She nodded. “In my truck.” Parks and Wildlife had made the vests standard issue a while back, after a game warden got shot when he was making an arrest. She wore it whenever she thought there might be trouble, and when she wore it, she always thought of her father.
“Good.” He looked at his watch. “Six thirty, Reagan Wells, Baptist church parking lot. If you’ve got night-vision goggles, bring them.” And then, with a half-defiant glance at China, he pulled Mack to him and kissed her quickly.
“Wear that vest,” he hissed in her ear.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
• • •
JACK Krause, cuffed and under arrest, did give Mack a hard time, not just screaming profanities but pummeling the seat with his feet. The front and rear cabs were separated by a cage-wire panel and a sliding-glass bulletproof panel, so when she got tired of listening to his rant, she slid the glass panel closed. And when she got to the county jail, she booked him on two charges—misdemeanor violations and obstruction (noting that it was not just verbal obstruction)—before she turned him over to the officer behind the desk for processing. She took the iPad and the video camera to the evidence locker, where she checked them in and got receipts for both. China came in a few moments later, and they sat with Amy, Chris, and Sharon, one at a time, to make a digital record of their statements. It would be transcribed by a secretary and faxed to them for their signatures. That done, she walked with China out to her panel van, which (China told her) was called Big Red Mama. It fit, she thought, and had to smile at the psychedelic swirls painted on the sides.
“You’re heading back to the ranch?” she asked, hunching against the cold wind blowing down from the north, clearing out the clouds. Her heavy jacket was in the truck. She was going to need it tonight, she thought.
China nodded. “Mom should be there by the time I get back.” She sighed. “I’m not looking forward to telling her about Sue Ellen, Mack. She’ll be devastated.”
“I’m sorry,” Mack said inadequately. Death was like a stone cast into a river, the ripples moving out in all directions, encountering rocks and hidden snags and distant shores. Sue Ellen’s death would be making a great many ripples, for a very long time. “What’s going on with Sam?” she asked. “Is he better, worse?”
“I don’t know what’s going on. Leatha wouldn’t tell me. She just said we’d talk it over tonight.” China reached into her van, took out a nylon Windbreaker, and began pulling it on over her hoodie. “Sounds pretty serious, Mack. I’m afraid . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence.
“Yeah. It does. Sound serious, I mean.” Mack paused. “I need to thank you for all you’ve done in the past couple of days.”
“Done?” China’s eyebrows went up and she smiled crookedly. “Not me. I’m just a bystander. You guys are doing the heavy lifting.”
“Hey, come on,” Mack protested. “You’re the one who got Sue Ellen to tell you what her husband was up to. You listened to me and to the drone crew, and you put everything together. If you hadn’t connected all those crazy dots, Ethan and I might still be scratching our heads and wondering which way to turn next.”
“I doubt that,” China said with a wry chuckle. “But if you want to hand out a little credit—sure, I’ll get in line. Next time I need a favor down here in Uvalde County, I’ll know who to ask. You.” She grinned. “And that hunky deputy of yours.”
Mack thought of objecting that Ethan wasn’t her hunky deputy, at least not yet. But all she said was, “You do that, China. We owe you.”
“It’s a deal.” China got into her van and rolled down the driver’s-side window. “And don’t forget to do what Ethan told you.”
“What’s that?” Mack shivered. It was really getting cold.
China started her van. “Wear your vest. Arms and legs can be repaired and put back in service. I don’t want to hear that my game warden buddy was taken out by a big one in the chest.”
• • •
IT was five forty-five and getting dark by the time Mack finished up the paperwork in the sheriff’s office and looked in on Krause in his holding cell to remind him that he was being monitored. Checking for a change in plans, she called Ethan on his cell phone to keep their arrangements off the radio (you never knew who had a police scanner and was making a career out of listening to the dispatches). He reported that he’d gotten the necessary search and arrest warrants and that they were on track for a meet-up at six thirty. “Vest,” he added. “Wear it. And get something to eat. We may be out there for a while tonight.”
“How about you?” There wasn’t much in the way of fast food at the north end of the county. “I’ll stop at the Dairy Queen. Want me to bring you a burger?”
