by Carolina Mac
He grinned as he shoved one packet of money into each of his pockets. He picked up the rifle and scooped a box of ammo from the dresser. On his way out, he saw Bonehead’s keys handing on a rack by the door. “I’ll take the old Caddie tonight and give the Camaro a rest.”
He left the cats eating, slipped behind the wheel of the big blue El Dorado and drove home.
Blackmore Agency. Austin.
BLAINE LEFT CARM in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner and strolled down the hallway to his office at the back of the big Victorian. He had planned to start on box number two, but he was too tired to deal with the emotional drain it would put on him.
Instead, he sat behind his desk and wondered who the dead guys were floating down the Paint and who had killed them, and why? Sometimes if you found out the why it would lead you to the killer.
The ringing of his cell startled him, and he didn’t stop to check the screen. “Hello?”
“Hey, sweetheart, it’s me, Misty.”
“Hi, how are you, Misty?”
“Good, I’m good. I’ve been busy with new customers and things are going well in my new location.”
“Will I get to see your new place soon?”
“Do you want to?”
He hesitated for a second. “Uh huh. I think I do. Whether we’re a couple or not, I don’t like the way things are between us.”
“Your aura must be dark these days. I can’t sense any happiness or joy surrounding you.”
“Me neither.” Misty always made him smile.
“Shall we do dinner soon?”
“Let’s do it, Misty. Tulley’s for crab cakes tomorrow night.”
Coulter-Ross Ranch.
JESSE SLIPPED into bed beside Annie feeling better than he’d felt in weeks. Annie was his wife, and they both agreed that their divorce had been a mistake. A mistake he’d rushed into in the heat of anger and now with forgiveness on both sides, they had a chance to rectify that mistake.
He reached out and pulled her perfect naked body close to his.
CHAPTER NINE
Wednesday, August 15th.
State Morgue. Austin.
BLAINE SHIVERED the way he always did when he had to be present for an autopsy. Was it the bone-chilling dampness of the morgue itself, or was it being that close to death that gave him the ice cold feeling? He wasn’t sure, but it always happened. He’d ask Misty later.
Nate Wall was first up, or first for his turn on the stainless-steel table, however you wanted to look at it.
The pathologist, Doctor Mort Simon, spent considerable time analyzing the bullet wound and how Nate’s back had been butchered. “I’d bet a nickel whoever did the job removing the bullet wasn’t a doctor and didn’t use sterilized instruments. With a hack job like this one, infection was a sure thing.”
It took more than two hours to wrap up Nate’s autopsy, and then it was the old man’s turn. His prints had been in the system and he was Arthur Rockaway, from Cherokee Trailer park. He’d been arrested years before for selling drugs meant for animals from his veterinarian clinic to kids at a high school. His lawyer pled him down and he did six months in county, and the state revoked his license.
At last, an address.
Before they left DPS, Blaine called Jesse and told him about Nate Wall. “You took one down, partner. We’re one step closer.”
“I still feel guilty about Ty’s arm,” said Jesse. “Terrible break and it’ll cause him grief for a long while.”
“Hope it doesn’t mess up his guitar pickin,” said Blaine. “When’s he coming home?”
“Brian’s picking him up today.”
Blackmore Agency. Austin.
TRAVIS SPENT the morning filling out reports in the office he and Farrell shared with Lily, while Blaine and Farrell were at the morgue. When he finished, he gave Gene Wyman a call.
“I talked to Ginny and she assured me that everything was cool. You feel the same way?”
“I don’t Travis. You know those vibes you feel in your gut that are based on… nothing?”
“Yeah, I know. Where’s her next stop?”
“Johnson City, there’s a big dinner tonight for her put on by the Historical Society.”
“I might take a drive out to hill country later.”
“I’ll buy you a beer.”
Cherokee Junction.
