“Our man?” I said. “You were trying to fire him twenty-four hours ago.”
He didn’t reply, suddenly looking every bit of his seventy-odd years.
“He was catting around,” I said. “Looks like his murder was somehow related to that.”
Jerry nodded.
“The Texas Rangers are handling the investigation. We’re gonna find who’s responsible.”
He looked across the square to the Suburbans idling at the gas station.
I followed his gaze. “They’re here about the power outage, if I had to guess.”
“The what?” He seemed confused.
“The brownout this morning, remember?”
“Oh yeah.”
“You feeling okay?”
He nodded. Then shook his head. “The deputy’s grandfather. He and I were friends way back when.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
“Kelsey and her benefits,” I said. “Don’t forget.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed for a few seconds. Then he wandered down the sidewalk to his car, a freshly washed Cadillac sedan.
I took one last look at the Suburbans, then went inside the courthouse.
- CHAPTER ELEVEN -
Sarah’s making good time. The speedometer is pegged at ninety, and there’s not a cop in sight.
Then the tire blows.
A loud thud followed by a slapping noise.
The Monte Carlo tilts to one side. Smoke and road dust gush from the back right of the vehicle. The steering wheel rattles. She hangs on with all her strength, knuckles white.
Instinctively, she takes her foot off the gas but does not apply the brake, instead letting the vehicle slow on its own. She aims toward the shoulder on the right side.
Just north of Hillsboro, this stretch of the interstate is empty of houses and commercial buildings. Nothing but heavily wooded land and roadside billboards.
The car comes to a stop, and the AC starts blowing hot air for some reason. She leaves the engine running because starting it again with a screwdriver can be tricky.
Traffic whizzes by, a never-ending stream. Cars and pickups, the occasional motorcycle. Eighteen-wheelers that buffet the old Chevy like it’s a tin can.
Dallas is maybe an hour away.
There might as well be an ocean between her present location and the safety of the city. She’s in a stolen car with a blown tire and no key to the trunk, where there might be a spare. Also, the state police are probably looking for her by now.
Her whole body shakes. Sweat pops up on her forehead, trickling into her eyes.
The voice of her grandfather echoes in her head: You really shit the bed this time, didn’t you?
“Shut up.” She yanks off her sunglasses.
Whatchoo gonna do now, girl?
On the opposite side of the highway, separated by forty yards of grassy median, a Texas Highway Patrol unit speeds south.
Sarah hyperventilates.
The correct word hasn’t been invented yet for how fucked she is.
Inside the Monte Carlo, everything feels like it’s getting smaller, the air hotter.
She rips off the ball cap and her hair spills out, dry but tangled. She unzips the raincoat, flings it open, not caring that she’s naked underneath.
Her chest is slick with perspiration.
She leans her head back against the rest, eyes closed, trying to control her breathing, slow her heart rate.
Rap-rap-rap. Knocking on the glass by her head.
Sarah jerks her eyes open, looks out the windshield.
A man in a plaid shirt, the sleeves ripped off, stands there, staring at Sarah’s breasts, his eyes wide.
She hurriedly closes the jacket. Grabs the handbag with the Python from the passenger’s seat, slides it onto her lap. The weight of the revolver is comforting.
“What do you want?” Sarah says.
“You all right?” The man’s voice is muffled by the glass.
Sarah stares at the stranger, at the tattoos around his neck. He’s in his forties and pudgy, pear-shaped. His hair is dyed black, shaved on the sides, spiky on top.
“I thought you were gonna roll over back there.” His voice sounds husky but vaguely feminine.
Sarah squints at the stranger’s throat. After a moment, she realizes the man doesn’t have an Adam’s apple.
He is a she.
“I’m fine,” Sarah says. “Just a little shaky.”
“I got a flat, too,” she says. “We must have hit the same patch of bad road.”
Sarah realizes that if she’s going to get to Dallas, she needs to be nice to this person. Her other options are limited at the moment.
She glances in the rearview mirror and sees a gray van, a Ford, maybe twenty yards back. One of the front tires is shredded. The woman with the spiky black hair had no choice but to stop where she did, right behind Sarah and the stolen Monte Carlo.
Sarah opens the door and gets out. She slings the handbag over her shoulder. Wind from passing vehicles ripples their clothes, whips Sarah’s hair around her head.
“My name’s Cleo,” the woman says.
“I’m Sarah. You don’t by any chance have a jack and a spare tire for an old Monte Carlo, do you?”
“What about the trunk?”
“I lost the keys,” Sarah says. “All I have is the spare to the ignition.”
The woman stares at the Monte Carlo and then at Sarah. “That’s a problem, isn’t it?”
Sarah nods.
“Aren’t you hot in that jacket?” Cleo says. “I’m sorry, couldn’t help but notice earlier when, well, you know.”
“It is pretty warm today.” Sarah unzips the coat about halfway. “I didn’t pack very well for this trip.”
Cleo stares at her cleavage.
“Maybe you could give me a ride?” Sarah smiles. The feeling of control allows her a sliver of hope that she might make it home.
Cleo gulps. Takes a step back.