“Hell of a deal. Bacon cheeseburger with extra jalapeños, onion rings, double catsup, large Coke.”
“Roger that,” she said. “Man after my own heart.”
“Damn straight,” he said with emphasis, and she laughed.
She went through the Dairy Queen’s drive-in lane, getting Ethan’s order and a burger, onion rings, and Diet Coke for herself, then headed up U.S. 83, enjoying the rich, fatty fragrance of the food and eating with relish as she drove. Burger and rings (always with about a quart of catsup and more salt than was good for her) had been her comfort food since she was a teenager, and tonight she could use a little comfort. She had a healthy fear of what might go down, up there at the Bar Bee. She’d been shot at before, and she’d even been hit once, in the shoulder, painfully but not seriously. But that came with the badge. It happened—it was part of the job when you dealt with people with guns, some of whom had no idea how to manage their weapons. She was more afraid that she’d screw something up, that in spite of the brave face she had put on, she wouldn’t be able to hold up her end. It was always important to do the work well, but more important now, with Ethan there, watching.
The thought of Ethan and that last impetuous kiss made her heart race—and yes, the chemistry was definitely working. She couldn’t think of him without wanting him, wanting him to hold her, make love to her. But that wasn’t going to get in the way of doing her job. And she wasn’t going to let him down in front of his colleagues, or give him a reason to be concerned about her safety. Period. Paragraph. End of story.
She stuffed the napkin in the paper bag, wadded it up, and turned on the flasher lights and siren, the road opening up in front of her truck like a lighted tunnel bored through the heavy dark. There was no traffic, the highway was clear, and she loved driving flat out, although she watched for the kamikaze deer that were known to dash across the highway. She made it the rest of the way to Reagan Wells in seventeen minutes.
The village had never been very big—a population of fifty at the most, in the days when wealthy health seekers came to stay in the two-story frame hotel, soak themselves in the restorative mineral waters, and saunter along the river, breathing in the clean, sage-scented air. Back then, before automobiles, the town boasted not only a post office but a sorghum mill, a fruit cannery, and a general store that provisioned the dozen or so cattle and sheep ranches in the grasslands along the river and up the tributary creeks.
The river was still there, of course, the Dry Frio, which sometimes did and sometimes didn’t have water in it—mostly it didn’t now, because the drought had hit the area hard. Like the river, the town had shrunk down to a single church and a few houses strung along the asphalt road and a historical marker celebrating the first settlers, the Heards and the Bohmes and the Joneses, who had arrived after the Civil War. It was full dark now, and you couldn’t see the houses, just the lights in the windows and an occasional mercury vapor light casting its icy blue glow over a barn or a driveway or somebody’s cluttered yard. But Mack knew from her patrols in the area that Sycamore Mountain rose to the west, between the Dry Frio and the Nueces, and that there were a number of small resorts and vacation cabins along the river, ranging from the pri
mitive and rustic to the palatial. And somewhere to the north and west, on the flank of Sycamore Mountain, was the Bar Bee Ranch, and the Perrys, and some stolen fawns and smuggled white-tails.
The church, a small brick building, stood on the outskirts of town. When Mack pulled into the graveled parking lot, she saw the vehicles—two white sheriff’s pickups, an unmarked SUV, and a marked police car from Sabinal—all parked to one side, headlights off. The SUV doors were open, a Maglite was hung on the door, and six men in cowboy hats were gathered around, peering at a laptop screen. From the stiffness of their movements, Mack guessed that at least some of them were wearing their vests. She took hers out from behind the seat, pulled off her jacket, and put it on, fastening the Velcro bands. It was cool and tight and constrained her movements, but the heaviness gave her a reassuring security. She put her jacket back on, pulled up the collar against the chill wind, and grabbed the sack of Ethan’s still-warm food. Then she thought better of it, put the sack back in the truck, and walked toward the SUV. She didn’t want the other men to think she was running anybody’s errands.
