by Beverly Long
Late one night a few weeks earlier, her ex-husband of four months had pulled the same stunt, using some sleazy caller ID–altering program to trick her into believing it was her best friend phoning. Instead, Emma had been treated to a clearly drunken round of accusations: how she’d destroyed their marriage, how he would make her pay. Since his method left neither an electronic trail nor witnesses to produce hard evidence that her ex-husband had violated the no-contact order, she’d had no way to stop his abusive language and his threats short of powering off her phone.
“Would you have picked up otherwise?” Jeremy asked, his voice slurred again, though it was only nine fifteen in the morning. Normally at this time, he’d be working, for the uncle in Waco who’d been kind enough to offer him a fresh start in a new city when others had been hesitant to employ a man on probation.
“You have to stop calling me. You know that.” For all the hell he’d put her through, she didn’t want to see him foul up this second chance.
She was interrupted by the same scoffing noise he’d once made when she’d warned that he’d get caught cutting class in high school. Back when he’d been the exciting sort of dangerous, the kind she’d foolishly imagined her good example could reform. For a while, it seemed she had succeeded, her hard work and academic honors inspiring him to seriously step up his game. After a few years of working alongside his father, he’d established his own home contracting business, then set about—with a focused determination that had left the shy bookworm she’d once been both charmed and flattered—convincing her that, for all their many differences, he was still great husband material.
Had he been playing the long con even then? Or had the loving, attentive man she’d married been the real Jeremy, the man he could still be if he hadn’t let his insecurities—and his attempts to self-medicate them into silence—take over his life?
“I want you to know that, on my attorney’s advice, I’m recording this conversation,” she warned, though she couldn’t get the app to start, probably because of this rural area’s weak cell signal.
In desperation, she bluffed. “The judge’s already warned you that if you violate again, you’ll end up doing jail time.”
“You’re doing him, too, aren’t you?” Jeremy accused, the irrational anger taking hold again. “I saw the looks he kept sneaking your way in the courtroom. And you think I didn’t notice your slutty little signals? You’re nothing but a whoring bit—”
“Not this again. We’re done here.” Blinking back the haze burning her eyes, she disconnected, sick of his endless accusations, which had started not long after his business had gone under just as her professional star began to rise. Sick of who she’d been for too long, with her increasingly desperate efforts to reassure him and convince him to go to counseling and at least scale back his drinking. The whole nightmare had come to a head the day he’d burst into the office of her seventy-four-year-old dean shouting obscene accusations. Fearing the poor man would have a stroke, she’d rushed in and tried to intervene. Jeremy turned on her, shoving her hard into a bank of cabinets before storming out the door. Leaving her to—As her fingers drifted to her lower abdomen, she fought back the darkest memories.
The phone rang again, the call coming this time from an unknown number, likely from some burner phone he’d picked up. She let it go to voice mail, telling herself that Jeremy had no idea that she was working hours from her home in Austin for the summer. Otherwise, he wouldn’t bother with these pathetic phone calls.
“Well, we have better things to do than listen. Right, River?” Emma half hoped that her ex might be tanked enough to leave a message that would result in actual jail time. Though he might’ve talked a good game in the courtroom, tearfully apologizing for “my part in what happened”—as if she were equally to blame—and vowing to attend court-ordered counseling, Emma trusted these raw glimpses of his unguarded anger far more than she would ever believe his rehearsed performances.
When the same caller tried again, she blocked the number. Afterward, she switched off her phone’s ringer just in case before stroking the dog’s broad golden head and whispering, “It’s over now.”
Still agitated, she spun her wheels before they suddenly caught. As the Jeep lurched forward, she fought to shake off her lingering dread. But she scarcely registered the cattle she passed, the grazing animals’ hides a rich red brown against the wispy, sunburned grasses. Scarcely noticed the silhouettes of dozens of wind turbines rising above the coastal hills.
Slowing for her turn, she made a right, only to hear the rhythmic thump of River’s fringed tail against the seat back and the sound of her excited panting.
