Texas Outlaw

by James Patterson

  GARETH McCORMACK STARES through the M24’s riflescope at his target. He slows his breathing, gets his heart rate under control. His body is completely still. The only movement is his right finger, slowly squeezing the trigger.

  The rifle kicks against his shoulder. Fire spits from the barrel. A second later, the bullet zips through a milk jug one thousand yards away and plunges into the mound of dirt acting as the backstop for the range. Milk glugs out of the punctured jug like white blood.

  “Good shot, Son,” Carson says, sitting next to Gareth with binoculars.

  Gareth sits up and says, “It’s just not as much fun when you’re not shooting at a living thing.”

  The sun is setting to the west, spectacular and red.

  Before Gareth loads another round into his M24, he notices his phone buzzing. When he answers, he listens more than he speaks. It’s his source from town—one of them—filling him in on the latest.

  When he hangs up, he packs a can of Skoal against his palm and puts a plug of snuff into his lip before talking.

  “Everything’s working out,” he says to his father, then spits tobacco juice into an empty Dr Pepper can.

  Carson sits back and props his python-skin boots up on an empty chair. He notices a clump of mud on the bottom of the boots and takes out a pocket knife to pry it off.

  “Let’s not underestimate the Rangers,” Carson says.

  Gareth laughs. “That Rory Yates. He ain’t nothing.”

  “I’m not talking about Yates,” Carson says. “I’m talking about the whole Texas Ranger Division. We need to get rid of Yates and make sure no one else comes snooping around.” He folds his pocket knife and slides it into the breast pocket of his shirt. “Or if they do send another Ranger, we need it to be someone who will wrap things up quick.”

  “No shit,” Gareth says.

  If it was as simple as getting rid of Yates, Gareth would just kill him. But killing a Texas Ranger would only bring more Texas Rangers, so their plan requires nuance.

  There is some tension between father and son. They haven’t quite been on the same page about how to handle their latest problems. They disagreed about how precarious their situation was, how much of a threat Rory Yates actually was. Gareth was the confident one, sure that everything would work out in their favor. Carson was more cautious, giving the Rangers more credit than Gareth thought they deserved.

  He wanted his father to trust him in this situation. His father knew about the business side of things—the laws of supply and demand, how to cut costs and make a profit, when to abandon one business model and start another. That’s where Gareth thought the old man should keep his attention focused. As for these new developments, Gareth knows how to handle them. He’s been in war zones before.

  The brilliant crimson clouds above the horizon, like cotton balls soaked in blood, begin to fade and become a subdued purple.

  The clouds look a little like brains, Gareth thinks.

  Skip Barnes’s brains.

  He can’t help but smile. His father doesn’t notice—his eyes are fixed on the horizon as well.

  They hear the whine of an ATV approaching, then parking on the other side of the nearby copse of woods. A few seconds later, Dale Peters comes walking up the path.

  “Howdy,” he says, adjusting his ball cap on his head. “Y’all wanted to see me?”

  Gareth can tell Dale is nervous. He’s acting like his normal, good-humored self, but it’s a show. He has a tremble in his voice. He can’t quite keep his hands still.

  “We wanted to call you here to thank you,” Carson McCormack says to Dale.

  Dale can’t hide his relief. “What for?”

  “Wearing the recording device the last time you hung out with that Texas Ranger.”

  “Oh,” Dale says. “No problem. I never would have gone and played with him in the first place if I thought he was going to poke around in your business. Walt and I was just looking for someone new to play with since Charlie left town.”

  Carson says he is glad that Dale has become friends with Rory. That way he can do a little spying for them.

  “I didn’t expect him to ask me about y’all,” Dale says. “That’s why I told him all that about Alex Hartley. Throw him a bone, you know, send him off sniffing somewhere else.”

  Chapter 58

  “DO YOU MIND making tomorrow’s run by yourself?” Carson asks Dale. “Since, you know…?”

