The aroma of baking cinnamon rolls and pancake batter blended with the rich smell from the morning’s first pot of coffee at Saylor’s. One cook put a gallon of maple syrup on to warm and the other man mixed milk with eggs to handle the coming orders for scrambled eggs and omelets.
Mercy filled her coffee cup and left the cooks to do their prep work. She flipped on the lights in the dining room and did a quick check to be sure the night crew had cleaned up like they were supposed to. They had. Mama had trained them well. She set her mug on the counter, opened the cash register, and filled the tray with bills and coins from the vinyl bank bag she’d taken from the safe in back.
Outside, an over-the-road rig pulled into the gravel parking lot. The fat dwarf of a driver stopped in twice a month, usually at opening time on a Sunday morning. He’d grab a stool at the counter, order eggs and hotcakes, and stare at Mercy while she did her morning chores and he tried to tell her about his adventures on the road.
Mercy clenched her teeth. How did Mama stand it all those years? The coffee that had tasted so good minutes before turned to warm dishwater in her mouth.
The little man climbed down from the cab. His belly jiggled as he jogged to the front door, and he had to stop to hitch his britches up over his narrow hips. He pulled a comb from his back pocket and ran it through a face full of beard.
Yeah, like that’s gonna make me fall in love with him.
The trucker burst through the door, ordered two over easy and a stack of buttermilks, and plopped onto the stool closest to the cash register. “I like my coffee like my women,” he said with a grin. “Hot, black, and with just a bit of sugar.”
A real charmer, that one.
He stared up at Mercy all moonfaced.
She smiled back. At least this one had most of his teeth. Yellow teeth.
Diana tied on her apron and joined Mercy at the counter. “Mornin’, boss lady. Isn’t it terrible about Jimmy Riley and Coach?” She picked up a coffeepot from the warmer, filled a mug, and set it in front of the trucker. “Brandon’s supposed to be safe. Not like Limon and La Junta and those other big cities. I might have to move.”
“I know, Diana, I know.” Mercy looked out the front windows. Bobby Jackson pulled his farm truck into the slot nearest the door. “That reminds me, I better make a phone call.”
Diana slid a sugar jar in front of the truck driver, propped her elbow on the counter, and began to tell him about the murders. Mercy could tell his interest was on what was hidden inside the scoop front of Diana’s blouse, not the story the waitress was telling.
Mercy grabbed the phone on the wall and stepped inside the office out of the noise of the kitchen. She dialed a number.
“Robin, it’s me, Mercy. Listen, I need a favor. You heard about that Riley boy?”
“God, it’s terrible,” Robin said. “I hugged my babies tighter last night than I ever have.”
Mercy went on, “Dolly didn’t come in yesterday, and I don’t think she’ll make it today. I know you’re not supposed to be in ’til lunch, but could you come in early?”
“Poor girl. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“Thank you.” Mercy looked at the mirror on the back of the door and ran her fingers through her hair. Not one bit of gray was showing. “I’ll find a way to make it up to you somehow.”
Mercy hung up. A rush of cool air touched her face. One of Bobby’s farmer friends held the door for three hunters. One man had blood on his camo pants. They talked about deer as they jostled through the open door.
Pots clanged in the kitchen, and the day’s first pan of cinnamon rolls came out of the oven.
Mercy put a smile on her face and stepped into the dining room.
* * *
Birdie couldn’t let herself worry anymore over Chase Ford. She had her own set of troubles.
It would take an hour and a half of fast driving to get to the nine o’clock meeting at the Sheriff’s Department in Comanche Springs. Birdie had an hour. And she wanted to drive by Ray-Ray’s for a look-see. Sheriff Numb Nuts would want answers from everyone, and he’d examine those answers real close. If she didn’t have the latest on Ray-Ray, he was apt to crawl up her butt with a pair of rusty tweezers to find out why she hadn’t stopped. And if she told him she’d been with Chase, there would be hell to pay.
As soon as she hit the county road, she gunned the truck and made for Ray-Ray’s. His house was dark and the yard dog asleep when she snuck up. No sign of Ray-Ray anywhere.
