by Mel Odom
Tyrel sat there and thought thoughts he’d promised himself he’d never think again, and he didn’t know why he was thinking them. Nothing good could come of this.
Maybe, he mused, he was putting himself through his own particular hell again because he’d stayed at the ranch instead of going with Don to check on Shelton.
What kind of daddy wouldn’t go to the hospital to see his nearly shot-to-death son?
Your kind, that hard voice said in the back of his mind. The kind that’s scared of what’s lying out there for him.
But that wasn’t all of it, he knew. He didn’t go because he didn’t want Don or Shel—or the grandbabies—to think on him too hard. He couldn’t be there for them. He couldn’t ever be there for anybody.
He’d known that since Qui Nhon.
>> 0112 Hours
Satisfied that the mare and her new colt were going to be fine, Tyrel got up from the hay bale. His knees cracked in protest.
When he was standing, he walked over to where Ramon Sanchez lay. Ramon was fourteen years old, the oldest grandson of Miguel. He was a handsome boy and looked a lot like his granddaddy.
“Hey,” Tyrel said gruffly. He kicked Ramon’s boots hard enough to wake the boy.
Ramon came awake instantly and looked apologetic. “Sorry,” he said in Spanish. He rubbed his eyes. “I must have fallen asleep.”
“You were snoring so loud I thought you were gonna spook the horses,” Tyrel said. He spoke in Spanish, but his was awkward even after all these years. Shel was the one who had taken to the language like a native.
Embarrassment flushed Ramon’s face. “My grandfather is going to be upset with me. He told me to watch over you—I mean, the horses.”
“Well then,” Tyrel said, “I guess we ain’t gonna tell your granddaddy. Get up and let’s get you to bed. We got an early morning coming if we’re gonna get everything done.” He reached down and pulled the boy to his feet.
“The mare? How is she?” Ramon glanced at the pen.
“She’s fine. Baby’s fine too. It was an easy birth.”
“Good.” Ramon sounded relieved. Then he focused on Tyrel. “You can deduct tonight from my pay.”
“Ain’t gonna do that,” Tyrel said. “The agreement was that you’d be here if I needed you, not that you’d stay awake the whole time. The way I look at it, you held up your end of things.”
“Thank you.”
“Now let’s get you on to bed.”
>> 0127 Hours
Despite his fatigue and the long day he’d put in, Tyrel couldn’t sleep. That wasn’t unusual. He hadn’t slept all that much when he was a young man, and he’d always been told that old people needed even less sleep.
In front of the television, Tyrel reached for the remote control and switched on ESPN.
For the most part, the ranch operated the way it had when he’d grown up. He still worked the cattle on a horse, and both his sons had learned to ride.
Shel had been the one to bring a motorcycle home one summer, and he’d used it for a while. Until it had broken down on him and left him with a five-mile walk home. Tyrel had taken great satisfaction—maybe a little too great, looking back on it now—pointing out that a horse didn’t break down.
For a time, Shel had nurtured his love for motorcycles anyway. The boy was stubborn, but Tyrel had to admit that Shel hadn’t gotten that from his mama. He’d been cursed with that by his daddy.
The only concession Tyrel had really made to the twenty-first century was the satellite television receiver. He’d done that mostly for Don’s kids, but Tyrel had learned to love the fact that ESPN had sports programming on around the clock.
He checked a few box scores, but none of them really interested him. He hadn’t had a vested interest in a baseball team since Hank Aaron had stepped out of the box and Nolan Ryan had come off the hill.
Those were men in Tyrel’s book. They weren’t necessarily supermen or even men who always did the right thing or always succeeded. They were just quiet men who stepped in and got the job done.
That was the kind of man he’d always wanted to be.
That was the kind of man, he realized, that both his sons had become.
The old sadness filled Tyrel then. It had a bittersweet ache that plumbed the very depths of his soul. He closed his eyes and was back there in Qui Nhon staring at the dead soldier’s eyes.
Tyrel hadn’t meant to kill him.
It had just happened.
24
>> NCIS Offices
>> Camp Lejeune, north carolina
>> 0258 Hours
“Estrella?”
The voice, quiet and unexpected, startled United States Navy Petty Officer Third Class Estrella Montoya. She turned from her computer and looked at the forensics tech Will had called in to handle the couriered drug sample he’d sent from Charlotte.
“Yes?” Estrella said, then cleared her throat. She hadn’t spoken in hours. The last time she’d had conversation with anyone, it was to tell her son, Nicky, a bedtime story. He was currently staying with Nita, Joe, and Celia for the night since Estrella had to run files.
Actually, she didn’t have to. Will had cleared her for the evening. But Estrella had worked with Will long enough to know that he wasn’t going to stop trying to figure out a way to get Victor Gant away from Shel.
After she’d heard the story of how the motorcycle gang leader had walked out of FBI custody and accosted Will in the hospital parking lot, Estrella had known she wasn’t going to rest until she found Will the leverage he was looking for.
She thought she had that now. If forensics had come up with the physical tie they needed to the unsolved case she’d found, they were golden.
