The table with the guns was maybe a foot away from his hand.
Price grunted again, louder.
I took another step closer, the subgun still pressed against my shoulder.
Crazy Man laughed. “You think you’re gonna take me in?”
He was closest to the guns, so I decided to shoot him first. I aimed at the middle of his chest, tightened my finger on the trigger.
Footsteps from behind me in the house, splitting my attention.
I looked away for a nanosecond as Whitney Holbrook appeared in the doorway, a subgun pressed to her shoulder. She screamed, “DON’T MOVE!”
Everything started to happen in slow motion.
I returned my attention to the two suspects.
The little guy in the skullcap had a revolver in his hand, a weapon that seemed to have appeared out of thin air.
Crazy Man grabbed for the MAC-10 on the table.
I brought the muzzle of my gun back to Crazy Man. Took up the rest of the slack in the trigger.
The guy in the skullcap fired, and what felt like a brick slammed into my stomach.
There was no sound associated with any of this. The only thing I could hear came from behind me, Price Anderson grunting frantically through his gag.
I staggered backward as spits of flame erupted between Whitney Holbrook and Crazy Man, both firing their subguns at each other.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, I managed to squeeze the trigger of my MP-5, firing a short burst toward the little man in the skullcap, not my original target.
Black holes blossomed in the man’s tunic as he yanked the trigger again, and another bullet slammed into my chest.
I staggered away from the house, hit the deck railing.
My chest felt like an elephant had been tap-dancing on my torso.
I fell to the wooden surface, landing on my side, facing the house and the chair where Price Anderson was tied. I was beneath the last rung of the railing, my back on the edge of the deck, the water about thirty feet below me.
Price cranked his head my way, eyes pleading.
I didn’t understand why. I wanted to ask, but my lungs weren’t working.
He looked down.
My eyes followed his, and I saw what was underneath his chair.
Two sticks of dynamite and an electronic device of some sort.
I reached an arm toward him, which was enough to upset my balance on the edge of the deck.
The fall to the water seemed to take an eternity.
I thought about my daughter and Piper. I wondered who the man with the crazy eyes was.
The water felt warm. I didn’t try to fight it when my head went under the surface.
From a long way off came the sound of an explosion.
Then everything went black.
- CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN -
On the largest of the TV screens, Sarah watches smoke billow toward the sky, black and oily.
She’s in the back room of Malcolm’s, sitting at the table with her attorney, Stodghill, and his fiancée, the woman dressed like a stripper.
About half the TVs are tuned to news channels, all of which are covering the explosion on the outskirts of San Saba. One of the network affiliates out of Waco has a chopper circling the blast area, and this is the feed most of the channels are running.
The bartender is staring at the TV. The bookies have quit talking on their cell phones, stopped scribbling notes, engrossed in the footage of destruction.
Before the news of the explosion interrupted everything, Sarah had told Stodghill her story—an abbreviated, sanitized version, because even a lawyer who advertises on a billboard across from the county jail has some ethics.
She explained that she might be a suspect in the killing of a deputy in a motel in Central Texas, as well as in the murders of two homeless people near downtown Dallas.
Stodghill took notes on a cocktail napkin, asking the occasional question, particularly about witnesses and physical evidence.
Sarah didn’t say anything about the gun she used or the throwaway phones. The phones had been smashed with a hammer and tossed into Turtle Creek, a few miles south of their current location. The Python, her grandfather’s weapon, Elias took.
She also told him about the only potential witness, the only reliable one anyway—the sheriff she encountered leaving the motel. Stodghill asked if she knew the officer’s name. She told him: Jonathan Cantrell. Stodghill put his pen down and stared at the tabletop, his brow knitted in thought. Before he could respond, the news about the attack on the power plant had appeared on one of the TVs, and everything changed.
Now they’ve switched from coffee back to beer.
Sarah and Stodghill watch the screen while Darcie taps on her cell and smacks her gum, seemingly oblivious to what’s happening.
“Damn terrorists.” Stodghill drains his glass.
Sarah tries to muster some feeling about the destruction of the power plant, a slice of concern or empathy for those affected. She gets nothing.
She does, however, feel a wellspring of anger building, wrath at what her brother has done and what her lover, Price, has failed to stop.
After a while all she feels is dirty, as tainted as the black smoke wafting heavenward.
The camera on the news copter shifts to a one-story house on the shore of the lake by the power plant. The home has a large wooden deck jutting out over the water. In the middle of the deck is a ragged hole like a huge fist had been punched through the wood.
In the driveway sits a pickup that looks like the one used by Elias and Alfie.
The realization hits Sarah like a turning page. Without being told, she knows her brother is dead.
An emptiness that is more than words can describe invades her mind, growing larger and larger.
Behind the pickup are several squad cars, vehicles that appear to belong to the local sheriff or police department. Behind the squad cars are two ambulances.
On the bottom of the screen, a ticker runs the latest updates.