BECCA SAT on the sofa drinking coffee and putting the final coat of hot pink on her nails. “I’m sad we can’t find out about Nate, sugar. Mason is such a piece of shit, the way he treats you guys, I want to kill him.”
“Guess he figured he was helping Nate,” said Harlan, “taking him to the hospital n’all, but even if we knew which hospital Nate was at, we couldn’t go there. The cops will be looking for whoever dumped Nate off. For sure they will.”
“Is leaving a sick person at the hospital a crime?”
“No, not that part, but they’d be all over us about the bullet hole, and how Nate got shot. We’d be in jail in minutes.”
Becca put her nail stuff away in a little zippered bag and stood up. “Time to go to work. You coming with me?”
“Damn right I’m coming. I saw the way those slimy brothers of the new manager were watching you work. You watch out for that pair, Bec. There’s talk going around about them.”
“What kind of talk?” She called from the bathroom as she brushed her hair and put on lip gloss.
“Like how they team up against women and rape them for fun.”
“Creeps,” said Becca. “Wish I had my gun back out of the river. I felt safer then.”
Harlan pointed to the Smittie tucked in his waistband. “Don’t you worry, baby. I’ve got you covered.”
Cherokee Trailer Park.
FARRELL PARKED in front of Arthur Rockaway’s trailer and shut off the engine. “Hell of a drive way up here, bro. Be dark when we get home.”
“Let’s get the search done as quick as we can, then I want to see if this park connects to Paint Creek.”
“Why do they call it a creek if it’s a river?”
“No clue, bro.”
“You go start on the trailer,” said Farrell. “That will be easier than you tramping for a mile looking for the river. I’ll find it, then come help you.”
“Okay,” said Blaine, “I’ll get started.” He opened the door and two cats shot out through his legs. “Jesus, those cats scared the hell out of me.”
“If the guy is dead,” said Farrell, “maybe they be starving.”
“I’ll check for cat food.” Blaine went inside and left the door open. “Stinks like cat shit in here.”
Farrell laughed at Blaine and circled behind the trailer in search of the river. Behind all the run-down trailers on that road was nothing but dirt and crap. No fences between the properties, just one long strip resembling a junkyard. Old cars with parts missing, a couple of broken swing sets, stoves and fridges that didn’t work anymore, sofas with the guts hanging out and more than one old box-style TV.
What kind of people live like this?
He fought his way through the trees and the thick brush and undergrowth behind the old man’s trailer and before long he heard the river. Wider than he thought it would be, Farrell could see the current was strong and the water flowed along pdq. Wouldn’t take too long for a body to get somewhere else.
Wonder how far Lake Travis is from here?
When he got back to the trailer, Blaine had piled a few things on the kitchen table. “The place is a mess,” he pointed to the open drawers and cupboards. Somebody searched through here already. Tore apart the bedroom.”
“Maybe the person who killed him, robbed him too,” said Farrell. “Wonder if it was one of his neighbors?” He told Blaine about the river.
“Convenient, ain’t it. Kill them, toss them in the river and forget about them.”
“Are you thinking the other guy came from this park too?”
“Can’t help but wonder about it. You know how much I hate coincidences.”
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“Two guys come floating to us on the same river and we know for solid sure one of them lived here,” said Farrell. “And this neighborhood ain’t too upscale. Heavy shit might be going down.”
“While I finish sifting through this crap,” said Blaine, why don’t you do some D to D and see if anybody else is missing or if anybody in this park knew Edison Emmerson.”
Farrell pulled his Smith and Wesson out of his holster, made sure it was loaded and was on his way to question the locals.
The two trailers next to Rockaway’s single wide were home to senior citizens who had lived in the park for years. They told Farrell, a long time ago, the park was a nice place to live, but not anymore since drug people and thieves had moved in. Farrell asked for specifics—which trailers did the bad people live in, and the answer was the same from both old couples—bad people lived in all of them.