“Hey, Chambers,” Ethan hailed her. “Meet the team. Guys, this is Warden Chambers.” He pointed around the small circle, and in the glow of the Maglite, Mack saw that all of the men were wearing badges. “Davenport, Murphy, Coxey, Jackson, Davies. Davenport and Murphy are sheriff’s deputies,” he added. “Coxey is the Sabinal chief of police, and Jackson and Davies are his officers.”
There were grunts and half grins and skeptical glances, and Mack felt the weight, once again, of being the only woman in a group of law enforcement officers, some of whom weren’t accustomed to working with a woman. She straightened her shoulders and nodded, meeting the eyes of each man briefly, committing their names to memory. Deputies Davenport and Murphy were both large and burly, Davenport with an unlit cigar in his mouth, Murphy pulling on a cigarette. Uniformed and in full duty gear, they looked confident and at ease, as if they did this every day. (They probably did.) Chief Coxey, white-haired and with a white mustache, was also uniformed, but didn’t look quite so comfortable. Jackson had a nose that had been broken at least twice, while Davies had the mild and slightly bemused look of a Sunday School teacher. Both were in jeans and jackets, and Mack got the idea that Coxey had probably pulled them away from a quiet family evening. All of the men wore holstered sidearms.
Ethan made room for her, and she joined the circle beside him. They were looking at a Google map on the laptop. “Before we get into the map, let me fill you in,” Ethan said. “We have warrants for the arrest of Thomas Perry on probation violations and Ronald Perry for suspected Lacey Act violations and conspiracy to commit theft. They are persons of interest in two homicides.” He paused. “Warden Chambers will execute the search warrant. She’s looking for stolen white-tails and other items, as well as deer smuggled into the state.”
“Are they brothers?” Coxey asked. “Father-son?”
“Brothers,” Davenport replied, around his cigar. “Lucky is the badass one—that’s the name Thomas goes by. I served a protective order on him six or seven years ago, out there somewhere around Sycamore Mountain. It was some woman wanting him to keep his distance. Couldn’t say I blamed her. The guy’s got a quarter-inch fuse.”
“What about the other brother?” Ethan asked. “Ronald.”
“That would be Duke, if I recall.” Davenport scratched his nose thoughtfully. “Seemed like a reasonable sort. Tried to tamp down his brother, without a lot of success.”
Ethan nodded. “A man driving a truck registered to Thomas Perry forced a woman off the road on the Three Gates Ranch. She died when her car burst into flames. We have a surveillance video of the homicide. We also have reason to believe that one or both Perrys were involved in the murder of Doc Masters on Thursday. Both homicides appear to be cover-ups for a deer-smuggling scheme and thefts of animals and semen from Three Gates.” He paused. “Oh, yeah. We’ve got one other man, Jack Krause, already in custody. It was his wife who died in the car wreck.”
“Krause, huh?” Coxey said. “I know him. He’s a big guy. He give you any trouble?”
“Dunno,” Ethan said. “Chambers took him in and booked him.” He turned to Mack, dark eyebrows raised, a half-amused smile at the corner of his mouth. “He give you any trouble?”
“A little mouth, but nothing I couldn’t handle,” Mack said carelessly, and a chuckle went around the circle.
“You don’t want to mess with Chambers,” Ethan remarked, and the chuckle went around the circle again.
“Did I hear right?” Murphy asked. “You got a surveillance video out there at Three Gates?” For a heavy man, he had a high, squeaky voice. “How in the hell did you manage that?”
“Drone,” Ethan said.
“What? What’d you say?” Murphy piped. “Drone?”
Ethan grinned at Murphy. “Yeah, I know, Murph. The latest gimmick. Next thing you know, we’ll all be conducting aerial surveillance. Just the next tool in the box, is all.”
Murphy shook his head with a now-I’ve-heard-everything expression. Davenport gave a skeptical harrumph. “This I gotta see,” he muttered.
“You will,” Ethan promised. He turned to the group. “So here’s the deal. The Perrys live on a ranch on the east flank of Sycamore Mountain. We’ll take all vehicles and caravan up 1051 to where it forks.” He traced the route on the map on the screen with his finger. “We’ll follow the left fork for about three miles, until we cross Bee Creek. After that, there’s a mailbox. That’s where we’ll turn right.” He looked around the circle. “Anybody know this area? Is the bridge marked?”