“That’s right, girl. We’re almost there,” said Emma. “And I’ll bet your friend Russell will throw your squeaky duck a few times.”
At the mention of her beloved toy, River barked.
Laughing at the dog’s excitement, Emma felt a little of the tightness in her rib cage loosen. As late as she was to meet her grad assistant, Russell Jorgenson, who was as passionate as she was about reducing the blade strikes that had killed so many hawks and eagles, she knew he’d be eager for a game of fetch. Anything to put off donning safety harnesses and helmets and undertaking the long, steep climb up the interior steel ladder leading to the top of Turbine Number 43, an ascent that safety regulations forbade either one of them from making solo.
Don’t kid yourself. His willingness wasn’t about delaying the inevitable—or the chance to play with her dog, either.
Her assistant for this summer project, a confident twenty-four-year-old with a winning smile, had made it increasingly clear that he was interested in her, despite the fact that she was nine years older. Emma had done her best to nip it in the bud, telling him in no uncertain terms that she didn’t get involved with students—or anyone she worked with—as soon as she had realized that his attention was more than academic.
To her surprise, he’d only grinned. Then how do you expect to ever meet somebody new?
She’d shut him down with a cool look, but her instincts, along with his puppylike attentiveness to her every word and action, warned her that he hadn’t given up. And part of her—a part she hated—couldn’t help worrying that word of her student’s hopeless crush would somehow get back to Jeremy, who seemed to consider their divorce, like the no-contact order, a mere technicality.
Slowing, she pulled under a gate marked, like practically every pasture in the area, with the name and famous running-K brand of the historic Kingston Ranch. As her wheels bumped over the metal grid of the cattle guard, she vowed to leave behind all thoughts of her ex-husband, along with the lingering fears that hearing his voice had managed to re-trigger.
Filled with fresh determination, she entered the enormous spread, which leased land to Green Horizon Energy for its wind turbines. At Number 43, she pulled up beside her grad assistant’s old blue pickup. Though she’d texted earlier to let Russell know that she was on her way, he wasn’t waiting for her behind the wheel as she’d expected. Nor did she see him sitting on the tailgate or near the massive turbine’s base. Had he tired of waiting and taken a short walk?
She felt a nervous flutter—tiny birds’ wings in her stomach. Exiting her vehicle, she called out his name. The ever-present wind off the Gulf of Mexico, about a dozen miles to the east, snatched the word from her mouth and carried it away. Her hair, too, was blown around, light sandy-colored wisps flapping flag-like in her face.
What she didn’t hear was any answer, though more than three hundred feet above, the normal hum of the turbine remained silent, the stillness of its blades proof that the strike deterrent system remained offline.
She opened the Jeep’s rear door and let out River.
“Find Russell. Go and find him!” Emma pitched her voice high, making it sound like the world’s most exciting game.
The young dog leaped and play-bowed in her direction, not catching on u
ntil Emma pulled out the day pack containing the beloved duck and repeated the command.
With a deep chuff of joy, the retriever bounded off, running in widening circles. Meanwhile, Emma grabbed her phone and tried another text.
I’m at your truck. Where are you?
The hummingbirds’ wings returned, beating even harder with every passing minute that the text message went unanswered. She thought again of Jeremy’s call, his enduring obsession with the delusion that she was sleeping with someone. How could she even be sure that he was still in Waco? What if he had found her, had tracked her to this location and transferred his rage to—
“Stop it,” she told herself. Surely Russell would walk up any second to show her a falcon’s feather he’d found or tell her about an armadillo or a family of piglike javelina he’d spotted on his walk.
Holding the image in her mind, she went to his pickup and opened the unlocked driver’s side door. Reaching over, she grabbed his unzipped backpack from the passenger seat, where she spotted a familiar compact tool kit and sighed in relief. Even if Russell had grown impatient enough to break the rule against climbing up the turbine alone, he never would’ve done so without taking what he needed to attempt repairs.
