by Mel Odom
>> 2004 Hours (Central Time Zone)
Caught almost flat-footed by the blow, Shel rocked backward. For a moment he thought his head had come clean off his shoulders. Black spots exploded in his vision.
Half-dazed, Shel threw a punch of his own.
Either his daddy hadn’t been expecting it or he’d thought Shel was going to go down. Shel’s fist caught him full in the face and drove him backward. Tyrel’s head snapped around. Something popped.
Horrified at what he’d done out of reflex, Shel hesitated. Then he caught another punch on his chin that knocked him back.
Without another word, Shel and Tyrel fought. Max started to come forward, but Shel called the Labrador back. Whining, Max subsided and lay flat on the hay-covered ground.
Pain flared Shel’s senses. Despite the blows he landed on his daddy, Tyrel refused to go down. For every punch Shel threw, his daddy came back with one.
Tyrel McHenry knew how to fight. He’d boxed before he’d gone into the Army and been sent to Vietnam. After he’d gotten back, there’d been more fights. And he never held back.
Blood filled Shel’s mouth and made breathing difficult. He stepped back and spat blood. His chest heaved.
His daddy hit him again.
Tyrel wasn’t faring much better. He breathed liked a bellows pump. His nose was no longer straight. Blood leaked down over his chin.
Shel stepped back again, then gave ground as Tyrel came at him. There was no mercy in his daddy. Something fierce rode him, drove him to the fight with everything he had. Blocking blows that came just as hard and as fast as the first one, Shel punched and fought back. He spotted an opening and clubbed his daddy on the side of the head with his fist.
Stumbling back, Tyrel lost his footing for just a moment. He sat down heavily, almost out on his feet.
Bending over, Shel rested his bruised hands on his knees. He didn’t have the stomach for fighting any more. He wanted to be done with it. He wanted to walk away.
But the question remained.
“Is that what you are, Daddy?” Shel asked hoarsely. “A murderer?”
Tyrel flailed an arm out for a paddock wall, caught the planks, and tried to pull himself up. But he didn’t have enough strength or focus to do that.
“Who did you kill over there?” Shel demanded.
“I killed a lot of people,” Tyrel growled. “That was my job. Just like yours. Just like when you killed Victor Gant’s boy. Does that make you a murderer?”
“No,” Shel said. “No, it don’t. But Victor Gant told me you killed an American soldier. He said he helped you bury him.”
Using both hands, Tyrel pulled himself into a standing position. “You gonna believe that man?”
Shel stared at his daddy. “If he’s lying, tell me that, Daddy.”
Tyrel refused to meet his gaze. His chest rose and fell.
“Tell me that Victor Gant was lying, Daddy,” Shel said. “Just tell me that. I won’t even wonder why you hit me.”
His daddy’s breath roared in the silence of the barn.
“Can you do that, Daddy?” Shel whispered. He no longer had the strength to speak in his full voice. His arms and legs felt weak. If his daddy attacked him again, he didn’t know if he could defend himself.
“You get on outta here, Shelton.” Tyrel swiveled his head to stare at Shel. “You hear me? You get on outta here.”
“Daddy—”
Crying out like a trapped animal, Tyrel reached for a pitchfork and yanked it from a hay bale. He swung it around to point the tines at Shel. “You get offa my property. Now!”
Tears filled Shel’s eyes and that embarrassed him too. “Daddy—”
“You get on outta here, Shel,” his daddy ordered, “or one of us is gonna get killed in the next minute.”
Shel knew his daddy meant every word he said. If he tried to stay, his daddy would try to make him leave. And one of them would most likely end up dead. Without a word, he backed away till he felt he had enough distance between himself and the man he’d never truly known.
Then Shel turned and walked out of the barn. He called Max to his side. Without turning back to look, he walked to the rental SUV and crawled inside. When he finally did look back at the barn, he couldn’t see Tyrel. Shel couldn’t believe what had happened.