According to the old folks, Arthur Rockaway rarely went out, although he had a nice big Cadillac to drive. One of the old ladies asked about the cats and volunteered to feed them if she could have the food.
Wonder where the Caddie is?
None of the old people knew Edison Emmerson.
Farrell thanked them and moved on to the next trailer. A double-wide painted orange with a Harley out front and a German Sheppard chained to the only tree in the yard. The dog went crazy, barking and snarling as Farrell banged on the door, but no one answered. He moved on.
He passed three empty units with ‘for sale’ signs out front. All three had broken windows and foot high grass surrounding the faded signs. They’d been for sale for a while.
As he reached the end of the street, a skinny woman came running out the door of her trailer, letting the screen bang behind her. Her face was covered in crank craters—Farrell remembers the sores from the ones his mother always had—some were scabbed over, and others were fresh and bleeding.
“Butch left me here to die,” she screamed at Farrell. “Ain’t got no money and I need to get amped.” She waved her arms around like windmills. “She won’t give me nothing cause I got no money.”
“Who?” asked Farrell.
“Where’s Butch? The asshole left me.” She ran screaming back to her trailer and slammed the door.
Meth-head. I’d leave you too.
Farrell tried the next trailer, knocked three times and called out, but nobody answered the door. No cars in the drive. Not home. He heard dogs barking behind the trailer. Sounded like two or three. He walked around the side of the trailer and saw the big wire dog pen. “Hunting dogs.”
He moved to the next street and got nothing.
Back at the victim’s trailer, Blaine had assembled a small pile of personal papers and bills with phone numbers to check out. Maybe they’d find next of kin and maybe they wouldn’t.
Nothing to go on.
“Get anything useful?”
“The vic had a car that ain’t here. We’re missing a Caddie.”
Blaine smiled. “Wonder what year it was? I’ll check for a registration when we get home.”
“Whoever sacked the place took the car,” said Farrell, “unless there were two different robbers.”
“You’re probably right, and somebody fed the cats.”
“If we give the food to the lady next door, she’ll do it,” said Farrell. “I’ll run the bag over to her.”
“But she wasn’t the one who did it already?”
“Nope, because she asked who was feeding them.”
“Uh huh.”
Taggart’s Well.
CRUISING SOUTH down route two eighty-one to Johnson City, Mason noticed the gas gauge nearing empty and pulled into an Exxon station. He parked the big gas guzzler at the pumps for a fill up and strode inside the convenience store to pre-pay. He peeled two twenties off Bonehead’s wad of bills, placed them on the counter and asked the clerk, “Any motels around here?”
The older man behind the counter wore a green shirt with Ben stitched on the pocket. What was left of his hair had turned gray and he stared at Mason through thick bifocals. “Why in hell would y’all want to stay in Taggart’s Well? We got no tourist attractions if that’s what y’all are looking for.”
“That’s not what I’m looking for,” said Mason. He pushed the money across the counter.
The clerk picked up the money and stared a moment too long at the bruises on Mason’s face. Mason wished he’d worn his Astro’s cap. “Okay, then, if you turn right on the next street going south—are y’all heading south?”
Mason nodded, and the guy continued. “Small motel there, they don’t get no business except truckers and hunters. Cheap rates, but Molly keeps it clean. Washes all the bedding herself.”
“Thanks.”
Mason parked outside the office of Travel Inn and took a few more bills out of Bonehead’s money stash. The lady behind the high counter sat on a stool knitting and watching a game show on the flat screen mounted on the wall. She put Mason in mind of Aunt Bee on the Andy Griffith show. “You Molly?”
“Why, yes I am.” She set her knitting aside. “Did Ben send you on over from the gas station?”
“Uh huh.”
“And you need a room?” She pulled out a ballpoint and an old-fashioned black ledger. “How many nights?”
“How much for a night?” Mason asked.
“Thirty-seven fifty a night, but if you go for three nights I give all my truckers the three for a hundred deal.”
