by Carolina Mac
Blaine strode over to the bed as soon as the nurse was finished. “Mr. Wall, I’m Blaine Blackmore and I’m here to ask you a few questions. Also, I’m here for another reason and that’s to give you some bad news, if you don’t know already.”
“I know the bad news,” said Mason with a snarl, “I’m gonna fuckin fry in the slam for taking Virginia.”
“Uh huh,” said Blaine, “that is one piece of bad news, but I’m afraid there’s another one.”
“What the hell could be worse than getting the fuckin needle in Huntsville?”
“You have a brother named, Nate?”
“Course I do. He’s in that other hospital. How’s he doing?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead, Mr. Wall. He died outside Saint David’s where somebody left him. Was that you?”
“Course it was me. He needed a doctor, and I drove him to the fuckin hospital.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Wall.” Blaine sat in the chair next to the bed and Farrell paced behind him.
“Cops are all fuckin liars,” said Mason. “I don’t believe Nate is dead. How the hell could he be dead? I took him to the goddam hospital.”
Blaine continued. “Your brother, Nate, was shot in the act of stealing a car, Mr. Wall, and I believe you were with him. You were the one driving the Harley, were you not?”
Mason shrugged. “That’s my business. Why should I tell you anything?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Blaine, “I can prove it. One of the car owners you tried to kill, survived the beating you gave him, and he’ll identify you in court. That’s all the confirmation I need.”
Farrell stepped forward and voiced what was on his mind. “Mr. Wall, when you delivered your brother, Nate, to Saint David’s you were driving a pink truck.”
Mason’s eyes widened, and he said nothing.
“There was a security cam in the doctor’s parking lot and we have footage of the pink truck,” said Farrell, “Where did you get that truck?”
“Umm… I borrowed it.”
Farrell white-knuckled the bars on the side of Mason’s bed. “You mean you stole it, don’t you?”
“Not exactly, stole it. Okay, so I took my exe’s truck, to drive Nate to the hospital, but it was only temporary. I gave the fuckin thing back. Why in hell would anybody want to keep a pink truck?”
Farrell let out the breath he was holding. “Your ex?”
“Again, cop, none of your fuckin business.”
Cherokee Junction.
HARLAN WOKE UP alone in his bed and the smell of Becca’s perfume brought tears to his eyes. She was the only person who had ever loved him and now she was dead.
Both his brothers were gone, and he had no idea where they were. With no job and no money how the hell would he survive?
Too bad the cops took Becca’s purse. She hadn’t made her buy when the kid showed up. He could have used that cash.
Even Willis, his landlord, was pissed at him for calling for a ride home from Austin. What the hell was he supposed to do? It had seemed like the right thing to give Becca’s truck to her kid. At the time, it seemed right.
He padded naked across the room to the fridge and stared at the empty shelves. Becca had made the fridge so fuckin clean inside. Harlan pulled out the last Lone Star and cried.
Cherokee Trailer Park.
BLAINE WANTED to be on hand when the forensics’ team ran Mason’s trailer. He needed evidence to connect Mason to the car-jacking murders, old Mr. Rockaway’s murder, Edison Emmerson’s shooting, the Jane Doe from the same river, and anybody else, Mason Wall had kidnapped or killed along the way.
“Think we’ll get anything from his trailer?” asked Farrell. He hadn’t said much the whole trip, and Blaine figured he was still in shock from the day before.
Travis had asked to be included and Blaine guessed Trav’s main interest was in seeing where Mason had kept Ginny prisoner. He’d barely left her side since he’d rescued her.
Blaine parked behind the forensic van and the boys hopped out. Farrell pointed to the end of the narrow dirt road that fronted the trailers. “We were close, boss, that close, when we tossed the old man’s trailer.”
“Damn close,” said Blaine.
“I knocked on this one,” said Farrell, “but there was no one here and no vehicles, but…” he turned his head and pointed to the next trailer where the road turned south… “a skinny meth-head ran out of that trailer and talked to me. She was talking crazy talk, but she fit the description of the female floater. Maybe I could ID her in the morgue.”
“Bingo, Farrell,” said Blaine, “it’s all gonna come together. If she lived that close to Mason Wall, she could have seen him with Ginny, getting her in or out of the Cadillac and he got rid of her to be on the safe side.”
Travis nodded his head. “Makes sense.”
“A lot of barking and howling out the back, boss,” said Farrell. “Those dogs might be hungry.”
“Phone and get them picked up,” said Blaine, “Their owner won’t be back anytime soon.”
“Roger that, boss.”
Blaine, Farrell and Travis slipped on paper booties and latex gloves at the door before they went in.
Inside the trailer, the techs were hard at work. The place was stuffy, hotter than hell on a Thursday, and stunk like a slaughterhouse. The air was so thick you could hardly draw a breath without wanting to hurl. The forensic techs would be here for hours and some of them wisely wore masks and others the white disposable hazmat suits.
“Lot of blood on the kitchen table,” said Farrell. “Jesus, what a mess.”
Travis stuck his head into the bedroom and saw the plastic cuffs still attached to the head of the bed. He pointed them out to one of the techs. “Those cuffs should be checked for Doctor Rodriguez’s DNA.”
