Daniel suddenly stops short. For the first time since I’ve met the man, real emotion flickers across his face.
It looks like confusion.
And fear.
“What?” He says the word as if the comment I’ve made is incomprehensible.
I move a bit further into the entryway, backing toward the front door. Daniel is following me, and his expression is a mixture of alarm and concern. His eyes dart from me to the side, as if he’s trying to keep track of both Clint and me at the same time, which is exactly what I intend to prevent.
“I’d like to see this blue car out in your barn they were telling us about. It won’t take more than a minute, I’m sure.”
“There is no car in the barn.”
I’ve almost made the door. Behind him I can see Clint staying back, and Daniel’s head is swiveling back and forth as he tries to track us both.
“Well, then there won’t be any issue if I just take a quick look to confirm. Just to see whether the Hernandez brothers were mistaken or not.”
By now I’ve made it to the door, hand on the doorknob, and Daniel’s step quickens. Without hesitating, I turn, pushing my way through and striding as fast as I can without breaking into a run. I step off the porch and head across the broad dirt lot toward the barn, listening to the sound of Daniel’s boots thump onto the porch, as his voice rises behind me.
“There is no car in the barn.” He’s not shouting, but it’s clear that what I’m doing is something that he doesn’t approve of.
Shit. Shit, was the kid actually right?
I continue to eat up the distance across the open area separating the house from the barn, and now I can hear Daniel’s feet growing closer behind me. What happens next, I don’t expect. There’s suddenly a massive pressure on my shoulder, and I’m spun around mid-stride.
Jesus Christ he’s strong.
Daniel has me in his grip, halting me from going any further. I crane my neck up to look at him and find him staring down at me, eyes wide, breathing elevated. His fingers dig into my flesh and though it fucking hurts, I don’t let on.
“Whoa! What’s going on here?”
His chest rises and falls rapidly. “There’s no car in the barn.”
I look to his hand, and then slowly back to his face. Things are either going to get very interesting here in a second unless he decides to be smart and let go. I catch Clint coming down off the porch, moving in light, quick steps toward the Bronco. He ducks around to the side opposite of us, disappearing.
“You mind letting go of me, Mr. Christiansen?”
For a moment he doesn’t, continuing to hold me in place. I can see his mind working, and I realize that something is going on here. Clint’s right. There’s something out here.
And Daniel Christiansen is hiding it.
“I’ll ask again politely, Mr. Christiansen.” I keep my voice low, as non-threatening as I can muster when my shoulder feels like it’s clamped in a vise. But I can feel myself tensing, because right now I have no fucking idea what this kid is going to do, and I need to be ready to pull my gun if I have to. Several seconds pass before I feel the fingers slowly relax, and then he takes his hand away.
His face has gone flat again, and I take two steps back to put a little distance between us. As I do, Clint dashes from the truck, something in his hand. He takes the porch steps as silently as possible, disappearing back into the house.
Are you fucking kidding me?
“There is no car in the barn.”
I bring my focus back to Daniel. Whatever the fuck Clint is doing, I need to buy him time. Keep Daniel’s focus on me. Without letting him get a hand back on me, though, because I’m not letting that happen again.
“No car,” I echo him as I take another step back toward the barn, feeling the reassuring weight of my gun under my suit jacket. “You keep saying that, Mr. Christiansen. But if there’s no car in that barn, then I really do have to wonder if you haven’t got something else to hide…”
* * *
Clint
I wasn’t sure if Agent Jones understood me, but he got Daniel outside, so he must have got the gist of it in some way. And he’s kept Daniel’s focus tied down long enough that I’ve gotten back inside unnoticed, at least for now. When I saw the blood on the door jamb, and then the spots on the floor, I knew something wasn’t right. Plenty of ways for a person to get hurt on a ranch and bleed, but Daniel ain’t wearing no bandages, and it don’t make any sense that there’d be smears and drops of blood just left like this. Something bled here recently. Recent enough that Daniel ain’t had the time to clean it up. And I’m betting it’s on the other side of this locked door.