  He doesn’t need to complete the sentence. Dale usually made his runs with Skip.

  “Course,” Dale says. If he goes alone, that means he’s earned back Carson and Gareth’s trust.

  “Or do you want us to send one of the boys with you? I want to keep them all close with everything that’s going on. But we could probably spare one.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Dale says. “I can handle it.”

  Dale’s not stupid. Don’t cross us, Dale, or the same thing that happened to Skip will happen to you.

  “It’s a tragedy about Skip, isn’t it?” Carson says. “I know you two were friends.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dale says, nodding his head. “It’s a damn shame.”

  “What do you think happened?” Carson asks.

  Dale stares at him. All three of them know what happened. They’re just pretending they don’t.

  “Poacher, I imagine,” Dale says, the tremble in his voice giving away his lie. “That Ranger will probably try to make some bigger deal out of it, but I figure it’s a freak accident. Just one of them things.”

  “That’s what we thought,” Carson says, “but we hear they’ve already got a suspect in mind.”

  Dale, going along with the pretense that none of them has any idea who committed the murder, says, “Is that so?”

  “You won’t believe it,” Gareth says, speaking up for the first time since Dale arrived. “They think that female detective did it. Ariana Delgado.”

  Dale is unable to hide his surprise. His head recoils and his eyes widen.

  “They haven’t arrested her yet,” Gareth says. “But we hear it’s just a matter of time.”

  Gareth knows Dale has always had a crush on the detective, so he delivers the news with relish, like twisting a knife when it’s already buried to the hilt. He likes to make people squirm.

  “Hopefully they lock her up soon,” Gareth says, his eyes boring into Dale. “Before anyone else gets hurt.”

  Dale gulps. He takes off his hat, adjusts it, puts it back on.

  “That’s too bad,” he says. “I guess I’ll never marry her now.” He grins, trying to make it sound like he’s joking but unable to keep his voice from cracking with heartbreak.

  He tells them good-bye and starts back toward the trees. Gareth lets him make it all the way to the edge of the trees before he calls and asks Dale to do a favor before he leaves.

  “Sure thing,” Dale says. “What you got in mind?”

  Gareth leads him about ten feet out into the range.

  “Give me your hat,” Gareth says.

  Dale hands him his cherished ball cap and runs his hand through his sweat-soaked hair.

  “Balance this on your head,” Gareth says, handing Dale an empty Coke can.

  “You’re not gonna do what I think you’re gonna do,” Dale says, trying to sound calm. “Are you?”

  “What’s the matter?” Gareth says. “Don’t you trust me? We trust you with millions of dollars of our property.”

  “Sure, I trust you,” Dale says, but as he raises the can to his head, his hands shake.

  Gareth backs up like a gunfighter getting into position. He finds a good place about ten feet away and puts his hand five inches from his pistol’s grip. Carson comes and stands near him, a few paces back. The old man has a grin on his face like he’s walked into a cockfighting arena—he knows he might see bloodshed and can’t hide his pleasure at the prospect.

  The sun has almost disappeared beneath the horizon. The light is dim. Dale’s knees wobble wildly. The aluminum can on
his head teeters.

  “Now, hold still,” Gareth says. “If you move too much, you might make me miss.”

  Dale tries to stand still, but his legs are shaking so badly that he can’t.

  “You count down from three,” Gareth says.

  “You want me to count?” Dale says.

  Gareth spits tobacco juice onto the ground. “Yes, you count.”

  “It’s getting pretty dark,” Dale says. “You sure you can see?”

  “Trust me,” Gareth repeats, but the way he says it sounds vicious, not trustworthy.

  Dale closes his eyes, knowing that he might be counting down to his own execution.

  “Three,” he says, his voice rough.

  He opens his eyes and sees Gareth, statue-still in the twilight. He looks like a predator, a wolf, eyeing his prey before striking.

  “Two,” Dale croaks.

  His whole body trembles.

  “I don’t want to die,” he says, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll do anything you want.”

