Wyoming Bold (9781460320891)

by Palmer, Diana

  “His name is Sheriff Hayes Carson. There was an assassination attempt against him by one of the drug lords he arrested, just before Thanksgiving. He and his fiancée were kidnapped by some of El Ladŕon’s men and held across the border in Mexico. They escaped. But Carson says he had a run-in with one of the drug cartel henchmen before that. There was a DEA agent in a suit who was at the scene. The local police chief’s secretary saw the guy, and has a photographic memory, but even when the police artist drew him, neither Carson nor the feds could recall him.”

  “Curious,” Mallory murmured.

  “Yes. I remembered, after Merissa came here, that it was a DEA agent, in a suit, who led me into the ambush on the border.”

  Mallory let out a long breath. “Good God.”

  “Merissa says the same guys are coming after me because they’re afraid of what I’ll remember. The damnedest thing is, I don’t remember anything that would help convict someone. I only remember the pain and the certainty that I was going to die, there in the dust, covered in blood, all alone.”

  Mallory got up and laid a heavy, affectionate hand on his shoulder. “That didn’t happen, though. A concerned citizen saw you and called the law.”

  He nodded. “I vaguely remember that. Mostly it was a voice, telling me that I’d be all right. Had a Spanish accent. He saved my life.” He closed his eyes. “There was another man, arguing with him, telling him to do nothing. It was too late—he’d already made the call by then. I remember the other man’s voice. He was cussing. He had a Massachusetts accent.” He laughed. “Sounded like old history tapes of President John Kennedy, actually.”

  “What did he look like?”

  Tank frowned. He closed his eyes again, trying to remember. “I just vaguely remember. He was wearing a suit. He was tall and very pale with red hair.” He started. “I never thought of that.” He opened his eyes and looked at Mallory. “I think he was a DEA agent.” He frowned. “But why would he tell the other man not to get help for me if he was a fed?”

  “Was he the same one who took you out there?”

  Tank frowned. “No. No, it couldn’t have been him. That guy, the DEA guy, had dark hair and a Southern drawl.”

  “Did you describe him to the sheriff?”

  Tank got up. “No, but I’m about to.”

  He picked up his cell phone, found Hayes Carson’s number in the stored files and autodialed the number.

  It only took three rings before Hayes answered. “Carson.”

  “It’s Dalton Kirk, in Wyoming. I’ve just remembered a man who called for help when I was shot. There was another man with him who tried to stop him from calling 911. The other man was tall, with red hair and a Massachusetts accent. Does that sound anything like the man you remember?”

  Hayes actually laughed. “No. Our guy was tall and sandy-haired and had a slight Spanish accent.”

  “A Spanish guy with blond hair?” Tank chuckled.

  “Well, people from Northern Spain are often blond and blue-eyed. Some have red hair. And they say the Basque people of Spain settled in Scotland and Ireland.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Neither did I, but one of our federal agents is a history nut. He knows all about Scotland. He told me.”

  “This whole thing is really strange. The man who led me into the ambush was tall and dark-haired. The man who was with the guy who called 911 was a red-head. But I remember them both wearing the same suit.” He shook his head. “Maybe the trauma unseated my memory.”

  “Or maybe the man uses disguises.” Hayes was thinking, hard. “Listen, did you ever see that movie The Saint that starred Val Kilmer?”

  Tank frowned. “Once, I think.”

  “Well, the guy was a real chameleon. He could change his appearance at the drop of a hat. He could put on a wig, change his accent, the whole deal.”

  “You think our guy might be someone like that?”

  “It’s possible. People who work in the covert world have to learn to disguise themselves to avoid detection. He may have a background in black ops.”

  “If I knew somebody in military intelligence, I might be able to find out something about that.”

  “We have a guy here, Rick Marquez. He’s a police detective in San Antonio. His father-in-law is head of the CIA. I might be able to get him to check it out.”

  “Great idea. Thanks.”