I’d tried it earlier, but the thick padlock hadn’t budged, and just its presence makes it even more suspicious, ’cause why in the hell would Daniel keep a door locked in his own house? He’s the only one here.
I take the crowbar I pulled out of the truck and wedge it under the little bar of steel keeping the door shut tight. I push against it and the wood creaks. The timbering in this house is thick, and heavy, but it’s also old, worn, dried out from over the years. As I increase pressure on it, I watch as the wood cracks, begins to splinter. I’m trying to go slow, easy, so I don’t create a loud noise that’ll draw Daniel’s attention away from Mason. Inside here, I can’t hear either of them, but I keep one ear cocked for the sound of Daniel’s boots on the porch. Big as the sonuvabitch is, them boots of his give off a noise you can hear a mile away.
I lean into the crowbar a bit harder, and the semi-circle buried in the doorjamb starts to give. The wood creaks, cracks again, and suddenly it pops free. I almost drop the crowbar as it slips forward, but I catch it as I stumble into the jamb. Shoving the bar behind my belt, I hook it in place and push the door open.
Stairs. Stairs that lead down into the basement.
The stairway is dark, but there’s muted light at the bottom where the steps end, and then the basement takes off to the right. I can’t see much of the actual room and I glance over to find a light switch, but I figure I better not. If there’s something down there, I don’t want to be giving them a better chance to spot me before I spot them. Plus, if Daniel sees the light coming on from outside, he’ll come charging in here like he took down Henry Carter in that Dalhart game. Damn near broke his neck when he hit him, and I don’t want to be tussling with Daniel like that inside this confined space.
I move onto the first step, pause for a moment, and then do something I ain’t ever had to do before. I pull out my gun, and hold it in front of me, at the ready. Sheriff Braddock sent me to all that training down in Amarillo, and I remember the courses, but I’ve never had to draw on them. Until now. My hands are jittering a little, and I force them to stop. I ain’t got time for that. I need to get down here, find out what clues I can about that blood up there, and then get back outside before Daniel notices I ain’t there.
I start cautiously down the stairs, doing just like they taught, keeping the gun sweeping in front of me. Looking down, I can see little splatters every few steps. Even in the dim light I’m pretty certain they’re blood too. I don’t stop or focus on them. I need to keep moving. As I get closer to the bottom, I can see that the light I saw earlier is coming from the basement windows built into the foundation of the house. They’re dusty, and the light filtering through is diffused, but there is enough to see by and catch the details of the room.
At the bottom I pause, listening, but I don’t hear anything. I dart a quick look around the corner of the stairs, then pull back. This is where Daniel does his laundry, obviously. I saw a washing machine, a dryer, but not much else. I wait, straining my ears, but there’s no reaction from anyone or anything from my glance past the stairs, so I step off of them.
I sweep my gun ahead of me. Past the washing machine, the dryer next to it, and the cabinets at the far end. On the other side of the room is a table under the windows, two empty laundry baskets stacked neatly on top. In the dim space beyond th
e stairs there are old shelves, mostly empty, and I let my gun angle toward the floor as I turn in a circle.
Shit. There ain’t no one in this room. It’s empty. I turn back to the stairs and follow the trail of blood drops. They’re sparse, but they trickle past where I’m standing, into the dim space beside the shelves where there’s a pile of cloth someone’s dumped at the far end of the room.
Except it’s not cloth.
I blink, and then take a step forward. The body is lying with its back to me, on top of a dark blanket, and as I take one more step the lines I thought were just folds in fabric resolve themselves into cuts in flesh. Long slashes that have been opened on the back of this person. The edges are dark, raised, and there’s liquid, blood, or whatever it is weeping out, staining the skin so that it glistens. I take another step, and I’m almost on the body when I can see dark hair matted against the neck and back, held in place by the blood.
Jesus Christ, Daniel. What have you done?
