The Cabin

by Carla Neggers

  She and Beau had been married for seventy-nine days. They'd known each other less than five months.

  Jack could understand how Alice Parker might have panicked coming upon her first homicide. It was late at night, she was alone, and she was young and inexperienced. But she didn't just make ordinary mistakes that night—she completely mucked up everything. Instead of immediately securing the crime scene and calling in an investigative team, she took matters into her own hands and contaminated evidence to the point that virtually nothing was of any use to investigators, never mind being able to stand up in court. The classic overzealous, incompetent loose cannon.

  But before anyone fully realized the damage she'd done, Alice Parker tried to make up for her mistakes by committing a crime herself. She produced an eyewitness, a drifter who did odd jobs and claimed he'd seen Beau McGarrity crouch in the azaleas and shoot his wife.

  That was when her chief of police got suspicious and asked the Texas Rangers to investigate. Jack unraveled Alice's story within a week. She'd found her drifter, paid him, then coached, threatened and cajoled him into lying.

  Jack refused to look the other way. Alice reluctantly admitted to fabricating a witness and plea-bargained herself from a third-degree felony to a Class A misdemeanor, then settled into state prison to serve her full one-year sentence.

  As a result of her official misconduct—and incom-petence—the murder of Rachel McGarrity remained an open, if cold, case. Jack was convinced there was more to Alice Parker's story, but she'd kept silent all these months. And now she'd served her time and was a free woman.

  A week after he'd finished the Alice Parker investigation, Susanna had headed for Boston. Jack didn't believe it was a coincidence.

  "She's not on parole," Sam reminded him. "She can go anywhere, do anything, so long as she doesn't break the law."

  Jack nodded. "Let's hope she puts her life back together."

  "She wanted to be a Ranger. That won't happen now."

  But they both knew it wouldn't have happened anyway. The Texas Rangers were an elite investigative unit within the state's Department of Public Safety. There were just over a hundred in the entire state, generally drawn from other DPS divisions, not small-town police departments.

  Jack turned away from the patio doors, hearing the closing music to Sense and Sensibility coming from the family room. "Alice Parker was in over her head as a patrol officer."

  "Maybe not as much as we think. Maybe little Alice wanted us to believe she's incompetent. Maybe she did it—maybe she killed Rachel McGarrity herself." Sam drank more of his cold tea, obviously giving this idea serious thought. "A year in prison on a plea bargain beats the hell out of a lethal injection for premeditated murder. Admit to incompetence and produce a phony witness, draw attention away from what you really did—shoot a woman in the back in her own driveway."

  Jack shook his head. "No motive, no evidence, and I don't think it's what happened. Alice knew the victim. She knew the husband. That's one of the hazards of small-town police work. She had the whole case figured out in her own head and thought she could make it all come together, put Beau McGarrity in prison and maybe get a little recognition for herself."

  "Didn't work out that way, did it? Dreams die hard, Jack." Sam set his tea glass in the sink. "Watch your back."

  Jack knew this was the real reason Sam had come to his house on New Year's Day, not to rehash the Alice Parker investigation, but to communicate his misgivings about what Alice Parker might do now that she was free. Sam Temple had good instincts. He'd graduated from the University of Texas and joined the Department of Public Safety, earning his master's degree in criminal justice on the side. He was tough-minded, decisive and naturally suspicious, but also fair. People liked Sam—they'd probably make him governor of Texas one day, if he ever decided to leave law enforcement.

  He was frowning at the kitchen counter. "What the hell is that?"

  Jack followed his gaze. "An espresso machine. The girls gave it to me for Christmas."

  "You're kidding."

  "Come on, Sam, you know what an espresso machine is."

  He grinned. "You start drinking lattes, Lieutenant Galway, and they'll throw you right out of the Rangers." But he turned serious again, calm. "If Alice Parker tries to stick her nose back into the McGarrity case or come after you—"

  "We'll find out. She's not stupid. She knows she has to put this behind her and move on." Jack started back toward the family room, clapping one hand on the younger Ranger's shoulder. "You're just looking for things to think about so you won't have to eat any more watercress sandwiches."

