Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8)

by Diane Kelly

  “Southern Safari was risky enough,” I said. “Norman Peele had no idea who we were, so we had the advantage of surprise. The Kuykendahl cousins will know exactly why we’re here, and they’ll be none too happy about it.” Especially since I’d let them think we’d reached an understanding earlier. “They both carry guns and hunting knives. It’s too dangerous.”

  Dad snorted. “Too dangerous for me but not too dangerous for you?”

  Ugh. My father could be so stubborn sometimes. It was clear which parent I’d gotten that trait from. “I’ve got a Kevlar vest and I’m a trained federal agent.”

  “And I taught you how to shoot a BB gun when you were three years old. You think you’d be where you are today if I hadn’t taught you how to handle a weapon?”

  It was true. If I hadn’t grown up around guns I’d probably have never considered becoming a special agent.

  “All right,” I said finally, giving in. “But you have to sit between me and Eddie. And if you get hurt, you’re the one who’s going to answer to Mom.”

  “Your mother?” Dad said. “Now that’s scary.”

  We left my father’s truck on the side of the road, climbed into the marshals’ cruiser, and proceeded into Paradise Park, our guns at the ready in case these crazies decided to go down in a blaze of glory. Or, in the Kuykendahls’ case, a blaze of crazy.

  Today, Kevin’s pickup sat in front of the trailer, though the Hummer was nowhere to be seen. Was Kevin here and Quent out on the property? Were both men out on the property together? Had both men gone somewhere else? There was no telling for certain.

  “That truck belongs to Kevin,” I told the marshals. “Quent drives a green Hummer.”

  The marshal in the front passenger seat cast a glance back at me. “That might mean they’re separated right now. That could be a good thing. Might be easier to take ’em down one at a time.”

  True. One of them would probably think twice before taking on four federal agents. But if they were only outnumbered two to one, these crazy-eyed rednecks might be foolish enough to give it a go.

  “They communicate by walkie-talkies,” I said. “If we nab Kevin here, we better assume he’s let Quent know we’re on the property. We’ll have to watch our backs.”

  Rather than take an unnecessary risk, the marshal who was driving circled the cruiser around to face the exit so we could make a fast getaway if necessary. He also parked the car far enough from the trailer that it would take a good shot to hit any of us. Of course if Kevin went for a shotgun rather than a rifle, he could spray us all in short order.

  The marshal reached out to the dash and retrieved the microphone for the cruiser’s public address system. He squeezed the talk button. “Kevin and Quent Kuykendahl,” he said, his voice traveling and echoing across the space like an announcer at a football game. “We are federal agents here to take you in for questioning about your sanctuary. If you are in the trailer, leave all weapons inside and step outside with your hands in the air.”

  He released the talk button and we all waited in anticipation, our eyes locked on the door.

  When twenty seconds had passed with no movement, the marshal repeated the order.

  Again we stared at the door.

  Again, nothing.

  The marshal returned the mic to the dash. “We’ll have to move in.”

  He drove the car a few yards farther from the trailer and situated it sideways across the dirt road to block the exit. Of course if Quent and Kevin came barreling up in the Hummer they could just knock the cruiser out of the way. Those Hummers were like military tanks.

  “Stay here,” I instructed my dad as we agents climbed out of the car. “Keep your head down.”

  Dad did as he was told. Well, mostly. I turned back to see him peeking out the window.

  “We’ll go that way,” the driver said, pointing left. “You two go the other way.”

  Eddie and I darted into the brush on our right. Using the small stands of trees for cover, we ran from one to the next, closing in on the trailer.

  One of the marshals ran up to the front door of the trailer, hunkered beside it, and reached for the knob, throwing the door open. When no gunfire erupted through the door, he ran inside, his partner coming in for backup.

  Eddie and I circled around the back of the trailer. Though there were four dusty windows along the back, they were all closed. Nobody was climbing out of them to attempt an escape. We continued on around the other side, finding the marshals emerging from the trailer when we reached the front.

  “Nobody’s here,” the driver said. “All I found was pork rinds and Mountain Dew.”

  After a brief powwow, we decided to take the cruiser and head out farther onto the property to look for the Kuykendahls. We also alerted the local sheriff’s department, who agreed to post deputies a quarter mile down the road in both directions from the gate to Paradise Park in case the cousins attempted to flee or returned from somewhere outside the park.

  We drove on, passing Simba’s now-empty cage. An enormous bone lay inside, small pieces of rancid meat still attached. Flies swarmed over the lion’s leftovers, causing my stomach to squirm a little in response.

  Eddie, Dad, and I had our binoculars to our eyes.

