by Jodi Thomas
Over and over the cowboys mentioned that he should talk to Lucas Reyes. The owner and the ranch foreman might not have been at the fire, but Lucas was there. He’d be able to answer more questions.
The few hands from the ranch spoke of Lucas more with respect than accusation.
Blade moved to the edge of each burn, taking pictures, making educated guesses.
The sheriff left the second site to go get the owner. The guy claimed to be too drunk to remember hearing anything last night and, according to one of the firemen, Reid Collins hadn’t even been out at the sites this morning.
What kind of rancher doesn’t check his own ranch? Blade wondered as he continued his investigation alone. Looking for something different. Something new. Something that didn’t belong. Law enforcement often says that the average person committing a crime makes a dozen mistakes in a matter of seconds. Blade only had to find one.
At the back of the second burn site, he stopped to pull off his sweater and noticed a lone man on horseback, watching him from about thirty yards away. He was on open land and making no effort to hide.
Blade lowered his sunglasses and walked directly toward the rider. If the man had something to hide, he’d ride away, and Blade wanted to collect every detail to report. He snapped a few shots as he moved.
The stranger was tall, lean, and so thin his shirt flapped in the wind like a sail. He wore a tan shirt and trousers that were tucked into muddy boots. Conchos ran a dark line down the outside of his pants and a few others were shining off his saddle. His wide hat was worn low so that his entire face was shaded.
“Morning,” Blade said in greeting.
“Afternoon, kid,” the old man said. “You missed lunch an hour ago so it ain’t morning.”
Blade never remembered being called kid, even when he was one. He’d reached six feet in the sixth grade. He was close enough to the stranger to see a smile behind a tobacco-stained, gray mustache. “I ate a big breakfast at the Davis place. That Maria is a great cook. I may not be hungry till tomorrow.”
If he had any chance of getting this old guy to talk, Blade at least had to sound like a local. As a stranger, he doubted he’d have a chance, but as a friend of one of the farm families, he might learn something.
The old guy leaned on his saddle horn and looked down at Blade. “You sweet on one of them girls?”
This had nothing to do with the fire, but Blade played along. “I’m crazy about them both.”
The stranger laughed. “You sound like your daddy. He never could turn down a pretty girl. I cowboyed with your grandpa, boy, and he said your dad had a steady girlfriend from the first grade on.”
Blade forced himself not to react. “How could you know who I am or who my father was?”
“You look just like him, boy.”
“I’m not a boy or a kid.”
The cowboy spit a line of tobacco off to his left. “That you ain’t, but I am long past old and into being ancient. Name’s Fuller. Dice Fuller. Don’t mean no harm, Hamilton. Anyone under sixty is young to me. I may be thin, but like a tree, cut me open and you’ll find more than seventy rings.”
“None taken, old man, and the name’s Blade. I’m here investigating the burn site.”
“I think I could have figured that out.” He leaned down and lowered his voice. “I’ve been watching you. You’re here with the sheriff so I’m guessing you’re not just a sightseer.”
“Right. I’ve got a badge that says special agent for the ATF, but I’m here unofficially. Just trying to help out.” Blade moved closer. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the fires, would you?”
His answer came too slow to be true. “I’m just looking for my friend. He’s in trouble, I reckon. We was both rounding up the last of the cattle yesterday and got separated. I stayed around the bunkhouse until long after dark talking to the cook while she packed up. LeRoy never came in. His pickup and trailer are still parked at headquarters so I’m thinking he got thrown in the dark. There’s canyons around here a man could tumble into and not even the coyotes would find him.”
“Maybe he worked all night, or left with a friend.”
“He’s been known to drink all night, but if LeRoy worked he would have come in by dark and switched mounts. We’re used to pushing ourselves, but he wouldn’t push a horse. Something’s wrong. I can feel it in the wind. Might have nothing to do with the fires. Or maybe it does.”
Blade knew Fuller had to be the first cowboy he questioned when they got down to paperwork. If anybody saw anything, it would be this old guy. Only, Blade knew Fuller’s type. He wouldn’t be in any hurry to give up more than the facts.
“I’m walking around looking for what happened here. You wouldn’t want to walk with me?” Blade began developing that rapport he’d need. “If you’ve worked this spread, Mr. Fuller, you’ll spot something wrong or out of place before I do.”
The stranger thought about it a minute, then slowly climbed down from his horse. “I’m happy to talk to you about the ranch, Hamilton. I don’t know what happened here, but we all know there’s trouble on this spread. Something is going on. How’s a cattle ranch going to run without cattle? And—” he lowered his voice “—how do two barns half a mile apart catch fire within minutes of each other?”
Blade nodded. “You said ‘we’? Who else?”
“The cowhands. Those of us left, anyway. All the single hands headed up north last night. They heard an outfit near Denver is hiring. Those married will try to hold out until spring. Then they’ll hire on as day workers till they find another steady job.”
“You know who might have had a reason to set these barns on fire?” Blade asked, before the old guy told him everyone’s work history. “Because we both know it wasn’t an accident.”