“I just need to get to Dallas.” Sarah wipes a trickle of sweat from her left breast. “I won’t be any problem at all.”
Cleo closes her eyes, mumbles to herself, an expression of extreme distress on her face.
Sarah tries to figure out what’s wrong but draws a blank. Maybe her new friend only goes for other butch types. Maybe she’s not into girlie girls.
“Are you okay?” Sarah asks.
Cleo opens her eyes. She hugs herself, stares off into the distance.
Sarah wonders if the keys are in the van. That would be the easiest solution. Leave the dyke on the side of the road and hightail it in a new vehicle.
“You are a temptation,” Cleo says.
“Uh, look, I just need a ride to Dallas.” Sarah zips up her coat. “I won’t be doing any more tempting.”
Cleo opens her eyes. “You are an offspring of Satan himself. I must be strong.”
Sarah hears a loud whooshing noise, a roar that is above and beyond the traffic on the interstate. She is thirteen again, and her cousin is in town. He’s two years older, her mother’s nephew. He’s good-looking, like a Ralph Lauren ad, and Sarah is just starting to have that tickle between her legs when she’s around an attractive boy.
They’re in the pool house when they get caught, half naked, groping on each other.
Sarah touches her cheek. She can still feel the sting of her mother’s hand, smell the wine on her breath. Hear the hate-filled words: You are the devil’s own child. Her mother’s face inches from her own. You are as bad as your grandfather.
“What did you say?” Sarah’s back in the present. She looks down at Cleo.
“You think I want this burden?” Cleo opens her eyes.
“Did you call me the devil?”
Cleo wipes a tear
from her cheek. No one speaks for a moment.
“The keys to the van.” Sarah slides her hand into the purse. “Where are they?”
The woman reaches toward her back pocket.
“Don’t surprise me, Cleo.” Sarah grasps the Python. “I’m not what I seem.”
Cleo smiles, eyes still teary. “Me neither.”
A convoy of eighteen-wheelers blows past, making conversation impossible.
Cleo pulls an item from her pocket, something small and shiny that looks sort of like a gun.
Sarah tenses. Her finger tightens on the trigger of the Python hidden in the purse. The barrel is pointed at the woman’s chest.
“It’s a lock pick.” Cleo points to the trunk of the Monte Carlo. “I’ll change your tire.”
Sarah nods. Maybe that’s for the best. One more stolen vehicle will only hurt her chances of reaching Dallas.
“Just don’t tempt me again,” Cleo says. “That opens doors that ought to stay closed.”
Sarah lets her breath out. “Whatever you say.”
Cleo kneels by the rear of the Chevy, jams the tool into the lock. She works for a minute or so and then says, “So what’s in Dallas you’re in such a hurry to get to, Sarah?”
Sarah doesn’t answer. She thinks about the message on her cell from earlier. Trouble ahead of her, trouble behind.
The trunk pops open.
“My child is hurt.” Sarah can’t help herself; the words blurt out.
The pain she feels is real, an ache in her chest, and she is surprised at her reaction to the child’s injury. The maternal instinct is not a large part of her makeup.
“That sucks. Me, I never had kids.” Cleo pulls the spare out. “They say you never quit worrying about them.”
Sarah nods in agreement but doesn’t speak.
“You ever wonder if you can change what you are?” Cleo grabs the jack and tire iron. “I mean really change yourself. Deep down.”
Sarah thinks about that all the time. But she’ll be damned if she has a conversation like that on the side of the highway with Cleo the Bull Dyke.
“I want to change, Sarah. I really do. But I don’t think I can.”
Cleo rolls the spare to the side of the Chevy and goes to work. A few minutes later, the car is operable again. She pitches the flat into the ditch on the other side of the shoulder.
“The Monte Carlo,” Cleo says. “How hot is it?”
Sarah doesn’t answer.
“I’m gonna need to trade cars,” Cleo says. “You cool with that?”
Even though she’d been thinking about making just such a switch, Sarah is not cool with that, not at all. Why would Cleo want to trade her late-model van for a Chevy that came off the assembly line the same year that Saturday Night Fever was in theaters?
Sarah strides to the van, Cleo trailing after her, the tire iron still in hand.
The vehicle is running. It has sliding doors that face away from the highway.
When Sarah gets to the side of the van, Cleo says, “Remember what I said about opening doors?”
Sarah grasps the handle. Her other hand still has ahold of the Python in her purse.
Cleo smiles expectantly, like she really wants Sarah to see inside the van. Like that’s been her goal all along.
Sarah yanks open the door.
Inside are two women and a whole lot of blood.
The women appear to be in their early twenties. They are naked and hog-tied, blindfolded, mouths gagged. One is dead, her throat cut. The other is whimpering, thrashing about.
Sarah jumps back, aghast. She jerks the Python out of her purse but not fast enough.
Cleo swings the tire iron for the hand holding the gun, connecting with Sarah’s bicep. The whole limb goes numb. The Python clatters to the ground.
Cleo jumps on top of Sarah, pins her to the dirty asphalt. The van is between them and the traffic. They are out of sight.