  “I don’t know if he can find out anything. Especially with the odd descriptions I’ll have to give him.”

  “Listen,” Tank said quietly, “it’s worth a try. If he’s ever used disguises in the past, there’s a chance somebody will remember him.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. But in covert work, I don’t imagine using disguises is exactly a rare thing,” Hayes said. He hesitated. “There’s another interesting connection, in my case.”

  “What?”

  “My fiancée’s father, her real father, is one of the biggest drug cartel leaders on the continent.”

  There was a very significant silence on the other end of the line.

  “He helped us shut down El Ladŕon,” Hayes added quietly. “And he saved the man’s family who helped rescue me and Minette. For a bad man, he’s something of a closet angel. They call him El Jefe.”

  “A sheriff with an outlaw for a future father-in-law,” Tank said. “Well, it’s unique.”

  “So is he. I can ask him to dig into his sources and see if he can come up with anything, like a budding politician with drug cartel ties.”

  “That would be a help. Thanks.”

  “I’m just as much involved as you are. Stay in touch.”

  “I’ll do that. And we should both watch our backs in the meantime.”

  “Couldn’t agree more.”

  * * *

  TANK’S NEXT MOVE was to drive over to Merissa’s house through the blinding snow. What he wanted to talk to her about wasn’t something he was comfortable discussing over the phone. If there was an assassin after him, he might monitor calls. Anyone in black ops would have that talent.

  When he pulled up at the front door of the small cabin, Clara, Merissa’s mother, was waiting there. She smiled as Tank got out of the truck and came up the steps.

  “She said you’d come,” Clara said with a sheepish smile. “She’s lying down with a migraine headache,” she added worriedly. “She woke up with it, so the medicine isn’t working very well.”

  “Medicine from a doctor?” Tank asked softly, and with a smile.

  Clara lowered her eyes. “Herbal medicine. My grandfather was a Comanche shaman,” she said.

  His eyebrows arched.

  “I know, I’m blonde and so is Merissa, but it’s true just the same. I had a little boy just after I had Merissa. He died—” she hesitated, still upset about it after all the years “—when he was just a week old. But he had black hair and dark brown eyes. It’s recessive genes with Merissa and me, you see. Our coloring, I mean.”

  He moved a step closer. He noticed that Clara, like Merissa, immediately backed up, looking uneasy.

  He stopped dead, frowning. “Recessive genes.”

  She nodded. She swallowed, relaxing when she saw that he wasn’t coming closer.

  “Clara, I don’t really know you well enough to pry,” he began softly, “but it’s noticeable that you and Merissa start backing away from me if I come close.”

  Clara hesitated. Oddly, she trusted Tank, even though she barely knew him. “My...ex-husband...he was scary when he lost his temper.” She managed a laugh. “It’s an old reflex. Sorry.”

  “No offense taken,” he replied gently.

  She looked back up at him with wide green eyes the same shade as Merissa’s. “I divorced him, with help from our local sheriff—the one before this one. He was so kind. He
got help for us, sheltered us through the divorce and made sure my ex-husband left not only the town, but the state.” She managed a weak smile. She swallowed, not dealing with it well, even now. “We were always afraid of him, when...when he got mad. He was big, like you. Tall and big.”

  Tank looked into her eyes. “I’m a teddy bear,” he told her with pursed lips. “But if you tell anybody on my ranch that, I’ll send an email to Santa Claus and you’ll get coal in your stocking.”

  Clara, shocked, burst out laughing. “Okay.” She sobered. “Merissa says the man who led you into the ambush is coming.”

  His face hardened. “When?”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” she said. “It’s why you can’t prove it scientifically, because experiments under scientific control very rarely work. It’s sporadic. I know things, but they’re usually nebulous in my mind and I have to interpret what I see. Merissa is much more gifted than I am. It’s made her the subject of much cruelty, I’m afraid.”

  “I heard about that. May I see her?”

  “She’s not well...”