The forensics guy was a human scarecrow. Philip Carmichael was tall and lean, with a lantern jaw and razor-cut blond hair that sprouted from his head like a weed. His ill-fitting white lab coat hung on him. Despite the soft drinks and candy he habitually ate, nothing seemed to find a home on his too-thin frame.
“I got the spectroscopy results from that sample Will sent.” Philip pushed them in her direction.
Estrella leaned back in her ergonomic chair as she took the pages. Her Latino heritage marked her with bronze hair and an olive complexion. She had brown eyes and a full figure that belied the strength and endurance she had.
A quick scan of the printouts confirmed what she’d hoped for.
“The two samples are a match,” she said.
“Definitely.” Philip leaned back against the desk behind him. He fished an energy drink from the pocket of his lab coat.
“Have you got electronic copies of these printouts?”
“I’ve already e-mailed them to you. I wanted to stretch my legs, so I thought I would bring you the paper copy.”
“I appreciate the extra effort. I know Will does too.”
“Hey,” Philip said, “I love being here. This job is so much cooler than the video store I worked at till I got my science degree. I just appreciate Commander Coburn taking a chance on me.”
“Will’s a good judge of character. You brought your good luck on yourself.”
Philip smiled.
Estrella logged on to her e-mail, brought up the messages Philip had sent her, added the files she’d been working on, and started sending.
If this didn’t give Will the leverage he needed, Estrella didn’t know what would.
>> Denny’s Restaurant
>> 4541 Sunset Road
>> Charlotte, North Carolina
>> 0311 Hours
“Having Gerald willing to testify that he sold that pistol to Victor Gant isn’t going to give us anything,” Tarlton said.
Will nodded. They all knew that, but someone had to say it. They sat at one of the restaurant’s back booths. None of them was operating at prime. Tarlton looked burned, and Will knew he and Remy were operating on even less sleep than the police chief.
“There’s nothing in any of these files we can hope to use against Vi
ctor Gant.” Tarlton waved at the copious piles of paper he’d dug out of the police department records. They sat in cardboard boxes in the booth beside him.
“If there’d been anything there,” Will said, “you’d have taken him down before now. We were just hoping to find something that you hadn’t.”
“Last best shot,” Tarlton agreed. “The only thing I could possibly get Gant for is carrying concealed. With his prison record, I could get an arrest warrant for that.”
“But you weren’t there when the FBI took him into custody,” Will said.
“No. I could get some witnesses from the bar who saw them take weapons off Gant, but then I’m sure I could get other witnesses who say that only Fat Mike Wiley had a weapon.”
“Gant’s also got a deal in place with the FBI,” Will said. “They’re going to protect him as much as they can.”
“Kind of makes you wonder whose team they’re on.”
“Theirs,” Remy said. “First, last, and always. That’s how they operate when they got their own fish to clean. Then when they’re helping you clean yours, they just want to hang back and tell you how to get it done.”
“Why, Special Agent Gautreau, I suspicion that’s a cynical attitude you have.” Tarlton smiled.
“This guy Urlacher is a political climber,” Remy said. “You find his type everywhere. Gant’s moving enough heroin through the area that finding his source is going to be a big deal.”
“You can’t blame a guy for having ambition.” Tarlton grinned. “I say that with all the false sincerity I can muster.”
“We can still shadow Gant for a few days,” Remy said. “Keep him in a full-court press till Shel gets out of here and we can take him home.” He cut his gaze to Will. “Unless Director Larkin says different.”
“He won’t,” Will said. “At least not yet.” Larkin knew how badly Frank Billings’s death had affected all of them. “But the time will come.” Will looked at the notes he’d scribbled on his iPAQ and didn’t see anything there that looked the least bit promising. “My problem is that I don’t feel good leaving this for Chief Tarlton now that we stirred up the hornet’s nest.”
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Tarlton said, “but I’ve been making my way around here for a long time before you guys showed up. I expect I’ll be doing the same after you leave.”
“I know.” Will sighed. “I just like cleaning up any messes I’ve made before I pull up stakes.”
“You didn’t make this one. Victor Gant has been here for a while.”
The waitress came by and took away the last remnants of their dinner. When she left the check, Will reached for it.
“Nope.” Tarlton picked up the check. “Your money’s no good here. My town, my treat.”
“It seems like the least we could do after keeping you up half the night,” Will said.
“You offered me a shot at taking Victor Gant off the streets, and you had enough clout to make the FBI dry up and blow away if it came to that,” Tarlton said as he dropped a credit card over the check. “And who knows? Maybe I’ll need some help farther down the line.”
Will’s iPAQ vibrated for attention. He glanced at the screen and saw Estrella’s icon float to the top. He tapped the icon and held the iPAQ to his ear.
“Estrella? You should have been home hours ago.”
“Nita and Joe are keeping Nicky tonight,” Estrella said. “Nicky told me that was okay and that he didn’t miss me.”
Even though she tried to disguise it, Will heard the slight pain in Estrella’s voice. She took motherhood seriously.
“Take tomorrow off,” Will suggested. “Catch a movie.”
“I can’t. Too much work has piled up here. Everything will be fine. One of the reasons Nicky’s so excited about staying with Nita and Joe is because Joe has promised to take him and Celia sailing in the morning.”