“I know it weren’t no accident, Agent Hamilton.” Fuller smiled as he addressed Blade with respect. “But what I don’t know is if it was a crime.” The cowboy pulled off his hat and scratched his head. “If it was breaking the law, I’ve got a duty to report it. If it’s not, it ain’t none of my business. One thing you learn working big spreads. There’s some things you see and some things you forget to see.”
Blade knew he’d be wasting his time pushing. He offered his hand. “I’m glad to meet you, Dice Fuller. Hoping we have some time while I’m here to talk about my grandfather. I’d love to learn what he and my dad were like. Until last week I didn’t know much more than my father’s name.” He paused, then added, “But first, we’ve got a fire to figure out.”
Dice’s grip was strong. “You can count on me, son. I’ll help if I can.”
They walked toward what had once been a thirty-foot-high barn, still smoking in places. The old man seemed to respect the fact that Blade didn’t push him with questions. As they moved around the still-hot barn, Blade did most of the talking.
He told Dice that he’d worked a few arson fires, most in national forests, and handled several bomb alerts, but this was unknown territory for him. An isolated barn on private property. No witnesses. No reason.
“We all specialize at the bureau, but we’re federal so we go where needed. I guess that’s what I love about the job. Like this fire. If it was a crime, I think the why may be as important as the how.”
Dice seemed interested and even offered bits about how the hay was stacked and how most of it was probably a few years old. “Not worth much,” he said.
He also told how little was used last year or even the year before. Most of the supply in the barns was old because Collins sold off more and more cattle every year.
Half an hour later when the sheriff returned without the owner, Dice seemed to think he was part of the investigation team. They began listing all the scenarios: frustrated employee of the ranch, angry at being fired, rode through the rain, setting the two fires to make a point. With the rain t
here was a good chance the grass wouldn’t catch. Maybe once he saw the fire he got scared and bolted.
Next possibility: Collins set the fires or ordered someone to. No crime unless he claims insurance.
There was always the possibility of kids playing around, looking for excitement, maybe smoking pot. They could have decided to start a fire for warmth and it got out of hand. But that only explained one fire.
About the time Dice ran out of ideas, a four-wheeler pulled up. The man who climbed out didn’t look like he belonged on a ranch, but the sheriff introduced him as the owner, Reid Collins.
Collins must have crossed someone last night. His left eye was almost swollen closed and was several shades of blue. His right eye was bloodshot.
When Blade looked over at Dice he thought he could see anger building up behind the old guy’s watery blue eyes. Collins might have been his boss, but there was hatred in Dice’s stare. If all the hands felt that way about Collins, no amount of questioning would probably help find who set the fires.
Blade watched Reid Collins closely. His movements were slow for a man still in his twenties. He wore deck shoes and stepped carefully through the tall grass. Blade had no idea what Reid was on, or if he was simply hungover, but one thing was obvious: the landowner didn’t care about the damage to his barns. Half the time he showed no hint of even keeping up with the conversation.
They moved to the other site. Reid followed the sheriff’s cruiser in his four-wheeler, then reluctantly walked with the others, obviously thinking this outing was an entire waste of his time. As the embers cooled, they circled the skeleton of the barn, looking again for any clues.
When Blade turned toward the back left corner of the barn at a spot where he suspected the last fire had been set, he almost gagged. Earlier he hadn’t been able to get within ten feet, but now it had cooled some and a terrible odor drifted around him.
The air had turned putrid with a smell so bad that once you smelled it, you never forgot. It drifted into your mouth and seemed to decay there, leaving a taste almost as bad as the smell.
Dice was a few feet behind him and froze in midstep. He tugged his bandanna up over his nose. “Double damn,” he whispered. “There ain’t but one thing that smells like that.”
It was a smell like no other in the world. So terrible Blade felt his throat close up trying to keep the odor from his lungs. He’d encountered it in the army a few times and at several burn sites.
Human flesh burning. The odor of burned hair. Blood boiling to the point that it gives off a heavy, acrid odor so thick you swear you can taste it all the way to your gut.
The sheriff was several feet behind, busy writing notes. He looked up suddenly and Blade knew Brigman recognized the odor.
Reid Collins bumped into the sheriff, then yelled, “Damn! What is that smell?”
No one answered him. Brigman stepped forward and knelt in the pile of ashes spilling out of what had been the barn.
He brushed away ashes with his pencil and a hand rolled out of the rubble, its flesh burned away, its boney fingers stretching out as if for help. A gust of wind circled ashes exposing more bone.
Blade clicked a picture. The skeletal hand was curled up, with bits of charred muscle still attached to the bone.
Brigman stood. “Looks like he must have been trapped.”
“The smoke probably got to him before he could fight his way out the back.” Blade hated the smell, but he did his job. He clicked shots.
“No!” Reid yelled. “No! This isn’t happening. Maybe it’s an animal or an old skeleton buried in the barn years ago. Someone did not die in this fire last night.” The owner seemed to think yelling would make his words true.
