by Liliana Hart
“Loyalty?” Hank asked, perplexed.
John’s body shook as he struggled with his thoughts. Hank knew he was operating on minimal information. His concern wasn’t a hunting invitation, but not getting suckered into something he wasn’t familiar with or able to do.
John pointed a crooked finger at Hank.
“You think it helps Cole for you to find the case a tragedy? I thought you’d agreed to help, and now you change your mind?” The man spat on the ground and Hank could tell he was getting all worked up.
“Easy now, John,” Nick said. “Hank’s not been briefed yet. We’ll talk on the drive to the Triple Seven.
Hank was beginning to think the smartest thing he could do would be to find Agatha and catch a ride back to Rusty Gun with her.
“What the heck is going on here?” Hank asked.
“Sorry about that,” Nick said, pulling him away from the group, but Hank jerked out of his grasp.
“I’ve spent my career reading people, Nick. But I’ve got to hand it to you, you had me fooled. I hate being manipulated, and I hate being backed into a corner.”
Hank cut through the crowd easily—they seemed to part right in front of him—and he made his way to the parking lot. What bothered him the most was he never saw it coming. Had retirement made him lose his edge? Obviously, he and Nick meeting by chance at Cabela’s hadn’t really been chance at all. It had all been about the McCoy case.
Hank scrolled through his phone for Agatha’s number and waited impatiently as it rang with no answer. He sent her a text message telling her not to leave without getting in touch.
“I swear, Hank, I wasn’t trying to fool you,” Nick said, following close behind him. “I had no idea who you were when we met. You’re the one who almost hit me with that giant tent, remember? And you were the one who told me about your career. I just bragged on knowing you to the guys a little bit and things kind of took off from there.”
“Well, it would’ve been nice to have been let in on the secret. I could’ve stayed home and watered my lawn. I have enough people I can’t trust in my life. I didn’t need to add any more.” He thought of Agatha again and willed for his phone to ring. He could trust Agatha, and remembering that helped calm his temper.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Nick said. “Give us a break. We’re a bunch of bored millionaires, looking for something to make life exciting. You were that something. You’ve lived the kind of life guys like us dream about. I figured if you got interested in the case, it might benefit all.”
“Far from it,” Hank said. “Far from it.”
Hank stopped short of the big Forde diesel pickup truck.
“Come straight with me Nick, or I’m not stepping foot in that thing. I’ll walk back to Rusty Gun if I have to.”
Nick reached up and dropped the tailgate. He hoped on it and invited Hank to join him
“Look, I’m desperate, okay? Cole McCoy is my grandson. And his father was set up for murder. I know he didn’t kill my Julie. Sure, they had their problems, but Gage is no murderer.”
“What?” Hank asked.
“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. And it’s all because of high school football rivalry.”
“You’re telling me that Cole’s father killed your daughter, and you want to get him out of prison?” Hank asked incredulously.
“Yes. I’ve made a fortune reading people, Hank. I believe him when he says he’s innocent. He loved Julie. Even worse, that pack of political rats at Rio Chino would stop at nothing to frame something bad on a Beacon City alum.”
“What if you’re actually working to free the man who did kill your daughter?” Hank challenged him.
“I know it in my heart. I don’t trust that slime ball, Tony Fletcher. He’s the fire chief. I think he set up Gage to take the fall.”
“You think or have proof?”
“I got my heart. And it says that boy is rotting away in Huntsville Penitentiary for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“Let me do some digging around before I get involved, Nick.”
“Fair enough. Now, let’s go hunting.
Chapter Two
Saturday
Despite Hank’s wishes, Saturday morning came earlier than he wanted. Retirement had given him a certain amount of freedom with his schedule, and he enjoyed the occasional day of sleeping past sunrise. Today would have been a great day to sleep late.
He rubbed the sleep out of his swollen eyes and thanked God for the automatic coffee machine that had it ready and waiting for him. He stumbled through the motions of putting in cream and sugar while searching for the Tylenol.
Once he’d taken the drugs, he pushed open the screen door of the hunting cabin and onto the porch, questioning his sanity as to why he thought being an outdoorsman and retirement should go hand in hand. He was fifty-two years old and had never been an outdoorsman, so why did he think it would be a good hobby? Because he was an idiot, that’s why.
“Stupid idea. I’m waiting to kill animals, but instead they’re watching and waiting to kill me.” He took a sip and waited for the jolt to hit his senses. “I can feel your eyes on me,” he said loudly, and his head jerked to the side as something rustled in the brush.
The morning sky was painted with streaks of pink and orange over pale blue. Dew covered the scorched and cracked earth but it wouldn’t last long before the sun burned it off. Hank had spent some time in Texas during the course of his career, and he and his wife had taken a memorable weekend to San Antonio years before, but he’d never taken the time to realize how vast and different it was.
Since Agatha had been busy with her book, and his friend Reggie Coil had been busy being sheriff, that had left Hank with a lot of free time on his hands. He’d taken to packing a couple of sandwiches and a thermos of coffee and driving to all parts of the state. And he’d come to realize in the short time he’d been there that Texas was like a whole other country.