  “Say ‘one,’” Gareth growls.

  Dale takes a deep breath. He says a prayer inside his head. “One.”

  Gareth’s hand flashes to his pistol. Dale hears the zip of the bullet flying toward him, and then the clang as the can catapults off his skull. He drops to his knees and throws his hands over his head.

  Gareth and Carson both laugh like they’ve just heard the funniest joke of their lives.

  Dale rises to his feet and approaches them on numb legs. He tries to smile, like all of it was a big joke, but he notices a large patch of wetness in the crotch of his jeans. He thinks for a moment that it’s blood and he’s been shot after all.

  He realizes what happened.

  He pissed his pants.

  “Go clean yourself up,” Gareth says, his face transforming in an instant from jolly to grim. “And if you ever forget where your loyalties lie, the next one will be six inches lower.”

  Chapter 59

  I PULL MY truck to a stop in front of Ariana’s house. One of Harris’s patrol deputies, sitting sentry out front, sees me and jumps out of his car.

  “You can’t go in there,” he says.

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Chief Harris says—”

  “She hasn’t been arrested,” I snap, freezing him in his tracks. “You can’t put her on house arrest without a judge’s order. What you’re doing here is borderline illegal, and if you want to test me on that, I have no problem cuffing you and making you spend the night in jail in your own police station.”

  I push past him. I’m carrying a small paper bag with the name of Jessica’s pharmacy stenciled on the outside.

  “I’m going to tell the chief,” he calls after me.

  “Go right ahead,” I say.

  I’ve had a long day, and my patience is all used up. After Harris took Ariana’s gun and badge, he and I went back to the station with Ariana’s rifle. We argued for a while about how to handle the evidence. Neither of us wanted to let the gun or DNA sample out of our sight until we got them to the crime lab in El Paso, so we rode together in near silence during the five-hour round trip.

  Now we just have to wait. Fortunately, we might not have to wait very long. The technicians at the Department of Public Safety lab in El Paso have given us their word that our requests will bypass the backlog and move to the top of the queue.

  As early as tomorrow, a technician will fire Ariana’s grandfather’s rifle into a special water tank and then use a microscope to compare the undamaged bullet to the slug found in the tree. At the same time, technicians will be looking at the DNA of the hair strand, comparing it to the DNA obtained from the cheek swabs of Ariana and Gareth.

  This time tomorrow, Ariana could be exonerated.

  Or in jail.

  Which is why I need to talk to her tonight.

  Ariana opens the door before I knock. Her big beautiful eyes look terrified.

  She leads me into her living room and asks if I want anything to drink. I tell her I’ll take a beer if she has one, and she disappears into her kitchen. I wait, lingering in her living room. She has a nice home. Small. Nothing too fancy. But she takes good care of what she has.

  In one corner is a record player that’s probably older than I am next to a rustic wooden shelf holding an impressive collection of vinyl albums. I browse through the bands. Guns N’ Roses. Led Zeppelin. Pearl Jam. The occasional classic country artist is present—Emmylou Harris, Kenny Rogers, Hank Williams—but the rock albums outnumber country ten to one.

  On one shelf are framed photographs of a Mexican man and woman I assume are her parents.

  Ariana comes back with two bottles of Bud Light, and we sit at opposite ends of the couch. I take my hat off—I still don’t like the way it fits on my head—and set it on the floor. I set the pharmacy bag beside it. I run my hands through my hair, damp with sweat, and point to the pictures on the shelf.

  “Are those your parents?” I say.

  She nods and takes a drink.

  “Do they still live in Rio Lobo?”

  “My dad’s in prison over in Fort Stockton,” she says. “My mom moved back to Mexico after I graduated from high school. Said she couldn’t stand to be here anymore after my dad was arrested.”

  I ask what he did, and she explains that he was a janitor at the high school and one day the principal found a stash of marijuana hidden in his supply closet. The amount was enough that they believed he was selling drugs to kids, and a few of them testified to that effect.