Uncertain of what else to try, she hit the horn twice—two long blasts that ought to get her assistant’s attention if his cell’s battery had run down. When he still didn’t appear, she closed the truck’s door, listening as the warm wind rushed around the parked vehicles, scouring their paint jobs—and her exposed skin—with abrasive grains of sand and somehow heightening her sense of isolation. Her vulnerability, out here in the open, so far from the things people so often took for granted. Things like witnesses and help.
Something tugged hard at her shoulder. Sucking in a sharp breath, she spun around, heart slamming her sternum, before looking down.
“Darn you, dog! Don’t sneak up on a person like that,” Emma said, realizing that River had returned and grasped the day pack in her strong jaws. Returned alone, and was now backing up, her long tongue lolling and pure duck-lust gleaming in her deep brown eyes.
Knowing she would get no peace until she turned over the squeaky toy, Emma pulled it from the pack and threw it. While River bounded off, Emma tried phoning Russell instead of texting, needing the reassurance of his voice.
The call rolled over to his voice mail. Frustrating as that was, Emma was distracted to see River drop her squeaky duck and race barking to a spot about twenty feet out from the windmill’s base.
A bird. She’s run across another turbine blade-strike victim. One Russell hasn’t found yet. Trained to alert but not disturb, River should run to it and then lie down. Instead, she ran in tight circles before looking up and all around herself, as if in confusion.
Trotting closer, Emma was confused, too, to find no telltale mound of feathers. Nor did she glimpse Russell’s reddish hair or spot his body half-hidden in the dry gold grasses. Instead, she was jolted to spot his smartphone, a crack across its screen. As she picked it up, she made out the missed call from her number and the list of several unread messages on the mostly readable display.
“So how’d your phone get broken?” she asked aloud. “And how’d it end up down here?”
Her heart pumped faster, harder, the horror dawning in her body before her mind could grasp it. She looked beyond the phone’s screen, her gaze funneling toward the turbine’s base, catching that spot near its curved edge where the service door stood slightly ajar.
“Oh, Russell. Oh, no.” Her stomach plummeting, her voice tightened. “Please tell me you didn’t—you didn’t go...up.”
With her legs shaking so hard she could barely remain standing, she swallowed a whimper. Forced herself to tilt her head back. To look high above her, at the dark shape silhouetted against the impossible stark blue.
At the sight of his body, limp and dangling just beneath the housing of the turbine, something broke inside her.
Emma’s shrill scream joined the wind’s howl, and she crashed down to her knees.
* * *
Emma didn’t remember calling 911, but she clearly must have done so. By the time she’d climbed back down from the turbine, sobbing and bleeding from the fresh blisters she’d torn open, the first responders had begun arriving. She spotted sheriff’s department vehicles, volunteer firefighters offering manpower and a pair of EMTs leaving their ambulance.
As two of the latter had tried to persuade her to let them check her over, a stocky man in a Western hat and khaki uniform shirt waved them off and introduced himself while chewing on a toothpick half-hidden by his drooping, gray-blond mustache. Sheriff Wallace Fleming, he’d had to say twice before Emma’s shell-shocked brain could make sense of the words. Walking her over to his vehicle, he asked bluntly, “What happened here?”
“It’s Jeremy. Jeremy Hansen, my ex-husband. I—I think he’s killed Russell.” The whole story gushed from her, from this morning’s unsettling phone call to the moment she’d found her assistant dangling. The only time she slowed down was when she handed the sheriff Russell’s phone, with its cracked screen. She then passed over her own unlocked cell as well, and showed him the call log that would corroborate what she had told him about this morning’s calls.
As he looked down at the screen, she continued filling in Fleming on Jeremy’s troubled history. River pressed close beside her, whining and licking at the top of Emma’s free hand in a clear attempt to soothe her.
“That’s enough,” Emma told the dog, gently pushing her muzzle away as it finally sank in that the sheriff’s eyes were anything but sympathetic.