After their tour of the trailer, the boys stood outside smoking. “Wonder where he stashed the red Camaro?” asked Travis. “I’d like to find it for Mr. Perez, the dude Wall stole it from at the Oasis.”
Cherokee Junction.
HARLAN FINISHED the only beer in the apartment and needed another. He walked across the block to Jim’s Bar and had a couple more. All he had was ten bucks and when it was gone, he was out of luck. Wandering aimlessly, fretting about Becca and his brothers, he ended up at the shop. He used his key, went inside and sat at Mason’s desk for a few minutes trying to figure it all out.
Maybe Mason got rid of the woman and he’s back at his trailer. He’ll have our car money and I fuckin need it.
Harlan raised the overhead door, took the keys to the Camaro off the rack and slid behind the wheel. He backed out into the street, turned north and stepped on the gas.
Cherokee Trailer Park.
HARLAN DROVE through the rusty gate of the trailer park. The sign had fallen down years before and lay faded and rotting in the long grass. He cruised by old Bonehead’s trailer, the big engine in the Camaro throbbing. The yellow tape was still across the front door. His mind wandered back to the city park and Becca lying dead, covered in blood, and Harlan lost his concentration. Before he realized it, he was at the end of the street and on top of all the cop vehicles around Mason’s trailer.
“Holy fuck, look at them all.” He stomped the gas and cruised on out of there.
“RED CAMARO,” hollered Farrell, “Let’s go get him.”
“You drive,” said Blaine, as he hopped in the shotgun seat. Travis jumped in the back and Farrell took off for the gate.
“How many fuckin maniacs are there in this gang?” hollered Travis.
“One dead and one chained up in the hospital,” said Blaine, “but somebody is driving the Camaro.”
Farrell spun out the gate and caught a glimpse of red to his left a long way down the highway. He turned south and let Blaine’s super-powered diesel do its stuff.
“Gonna be tough to catch him,” said Blaine. “That Camaro can move.”
“LS1,” said Travis, “over three hundred horses.”
&n
bsp; Farrell gained a little ground, but not much as the red car flew south, then turned left off the highway at a sign pointing to a place called Cherokee Junction.
A mile off the main highway, and not big enough to be called a town, Cherokee Junction had one main street with a couple of stores. Farrell had little time to glance around as they flew past at a rapid rate. He flicked on the siren to warn citizens of this little berg that cops were coming through.
“Where did he go?” asked Farrell.
“Keep going,” said Travis, “He turned into that building at the end of the main drag.”
“Uh huh,” said Blaine, “the home of the car-jackers. A-1 Paint and Body. Block the doors.”
Farrell parked in front of the overhead doors and left the siren on. Travis hopped out and took the back. Blaine took the side door.
“Come out with your hands in the air,” hollered Blaine. “This is the police.”
Harlan came out the side door with his hands raised. Blaine cuffed him and led him to the front of the building.
“You were with my mother at the park yesterday,” said Farrell. “Who are you?”
“Harlan Wall.” He looked hard at Farrell. “You’re one of her boys, ain’t ya?”
Farrell nodded.
While Blaine informed Harlan he was being arrested for car-jacking and suspicion of multiple murders, Travis stepped away and made a phone call.
“Mr. Perez, this is Travis Bristol from Violent Crime. Do you remember me? Well, I think I might have found your Camaro, sir. I hope you like red.”
Home of Doctor Rodriguez. West Austin.
TRAVIS SAT close to Ginny as she prepared herself for the interview she had to give.
Blaine had suggested Mary Polito from the Statesman as the safest way to go, and Ginny had agreed. She wasn’t up to a TV interview.
Everyone who was invited assembled at four o’clock at Ginny’s home. Willa Freeman, campaign manager with unhealed stitches in her black and blue face, Gene Wyman, Chief of Security, Chief Calhoun, Blaine, Travis, and the doctor’s special guest, Misty Mulligan.
After introductions had been made, Isabel served coffee and pastries, then withdrew to the kitchen as the meeting got underway.
Mary turned on her recorder and discreetly placed it on the antique side table next to her. She took out her notebook and pen from her purse and she was ready.
Travis gave Ginny’s hand a squeeze and she got to her feet. She walked across the room and stood next to the fireplace. “I’ve asked you all here this afternoon to officially announce that I am withdrawing from the gubernatorial race.”
Willa Freeman sucked in a breath and waivered, looking like she might faint. “No, you can’t do that. The people of Texas need you.” She was close to tears.
Ginny held up a hand and continued. “After what happened to me, I’m not prepared to continue. I seriously considered quitting after Laredo and Sonora, but I had all my people around me, and Travis, my bodyguard and my rock, kept me sane. But what happened at Johnson City was the last straw for me. The Universe is telling me it’s not in the cards, and this time I’m listening. I’ll be having a meeting with my party, and my campaign staff in a day or two, but this is my official announcement.”
Ginny walked back and stood beside Mary. “I thank Ms. Polito for taking the time to come here. She’ll be preparing the story for her paper, and she’ll also prepare a press release that will go out on the wire. Thank you all for coming.”
