Mercy took the plate from Jim Doyle. The investigator dabbed the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. “Thank you, ladies,” he said. “That was very good, but I need to get back to work now.” He pushed away from the table and stood.
“We have peach cobbler for dessert.” Mercy pointed at the pan at the end of the table.
“Perhaps later. I have a lot I need to do.” He took his can of Diet Coke and crossed the gym to the classroom he’d turned into his office.
“Not much for conversation, was he?” Mercy said to Jody Rose after the man was gone.
“Not at all. I was hoping he’d give me some tidbit I could use.” Jody moved the mashed potatoes from one side of her plate to the other, lifted a piece of meatloaf with her fork, and then set it back down from where she’d picked it up.
Jody hadn’t eaten anything. Just toyed with her food.
No wonder she looks like that in those five-hundred-dollar jeans. Mercy felt the corners of her mouth turn down into a frown. She’d seen the way all the state troopers and deputies stared at the reporter. They should be looking at her that way.
“Cobbler, Jody? I’ve got a big piece here. All for you.”
“No, thank you. I’m not hungry. I must be worried about not having anything new to report.” She stabbed the meatloaf on her plate and left the plastic fork standing in the cold meat. “It was good, though.”
Good? The little bitch never tasted one bite.
Mercy shaved off a piece of the cobbler, stuffed it into her mouth, and caught the syrupy dribble on her chin with a finger. Behind her the table creaked. Sheriff Kendall settled into the chair where Jim Doyle had sat. Right across from Jody.
“Save some for me?” Kendall asked.
Jody’s face beamed with the same sweet smile she’d tried on Doyle. It hadn’t gotten her what she wanted from the old detective, but from what Mercy knew about Kendall, the smile and tight sweater would start the flow of information.
Mercy unsnapped the second pearl button on her western blouse. She filled a plate with meatloaf, green beans, and potatoes, and when she set it in front of the sheriff she made sure her shirt fell open just a bit.
“Damn, looks good.” He was looking at the plate, not her.
Jody laced her fingers together, rested her elbows on the table, and perched her face on top of her hands. She tilted her head just so and looked at the sheriff.
I should stab her with her own fork. Mercy gritted her teeth and sat next to Jody.
“Am I the last one to eat?” Kendall asked between forkfuls.
“Uh-huh.” Mercy thought it was best not to say much.
“You made a good impression, Mercy. Doyle said to order food for supper. He’s gonna keep the crew here ’til late.” Kendall looked over his shoulder at the troopers hunched over the tables and computers on the gym floor. “I’m not sure what’s he’s got all them doing, but he’s supposed to be the man that knows. So can you bring somethin’ over at around six?”
“I’ll have Hector make burritos.” Another bite of cobbler would have tasted good right then, but Mercy remembered Jody’s tight jeans. She left the fork on the table. “Any word on Pop?”
“Nothin’ at all. The helicopters from Fort Carson are supposed to be here any time. Maybe they’ll help, maybe they won’t. At least the state’s footin’ the bill on this one.”
Jody shifted in her chair just enough to press her breasts against the table’s edge. “You’ve already told us more than Mr. Doyle.” The reporter put a pouty smile on her lips.
“He’s tight-lipped all right.” Kendall swiped a biscuit through the brown gravy on his plate. “But there’s really not much to say. No murder weapon with the boy. No fingerprints on the knife that killed Coach.” He pointed with the biscuit. “And I wasn’t supposed to tell you any of that.”
“All you told me was what you didn’t know. How can I make a story out of that?”
Mercy could see the wheels turning in the little blonde’s head.
“Are you going to question Chase Ford?” Jody asked.
“We’re waitin’ for him to come in now.”
“Oh.”
The fool had just given Jody her next story. Chase Ford. Murder suspect. Or maybe the fool was a fox.
Kendall finished his meatloaf and ate two pieces of the peach cobbler. Jody helped Mercy gather up the leftover food and throw away the paper plates. When the table was wiped down, they put the serving dishes in the boxes Mercy had brought. Kendall picked up the boxes and followed the two women out the door.
“Look.” Jody pointed at a helicopter low in the sky just south of town.
“Army chopper,” Kendall said. “It’s flyin’ just over the trees along Sandy Creek. Maybe he’ll see somethin’ from up there that we can’t from the ground. Let’s all hope he finds Pop.”
Sunbeams flashed off its whirling propellers, and then suddenly the copter flared. It lifted higher into the sky, and for the first time they could hear the strain of its engine.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” Kendall shifted the boxes to keep from dropping them.
The sound of a faraway gunshot drifted in from the prairie.