Reluctantly, but knowing he had no choice, he keyed the ignition and drove away.
>> 2051 Hours
For a long time after Shel had gone, Tyrel stood in the quiet of the barn. He forced himself to be calm after he heard Shel drive away. The pain from the blows Tyrel had received during the fight hurt, but not nearly as much as what he felt inside.
He didn’t think he’d ever hurt so bad in his life. Not even when Amanda had died. She’d slipped away, little by little, over months. Sad as it was, he’d been able to adjust as he went along, although it was still hard.
But Shel . . .
A ragged cry of pain escaped Tyrel’s bloodied lips. He couldn’t believe it when he heard it. The sound was more that of an animal than anything human. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d hurt so badly. Even not being there when Don’s kids were born hadn’t hurt as much as the look of disbelief on Shel’s face.
He was waiting on you to deny it, Tyrel told himself. He came out here all this way not because he wanted to confront you about it but because he wanted you to tell him it wasn’t true.
But it was. All of it was true.
When he finally had himself a little more under control, Tyrel walked back to the ranch house. The sun was finally starting to wane. Darkness crept in from the east, sliding across the land and sticking long black fingers into the red orange sunset.
In the house, he stood over the sink and washed his face. The washcloth he used came away smeared in blood. His lips had swelled and he couldn’t breathe through his nose. When he cleared his sinus passages, bloody mucus filled the paper towel. He was pretty sure his nose was broken.
You had it coming, he told himself. You had a lot worse coming. You still do. What you shoulda done all them years ago was turn yourself in.
He hadn’t been able to, though. He’d been too scared. Victor Gant had assured Tyrel that no one would ever know. He hadn’t realized how much of a difference knowing himself would make. There hadn’t been a day in his life since that Tyrel hadn’t thought about Dennis Hinton.
The young man’s name was haunting in itself. It had taken Tyrel months to figure out why. Then, when he looked at it one day, he’d realized that Dennis spelled backward was sinned.
It had been a sobering discovery.
Somewhere out there, in a grave near Highway 19 only a few miles outside of Qui Nhon, Dennis Hinton lay moldering and unclaimed by his family. Nightmares about Hinton rising from his grave had tormented Tyrel’s dreams for almost forty years.
Now they’d come home to roost. Tyrel just hadn’t expected Shel to be the messenger.
With a shaking hand, Tyrel turned the water off and stepped back from the sink. Fearful yet calm, he gazed around the kitchen.
You knew it was going to come down to this, he told himself. This ain’t no surprise, and you’re a fool if you pretend it is. Sooner or later, you knew you’d have to decide to run for your freedom or stay and get arrested.
He’d lived in denial so long that it was hard to think he wasn’t going to live out his life unnoticed. He’d lived such a small life. He hadn’t reached for much. When he was younger, there had been so much more that he wanted. But he hadn’t taken on a thing he couldn’t walk away from if he had to.
Except for Amanda and the boys, he told himself. He’d kept them at a distance, though. All of their lives and most of his, he’d forced them to be strong and independent. Shel had gotten that message and had stayed away a lot. Only Don, with his church ways and belief in God, had continued to try to work on their relationship. The grandkids were the hardest, though. When they were born, Tyrel couldn’t help but feel—partly—that he’d gotten a chance to
do things over.
He hadn’t allowed himself to feel that way for long, though. That was a loser’s wager. He wasn’t nearly the kind of man they all thought he was.
Still hurting, Tyrel went to his bedroom and took out the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he’d bought a few days ago. Since that drunken call he’d made to Shel in the hospital, he’d stayed away from the booze. It was too easy to get lost in the strong drink.
He retreated to the living room and sat in the easy chair. He drank straight hits from the bottle. The whiskey hit his stomach like napalm. He felt the pain in his face and his heart lessening with each drink.
Then he felt something else.
The sensation of being watched by a predator was unmistakable. Tyrel had learned it in the jungles of Vietnam, and he’d returned home with it. He’d had times when he was out on the streets of big cities when that singular ability had manifested again.