  "Not me. You're the one who needs distracting. Susanna was down here for New Year's last year. Bet last night was a long one for you." Sam laughed, then said out of the blue, "It's cold in Boston, you know. High of twenty today. Wind chill's below zero."

  "Good."

  "If that was my wife, I'd go fetch her." Sam's black eyes flashed. "I'd bring my cuffs."

  "Sam—"

  He held up a hand. "I know. None of my business." He sauntered into the family room and gave the girls more grief about the guy from Die Hard.

  "His name is Alan Rickman," Maggie said coolly.

  Sam shook his head. "You and Ellen have been up north too long. You're starting to sound like Teddy Kennedy."

  Jack smiled from the doorway, listening to his daughters give as good as they got from a Texas Ranger more than fifteen years their senior. They weren't shrinking violets. Neither was their mother, although sometimes Jack thought his life would be easier if Susanna would be a little more of a shrinking violet, at least once in a while.

  Not long after Alice Parker was arrested, it became apparent that Beau McGarrity wouldn't be charged for his wife's murder anytime soon. People were even starting to feel sympathy for him, believing he was innocent, the victim of police corruption and a rush to judgment.

  Jack felt the familiar mix of anger and frustration assault every muscle, every inch of him. His entire body stiffened. He was mad at Susanna, mad at himself—but he knew what he had to do. One of these days, he and his wife were going to have to have a talk about Beau McGarrity.

  * * *

  Maggie and Ellen joined him on his run the next morning. They all did five miles before Maggie pooped out, declared she was on vacation and flagged down a neighbor to drive her home. Ellen would have hung in for the full ten miles, but Jack wasn't up to it himself and veered off on a shortcut that took them back home, settling for a solid seven-mile run.

  After lunch, the girls did their laundry and started packing for their trip back to Boston in the morning. They sat folding clothes in the family room, the Weather Channel detailing the frigid temperatures still gripping the northeast.

  Ellen plopped a laundry basket on the floor and sat down cross-legged, pulling out a rugby jersey to fold. "Dad," she said, "Maggie and I have been talking, and we've decided—well, we haven't said much about you and Mom…"

  "We've tried to stay out of it," Maggie added.

  Here it comes, Jack thought. He eased onto a chair, still feeling the seven miles in his calf muscles. Thus far, his daughters had generally avoided lecturing him on his relationship with their mother. But he knew they had opinions. He could at least listen to what they had to say. "Go on," he told them.

  Ellen took a breath, as if she were about to confess to something awful or embarrassing. "We think Mom wants to be wooed."

  "Wooed?" Jack nearly choked. This was a million miles from what he'd expected. "How many Jane Austen movies did you watch yesterday?"

  "We're serious, Dad," Ellen said.

  Maggie was sorting through a stack of her vintage clothes. She and Ellen and their friends had combed through every secondhand store in San Antonio, raving over sacks of clothes they'd picked up for a few dollars.

  Most looked like rags to Jack. "We know Mom's independent and supercompetent and makes tons of money and all that," Maggie said, "and she'll watch football with you and talk
murder and stuff—"

  "But she needs romance once in a while," Ellen finished.

  "Wooing," Maggie added with a glint in her eye that said she wasn't as intensely serious about this conclusion as her sister was.

  Jack shoved a hand through his hair. It was dark, more flecked with gray than it used to be, and not, he decided, just because he was forty. Life with three females had taken its toll. When the girls headed off to college, he was getting a dog. A big, ugly, mean, male dog.

  "Girls," he said, "your mother and I have known each other since we were college students."

  Ellen pounced. "Exactly! Dad, nobody likes to be taken for granted."

  "What does that mean?"