* * *
Chase stomped the brakes and twisted his head to look back at the cottonwoods along the creek. Three deer bounded from the trees into the brown pasture grass. The third deer’s legs wobbled. It struggled to keep up with the others. The animal stumbled once, fought to stay on its feet, stumbled again, and went down. Chase could see a red smear on its side. A hind leg flailed the air and went still.
A man in a blaze-orange hat and vest stepped from brush along the creek bottom. He looked to where the deer had fallen, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and walked to his kill.
I’ll see if I can help, Chase thought.
That’s what folks still do out here in farm country. They help one another. Not like the big cities where people don’t even know their neighbors’ names.
Maybe Chase could help gut out the deer. He could put it in the back of his truck and give the man a ride to where he left his vehicle. Neighbors should help one another.
Especially when a murderer was about.
Chase turned the truck and eased over the rough pasture ground to the dead deer.
* * *
At the sound of the shot, Ray-Ray put down his rifle. The helicopter banked higher and swung to the south.
“Leave me alone,” he hissed, and looked back down the creek bed toward the sound of the shot.
Ray-Ray spotted the hunter just after he saw the deer.
Maybe it was luck. If it hadn’t been for the helicopter, Ray-Ray would have crossed the road and could have run into the hunter. No telling what Ray-Ray might have had to do then.
Getting to his little brother’s place was too risky for now, what with the helicopters and the law crawling all over this end of the county. Ray-Ray had known a day like this would come.
When laws were more important than the people they were made to protect, when a few high-ups decided what was best for everyone and didn’t listen to the regular people, natural, God-given rights were forgotten.
But Ray-Ray was ready. He’d prepared for that day. He’d built his stronghold, and all hell could rage against him.
Let ’em come.
* * *
Cecil pounded both fists on the steering wheel.
“Damn him.” He glugged down another swallow of Bacardi and chased the rum down with a swig of Coke. “Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!”
The little shit Allen had told the police everything. Now the sheriff knew about the weed, the party at Butt Notch, and Ray-Ray’s threats. If Allen had spilled his guts about that much, what else had he said? There was one thing Allen couldn’t have said. Allen didn’t know about that. Only Cecil knew. But if the sheriff started nosing around …
Cecil didn’t chase his next swallow of rum with the Coke. He chased it with more rum. He opened the door of his truck and staggered to the edge of road. He had to think of something quick. The sheriff would be knocking on his trailer’s door anytime now. When Cecil wasn’t there, they’d comb the whole county.
Where could he go? He didn’t have enough money in his wallet to buy gas for his truck. If he could get to Limon he could pawn his rifle for a few bucks. But he knew his piece of crap truck wouldn’t get that far.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he called out, and quenched his curses with more rum. “Think of somethin’.”
The edge of the road crumbled away under his boots. Dirt clods tumbled down the steep bank into years of dried, gray tumbleweeds stacked on themselves in the gulley. The wind stirred the treetops, and a shower of brown cottonwood leaves fell into the dry grass.
Cecil stared down at the tinder-dry weeds in the creek bottom.
That shit’s a wildfire waitin’ for a spark.
The alcohol’s blur cleared for an instant.
What if?
Cecil cocked his head. What if?
What if a fire got started?
He smiled.
It would burn through the grass and weeds like a runaway train. Everybody in the county was on edge about how dry it was. A fire could start anyplace, and the wind would sweep it through the water-starved brush along the creek. If it wasn’t stopped, stubble fields would go next. Then houses.
And the man who warned the town?
He’d be a hero for sure.
Cecil smiled at the story he played out in his head. What would it matter if Cecil sold a little pot to the high school kids and bought ’em beer for their parties? He’d be a hero. Jody Big-Tits would interview him on the TV news. Even Mercy Saylor would look at him as if he was important. Not like something to wipe off the bottom of her shoes.
Cecil took a last swallow of rum, grabbed a handful of old newspapers from the floorboards, and climbed from his truck. He sloshed some of the rum onto the papers in his hand and gulped down the rest. He sparked his Bic lighter and touched the fire to the wet papers. Yellow flames curled out and singed the hair on his arm. He tossed the burning paper into the tangle of dry weeds.
* * *
A fool would run for all he was worth. But Ray-Ray knew better. The helicopter was gone but could be back any minute. The hunter and the tall man in the Dodge pickup hadn’t so much as looked his way. It’d be best to keep on just like he’d planned. But instead of the truck at his brother’s place to get him out of the county, he needed to get to his stronghold and wait. And he’d do it slow and careful.