I run my eyes the length of the body, and it’s then that I realize it’s a woman. A young girl. For the first time it dawns on me she’s naked. I ain’t seen a lot of nude girls before, but I’ve seen enough I can definitely tell the body is distinctly not male, especially down around her hips and such. I swallow, ’cause my throat’s gone dry, and I might be freaking out a bit ’cause this is my first corpse. And Agent Jones was right. It ain’t nothing like what I expected.
“What the fuck have you done here, Daniel?” I whisper hoarsely, and the body moves.
I almost stumble back, a hundred horror movies flickering through my mind. I start to lift my gun but I catch myself because in that same instant, I realize this ain’t a body. It ain’t a corpse. She’s alive, whoever this is, and I only have one thought; I need to help them. I regain my balance, holstering my weapon as I start to kneel. The body is twisting, trying to turn back to see who is behind her, and I open my mouth to tell her who I am. To tell her to stay still, that it’s gonna be okay, that I’m here to rescue her, but the words die on my tongue as the world seems to tilt for a second.
Her face comes into view, and I know it immediately. There ain’t no way I wouldn’t recognize it.
I’ve stared at it a million times.
Memorized it.
It’s Sloane.
* * *
Mason
“I am not lying to you,” he says, flat but somehow still intimidating.
I take one more step back, and Daniel matches me. He’s been doing that as I’ve crept slowly back toward the barn doors, because I’m trying to maintain enough distance in case he decides he’s going to charge me, which is definitely a possibility. I have no idea what Clint saw inside, but I know without any doubt that there’s something going on here, and he was right, and I was wrong, and there’ll be time enough later to admit that — but right now I need to keep Daniel occupied. Close, but not close enough that he can get his hands on me before I can draw my gun.
Because this sonuvabitch is big. Big, strong, and powerful, and if he gets a hold of me, I’ve no doubt he’ll fucking break me.
Talk, Mason.
“Well, here’s the thing, Mr. Christiansen. You keep telling me that, but you keep trying to stop me from getting into the barn. Now, I’m sure you can understand how that might leave me with the impression that you are lying.”
“I am not lying!” His voice now matches some of the emotion he’s been letting creep across his face the past few minutes. His agitation is growing, and that means that one of two things needs to happen: either I diffuse this situation, or I take him down. As big as he is, I’d rather have Clint here to help with the latter, but he’s still inside the house. So at this point the best I can do is keep up this dance with Daniel, although how much longer I can do so is debatable.
“I am a Godly man. An honorable man. I do not lie. I follow the tenets as laid down in the Bible by our Lord and Savior, and as paid for by the blood of His Son on the cross at Calvary.”
Oh great.
“Well, that’s all well and good, and sounds fantastic, but it still doesn’t explain why you seem bound and determined to stop me from just taking a look at what’s in your barn.”
“Because I am not lying! Why are you questioning my word?”
I skip back one more step. “Sorry...” I give him a shrug. “That’s just the way I am. A real goddamn asshole, as most would tell you.”
His brow furrows. “You used the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Yeah, like I said. A real fucking asshole.”
The curse draws his eyebrows together even tighter. He advances a step, and this time he skirts to my right side.
Oh. Nice move. Trying to flank me.
I step back, and he skirts once more that direction, and I’m going to have to change tactics or he’ll put himself between me and the barn. And while that might be fine in the end — because I honestly don’t give a shit what’s inside there — it’s going to put him into a position to see Clint when he finally comes out.
“Oh, shit, sorry.” I raise my right hand as if in supplication, bringing it closer into position where I can reach my shoulder holster quickly if needed. “Where are my fucking manners? That sure as fuck wasn’t the right thing to say to a Godly, righteous man such as yourself, was it?”
His eyes narrow. “Why do you mock me?”
“I don’t, Mr. Christiansen. I simply want you to let me look in that barn.”
“I did not take that car.”