The ranch in Hondo was more than he expected, but he should’ve guessed a millionaire’s idea of roughing it would be quite a bit different than his own. It was a two-story log cabin structure with every convenience known to man, including a cook and a housekeeper. He expected the hunting experience to be equally convenient. Maybe the deer laid down first to make it easy to kill them.
He shook his head at the ridiculousness of it all. This was definitely not him. But he was here, so he might as well make the best of it. The ranch hands had obviously been busy. The all-terrain transport buggies were being loaded with weapons and ice chests.
Hank went back to his room to deck himself out in full-fledged south Texas desert-patterned camouflage. He hadn’t spoken to Nick since their exchange in the parking lot the night before. It had been a long three-hour drive to the ranch. But when Hank went back into the kitchen to refill his coffee, Nick was there.
Nick looked at him sheepishly. “I’m sorry again about last night. Can we put it behind us and focus on bagging some bucks?”
“Sure,” Hank said. “We might as well make the best of it.”
“How about you get the first trophy buck we see?” Nick pointed to a massive deer head mounted proudly in the main common area.
Hank laughed and shook his head, wondering how Nick could have spent any time with him at all and not known what he would and wouldn’t do. “Charity is something I won’t accept. I’ll bag my own.”
“Understood, but I’ll make sure the boys walk one close enough to where you can pet it before you shoot it,” Nick said, laughing.
“Well, maybe in that case, I’ll take the shot. It is my first time, after all.” Hank grinned and felt the tension ease from his shoulders.
“I already feel like a traitor for telling the guys who you were. If you don’t want to do this just say the word and I’ll have a chopper get you back to Rusty Gun. They’re good men, but once they get something in their head it’s hard to change their mind.”
Hank wasn’t used to discussing feelings, and he wasn’t used
to hanging out with men who weren’t cops. It was weird. What did he and a bunch of millionaires have in common anyway?
“Hey, Nick.”
“Yeah, Hank?”
“I’m really sorry about Julie.”
“I appreciate you saying that.”
Hank followed Nick back outside and they got the thumbs up from the ranch hands that they were good to go. Dawn hadn’t quite surrendered to morning as they got in one of the buggies.
Two hours later, Hank wished he’d taken Nick up on the helicopter ride back to Rusty Gun. The deer hunting stand was an open platform structure with an elevation of about twenty-one feet to allow for an expansive view of his target areas. He hadn’t seen a deer all morning.
The quiet had given him too much time to think. Staying busy was how he kept the memories of his job at bay—memories of his wife. His mind raced with images of the victims. He never forgot them. Or those who’d murdered them. He’d slapped the handcuffs on hundreds of violent killers in his career.
He soon discovered that without some sort of distraction or stimulation that his mind roamed back to where it was most comfortable, and most tortured. It was why he’d retired when he did. Twenty-six-years of corpses stacked up quick until Hank couldn’t see anything but their faces.
He checked his phone again, happy to see that the spotty service had him connected to the outside world, though he knew it was brief. It had on and off all morning. It vibrated in his hand as it updated. He had two messages and three text messages from Agatha. He read the text messages first.
Started looking into the McCoy case. You picked a winner.
“Thank God,” he whispered. Even the thought of giving into Nick’s friends didn’t deter him. He had to get the heck out of here. And the thought of working with Agatha again cheered him right up. He scrolled to the next text.
Nick and Gage McCoy are connected. Be careful.
I was told. Could be a sad story, or a misguided effort
Hank couldn’t stop thinking about how Nick had led him into taking this case. Would it be too much to ask of a friend? After all, Hank had used Nick to learn about hunting. Did that make him untrustworthy? It was all so much more than a fun weekend of hunting. Now Hank was questioning his own motives.
He shoved the cell phone into his vest pocket and grabbed the red assistance alert button Nick had given him when Nick had dropped him at the stand. Nick had told him the device was to be used in the event of an injury or downed deer. Hank didn’t care about the rules. He was ready to get out of this charade.
His cell phone buzzed again, and it was from a number he didn’t recognize. But the message made it clear it was probably one of the ranch hands.
Forty-five minutes.
“Freaking great,” Hank said. “Glad it’s not too big of an emergency.
Hank rolled over onto his back, weaved fingers behind his head, and closed his eyes. He might as well get a nap in while he waited. But his last thought before he drifted off was that he would look into the Gage McCoy case, but it had nothing to do with Nick and his manipulations. If there was the slightest chance an innocent man was in prison, the he owed it that boy throwing all the touchdown passes to give him his father back.
But if the man was guilty…he could rot.
Chapter Three
Sunday
“Wow, this place is a mess.”
Agatha stood and surveyed her office with a critical eye. She’d been in work mode the past few months, and she’d had to work harder and longer hours than usual because she’d had to start the latest book from scratch. Her only focus had been the book. She’d rarely left the house—only for the occasional lunch with Heather or a trip to the grocery store to replenish her T.V. dinners.
The housekeeper had come in once a week to make sure laundry was done and the sheets were changed, and she kept the rest of the house vacuumed and dusted. But she was under strict orders never to touch the office while Agatha was working. She was going to have to give the poor woman a raise.