* * *
When he was sure Birdie was gone, Chase headed for town to find his half-sister. The girl had to be hurting. He didn’t know what he could say or do. But something made him want to be with her. He didn’t drive to the highway. Instead he took the back roads.
Friday night, he’d caught Jimmy and the girl parked under the trees. Even though Chase knew the two were dating, he didn’t want to think the girl in the truck was Dolly. Birdie had said the alfalfa bale used to lure in the buffalo came from ground Bobby Jackson leased from Chase. He’d check that out first.
Chase had learned from playing basketball that big games were won with preparation and patience. Coaches would spend hours studying game films, looking for that one small tendency that could be used to an advantage. Whoever killed the Riley kid, and Coach, had a weakness somewhere. Something insignificant that would make the difference. Chase was going to find it.
* * *
There was a butt in every chair in the conference room in the Comanche County Building except for two folding chairs smack dab in the middle of the front row. Right in front of the podium where Sheriff remember-I’m-the-boss Kendall was standing.
The meeting hadn’t started. Birdie had lucked out. Maybe things were turning her way for once. She was ten minutes late, expecting to be reamed in front of every lawman in the county. She slipped in the door, went to a back corner, leaned against the wall, and tried to be small. She’d answer any questions they threw her way. Otherwise, she’d keep her yap shut.
She counted Marty, Paco, and the eight other county deputies in the chairs in front of her. Even the women from the office were there. There were that many uniformed State Patrol troopers, the three techs she’d seen at the crime scene the day before, and two men in suits and ties. The suits were in the front row. Bigwigs from Denver aching to show how smart they were, she’d bet. She’d stay as far away from them as she could.
Kendall’s big forty-five hung in a hand-tooled holster strapped to his hip. He’d even knotted the tie-down thong around his thigh. He was showing everyone he meant business.
“We’re gonna get this meetin’ started,” the sheriff said, and the room went dead quiet. He tipped the brim of his cowboy hat back. Even from the back of the room, Birdie could tell his eyes were bloodshot. He nodded at the suits and then looked right at her. “Officer Hawkins, there’s a chair up here in front. C’mon up and sit down.”
Well, make me a shit sandwich and put pickles on it, too. Her face burned red hot.
Birdie got to the front as fast as she could. She knew the eyes of every man in the room were on her fat ass, and they weren’t thinking about how cute it was. No way her butt would fit on that folding chair. The only question was if a half a cheek or a whole one would hang off.
Talk, Sheriff. Make ’em look at you, not me.
But the prick was polite and waited until she sat down before he said anything.
Only about a third of a cheek squished toward the next chair. She hid her relief.
Then Kendall started. “Two murders in my county.” He paused and let his gaze sweep over those in front of him. Birdie puckered up when he looked at her. “To get the son of a bitch that’s responsible, I’ve asked the state to throw every resource they can our way. My people will work side by side with them. What matters now is gettin’ justice for the families and this community.”
It was the first time in her life Birdie had any respect for the man.
* * *
From the podium, Kendall spotted the news reporter from Colorado Springs slip into conference room. The little blonde had called his personal cell phone an hour before and told him she was running late. That was why he held the start time.
Her pencil scribbled while he spouted all his bullcrap about “my county” and “justice for the families and community.” It would make the news that evening and be on the cover of the county newspaper in the morning.
It was never too early to start the campaign for the next election.
* * *
Chase studied the neat rows of alfalfa bales in the stubble field.
All along he had thought that whoever had shot Jimmy Riley had been the one who brought the alfalfa to the buffalo.
Bits of yellow crime-scene tape knotted to the barbed wire fluttered in the wind. The ground around where the state police had made impressions of the boot prints was too trampled for Chase to see anything that would help.
Birdie had said the tracks in the dust were about the same size as hers.
If Chase was right and there were two …
Maybe two boys? Something to do with Dolly? Or any of those things that could set a teenage boy off? Maybe jealousy over Jimmy’s talent on the basketball court?
That could be the connection with Coach.
He shook his head as he climbed back into his truck. The odometer showed it was 3.4 miles from where they’d found Jimmy to the alfalfa. Across the field was the natural seep that kept the field wet enough to grow the alfalfa. All around the quarter-mile-wide green island were sage brush, prairie grass, and cattle. On the high ridge between the field and town was the parcel of land that Ray-Ray Jackson’s little brother owned.