The Bible taught of men like Noah and Moses heeding God’s command to prepare for bad times. Ray-Ray had done the same. A tithe portion of everything he’d earned was set aside to buy what he needed. That money bought rice, beans, sugar, and coffee. And what he didn’t have money to buy, he did for himself. He canned the okra, squash, and corn he could grow on his own. Traded blacksmithing and welding for more. Put up the meat of a fat calf and salted his own pork. Dried deer meat, too.
Noah and his folk were on the ark for forty days and nights. Ray-Ray put away food to last for more than two months. He’d patched a hundred-gallon water tank he bought for next to nothing and filled it to the brim, a bucket at a time.
For every mouthful of food and each sip of water, Ray-Ray had a bullet for his deer rifle stored in the stronghold. Others could beat their swords into plowshares. Ray-Ray would stand for what was his.
Let ’em come.
They’d have to find him first. His stronghold was hidden where no one would think to look. And while he waited, he’d be comfortable. Hanging in the cool dry of his fortress, stalks of his best homegrown weed perfuming the air.
He waited until the hunter and the man from the Dodge had started gutting the buck. He checked the skies for the helicopter, and when he saw nothing, he climbed from his place in the brush. In a few running steps, he was out of sight of the two men. He dropped into a steady pace down the creek bed.
If Ray-Ray was right, there were four government agencies after him. He’d seen both county and state police vehicles on the roads. The markings on the helicopter showed it was US Army for sure, and if you threw in chubby little Birdie Hawkins from the Department of Wildlife, well, that made the fourth.
How much taxpayer money was being gobbled up by it all? Ray-Ray would wager that the decisions were being made by someone appointed to his job, not even duly elected. If some government muckety-muck had a mind to, they’d use all that tax money they collected from good people to hunt him down.
That was what this was. A vendetta. All because he hadn’t bought a hunting license.
A man needed a license to hunt the deer that lived all the year on his land? Foolish. A man should have the right to manage the deer that ate his crops and drank from his well. The government couldn’t stick their noses in everyone’s business.
Leave me alone. He wanted to scream it.
But instead, Ray-Ray stopped stock-still. He cursed himself. In all his carefulness, he’d missed the one thing he could count on. Quiet hung thick in the air around him. Leaves rustled in the breeze. But there were no sounds from the birds. Not one chirp. No swish of wings.
Maybe the end times had begun.
The Book said that back in the beginning, when things got too out of hand, the Lord had used a great flood to destroy all the wickedness. When it came time to do it again, it wouldn’t be water. The God of all creation would destroy the evil ones with fire.
Ray-Ray smelled it on the breeze.
Smoke.
* * *
Dry grass curled in the heat, and the flames raced into the leaves and autumn brush in the creek bed. It was almost beautiful. Cecil’s breathed in the smoke. He laughed at the crackle.
I’ll tell ’em I left work early to go hunting. Came out here. Saw the fire. Some city hunter must’ve tossed a cigarette out the window. That’s what I’ll tell ’em. By the time I get back to town, the fire will have burned up two miles of creek bottom.
But I’ll be the hero who saved ’em all.
* * *
Fingers of smoke filtered through the gulley where Ray-Ray hid. Dry brush hissed and popped. Like a skunk caught in a snare, Ray-Ray’s instincts told him to claw and bite and do everything he could to get out.
But he had hidden too well.
There was no way he could scramble up the sheer dirt sides, and the brush and trees that screened him threatened to burst into flame. Like bits of grit spun loose from a grinding wheel, and floating ash found its way onto the backs of Ray-Ray’s eyelids. With each blink the texture of fine sandpaper tortured his vision.
He clomped down the creek bottom away from the cackle of flames, stumbling in the sandy soil. Creatures fled with him. A cottontail ran a dozen steps, froze for an instant under a fallen tree limb, and darted off again. A pair of squirrels bounded through the branches overhead. Magpies clattered past.
He gripped his rifle tighter, drew a deep breath, and pushed on. In ten yards, smoke caught in his throat, and he bent over, grabbed his knees, and coughed until he thought his insides would spill out.
A whitetail doe dashed past him. She turned and bounded up the grass-tinged crack in the steep dirt sides of the arroyo. The animal stumbled, slid back, and tried again. Her hooves found traction, and she struggled up, tossing dried clumps of dirt behind her.
Ray-Ray drew in another breath, saw his chance, and followed the deer. Boots slipping, hands grabbing for bits of weeds, he fought his way up the side of the gulley.
Behind him, flames took over the brush. Above the roar, the tortured scream of an animal that was too slow froze the blood in his veins.