Agatha rolled up her sleeves and got busy picking up trash and empty cups. Books were scattered everyone and an inch of dust covered her desk and the table she used for research. She needed a clean slate. A fresh start. Because she had a new project. And she also didn’t want Hank to see how she’d been living. He seemed like the spit and polish type to her, and he wouldn’t appreciate the disorder of creativity.
She was glad she’d gone to the game over the weekend. The McCoy case was one that had interested her for the last decade, but the case had involved a cop and a firefighter, and she wasn’t part of the club. Meaning cops and firefighters were territorial about their own, and they didn’t talk out of school, even if one of them was guilty. But now she had Hank to get her in.
Once the office was clean, she went and showered and put on a pair of tattered gray sweats and an old TCU shirt that was threadbare in places. She put her hair up in a messy bun on top of her head and considered herself ready to get down to business. One of the greatest things about working from home was that she could wear pants with an elastic waistband every day.
Agatha went back to her office and every piece of information she could find on the McCoy case. She gathered Rio Chino maps and stacked them on the end of her conference table, and she searched for every newspaper article and social media post she could find.
There was a thud against her front door, and she perked up at the thought of the Sunday newspaper waiting on her front porch.
She opened her front door, stuck her head out and looked from side to side, grabbed her paper, and then closed the door again. The Rusty Gun Gazette wasn’t more than a dozen or so pages thick, but it was the best way to keep abreast of the latest happenings.
Like always, she flipped to the Obituaries section. Some of her best book ideas came from reading about the lives of other people. But she froze as she saw the name of Walter Green. She and Hank had finally given Walter’s daughter, Nicole, the peace she deserved a few months back by discovering her killer.
Everyone thought Walter had been the one to kill his daughter, and while it was true he’d been a horrible person in general, he didn’t kill Nicole. And now the whole family was buried in the Rusty Gun Cemetery. Just like that, an entire lineage was wiped out.
Agatha thought often about her legacy. Maybe because she was an only child and her parents had died relatively young. All she had was work. She had no family. No children to leave an inheritance to. She was thirty-eight years old, and marriage had never been on her radar. Much less children. She guessed she was past that stage in her life. Her career had been her complete focus, especially after her parents had died.
Who did she have that she could leave a legacy for? Her goddaughter would inherit everything, but she didn’t know the real Agatha. Who would be left to tell stories of the kind of woman she’d been. It was a depressing thought. She thought of her mother, and wished she’d spent more time talking to her about the Harley family. All she knew where her grandparents names and that she had visited them on occasion.
Agatha exhaled deeply as she allowed her eyes to stare until they crossed at the Sunday paper. She tried to conjure up a faded memory of her dad at the same table. He loved the paper after church. As a child, she would sit in his lap and try to read the words. Maybe it was something in the air that had her missing her mom and dad.
There was another thud against the front door and she shook herself out of the gloom that had suddenly come over her.
“Hank,” she whispered, and launched herself up from the table.
It had been good to see him at the game. Maybe too good. She’d missed his company. When she had managed to drag herself away from her book the past months, he’d always seemed to be gone. She’d knocked on his door a couple of times to see if he wanted to grab lunch, but she guessed retirement was keeping him busy. She hadn’t swallowed her pride and allowed herself to text or call him, thinking maybe she’d hear from him first. But she hadn’t.
>
She wondered how Hank felt about being fifty-two-years-old without family. Maybe he had the same thoughts she did about legacies. She’d have to ask him. But then she had the thought that maybe he did have children. They’d never talked about it.
She’d asked him once whether he’d ever been married, but he’d shut that conversation down quickly. She could read between the lines well enough to know that he probably had been at some point, but it hadn’t ended well. Maybe he’d had children from that union. The thought intrigued her. It reminded her how little she really knew about Hank Davidson.
Another knock on the door shook her from her thoughts.
“Well, hello Hank. Funny seeing you here.” She said.
“You invited me.” He frowned.
“And that I did. Why are you just standing there?”
“Because you’ve not moved to let me in. I’m guessing I’m still invited.” He said.
“Yes, I guess so.” She teased.
Agatha stepped to the side of the threshold. Hank was a big man, a couple of inches over six feet, and his shoulders and chest were broad. As her friend Heather like to say, he was all man. Agatha would’ve been dead not to notice. And boy, had she noticed.
He was dressed in jeans and a gray Philadelphia PD t-shirt, and she was happy to see he’d retired the Birkenstocks for a pair of tennis shoes. He’d cropped his hair shorter, probably out of convenience more than style, but she could still see the smattering of gray throughout the dark strands. His face was angular, his cheeks freshly shaved, and the lines around his eyes and mouth made him look comfortable in his age. His eyes were dark brown, and his shoulders…well, she’d had a lot of time to think about his shoulders. They were really good shoulders.
“Hello? Agatha?” Hank asked.
Heat flushed her cheeks when she realized he’d been trying to get her attention. “Hey, neighbor. I’m sorry for being so distracted.”
Then she looked at him a little closer. He was kind of green.