  “My older brother Mallory is subject to migraine headaches. He has high-powered medications that can prevent them if they’re taken in time. The ones he wakes up with, though, don’t even respond to meds. He has to try to sleep them off.”

  “Merissa’s are bad,” she commented. “Come on in. I’m sorry I kept you out here talking in the freezing cold!”

  “I’m wearing a very heavy jacket,” he assured her, and smiled.

  * * *

  MERISSA WAS NOT in bed. Terrible sounds of a meal returning were heard in the bathroom.

  “Oh, dear...” Clara began.

  Tank walked right into the bathroom, found a washcloth and wet it while Merissa, kneeling at the toilet, was still heaving.

  “You shouldn’t...be in here!” she protested weakly.

  “Bull. You’re sick.” He waited until the last of the spasm was over, flushed the toilet and bathed her pale face. Her green eyes were enormous. “Is it over, you think?”

  She swallowed, tasting bile. “I think so.”

  He pulled out mouthwash and poured a little in a cup, smiling as she took it and ruefully washed her mouth out. He turned on the faucet to flush it away when she pushed it out into the sink.

  He bathed her face again, as he would a child’s, appreciating her delicate, elfin beauty. Her complexion was truly peaches and cream; exquisite, like that pretty bow-shaped mouth. “You are beautiful, you know that?” he murmured softly.

  She stared at him blankly.

  “Never mind.” He put the washcloth in her hand, swung her up in his arms and carried her to bed. He tucked her in. “Just lie still. I have a friend who’s a doctor. Do you mind if I call him to come out here?”

  “Doctors don’t make house calls,” she protested weakly.

  “Oh, this one does.” He pulled out his cell phone, punched in a number, waited for a second until it was answered. “John. Hi. Tank here. Have you got a couple of minutes to take a look at a young woman with a massive migraine and no meds?”

  He paused, grinned. “Yes, she’s gorgeous,” he said, eyeing Merissa.

  There was obviously a question.

  “Merissa Baker,” Tank replied.

  Merissa closed her eyes. He wouldn’t come now. He’d know it was the witch woman, whom everyone in town avoided.

  But Tank was laughing. “Yes, she is a phenomenon. I can attest to her skills. Yes, I know you would. We’ll be expecting you. Want me to send one of the boys to drive you over?” He nodded. “No problem. I’ll call Tim right now.” He hung up, phoned Tim and gave him directions to get to the doctor.

  He turned back to Merissa and sat down next to her on the bed. “His name is John Harrison. He’s retired, but he’s one of the best physicians I’ve ever known, and his medical license is kept current.”

  Merissa removed the comforting cold wet cloth from her eyes and winced at the light. Photophobia was one of the symptoms of the condition. “Dr. Harrison? He’s fascinated with psychic phenomena,” she pointed out. “They say he was friends with one of the researchers who used to work in the parapsychology department of a major college back East years ago.”

  “That’s true. He thinks you’re fascinating. He can’t wait to meet you,” he told her.

  She sighed and put the cloth back over her eyes. “That’s a new thing, all right. Most people never want to meet me. They’re afraid I’ll curdle the milk.”

  “You’re no witch,” Tank scoffed. “You just have a gift that’s outside the area of established science. In a couple of hundred years, scientists will research it just as they research other conditions. You know, two hundred years or more ago, there was no antibiotic, and doctors had no clue about exactly how disease processes worked.”

  “We’ve come a long way from that.”

  He nodded. “Indeed we have. Tummy feeling better?”

  “A bit, yes. Thanks.”

  Clara was standing in the doorway, looking perplexed. “The herbs always worked before,” she commented.

  Tank looked up. “Can you make her a cup of strong black coffee?”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Old home remedy for asthma attacks and headaches. You know, most of the over-the-counter medicines for headaches contain caffeine.”

  Clara laughed. “I’ve learned something. I know herbs, but I’d never thought about coffee as a drug. I’ll make the coffee right now.”

  “I love coffee,” Merissa whispered. “I couldn’t face breakfast this morning, so I missed my first cup of the day.”