The clump of dry grass Ray-Ray had tangled his fingers in pulled loose from the steep bank. He sprawled belly down across the slope, boot toes digging for a grip, to keep from falling to the fiery tangle below. He mashed the side of his face into the dirt, fought for breath, and turned to look below him.
At the base of the hillside, in an island of weeds the fire had not yet consumed, the crumpled form of a young woman lay still. Ashes from the fire all around her fell on the fan of black hair that haloed the girl’s face. Her eyes were shut as if she was sleeping.
Ray-Ray loosened his grip and slid down the dirt toward her. Heat touched his face and each lungful of air scorched hotter than the one before.
“Miss?” he croaked. He grabbed her shoulder. “We gotta get out of—”
In spite of the fire all around, her body was cold to the touch. He knew in that instant all he could do was save himself. The hair on the back of his hands curled in the heat. He scrambled and clawed his way up the bank.
When he looked back at the girl, the wind drove a curtain of flames into the weeds around her. Her long hair turned to a thousand twisting curls in the bright orange flames, and the skin on her face melted like warm wax. In the next second the sweep of the fire was past her and her place of rest.
At the top of the gulley, he scrambled under the wire fence and onto the roadway. Tire tracks, which he guessed had been made last night, blemished the dust along the side of the road. He could see the marks where someone had dragged the girl’s body to the edge of the road and let it topple over. Pointed toe prints from cowboy boots left the edge and returned to the car. The prints from boots so new that the Tony Lama logo showed in the marks left by the heels.
Ray-Ray watched the fire race away up the creek bottom. On the road without cover, the government men might find him.
Had the bastards lit the fire to smoke him out? And killed the girl, too?
He’d never put anything past them.
Ray-Ray sized up his surroundings. It was three miles across open stubble fields to the stronghold he’d outfitted.
Even in the smoky haze, he could still spot the deer that had led him to safety. Its white rump stuck out as plain as day even though the little doe was a long rifle shot out into the stubble. He couldn’t wait. He had to follow.
Ray-Ray checked both ways on the road and coiled to run, but he heard the whirl of an engine struggling to turn over.
Ray-Ray ducked into a wrinkle at the edge of the gulley. He bit back the taste of smoke in his mouth and stifled a cough.
The engine spun again and came to life.
* * *
Cecil slid his fat belly behind the steering wheel. Ash fell on the windshield. He turned the key. The old truck coughed.
C’mon.
He hit the ignition again. The engine sputtered but wouldn’t turn over.
Damn it.
Smoke filtered in from the cracks around the windows and doors. The stench came up through the vents. Every drop of alcohol in his body evaporated and fear rushed in.
Start, damn you. He turned the key.
Yes!
Cecil slammed the gearshift into reverse and backed into the roadway. He pointed the truck at Brandon and pressed down on the accelerator. At the edge of the burning gulley, tongues of flame as high as the top strand on the barbed-wire fence licked at everything that had ever lived. Grass, weeds, and fence posts shriveled in the heat. A jack rabbit burst from the inferno and raced for safety.
Standing in the middle of the road, an old man raised his hands.
Cecil jammed on the brakes.
Pop Weber?
* * *
Chase swung open his pickup’s door. “Nice buck. Can I give you a hand?”
The hunter was about Chase’s age. His rifle showed nicks and scratches from being carried, and there were old bloodstains on his orange vest. Sun flashed on the edge of the man’s hunting knife, and Chase knew the man wouldn’t need his help dressing out the buck.
“No sense both of us gettin’ our hands bloody.” The hunter grabbed a hind leg and rolled the deer on its back.
“That helicopter spook ’em?” Chase asked.
“No. I saw this guy midmornin’ and spent the next three hours tryin’ to get close enough for a shot. I finally spotted him in the trees down there.” He jerked his head toward the creek. “Somethin’ on the other side of the road had his interest. I thought it was another hunter. I took my shot just before I heard the helicopter. Any idea why it’s here?”
“There’s a search for a farmer who went missin’.” Chase lifted his cap and smoothed his hair. “Old man with Alzheimer’s.”
“That’s tough. I hope they find him.” The man looked up at Chase. The lines around his eyes tightened. “Hey, I think I know you. That Lakers cap. Yeah. Sure.” He tapped his knife on the deer’s belly. “You’re Chase Ford, the ballplayer. I was at CU when you played. Never missed a game. You were good back then.”
Back then? Chase let himself nod. So much had changed.
The hunter went on, “I remember now. You grew up down here, didn’t you? What are you doin’ these days? Since all that stuff about your wife—I mean ex-wife.”
Chase raised his hand. “Wait.” Something in the air seemed wrong. He sniffed again. “Do you smell smoke?”