Sometimes, out in the far pastures, he’d gotten the same feeling when he’d been spied on by coyotes.
And from time to time, he’d gotten that feeling from other men while in bars or sale barns.
Tyrel had that feeling now. He took another hit off the whiskey bottle and looked through the nearest window. Full dark had fallen. No lights were on in the living room. He hadn’t turned any on in the kitchen either.
Whoever was watching him had the benefit of anonymity in that darkness.
Tyrel took a final sip from the Jack Daniel’s bottle and placed it beside the chair. Then he got up and walked to the master bedroom.
Heavy drapes blocked the window there. Even though they lived miles from neighbors, Amanda had always covered the windows in dark, hard material. Tyrel was certain he couldn’t be seen.
He walked to the closet and removed the false flooring that covered the hidden area below. Even Amanda hadn’t known about this, and he’d felt bad about that the whole time. But he couldn’t just give himself up to be hanged or shot, whichever the military courts would decide. Not even the idea of living out the rest of his life behind bars was acceptable.
He pulled out the cash he’d saved up over the years. There was fifty thousand dollars in nonsequential hundred dollar bills. All of them were well circulated. They made a solid brick in his hands. Rubber bands held the bills together.
He shoved the money into a carry-on bag and added clothing. He didn’t need much. He could buy more once he reached Mexico. Once he got into Juárez, he could disappear. There were places he could go and take up another identity he’d set up years ago.
All he had to do was escape whoever was out in the night.
He went to the gun rack by the bed, took out the Colt .45 Peacemaker, and strapped it around his lean hips. He had a little trouble buckling the belt due to the swelling in his hands, but he cinched it up and used the leg tie-down to secure the bottom of the holster. He added two speedloaders filled with extra ammunition, then dropped four boxes of extra bullets into the carry-on.
Outside, the mare whickered.
Shoulda got a dog, Tyrel thought. A dog would let me know more which way they’re coming from.
But when his last dog had died three years ago, he just hadn’t had the heart to get another. Losing the old hound had bothered him more than he’d guessed it would, and he knew he was starting to get too attached to things.
It’s okay, he told himself. They’re coming at you in your territory. Nobody knows that land out there better’n you. Especially not in the dark.
He figured he knew who was out there. Shel had confirmed that Victor Gant had threatened the family. At least the man had come after him, not Don and Joanie and the grandkids.
It surprised Tyrel that he thought of the children as that instead of Don and Joanie’s kids. He had no right to claim them.
He shut the extraneous thoughts from his mind and concentrated on getting prepared. He took the .30-30 lever-action carbine from the gun rack on the wall. He didn’t bother to check if the rifle was loaded. It was a tool, just like any other on a working ranch. The magazine was filled to capacity. He tossed four extra boxes of ammunition for the rifle into the carry-on.
Then he was ready.
Rifle in hand, he walked to the light switch and turned it off.
All right, he thought grimly. Y’all bring it.
42
>> Fort Davis, Texas
>> 2113 Hours (Central Time Zone)
“Aren’t you going to come into the house?”
Shel sat in his rental SUV in Don’s driveway and didn’t look away from the basketball goal bolted to the garage. He and Don had hung the goal last spring. He could remember the first game they had played with the kids afterward. He didn’t look at Don, but he knew his brother stood on the porch of the small house.
“In a minute,” Shel said. He absently stroked Max’s head. The Labrador had been tense ever since they’d left the Rafter M.
“There can’t be anything that interesting out there,” Don said.
Shel didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He didn’t know what to say. He was also aware of the faces of the three children pressed against the living room window. Evidently Don or Joanie had made them stay in the house.
Don stepped down off the porch and crossed the neatly kept lawn. He wore slacks and a shirt. He probably hadn’t gotten home from the church more than a few minutes ago.