  “We’ll get you better. Don’t worry.”

  She swallowed. The pain was intense. “This is really nice of you. The doctor, I mean.”

  “He’s a good friend.”

  She peered at him from under the washcloth. “You’re good with sick people.”

  He shrugged. “I thought about being a doctor myself, at one time. But I have a hard time sticking to things. Maybe a touch of adult ADD.” He chuckled, alluding to Attention Deficit Disorder.

  She smiled. “Well, thanks.”

  He smiled back and tucked the washcloth over her eyes. “I imagine the light is uncomfortable, even with the curtains closed. Mallory has to have a dark room and no noise when he gets these headaches.”

  There were sounds in the kitchen and the delicious smell of brewing coffee. A couple of minutes later, Clara walked in carrying two cups. She handed one to her daughter, and the other to Tank. His contained just cream, no sugar.

  He gaped at her. “How did you know how I drink my coffee?”

  She shrugged and sighed.

  He laughed. “Well, thanks. It’s just right.”

  She smiled.

  * * *

  THE DOCTOR, JOHN Harrison, was tall, with gray hair and light blue eyes. He smiled as Clara escorted him into the bedroom, where Tank was sitting beside Merissa on the bed.

  Tank got to his feet and the men shook hands.

  John opened his bag, got out his stethoscope, and sat down beside the pale woman.

  “Dr. Harrison, thank you so much for coming,” Merissa said in a weak voice.

  “This is how things used to be done, in the old days when I got out of medical school,” he said. “I can’t tell you how many elderly people who could barely walk almost cheered when I showed up at their doors. Now that I’m old, I understand. It’s hard on the joints to sit for an hour or two waiting to see the doctor.”

  He listened to her chest, checked her vital signs and then looped the stethoscope around his neck. He had her do some very simple exercises and he checked her pupils.

  “I haven’t had a stroke,” she teased.

  His eyebrows shot up. “How did you know I thought
that?”

  “I don’t know.” She flushed. “These things just slip out.” She sighed. “My life would be so much easier if I were normal.”

  He laughed softly, pulled out a small bottle and unwrapped a syringe. He attached the needle, inserted it into the bottle, pushed out air, filled it to a notch and put the bottle down.

  “This may sting a bit.” He used an alcohol wipe on her arm before he slid the needle in gently. A few seconds later, he withdrew it. She hadn’t even flinched.

  “Didn’t sting at all. I feel horrible.”

  “Do you get the aura?” he asked.

  “Yes. Usually I just go blind in one eye, with static like you see on a television screen when there’s no channel coming up. But this time there were brightly colored lights.”

  He nodded. “Do you have a family physician?”

  “We went to Dr. Brady, but he moved to Montana,” she said softly. “We go to clinics now.”

  “You can consider me your family physician, if you like,” he offered. “And I do make house calls.”

  “That would be so kind of you,” she said, with heartfelt gratitude. “You see, we frighten most people, Mama and I.”

  “I’m not frightened of you. I’m intrigued. That injection will make you sleep. When you wake up, the headache should be gone. But if the headache worsens or you have new symptoms, you must call me.”

  “I will,” she promised.

  “And I think you should have a CT scan. Just to rule out anything dangerous.”

  “I hate tests,” she groaned. “But I’ve had them already. The neurologist didn’t find anything like a tumor in the scans. He said it’s migraine without a specific cause.”

  “Do you mind if I contact him?” he asked. “I know we’ve only just met...”

  She smiled. “I don’t mind at all.” It was very nice having a doctor who didn’t feel that she and Clara were “peculiar.” “I’ll write his number down for you.” She did, on a piece of paper, and handed it to him. He slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  He patted her on the shoulder. “When you’re better, I’d like to talk to you about this gift of yours. When I was in college, I did several courses of anthropology. I still audit courses on the internet, to keep up with what’s going on in the field. Every community since recorded history has had people with unusual gifts.”