When the official guests had been shown the door by Isabel, Ginny said to Misty, “You saved my life, young lady, and Travis suggested a fitting reward would be crab cakes.”
Misty smiled. “I was happy to help, Doctor Rodriguez.”
“Let’s all adjourn to the dining room for dinner. I want to see how many crab cakes Miss Mulligan can eat.”
EPILOGUE
McGuire’s Funeral Home. La Grange.
THE SERVICE for Rebecca Donovan was private. That’s the way Neil and Farrell wanted it. Family only.
No one knew Rebecca Donovan or the details of her existence after she’d left her boys in San Angelo and run for her life. She had no friends and no family. All she had in the world were her two sons.
The minister from the Methodist church read a few appropriate scriptures, uttered a few words of comfort to the eleven people seated in the front pew, then said, “Let us pray.”
After the prayer, he announced that Rebecca’s ashes would be scattered in the Colorado River at Coulter-Ross, home of Rebecca’s two sons.
Coulter-Ross Ranch.
FARRELL AND NEIL stood side by side on the bank of the river where it cut through the Coulter-Ross ranch. All the boys from the safe-house stood in a tight little group around their brothers.
Farrell went first, knelt close to the water and scattered half of Becca’s ashes onto the fast-moving current. When he finished, he gave the urn to Neil.
Neil took his turn and emptied the urn, his pale complexion, even paler in his grief for a mother he’d barely known.
Annie stepped closer and put an arm around each of them. “Tonight, there will be a wake in the music studio for Rebecca Donovan. The band will play and there will be lots of food, and yes, there will be beer. Farrell and Neil want y’all to come.”
Blackmore Agency. Austin.
BLAINE OPENED the front door for Carm, then entered the security code into the panel. They were both tired and sad after Becca’s wake, and heartbroken for the boys.
Farrell had been living with Blaine for the past few months and Carm had become extremely attached to Farrell, as she was to Blaine. She said her goodnights in Spanish, hugged Blaine and went straight up to bed.
Blaine let Lexi out the back door and sat on the steps waiting for his faithful Newfoundlander.
Tired, but not sure he could sleep, he wandered down the hall to his study and stood in the middle of the room staring at the boxes from his parents’ house. There were two that he hadn’t touched. Lily had taken the box of photographs to the album woman.
He sat down on the carpet and opened the top of one box. It was filled with paper—documents, tax returns, whatever. It all appeared to be pretty useless. On a whim, he stuck his hand half way down in the paper pile and pulled out a random page. The letterhead read United States Marshall Service.
I sincerely hope you enjoyed Rivered, book six in the Blackmore Agency Series. If you would like to continue to book seven in the series, The Turn, I’ve included some pages for you.
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Author Notes from Carolina:
Rivered became the back story of the Donovan brothers. Farrell and Neil are two of my favorite characters, and I hope you love them as much as I do. Demons from their past continue to haunt both of them and I wanted to understand why. Like many young boys who end up in street gangs, Neil and Farrell came from a dysfunctional family. Most will never turn their lives around unless they have a helping hand.
A special thank you to the fans who take the time to reach out and share their ideas, support, and opinions. You know who you are, Holly, Lynn, June, Dorothy, Shelley, Diane, Wendy, Shirley and Freda, Jerry, Dawn, Alice, Billy and Melinda, Jim and Gayle, Ava, Terry, Renee, Dolly, Tammy, Celestia, Alisia, Pat and Barbara to name a few. If I missed you here, message me and I’ll add you to the list.
Any mistakes in any of my books are mine and mine alone.
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Carolina Mac is the author of forty-five books in four different series. The Regulators biker series, The Quantrall PI series, The Paradise Park series and The Blackmore A
gency series. Kin is an ongoing serial. Carolina lives with her family in Ontario, Canada.
CHAPTER ONE
September 3rd.
Labor Day.
Medical Building. Downtown Austin.
SILENCE, total silence was what his mind craved. The ultimate escape from the noise and chaos of family life. All he needed was alone time to shake off the increasing number of demands Renee placed on him, to relax and pursue his hobby and he’d be able to pull it together.
The office of Maxwell Endicott, Dental Surgeon was closed for the long weekend. Closed and locked up tight until Tuesday morning.
Max had made sure none of the cleaning staff had seen him cross the glassed-in lobby on his way to the elevator. When he reached the fourth floor, he was equally as cautious, glancing to the left and then to the right before making a beeline to his suite.
As he locked the door behind him, a low whistle escaped his lips. What a fun day this would be. He strode through the spotless waiting area, the magazines neatly stacked on the table the way he liked to see them—the dates checked weekly to insure no publication in his office was more than six months old. The reception desk vacant and clutter free—Hannah enjoying the weekend with her new husband. The phones turned off.
Not bothering to start the coffee, Max hurried straight into his private office and turned on his computer. He entered his password—something no one would ever crack—maxillofacial. A grin spread across his face as he typed it in. Brilliant.
His breathing picked up speed as he clicked on the dating site and sat back in his leather chair while the messages came up.
“Let’s see how many pretty young girls are lying to me today.”