Brigman shook his head. “Look closer, Reid. Someone did die. Looks like the fire caught him just before he reached the back door.” He noticed a padlock on burned wood that could have been the rear door to the barn. “Maybe he ran for the back door and found it locked. He was trapped by the fire.”
Reid glanced over the sheriff’s shoulder, gagged, and stumbled backward.
Blade and the sheriff moved in closer, trying to see something, anything, that might give them a clue.
“We’re dealing with a crime scene now,” Blade whispered.
“Shut the ranch down.” The sheriff’s voice bore no hesitation.
They both knew what had to be done. Blade offered, “I’ll help stand guard until the state troopers get here, Sheriff. We don’t want anyone trying to cover this up.”
Both men walked toward the sheriff’s car. “I’ll call it in.” Dan’s voice hinted at how tired he was already, and his day wasn’t close to over. “We may have a murder here. Unless he was the one setting the fires and got caught in the last one.”
“Not likely. I want to go back to the other site with equipment as soon as it cools. This was the only lock on any door that I saw,” Blade said. “He might have been sleeping it off in the barn, or maybe riding the land and spotted the arsonist setting the fire.”
Blade turned to Dice. “What do you think? How many cowhands were out riding last night?”
“Half a dozen, maybe more, but all the hands knew this barn had locks on it, front and back. Collins put them on six months ago. I figured it was to keep drifters out, but he said it was because as soon as the hay was gone he planned to store cars in there.”
“Did he store cars?”
Dice shook his head. “Not that I ever saw, but he did keep this one barn locked.”
Blade pushed. “You didn’t think that was strange?”
Dice grinned. “I’m a cowboy. I’m not paid to think beyond cow level.”
He pointed with his thumb. “We got a new problem.”
“What’s that?” Brigman said as he opened his car door and tugged out his radio.
Dice pointed back in the direction he’d come. “Boss man fainted.”
All three looked back at Reid lying spread-eagle in the mud halfway between the rubble of the barn and the cars.
“What do I do, Sheriff?” Dice tugged off his hat and started worrying the brim. “Officially, I don’t work for him since the night of the fire, and if he ain’t breathing I’m sure not giving him mouth-to-mouth with all that throw-up on his face.”
Brigman looked like a man who had his hands full. “Check to see if he’s breathing. If he is, leave him. He looks like he could use some sun.”
When Dice walked off, Brigman moved to the trunk of his car and pulled out a box. “You got a weapon, Hamilton?”
“I do. I carry a Glock 17 and my badge in my saddlebags. They’re in the back seat of your cruiser.”
“Then strap on a weapon.” He pulled another badge from the box. “I’m also deputizing you.” The sheriff glanced at his watch. “I don’t know what we’re facing but as of 1:45 p.m., I want you working for the county. We’ll finish up here and by four I’ll have men coming in to question. I’m going to need your help.”
Blade slipped the badge in his pocket and reached for his saddlebags. “This mean I’m getting paid?”
“Nope, but if you don’t want the job my next recruit is Dice.”
They both looked back at Dice slowly walking around Reid Collins like the ranch owner was a half-dead snake.
Blade knew he was cornered. “I’ll take the job.”
CHAPTER TEN
LAUREN SAT IN her tiny office in what everyone called the strip mall. Three ten-by-twelve offices with small loft apartments above and a parking lot out front for eight cars. She’d opened a site for online news called ChatAroundCrossroads after she moved back from Dallas. She planned to sell ads on her webpage for income in the morning and work on her writing in the afternoon.
Only, everyone read the news, but no one bought ads, so she was forced to take editing jobs to pay the bills. Sti
ll, broke in her hometown among friends and family was better than being broke in Dallas alone.
Lauren had always thought her real money would come from writing. Short stories, poems, articles. After all, every English teacher she had in college told her she could write.
But they hadn’t told her what to write.
So far everything she tried only dribbled in small change. But last month she’d had a new idea. Dakota Davis, in the office next door, had told her scary tales about her neighbor’s place and she’d pitched the idea to Texas Monthly. They said they’d consider it.
Lauren didn’t believe any of the stories, but that might be something people would read. A feud over cattle. A gunfight over love. And a ghost who walked the land by Indigo Lake.
From there she could write other stories. Ransom Canyon was full of legends and stories.
She stared out the glass door, thinking she’d managed to get nowhere with her writing career in her five years since college, so she might as well try this road. There was good money in magazine writing if she could just make herself write. At the rate she was going she’d die of old age with her obituary only half-written.
But if she wrote about legends and curses people passed down, she might build a name for herself. She could do a series of shorts and eventually put them together in a book. The people around here knew her, trusted her. They’d open up to her.
Tapping her pencil against her forehead, she decided if she stepped into nonfiction, she’d check her facts, make it almost like a historical account. Somewhere back in the history of this area must be a real event that started the stories.
“Write, write, write,” she mumbled to herself as her fingers danced across the keyboard too lightly to produce words. She had to work, or go back to wondering why Lucas had kissed her last night like he was leaving for the front lines.