  She groaned, shaking her head as if her father was the thickest man on the planet. She was in shorts and a rugby shirt, the bruises on her legs finally faded. The San Antonio sun had brought freckles out on her nose and cheeks, lightened her chestnut hair. As far as Jack knew, neither she nor Maggie had any long-term boyfriends. Fine with him. He was in no hurry to see guys "wooing" his daughters.

  Maggie folded a pair of old-man striped golf pants, circa 1975, one of her favorites. "Everyone wants to feel they're special."

  "This isn't about blame," Ellen said. "It's not about who did what wrong. It's about how you can take the

  bull by the horns and…and…"

  "Woo your mother back," Jack supplied, deadpan.

  Ellen frowned up at him. "Yes."

  Maggie sank back against the couch. "This isn't a double standard. We're not expecting you to take on the wooing because you're a man, but because it's so obviously what Mom wants, and it's so—Dad, come on. It's so simple."

  Nothing involving Susanna Dunning Galway had ever been simple. Jack shook his head. "What kind of classes have you two been taking up in Boston?"

  Neither girl was backing down. Ellen said, "You were distracted in the weeks before we moved north. Remember? You had that police corruption case. You hate corruption cases, you didn't want to talk about it, and I think it affected you more than you or Mom realized at the time."

  Jack couldn't believe he was having a conversation with his daughters about the ramifications of his work on his relationship with his wife. "I liked you two better when I could stick you in a playpen. My work and my family life are separate. There's a fire wall between them."

  "There! You said it!" Ellen pointed at him in victory. "You keep a part of yourself walled off from Mom. You don't talk to her."

  Who was the one still pretending she wasn't worth millions? He got to his feet. He should have ended this conversation the minute they'd said "woo." It could go nowhere he wanted to go. He started for the kitchen.

  "Your mother knows the score with me and my work. I don't need to tell her. She knows where she stands."

  "Yeah," Maggie said half under her breath, "she sure does."

  His spine stiffened, but he decided to pretend he hadn't heard that one, if only because he was putting his daughters on a plane in less than twenty-four hours. They'd be off on their own soon enough. They weren't kids—they were young women. He couldn't control their every word, thought and deed. Sometimes he wished he could. Like now.

  At least their instinct was to defend their mother. Even if he were willing to fall on his sword over the problems in their marriage, take the blame for her move to Boston, say everything was his fault, it wouldn't solve anything. It was going to take a hell of a lot more than lavender sachets and fresh roses to repair what they'd had.

  He stormed out to the patio and kicked a chair. "A little goddamn honesty wouldn't hurt."

  And he knew where it would begin—with his wife, not himself.

  He could be stubborn, too.

  Wooing Susanna. Taking her for granted. What did that mean? Susanna was about as unsentimental and unromantic as he was. What would she do if he started writing her poetry? He stared up at the clear south Texas sky and thought about Boston and its high today of eighteen degrees.

  Maybe he didn't get it.

  He was still thinking about kicking more chairs when Maggie and Ellen headed out to the mall with a couple of their friends. Two minutes after they pulled out of the driveway, Alice Parker showed up at his front door. He'd forgotten how small she was. It was a wonder she'd made it through the police academy. She looked pale and tentative—the effects of her months in prison. Her blond hair was longer, pulled back in a prosaic ponytail, and she wore a white T-shirt, jeans and a lot of inexpensive gold jewelry.

  "Afternoon, Miss Parker," Jack said, his voice steady, formal. "If you have something to say to me, it can wait until I'm on duty. Not now. I don't want you at my house."

  "I know—I know. I tried calling you, but they said you were off today." Some of the tentativeness went out of her gray eyes. She was attractive—cute—but she looked tired, even drained. She met his eye. "I served my time, Lieutenant."

  "All right. What do you want?"

  "To apologize." She breathed in, her jaw set hard, as if the words were hard to get out. "I shouldn't have asked you to look the other way. That was out of line."

  "Apology accepted." He didn't ask about the rest of it—the trampling of evidence, the witness tampering, the sense he had that she was still holding back on him. A murder remained unsolved at least partially because of her actions. "Get yourself a job, Miss Parker. Move on. Rebuild your life."