Chase started the truck and headed for Bobby’s place.
The road followed what was left of an old wagon road along Sandy Creek. Every other road in the county was gun-barrel straight. This was as twisty as a bull snake. On the south side was sage brush and prairie. On the other, dying cottonwoods, tangles of tamarack, and Sandy Creek—sand for three quarters of the year and a trickle of water for part of the spring and summer.
When Chase made a lazy curve in the road, he spotted a truck parked on the shoulder ahead. It disappeared in the turn, and he saw it again as he followed the winding road. He recognized Pop Weber’s old truck. The driver’s door hung open.
People in the county watched out for Pop. Marty said the old man still lived on his own, took care of his stock, but couldn’t tell you whether it was Tuesday or Saturday.
Better check.
Chase pulled to a stop in front of the truck and got out. “Pop,” he called. He laid his hand on the hood of Pop’s truck.
Cold.
“Pop?” Louder. “Pop?”
The truck was battered and held together with rust, and there was no indication it had hit a deer or anything else. If there were engine trouble, Pop would have opened the hood.
“Pop?”
Chase looked between the open door and the windshield. A rust-colored smear stained the tired blankets that covered the rumpled seats. He hurried around the door and touched the spot. It was damp and cool to his touch. When he lifted his fingers they were brownish red.
Blood.
No. It couldn’t be. No.
Whoever killed the others had killed Pop Weber?
Chase grabbed his cell phone and dialed nine-one-one.
* * *
Marty studied the image the state police detective’s projector showed on the screen in the darkened conference room. Two colored lines, evenly spaced, ran from left to right. From the top down, twenty-four black lines crossed the colored ones. The black lines represented the hours of the day starting at 10 P.M. on Friday night. The colored lines were for each of the murder victims. Red for Coach and green for Jimmy.
“We’re starting at ten o’clock because that’s when we know both our vics were alive,” the detective said. “Coach Porter and Jimmy Riley were leaving the high school in Brandon after the basketball game. The next time we know anything for sure is at six fifteen the next morning when the Riley boy’s body is discovered. The coroner has estimated time of—”
“Wait.” Marty waved his hand. “Someone told me they saw Jimmy and his girlfriend close to midnight.”
“Who?” Sheriff Kendall called from the back of the room.
Marty turned. “Chase Ford, Sheriff.”
“What?”
“Hear me out. I forgot all about it until now.” Marty turned to face the detective. “Chase told me he went to the ball game on Friday. He slipped out before the game was over and drove over to Cheyenne Wells for some groceries. On account of he’s stayin’ out at his ranch to do some deer huntin’. He got back about midnight. He told me he saw Jimmy’s truck parked under the trees on the road into the ranch. He flashed his headlights and saw Jimmy’s face.” Marty took a breath. “Jimmy and the girl were, uh, havin’ sexual relations.” He looked back at the sheriff.
“Anythin’ else?” Kendall asked.
Marty bit down on his lip and turned back to the screen. “Not that I remember.”
A black star appeared at midnight on Jimmy’s line on the detective’s chart. “Chase Ford?” the detective asked. “The basketball player?”
“Yes, sir. He’s from down here,” Marty answered before the sheriff could.
The state cop’s eyes narrowed. “Wasn’t he accused of assaulting his wife?”
Marty fought to stay in his chair. “That ain’t fair. Those news people blew that up into a big story. His wife took all that back.” Marty was nearly shouting. “No charges were ever filed.”
The detective looked at Kendall. “I think I’d like to talk to Mr. Ford.”
The door to the conference room swung open. Marty squinted in the bright light.
“Sheriff.” He heard Arlene’s voice. “We just got a nine-one-one you should know about. Just came in.”
“Not now.”
“But, Sheriff, we might have another victim.” She told him about Pop Weber’s truck and the blood on the seat.
The sheriff rubbed his face with the back of his hand. “Who called it in?”
“It was…” Arlene hesitated. “Chase Ford, Sheriff.”