As his brother closed on him, Shel felt that coming there was a mistake. He should have just taken a room at a motel, then got gone in the morning. He wouldn’t have had to answer questions from Don.
And he could have put it all behind him that much sooner.
Except that running away wouldn’t solve the problems he had now. Even if there was no proof that his daddy had killed a fellow soldier in Vietnam, Shel didn’t know if he should open an investigation anyway.
What good would that do? he asked himself as he sat there.
“Shel?” Don stopped at the window and stared at him. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Shel whispered hoarsely. “I’m fine.”
“What happened?”
Shel tried to speak and couldn’t. His eyes burned and he knew he was about to cry. He felt angry at himself for being so weak and foolish. He knew he hadn’t done anything wrong, but he felt like he had.
“Shel?” Don came closer and leaned on the door.
“I had a talk with Daddy,” Shel said. His voice cracked. “Had something I needed to work out with him.”
Don was silent for a time. From the corner of his eye, Shel saw the tight lines of fear on his brother’s face as he took in the damage to Shel’s face. He knew instantly what Don feared the most.
“Is Daddy all right?” Don asked in a quiet voice.
“Yeah.” Shel tried to grin a little, but his pulped lips and swollen face made it hard. “Man hits as hard as a mule kicks, but he’s definitely got the mule beat when it comes to stubbornness.”
Don didn’t smile. “Why did you get into a fight with Daddy?”
“He didn’t like what I asked him.”
Don shook his head. “I can’t even begin to guess what you asked him.”
“It’s a long story, Don. I ain’t yet decided what I’m going to do about it.”
“You’re going to tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t know if that’s the right thing to do.”
“Shel.” Don’s voice held more force in it now. “All the time I was growing up, I’ve seen you and Daddy argue and get mad at each other. When Mama was alive, God rest her soul, I think she kept you two from killing each other. Later, after she was gone, I tried my best to do the same.”
“I think you probably did,” Shel said.
“As much as I hated to see you go, I think it was the best thing you could have done at the time.”
“I know.” Shel took a deep breath. His ribs burned with pain.
“That’s why you’re going to tell me what’s going on. Because that’s the best thing you can do right now.”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“I expect not, but I’d like not hearing it even less.”
“Get in. I don’t want to tell it here.”
“Let me tell Joanie I’ll be back.” Don turned and walked back to the house.
Tired and hurting, Shel leaned his head back against the seat and tried to relax. He wished he hadn’t come. He wished he’d just stayed at Camp Lejeune and left this part of his life alone.
More than anything, he wished that Victor Gant hadn’t made a believer of him.
>> Rafter M Ranch
>> Outside Fort Davis, Texas
>> 2127 Hours (Central Time Zone)
Deputy Sheriff Wayne Hayscott sipped his coffee as he drove the farm-to-market road that went by the Rafter M Ranch. Fifty-three years old, he’d already spent over half his life as a sheriff’s deputy. The county was easy to patrol, and there was little trouble that went on in the area.
He didn’t see the need to cruise by the ranch despite what the sheriff said. Tyrel McHenry was the meanest and orneriest man Hayscott had ever met. Tyrel was an old boar coon. Nobody in their right mind would try to tree him.
The cold coffee tasted bitter. Hayscott hated it even more because he was at least thirty minutes from another warm-up back at the quick stop.
Just be a minute, he told himself. There and back out. No muss, no fuss.
In the distance, he spotted the ranch house. It was dark. That wasn’t a surprise. From what he knew of Tyrel McHenry, the man was up before the sun every day. That meant he’d be early to bed.
Hayscott put the coffee cup back in the holder; then he slowed and pulled the wheel around in a tight U-turn. His headlights swept across the scrub grass and cactus clinging to the side of the hill leading up to the Rafter M.
He was yawning when he saw the light glint on metal. Intrigued, he stopped the car and backed around to use the spotlight mounted by the window. The bright halogen beam pierced the dark night that almost hid the motorcycle that had been left there.