo in a plastic bag, then slipped it all into a waterproof sack with a shoulder strap. Judging I was fully equipped, I took my sobbing daughter by the arm and walked out into the rain toward the house, telling myself I had no other choice. I couldn’t reach David or the captain, but even if I could, now that the storm was under way and the causeway flooded, they were trapped on Galveston Island.
In the driveway, the rain saturated us in sheets and the wind slapped so hard that it left a burning sensation on my skin, but halfway to the house, Maggie planted her feet and pushed against me. I wore the rain jacket, but my daughter had on only an orange T-shirt, old black jeans, and a pair of white tennis shoes. I remembered that I’d been meaning to buy her new ones. In a growing spurt, Maggie had worn the shoes barely a few months before her feet pushed against the round toes. But I’d been so busy, so distracted, I’d forgotten. I wasn’t a bad mother, I reminded myself. Being busy didn’t make one a bad mother. And it wasn’t entirely my fault. It wasn’t fair that life slipped past so quickly. I wished I could hold time by the reins and pull it back, forcing it to slow.
“No, Mom. No. Please, don’t go!” Maggie begged, her voice a hoarse scream. Her arms tightened around my waist, and I felt all the determination a twelve-year-old could muster.
As I had that afternoon, when she’d cried over Buckshot, I held Maggie in my arms. “I have to,” I said as the rain beat down on us. “Maggie, I will do everything in my power to stay out of harm’s way. You have my promise that I will do my best to come home to you,” I shouted, my voice trailing off in the wind. “There’s no one more important to me than you. I love you dearly. But there’s a little four-year-old boy out there, frightened and in grave danger. I have to try to save him.”
It wasn’t fair to put such a burden on my daughter. She shouldn’t be made to feel guilty for not wanting me to risk my life. It was understandable that she felt fearful, realizing I’d be tracking a killer during a dangerous storm. But Maggie had to understand it was important, that I wasn’t leaving her on a whim.
“Oh, Mom…” She began to cry ever harder. “Why do you always have to be the one? Why? Mom, please don’t—”
“I love you and I don’t want to leave you, but I know you’re safe here with Gram, Bobby, and Frieda,” I interrupted. “I know they’ll watch over you. That little boy, Maggie, he has no one to save him but me.”
I looked down at my daughter’s beautiful young face, traced her cheek with my hand, and she tracked my eyes with hers. Her tears mixed with the rain. Before long, she nodded. “Okay, Mom,” she said, sucking in hard, as if marshaling the last of her nerve. “I understand. I’ll be all right.”
“I know you will, Maggie,” I said, proud of her but sad that she was being forced to grow up so quickly. We’d been through so much in the past few years, including the death of her father. But we’d gotten through it together. I had to believe we would again. “And you know, even though I have to go, that I love you.”
“I know,” she agreed, again holding me tight. “I love you, too.”
I kissed her one more time on the forehead and then motioned to the porch, where Mom and Bobby stood watching. Without hesitating, Mom walked out into the pounding rain and the sweeping gusts of wind and wrapped her arms around Maggie. My daughter searched my face, her eyes dark with fear, as my mother led her back to the porch. “I love you, Mom. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I shouted.
“Of course you will, Sarah,” Mom answered, resolute, her expression willing it all to be true. “Sarah, I love you dearly. And we’ll see you tomorrow, after the storm.”