TWO SUSPECTS IN SAN SABA TERRORIST ATTACK CONFIRMED DEAD. TWO LAW-ENFORCEMENT OFFICERS WOUNDED. THIRD BODY UNIDENTIFIED.
Stodghill holds up the empty beer pitcher, catches the bartender’s eye.
Sarah says, “Darcie, why don’t you go powder your nose again.”
The young woman sighs loudly. “Are you like the boss of me or what?”
Stodghill points to the restrooms. “Go.”
The woman pouts but does as requested, sashaying across the room.
Stodghill says, “I assume what’s coming next is attorney-client privilege.”
“I need to ask you a question,” Sarah says. “A hypothetical.”
The lawyer nods.
“What if the gun used to shoot the deputy at that motel is found in possession of the people who blew up that power plant?”
He doesn’t reply. Instead he stares off in the distance, stroking his chin.
Sarah says, “That would get me off the hook, wouldn’t it?”
- CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT -
The smell of rubbing alcohol. An intercom blared in the distance.
The bed was warm, the covers snug.
I didn’t want to be awake. I wanted to continue the dreamless sleep, adrift in the vast nothingness.
Then I heard the gurgle of an infant—a happy sound—and a soft shush from a familiar voice.
I opened my eyes.
Piper Westlake was sitting by the window, bouncing a baby on her lap.
Elizabeth, our daughter.
I blinked, tried to focus. My head hurt.
They both looked healthy.
Piper had cut her hair, short and spiky. She’d dyed it, too—brunet, no longer blond. She wore a pair of faded jeans, pointy-toed cowboy boots, and a Butthole Surfers
concert T-shirt. She’d always been tall and lean, but she looked even more so now. Her arms were sinewy, her skin tan.
Elizabeth was wearing a peach-colored romper and tiny Chuck Taylor tennis shoes. Her arms were plump with baby fat.
“You’re alive,” Piper said.
I coughed, tried to clear my throat. “I hope so.” My voice was croaky.
“You gave us quite a scare.”
“How long have I been here?” I looked around. Saw a hospital room that looked vaguely familiar.
“Almost two days now. You nearly drowned.”
I sat up. My head spun. A bandage encircled my left bicep.
“You’ve got a concussion, a bullet graze to the arm, and some bruised ribs.”
“Are we in Waco?” I glanced around the room again.
Piper nodded. Elizabeth stuck her foot in her mouth.
“How’s the kiddo?” I asked.
“She’s good.” Piper’s voice was flat.
“How are you?”
“Sleep deprived. But other than that okay.” She paused. “You shouldn’t try to talk too much. Lie back down and take it easy.”
We were both silent for a moment as our daughter chewed on her shoe.
I said, “Can you see a Bed Bath and Beyond from the window?”
Piper craned her neck, looked outside. She nodded.
This was Kelsey’s room, the widow of my murdered deputy.
Karma had come full circle. Or something. I eased down, closed my eyes. When I opened them again, it was dusk outside and another woman was sitting where Piper had been.
She was dressed like a law-enforcement officer—a khaki shirt with a badge on the breast, a Colt semiautomatic pistol on her hip.
I blinked to bring her into focus. When I could see better, it was dark outside, and she was gone.
The door to the room opened and a nurse entered, carrying a tray of food. A doctor followed. The nurse took my vitals while the doc told me I was lucky to be alive. I picked at the meal, eating only about half. I drank several glasses of water.
Bits and pieces came back to me. The man with the dark hair and the crazy eyes. His companion, a small guy, dressed like an Islamabad street vendor.
The doctor told me I would make a full recovery but that I would need to rest for the next few days to allow my brain to heal.
I remembered the explosion at the power plant. Whitney arriving—
“What about the agent who was with me?” I asked the nurse. “Whitney Holbrook?”
“You need to rest,” the nurse said.
“Is she okay?”
The nurse and the doctor looked at each other. The doctor said, “She survived the attack. But she’s suffered a much worse concussion than you did.”
“How much worse?”
The doc sat on the foot of my bed. “Look, Agent Cantrell. I wish I could tell you more, but we’re pretty strict about the HIPAA laws around here.”
A wave of pain in my skull made my vision blurry.
They prepared to leave.
“Would you send Piper back in then?” I said. “She was just here.”
“Who?” the nurse asked.
“Piper Westlake.”
Blank stares from both of them.
“Midthirties, about five-eight. Wearing jeans and a, um—a concert T-shirt.” I paused. “She had a baby with her.”
The doc made a note on my chart. “No one’s been in your room, Agent Cantrell. The police have a guard outside your door.”
“There’re federal agents all over the hospital, too,” the nurse said. “Half the state’s on lockdown because of the terrorist attack.”
My head felt like someone was trying to dig their way out from behind my temple. I rubbed my forehead, willing away the throbbing.
The doctor peered at my face. “Let’s give you a little something for the pain.”
“I’m okay.”
The nurse had already injected a substance into my IV.
A moment later, everything became hazy and pleasant, a golden sheen on the surface of life.