There was general headshaking. “I been out there several times,” Davenport said, giving his duty belt a hitch. “But I never noticed a bridge. You sure about that?”
Mack said, “It’s not a bridge. It’s a low-water crossing with a white-painted five-foot flood gauge on each side. As I remember, it’s the only low-water crossing on that fork of 1051. The mailbox is marked ‘Perry’ and ‘Bar Bee.’” In a lower voice, she added to Ethan, “There’s a gated community on the right fork of 1051. Could be there’s a cell phone tower in the area. Maybe use Krause’s phone? See if the Perrys are at home?”
Ethan nodded briefly. “Smart idea.” He raised his voice. “Y’all get that detail about the low-water crossing? We’ll pause there to let everybody catch up, then make a right at the mailbox just beyond. At that point, turn on your handheld radios, turn off your headlights. We’ll run dark. The ranch house is maybe two miles back and up, and they may have a scanner, so we won’t use the county radio. Here’s the layout. Give it a good look. I don’t want anybody getting lost.”
He brought up Google Earth and zoomed in tight enough to see that the ranch house was a small, compact dwelling with what looked like a gray metal roof. The ranch road crossed an open area and led up to the house, ending in a parking area to the left of the house. There was a cedar brake to the right of the house and a cluster of outbuildings and fences behind it. Farther to the left, down by Bee Creek, lay a narrow green strip, cleared of trees and shrubs, and mowed, with a rounded-roof structure—a Quonset hut—at the end closest to the compound.
Ethan tilted the image, and they could see that the house and outbuildings were set against the side of a hill, and that the mowed strip along the creek was level. He zoomed back out and they could see Route 1051, a thin white line looping through the light green velvet of the Frio valley and the darker green corduroy of the hills, and then the thinner white thread of the ranch road unraveling from it.
Ethan pointed. “From the mailbox on 1051, here, parking lights only, no headlights. We’ll caravan slow and dark, bumper to bumper and quiet, with the lead vehicle spotlighting the road only as much as necessary.” He glanced up and over his shoulder, where the moon was just coming up over the hills to the east. “With that moon, we might not need a light. Or goggles.”
“
We taking all the vehicles in there?” Coxey asked nervously.
Ethan nodded. “With luck, we won’t be seen until we get up to the house. And when they do see us, I want them to see all the vehicles and realize that we’re not just a couple of guys with big mouths. So we’ll do it this way. When we get about here—” He pointed to a spot where the ranch road came out of the woods and into the meadow in front of the house. “When we get here, I’ll stop and pull around to use the truck as a shield. You pull off, park where your vehicle is visible, and leave it. No lights, no noise, no talking, weapons ready. Davenport and Jackson, you circle around to the left to cover the back, make sure nobody gets out that way. Coxey and Davies, hang to the right. Murphy, you’re with me. Chambers, you stay behind your vehicle and keep the front of the house covered.”
The thought came to Mack that he was keeping her out front with him because he was worried that she could get herself into trouble, and she bridled—then put that aside. Ethan would be where the action was, and that was where she wanted to be.
He went on. “I’ve got their partner’s cell phone, and I’ll call them, see if I can get them to come out the front door, unarmed, and surrender. If they don’t answer, or if they cut off the call, I’ll use the PA system on the truck. Everybody, keep your handhelds on. We’ll communicate that way.”
“You think it’s just the two brothers?” Coxey asked, even more nervously. Mack got the idea that this wasn’t something he did very often.
Ethan shrugged. “No way to tell. For all we know, there may be a woman or two in that house, even kids. Could be dogs penned up outside, or loose. And we have no idea about their arsenal. Hold your fire unless I give the command.” He looked around the group and his voice hardened. “Everybody got that? We don’t want another Ruby Ridge here. And for God’s sake, no friendly fire casualties.”
There was a subdued chorus of “yeahs.” Jackson pointedly nudged Davies. “Got that, Bert? Don’t shoot yourself in the foot again.”
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