  “He always claimed he was innocent,” she says. “I believed him for a while. That’s one reason I became a cop. I thought I could help him somehow. But by the time I was out in the world, working as a cop, I started to think differently. I wasn’t so naïve anymore.”

  “The former police chief, the one who hired you, was he the one who arrested your dad?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I think that’s why he wanted to give me a chance. He saw that I was trying to be a better person. And once I saw him on the job, doing everything by the book, I knew Dad was guilty.”

  She blinks back tears and adds, “Now I might end up in prison just like my old man. Makes me wonder if he was telling the truth all along. Maybe he was framed just like I’m being framed.”

  She turns to me, her eyes hardening. “You know it’s a setup,” she says. “Right?”

  I do…except there’s a small seed of doubt in my mind. The videotapes of Gareth show him off camera long enough to have committed the crime, but nowhere near long enough that he could have driven to town and stolen Ariana’s gun, made the shot, and then driven back to replace it.

  If it was Gareth, someone was helping him.

  And if it wasn’t Gareth, then could it have been Ariana?

  “I need you to tell me something,” I say, hating myself for asking the question. “Why were you late to work yesterday?”

  Chapter 60

  ARIANA GLARES AT me, feelings of betrayal evident across her strained features.

  “I have to ask,” I say. “You’re never late. But on that day, of all days, you were.”

  “You think I drove out there and shot Skip Barnes before coming into work?” she asks. “That’s outrageous.”

  “We don’t have a firm time of death yet,” I say.

  She shakes her head in disbelief and then answers. “I went for a run. We’ve been working on this case day and night. I thought I deserved a break.” She says she ran on the arroyo behind her house, which also passes behind Tom and Jessica’s place. “I actually ran by your apartment. I thought about stopping, but I decided to just keep on running. I was going to see you in an hour anyway.”

  She looks embarrassed. She was going to drop in and see me for a friendly visit, and now here I am questioning her like she’s a criminal. But I have to be professional about this. I have to ask the same questions I would ask anyone.

  “Any witnesses see you?”

 
; “I don’t know,” she says. “The path on the arroyo is pretty hidden.”

  We’re quiet. She’s probably thinking what I’m thinking. If the DNA, ballistics, and fingerprint tests all point to her, a witness who might have recognized her won’t make much difference anyway. Eyewitness testimony isn’t always reliable. But ballistics, fingerprints, and DNA—not to mention all three put together—would be hard to argue with.

  “None of this makes any sense,” Ariana says. “Why would I kill Skip Barnes?”

  She’s right—it doesn’t make a lick of sense that Ariana would want to kill Skip Barnes. But motive is often speculation. In a courtroom, the DA could spin theories about why she would commit the crime. It wouldn’t matter how far-fetched the theories were if there was abundant physical evidence.

  “I believe you,” I say. “I know you didn’t do it. There’s no question in my mind.”

  She lets out a sigh of relief.

  “I think the only question,” I say, “is whether I’m going to let them arrest you or whether I’m going to help you escape.”

  I pick up the bag from the pharmacy and pull out the item inside.

  A burner cell phone.

  I purchased two when Harris and I got back into town. Having kept one for myself, I now give this one to Ariana. I tell her to keep it close. When Harris and I get the results, I’ll text her. The patrol officer out front isn’t keeping a very close watch. She could sneak down the arroyo.

  “And do what?” she says, stunned. “I won’t have a car. I’ll only get so far.”

  “I’m working on that,” I say.

  She rises from the couch and paces in front of me.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she says. “This isn’t the way to fight. If I run, it will be like announcing I’m guilty. And you,” she adds, “you’re putting your badge on the line. Your life. Imagine a Texas Ranger being sent to prison—those inmates would kill you within the first two hours.”

  “They could try.”

  She gives me an exasperated look. “This isn’t the time to act tough, Rory.”

  I stand up. It’s my turn for an impassioned speech.