“Sure,” said Mason with a big grin. “I’ll take the deal.” He peeled off five twenties and laid them on the ledger.
“Need your tag number and your name, sir.”
“Shit,” said Mason, “always forget that tag number. Let me get it for you.” He popped his head out the door and read it back to Molly. “My name’s Art Rockaway.”
“Here’s your key, Mr. Rockaway, you’ll find unit twelve two down from the office.”
“I’m a terrible sleeper,” said Mason, “Any chance I can have a room at the end?”
“Sure can. Doesn’t matter to me.” She smiled as she hung the key in the row on the wooden rack and took down the last one. “You have yourself a restful night.”
Mason drove to the end of the stucco building and parked in front of the door marked twenty. He let himself inside carrying the one duffel he’d brought.
On the small round table in front of the window, he sorted out what he needed to take with him for Virginia. Once he was ready for the evening ahead, he sat in one of the green armchairs and smiled as he lit up a joint and relaxed.
Main Ballroom. Hill Country Hotel. Johnson City.
TRAVIS FOUND Gene Wyman doing last minute checks on the stage where Ginny would be speaking. “What’s the feeling?” asked Travis, “Does it seem all clear?”
Gene looked up from the wires he was examining, grinned and stuck out a hand. “We’ll go for a cold one after she’s safely in her room for the night.”
“Looking forward to it.” Travis and Gene hadn’t started out as friends but had come to respect each other.
“Does she know you’re here?” asked Gene.
Travis shook his head. “No need. We’re friends only, but that don’t mean I want harm to come her way.”
“For sure.” Gene waved an arm. “Feel free to double check anything you might be concerned about. The staff have all been vetted.”
Misty’s Bungalow. Austin.
BLAINE GROANED as he steered his big diesel into Misty’s narrow drive. Turning the wheel sucked the breath right out of him. He hadn’t driven much since his ribs were damaged and had fallen into the lazy habit of letting Farrell take the wheel.
It hadn’t taken him long to get to her new residence once she’d divulged her secret location. Why in hell she wouldn’t tell him where she’d moved to was just another Misty mystery.
He sat in his truck for a moment astounded at the house she’d purchased. After renovating a huge Victorian, almost a twin to his own, and professing to love all things antique, she�
�d moved into a brand-new brick bungalow with all the most up-to-date amenities. Would he ever figure her out?
She opened the front door before he knocked, pulled him into the tiny foyer and kissed him with a passion he’d been missing. He buried his hands in her long blond curls and deepened the kiss. Misty was free with her love and she’d always treated him better than he deserved.
“Mmm…that was a nice greeting.”
“I still love you, Blaine, and it’s not a secret. Why should I pretend I don’t?” Before he could think of an answer, she grabbed his hand and led him through a curtain of beads. Her long filmy skirt swished as she walked. “Come see how I decorated the room I use for customer readings.”
Blaine had never been a fan of Misty’s woo woo decorating, but he glanced at the dark chocolate walls, the shelves stocked with remedies, books and incense, and the altar, covered in black satin and lined with candles. He smiled and said, “It looks fantastic.”
“Come and see how nice the kitchen is—it’s all brand new—and I’ll get you a Corona.”
“Thanks, Mist, I could use a beer.”
Hill Country Hotel. Johnson City.
MASON DROVE around the hotel—a huge building with a large acreage of treed property and landscaped grounds surrounding it—getting a feel for where all the exits were, and which one would work best for him.
A lot of off-duty cops were hanging around, picking up extra bucks working security for the event. Seeing their numbers made him smile. The more the merrier. The more uniforms there were, the easier it would be for him to be invisible. Nobody would recognize him once he blended in, and he’d have full access to the hotel.
He parked the Caddie as close as he could get to the rear entrance, turned off the engine and reached across to the passenger seat. He picked up the sap he’d made himself from odds and ends salvaged from the junk yard behind the trailer and shoved it into his pocket.