I hesitate for a moment. What did he just say? He didn’t say ‘there is no car.’ That’s what he’s been saying all along, since I made up my lie. No, no, this time he said, ‘I didn’t take that car.’
Fuck.
While I’m absorbing that information, he’s the one to take the next step first, and it lets him get in closer to me. I feint backward and try to angle my way back into my original position, but he follows, and now he’s getting too close for comfort. I start to step back again, and as I do so, I see movement from the house. The front door opens, and I watch as Clint steps out into the shadow of the porch eave. He’s carrying something in his arms. It’s fairly large, whatever it is, and when he steps down the first step and out into the sunlight for a moment all I can see is a dirty, red thing. Except that it isn’t a thing. In that split second it resolves itself into what it actually is, and I freeze, stunned for the first time in years.
He was right. The kid was fucking right.
Clint is carrying a body, and I’m pretty sure it’s a young woman. Her back is flayed to ribbons, and she’s been bleeding and still is. Clint is cradling her, his shirt and arms smeared with blood. He ignores us, walking in a daze toward the Bronco. Daniel must see the look on my face, because he stops and before I can react, I watch as his gaze turns toward where I’ve been staring.
“Jasmine.” The name comes off his lips, a hoarse utterance of disbelief mixed with barely contained anger. Then things happen in that slow-motion way they do when everything goes to hell and your body is trying to react to keep up with what your mind is screaming at you.
“JASMINE!” This time it’s a roar, and there is no disbelief. There’s only rage.
I’m reaching for my gun. My mind is trying to tell my mouth to form the words. The words I know I should be saying. ‘Stop! Agent Jones, FBI! You are under arrest…’ Except that they won’t come. The words remain stuck in transit from my brain to my lips. Daniel, however, does not remain stuck. In the same instant those thoughts careen through my head, he surges forward.
And hits me like a fucking cement truck.
He literally knocks me off my feet. The air is shoved out of my lungs as I sail backward, and I’ve got nothing as I hit the ground on my back. For a millisecond I think he’s going to land on me, but he doesn’t. He passes me, and then he’s gone. I hear the buffeting of his boots against the dirt, can feel it coming up through the ground, and then I hear a yell.
Move, Mason. Get the fuck up.
I’m trying to suck in oxygen through lungs that tell me to fuck off. I roll, and the effort makes blackness ring the edges of my vision. I can see now what the yell was about. Daniel has hit Clint the same way he hit me. Knocked him to the ground, and the girl he was carrying with him.
The one Daniel called Jasmine. A thought flashes through my head. That name… that name should mean something…
I push myself to my knees, and my diaphragm gives me one — one — intake of air before it seizes up again. It’s enough to let me push up, to stagger into an upright position. Daniel has picked up the young woman and is carrying her in his arms away from Clint. He’s moving back toward the barn, toward me, and I reach for my gun.
But what am I going to do? Because all that Hollywood shoot from the hip, headshot on the fly bullshit aside, there is no fucking way I’m taking a shot at this man while he’s carrying that girl. I don’t have a fucking clue what is going on here, but this ‘Jasmine’ is clearly a victim in some fashion or another, and I’m not going to let her take a bullet while I try to be some sort of action hero.
I track Daniel as he strides across the dirt lot, heading toward the big double doors. I get one more lungful of air, and I’m about to try and force something out of my mouth when I see Clint pushing himself up. He’s reaching for his gun, and suddenly telling Clint not to shoot shoves any words toward Daniel out of my head. But before I can speak, Clint falters. His hand pulls away from his holster, and then reaches behind him. At the same time he’s reaching behind him I can see his legs push off against the ground, and he’s running. As he sprints toward Daniel, bent almost double, his arm curves from behind his back, a crowbar in his hand.
I choke on the words I was going to say. Instead, I bring my hands up, gripping my gun, aiming at Daniel.
He’s covered a little over half the distance to me when Clint hits him. Rangy as the kid is, he’s got momentum behind him, and he aims low. He swings with every bit of force he can put into it and catches Daniel right behind the knee.
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