Confused by the man’s obvious disapproval, she struggled to formulate a question. “Will you put out an APB?” she finally ventured. “Find Jeremy before he can do more damage?”
“I was wondering—” Fleming sounded droll as the toothpick bobbed to the other side of his whiskered mouth “—when you might finally come up for air. First off, I think you mean a BOLO, for ‘be on the lookout.’ That’s what those of us in law enforcement like to call ’em. And generally, we like ’em to be our idea—once we’ve determined that an actual crime has been committed.”
“Of course a crime’s been committed.” Hadn’t he listened to a single word she’d said? How could he really imagine this might be some sort of accident? “Russell knew how serious the company was about safety—and how fast they’d shut down our research project if we gave them an excuse by climbing up alone.”
Fleming gave a sloppy shrug, the late morning sun glittering off his silver badge. “People get in a hurry, even bright young men who you’d swear knew better. They get things on their minds. They make mistakes. I’ve seen it plenty.”
“Not Russell. He would never—”
“You went up alone, right? Without gloves or proper safety equipment.”
“I had to. Because Russell was—he was hanging up there, and I didn’t—I couldn’t know for sure that he was...gone.” Emma’s voice broke on the awful word. Because Russell was still up above them, as far as she knew, his limbs stiffening like tree branches and his safety harness, which looked to have either slipped or broken, somehow caught up around his neck. She wanted to glance skyward, to confirm the terrible, impossible reality, but she kept her gaze locked on the sheriff’s hard blue eyes.
“Maybe he thought he had good reason, too,” said Fleming. “In a hurry to get that contraption fixed and the turbine back up and runnin’.”
“Not without his tools,” she countered. “I’m telling you, this is no coincidence, after Jeremy’s calls this morning—”
“Calls your phone’s log can’t identify, from a man you’re telling me is five hours away in Waco. That’s where your ex-husband works, right?”
“If he showed up there this morning. He could’ve found me somehow, called from somewhere nearby.”
Another sloppy shrug. “That’s easy enough to
check out. You have his employer’s contact information?”
“You’ll find it in my phone there, under RK Construction. But it’s his uncle’s business. Who’s to say he won’t cover for his nephew?” Emma shook her head, frustration boiling over. “I can guarantee you Jeremy’s spent all summer convincing anyone who’ll listen how he’s the victim in all this, and I’m just some scheming tramp who twisted the authorities around my finger. You’re going to have to dig deeper if you want the truth, find witnesses who aren’t related. Maybe call the—”
The sheriff’s hand shot out, clamping down on her wrist with such surprising speed that she gasped.
“This is Kingston County,” he said around the toothpick, now clamped down hard between his molars. “My county. And no lady bird professor outta Austin’s gonna run my investigation. Hear me?”
The normally gentle River exploded into barking, the hackles on her back raised and her lips peeled back as she leaped toward him. Releasing Emma, Fleming stepped back and drew his gun.
Terror ripping through her, she shouted, “River, down! Down—stay!”
The retriever hesitated before her training—or the urgency in her mistress’s voice—kicked in. Lowering herself slowly, River kept her dark eyes locked on the sheriff, her muscles quivering and the low rumble of her growl vibrating like an idling truck engine.
“Please, no! She’d never bite you,” Emma cried, her voice shaking even harder than her knees. “Please don’t shoot my dog.”
A stillness followed, thin as crystal. A silence filled by the pounding of her heart and interrupted by an unexpected voice off to her right.
“Charming your constituents again, Wallace?” said a man she hadn’t heard approaching, a pair of plastic water bottles in his hands. Taller and leaner than the sheriff, he was darker as well, from his tanned skin to the challenge in his deep brown eyes and the black waves peeking out from beneath a finely made straw cowboy hat. Along with a light blue chambray shirt, he wore a pair of faded jeans, molded to his long legs. “Or maybe bullying’s the right word. You were always good at that.”