“I’d be excited too.” Will sailed with his own kids every chance he got. Since he’d gotten divorced, it seemed there were more opportunities to take Wren and Steven out on the boat.
“I can make you more excited,” Estrella offered.
“Okay.”
“Philip finished the analysis of the heroin you couriered to us. We’ve got a match. If you want to bring your computer up, I’ll walk you through it.”
Will reached into the messenger bag he used to carry his computer. Remy and Tarlton leaned in closer.
“Something?” Tarlton asked.
Will nodded. He opened the computer and powered it on, then waited for it to connect to the mini satellite that provided the encrypted Internet connection to the NCIS transmissions.
The Web page Estrella had set up for her presentation appeared on the screen. Will put the phone on speaker. No one in the restaurant was close enough to overhear.
“Let me walk you through the time line as I’ve constructed it,” Estrella said. “Thirty-one hours ago, Bobby Lee Gant used his pistol to murder one man and threaten Shel and a young woman.”
Will rubbed his eyes tiredly. It was hard to believe so little time had passed. But the first forty-eight hours of any investigation were always the most important. If something didn’t break during that time, things generally went badly.
“Nine months ago, Fat Mike Wiley bought the pistol from Gerald Otis,” Estrella continued. “So somewhere in there, the pistol went from Fat Mike’s hands to Bobby Lee’s.”
Will studied the time line and saw those two incidents marked.
“Four months ago, a man named Walter Simpson went missing,” Estrella said.
“I worked that case with the sheriff,” Tarlton said. “Simpson lived in Charlotte, but everybody knew he was a meth cook. The sheriff and I suspected he worked for Victor Gant.”
“As a matter of fact,” Estrella said, cycling the Web presentation forward so that another page opened up on the computer monitor, “I did some digging. Five men who’ve been tentatively identified as Purple Royals were busted in Mecklenburg County, Robeson County, and Guilford County. At the time of their arrests, all of them had meth on them that came from the same batch.”
“You said tentatively,” Tarlton said.
“I think a little digging could improve the standing on that point,” Estrella acknowledged. “The important thing is that these men were carrying meth that could be tied to Simpson.”
“How was it tied?” Remy asked. “Recipe or product?”
Will knew that meth cooks almost always created the drug the same way every time and that the individual products tended to be unique enough to identify. Further chemical breakdowns could verify that beyond doubt. Recipes were filed with law enforcement departments, and drug samples were kept in federal clearinghouses.
“Both,” Estrella answered.
“That indicates there was a tie between Victor Gant and Simpson,” Will said, “but how does that help us?”
“Because a month ago hunters found Simpson’s body, and it had a bullet from Bobby Lee’s gun in it.”
And that, Will knew, was the beginning of something they could work with.
25
>> Rafter M Ranch
>> Outside Fort Davis, Texas
>> 0231 Hours (Central Time Zone)
Restless, Tyrel flicked through channels. He knew he had insomnia bad when he couldn’t even focus on baseball. In fact, not even cold corn bread soaked in buttermilk had taken the edge off, and generally that would guarantee he’d sleep like a baby.
He flicked through the channels and ended up on FOX News, thinking the news would surely put him out of his misery. Thoughts of Shel kept banging around in his head, though, and he couldn’t seem to get them nailed down in any manner that would let him know why he was thinking about him so much.
After a few minutes of watching the international news, Tyrel almost changed channels. Then he saw Shel’s picture on the screen behind the anchorman.
The picture was a twin of one Tyrel had stuck in his wife’s family Bible. It was where she’d kept all h
er important papers and memories. The Bible still held pressed flowers from the first time Tyrel had courted her, along with baby pictures and report cards.
Tyrel sat up a little straighter and turned up the television’s volume. He wasn’t worried about waking Ramon. The boy had sacked out in Don and Shel’s room. That was how Tyrel still thought of the bedroom at the back of the house.
Don and Shel’s room.
Like they were going to be coming right back at some point.
At least their mama hadn’t had to watch them move out, especially the angry way Shel had left. Tyrel knew that would have hurt her. And maybe it would have damaged their relationship. She’d always put a lot of store in her boys.
That was what she’d always called them. The boys, like they were the only two boys in the world.
Tyrel forced himself to focus on the news story. The anchor related how a young man named Bobby Lee Gant had killed one man and was about to kill a woman and maybe Shel when Shel had shot him.
The fact that his son had killed somebody didn’t bother Tyrel. That was what soldiers did. He’d killed men himself. War was war, and killing enemy soldiers was what he’d been over there to do.
But one didn’t deserve it at all.
Tyrel blinked back the pain of that stray memory and listened to the dead young man’s name again. Something about it sounded familiar. Then again, in Texas there were a lot of Robert Lees and Johnny Lees. Bobby Lee couldn’t have been so unique that he’d notice it.
Then the anchor started talking about another man, the boy’s father. Evidently he was a criminal too. His picture appeared on the wall behind the anchor desk.
And Tyrel was slammed right out of Texas and back into Vietnam.
>> Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner
>> 618 North College Street