“You stupid little slut.” She wraps a hand around Sarah’s throat. “Flashing your tits like that. Tempting me. I oughta put you in the back with those other two. Have us a real party.”
Sarah, vision blurry, tries to speak but can’t. She claws at the hands around her neck.
“You’re a fighter, aren’t you?” Cleo squeezes harder. “I bet you and me could have a lot of fun if I wasn’t so pressed for time.”
The tire iron is to Sarah’s left, where Cleo dropped it.
Feeling is coming back to Sarah’s right arm. The limb hurts but doesn’t feel broken. Sarah reaches her right hand toward Cleo’s face, fingers going for the woman’s eyes.
Cleo turns her head, closes her eyes.
With her left hand, Sarah grabs the tire iron. She swings at Cleo’s head. From the ground, flat on her back, she can’t muster much force, so she does little more than rap the woman’s skull.
That’s enough to make Cleo let go of her throat.
Sarah grabs one of the woman’s breasts and squeezes as hard as she can.
Cleo screams, rolls off.
Sarah hops up. She swings the tire iron with all she’s got and hits Cleo in the temple.
The woman with the spiky hair collapses on the ground, unconscious. Maybe dead. Sarah can’t be sure and doesn’t really care.
She stands, shaky. She scoops up the Python, sticks it in her purse. Traffic continues to rush by, but Cleo and the open door of the van are not visible from the highway.
Sarah heads to the Monte Carlo. She gets about ten feet and stops. She walks back to the van and pulls the knife from her waistband. She climbs inside, carefully avoiding the blood.
The bound woman who is still alive hears her. She whimpers, tries to move.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Sarah says.
The woman stops moving.
“I’m gonna cut your hands free. But you have to promise me something.”
The woman holds completely still.
“You have to promise you’ll count to one hundred before you take off your blindfold.”
The woman nods.
“Once you do that, untie your feet and start running south. Away from the back of the van.”
The woman nods again.
Sarah eases closer. She slices the ropes around the woman’s hands. “Good luck.”
The woman whimpers what sounds like “Thank you.”
Sarah hops out of the van and runs to the Monte Carlo.
Dallas is still an hour away.
- CHAPTER TWELVE -
Price Anderson and two other people were in the waiting area of my office.
One, a burly guy about six and a half feet tall with a buzz cut, was obviously with Price. His suit was not as expensive as Price’s, but it was better than what you’d get at the Men’s Wearhouse closeout sale. He was in his late twenties and should have been wearing a sign that said EX–SPECIAL FORCES.
Across the room was a woman, a government employee if I had to guess.
She wore a navy skirt and matching blazer. She was in her late thirties, pretty in an L.L.Bean kind of way. Straight, shoulder-length brown hair, parted on one side. Minimal makeup, no jewelry except for one of those wristbands that sync with your phone to keep track of how many steps you walk in a day.
She was leaning on the receptionist desk and talking on her cell when I walked in. She hung up and said, “You must be Cantrell.”
I nodded. “That’s me. Sheriff Cantrell.”
Her accent was East Coast, Boston or somewhere nearby. Elongated vowels, a clipped inflection.
“So . . . Sheriff.” She fanned herself with one hand. “Is it always as hot as Satan’s butthole around here?”
Price sighed and stared at the floor, an embarrassed expression on his face.
“Who the hell are you?” I said. “Ted Kennedy’s love child?”
The woman glared at Price Anderson. “You didn’t fill him in, did you?”
“Fill me in on what?” I asked.
Price looked at his associate, the ex–Special Forces guy. “Wait for me in the car.”
Special Forces stood. His jacket shifted, revealing a semiautomatic pistol on his hip.
“You got a carry permit for that?” I said.
“Don’t be a dick, Jon. We don’t have time.” Price snapped his fingers at the man. “Go.”
Special Forces left the room, hardly making a sound as he opened and shut the door.
Price pointed to the woman. “This is Whitney Holbrook. She’s the chief investigator for FERC.”
I didn’t speak.
Whitney shook her head. “What’s the matter, Sheriff? Is it so hard for you to believe that a woman could be a chief investigator?”
Price rolled his eyes but didn’t reply.
I let the silence drag on for a moment. Then I said, “I was wondering what FERC stood for. Not how a ballbuster like you got to be chief investigator.”
Price chuckled until Whitney cast a withering look his way. He said, “FERC is an acronym for the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “They’re the outfit that investigates power outages of a suspicious nature.”
“Score one for the local guy.” Whitney Holbrook wagged her finger at me. “We also interface with Homeland Security when there’s evidence of an attack on the grid.”
“Interface,” I said. “Why can’t you people just speak English?”
Price said, “Don’t stir the pot, okay, Jon?”
Whitney held up her cell. “Homeland. That’s who I was on the phone with. The undersecretary . . . Office of National Protection.”
She spoke the last few words very deliberately, as if they possessed some intrinsic importance. There was a gleam in her eyes peculiar to government types, the infatuation with titles and positions and the proximity to power.
“Look, the county will do whatever it can to help with the outages.” I glanced at my watch. “But right now I’ve got an active murder investigation to take care of.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Whitney shook her head.
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