“We’re going to wake you up in a few hours,” she said. “Make sure your head’s doing okay.”
I nodded and smiled. She was so nice. Painkillers were so awesome. The doctor was nice, too. He was nice and awesome.
They left. A moment later, the door opened, and the woman with the badge entered.
She stood by the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Awesome,” I said. “And sleepy. Who are you?”
“I’m a Texas Ranger,” she said. “My name is Moreno. You and me, we need to talk.”
- CHAPTER FORTY-NINE -
I woke at seven the next morning to sunlight streaming into the hospital room.
My body had turned a corner. The ache in my head was nearly gone. The bruised ribs were only a minor throb, and the flesh wound in my bicep itched now instead of hurting.
I felt the need to be moving, to check on Whitney Holbrook and get the details on the attack at San Saba. But even more than that, I was eager to leave the hospital. I wanted to find Piper. Continue the investigation into who killed my deputy.
My clothes were in the closet, stiff and smelling of mold from being in the lake.
I was wondering how to quickly and easily get a new set when a nurse entered the room and corralled me back in bed. Once there, she checked my heart and blood pressure and administered several tests to determine how the recovery from my concussion was progressing.
I did everything to her satisfaction, so I asked her when I could check out. She told me the doctor would be along shortly.
She left, and an orderly brought in a breakfast tray. I devoured the meal almost before he left the room. As I drank the last of the surprisingly good coffee, the door opened yet again and the Texas Ranger from the night before, Moreno, entered.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Like I’m ready to get out of here.”
“The feds want to debrief you about the attack.” She moved to the window. “I thought I’d slide in before your dance card got full.”
“You’re part of the team investigating the murder of my deputy, aren’t you?”
She nodded.
“What do you have for me?” I pushed the tray away.
“A math problem,” she said. “Certain things aren’t adding up right.”
I got out of bed, walked to the window. Bed Bath & Beyond wasn’t open yet.
“The two rounds that hit your bulletproof vest,” she said. “They were fired by the same gun that killed your deputy.”
My head got dizzy. I shuffled back to the bed, sat down.
“The guy that shot you,” she said. “He was a three-time loser from Tyler, currently on parole.”
I rubbed my forehead, the headache returning all of a sudden.
“Alfie Washington, that was his name,” she said. “You ever run across him before?”
“No.”
“Alfie killed his mother when he was sixteen. He was about as Muslim as Jerry Falwell.”
“Where the hell did he get the gun?” I said.
“Doesn’t matter.” Moreno turned away from the window. “Nobody’s going to spend much time figuring that out.”
I looked at her but didn’t speak. Too much was going on in my head to form a coherent sentence.
“They’ve closed the books on your deputy’s murder,” she said. “Alfie Washington’s gonna go down as the shooter.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I agree, but it’s a nice, neat package that everybody can get their head around.” She sighed. “The story is, he was meeting people online and hooked up with your deputy, who didn’t realize Alfie was a dude.”
“The guy that shot me was not SarahSmiles.�
�� Even as I spoke the words I wondered if Alfie and SarahSmiles could somehow be tied together.
Nothing about that made sense, however.
Sarah was a loner. And where was Alfie when Cleo Fain was attacked on the side of the road?
“The day your deputy was killed, Alfie Washington’s cell phone pinged a couple of towers near the murder scene.”
“I saw someone leaving the hotel. She was not a black man.”
“Oh yes.” Moreno smiled. “The woman with the Dallas Cowboys hat who may or may not have been using SarahSmiles as an alias to meet men.”
“There has to be a record of her IP addresses when she logged on to the site,” I said. “Do they match Alfie’s phone?”
A few moments passed before Moreno shook her head.
“So who is SarahSmiles?” I asked.
“Nobody knows.” She paused. “And the Texas Rangers have stopped trying to figure that out.”
I swore.
“Alfie Washington represents a twofer,” she said. “He killed your deputy and was part of one of the most audacious terrorist attacks since 9/11.”
Noise from the hallway. Feet shuffling, voices talking.
Moreno strode to the door. She opened it a notch and said to the people outside, “Agent Cantrell is feeling a little dizzy. Let’s give him another few minutes, okay?”
I heard grumbling, but no one came in.
Moreno shut the door. “I’m not done with you yet.”
“I need you to get me some clean clothes. Mine were ruined in the lake.”
She ignored my request. “Tell me everything you remember about the woman you saw leaving the motel.”
“What’s it matter? The Rangers have stopped looking.”
“Officially, yeah.” She smiled. “Some of us don’t like to give up, though.”
The expression on her face was friendly but determined. Despite her age—midforties—she was an old-school cop. A dog with a bone. Not going to let go until they pried it from her jaws.
I told her everything, starting with the text at the diner telling me where my deputy’s pickup had been spotted.
At the rear entrance of the motel, a woman in a shapeless blue raincoat and oversized sunglasses and a Dallas Cowboys ball cap. Attractive, somewhere in her thirties. Maybe five foot six or seven.
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