  "Beau McGarrity—he's still a free man."

  Jack said nothing.

  "I guess I'll have to live with that. My police department—they're not going to solve the case. You know that, sir. They don't want it to be Beau, they don't want to stir things up again. You know, people think I tried to frame him."

  "Miss Parker—"

  "I'm thinking about moving to Australia."

  "Good luck."

  She smiled bitterly. "You don't mean that. What do you hate worse, Lieutenant, that I paid a guy to lie about seeing Beau in the azaleas—or that I'm a royal fuck-up?"

  "What I hate is seeing Rachel McGarrity's murder go unsolved." Jack narrowed his eyes on the younger woman. "There's nothing else you want to tell me, Miss Parker?"

  "Like what?"

  "Why did the anonymous call to check out the Mc-Garrity ranch come to you that night? And your relationship with Rachel McGarrity. I think you two were better friends than you've let on. Her murder isn't my case, but you still haven't told the whole story as far as I'm concerned."

  "Like you said, some things you just have to live with. See you around, Lieutenant."

  "Stay away from my house," he said. "I don't want you near my family."

  She shrugged. "Understood, sir."

  She left.

  Jack decided it might be just as well that the girls were heading back to Boston in the morning. That Susanna was there. Alice Parker obviously hadn't put Rachel McGarrity's murder behind her. She'd had a year in prison to stew. Now she was free, and if she wanted to knock on his door on a warm January afternoon, she could do it. It didn't break any laws.

  Three

  She couldn't breathe.

  Alice Parker had to pull over and concentrate on the breathing exercises she'd learned in prison to stop her panic attacks. She hated being cooped up. Even as a little kid, she couldn't stand sleeping with the door to her room shut.

  Ranger Jack scared the living shit out of her. He always had. She remembered the day he'd shown up to ask her a few questions. She'd known her goose was cooked. He was a hard man.

  He'd never forgive her. She didn't even want his for-giveness—she didn't know what had possessed her to go out to his house. She just wanted money. A chance to start over in Australia and forget who she was, a little screw-up cop who'd made sure a murderer walked. Beau McGarrity had killed her friend and mentor, and he'd never be brought to justice for it.

  Yeah, learn to live with it. Forget that. She planned to get some money off the murdering son of a bitch.

  Feeling better, Alice drove to the small town where she'd spe
nt all her life, except for her year in prison. She was driving a rusted little tank of a car that she'd bought from a fellow inmate's mother for seven hundred dollars. She had to watch her finances. She'd been out of prison three days, and she'd already plowed through a good chunk of her savings. She had a job waiting tables downtown, but that was more for show than real income—it sure as hell wasn't going to get her to Australia.

  She gripped the steering wheel with both hands, feeling the familiar tightness in her chest, the physical longing, whenever she thought about Australia. She'd gotten as many books out of the prison library as she could on Australia and dreamed of it every night from the moment she'd decided that was where she wanted to be, where she wanted to start over. Sidney, Melbourne, Perth, Adelaide— any city would do. They'd talked to her in prison about setting attainable goals. Australia seemed attainable to her. She just needed the money to get there and get started.

  The McGarrity ranch was out of town. It hadn't changed in the past year. There were still the pecan and cypress trees, the live oaks, the huge azalea bushes in front of the sprawling, one-story house. Alice turned onto the long, paved driveway. Before she'd discovered Australia, she used to dream of living in a place like this and being a Texas Ranger. She'd downloaded the names and pictures of all hundred-plus Texas Rangers off the Internet and memorized them. Rachel McGarrity used to tell her about how, if she wanted something, she needed to visualize it, make it real to her. Then it was more likely to come to be.

  Alice wasn't so sure about that anymore. She'd never visualized herself in prison, but she'd sat in a cell for a year. The stink of it was still on her, and her skin was still gray and pasty. She hadn't curled her hair or done her nails in months.