  Dad pointed off to our left into the high-fenced corral containing the Barasingha deer. “There’s the Hummer.”

  I shifted my focus in that direction. The Hummer appeared empty, though it was possible the cousins were crouched down inside, waiting to ambush us as we approached.

  Eddie turned his attention back to the marshals. “Any chance you’ve got a tear gas gun?”

  “We do,” said the driver, “but I’m not sure how accurate I can be from this far out. The guns don’t have distance settings. You have to eyeball it and estimate. And I’d have to aim high to get the canister over that fence.”

  “It would upset the animals, too,” I added. The last thing any of us would want is to cause a stampede and risk one of the baby deer being trampled to death.

  Barking to the left drew our attention. Quent’s two Brittany spaniels appeared, running around the perimeter of a watering hole in the pasture. The dogs lunged into the water, swam around for a bit, then returned to the shore, barking again. They appeared disinterested in the deer, probably having been trained to leave them alone.

  My father pulled his binoculars down, squinted into the distance, then returned them to his eyes. “Something sure has those dogs upset.”

  The driver opened his door. “Let’s go find out what it is.”

  Eddie, the marshals, and I entered the pasture, closed the gate behind us, and did another slow, wide approach. Though I’d been concerned the dogs might feel threatened and come after us, they were far too distracted by whatever was in the water to pay us any mind.

  Was it a snake? A bullfrog? Some type of waterfowl? Hell, could there be alligators out here? I wouldn’t put anything past those crazy cousins.

  Weapons at the ready, we crept up on the pond, an agent situated in each quadrant.

  The pond was approximately a hundred feet in diameter. The depth was difficult to judge given the murkiness of the water but, from the weeds in the center, I surmised it was only two or three feet at its deepest. Green pond scum covered half the surface area, while water bugs darted back and forth across the remainder.

  As I stared at the scum near the edge of the weeds, it began to take shape, like one of those Magic Eye pictures that were the rage years ago.

  Boots.

  Legs.

  A torso.

  A face covered in scum and hidden by a covering of uprooted plants. Swamp Thing. The Buffoon from the Green Lagoon.

  I glanced around me. There were a few broken twigs and some deer droppings. Aha! There we go. A nice, solid rock as big as one of Mom’s corn muffins.

  I picked it up, pulled my arm back, and took aim at the submerged man’s crotch. Stone met stones with a wet yet forceful thwuck!

  The two halves of Kevin
Kuykendahl rose from the water as if he were folding himself in two. He rolled onto his side, gasping and retching and gagging on the water, then gasping and retching some more before finally sitting up.

  “One down!” I called to my team. “One to go!”

  Though Kevin surrendered, he did so from the center of the pond, raising his hands and hollering, “You want me? Here I am. Come get me, assholes.”

  Eddie and the marshals gathered around me.

  “Who’s going in?” I asked. I mean, I’d found and essentially disabled the guy. One of them should have to wade into the muck to cuff him, right?

  Unfortunately, the men didn’t see it that way.

  “Be our guest.” Eddie swept an upturned hand toward Kevin. “You took him out. We wouldn’t want to steal your thunder.”

  Yeah, right.

  I tossed the men a disgusted look and started into the watering hole, wishing I’d had the forethought to ask Dad to bring his fishing waders. The muck at the bottom of the pond sucked at my shoes like a giant-mouthed leech as I took each step. Slurk. Slurk. Slurk. I only hoped there weren’t any real leeches in here.

  After a few more steps, my foot caught on something under the water, probably a submerged tree limb. I tripped and stumbled forward, trying not to fall face-first into the muddy water. Though I somehow managed to stay on my feet, my sunglasses fell from my face, landing in the water with a splash and a plop. I made no effort to find the darn things. Why bother? They’d sat cockeyed on my face from the get-go.

  By the time I reached Kevin, I’d lost not only my cheap sunglasses, but also one shoe and most of my dignity. Without a word to the ass, I grabbed his arms, yanked them up behind his back, and cuffed him. Taking a cue from Norman Peele, I slapped Kevin’s muddy ass to set him in motion. Smack.

  A minute later, we were back on dry land. I left Kevin with the men as I wandered back into the pond, using my toes to feel around for my lost shoe, swinging my leg back and forth like a fleshy metal detector. There it is. I reached down, wrangled the shoe out of the muck, and swished it around in the water to remove as much of the mud as possible. When I got back to shore, I put a hand on Eddie’s shoulder to balance myself and wrestled the wet shoe back onto my foot.

  Fully dressed now, I turned back to Kevin. “Where’s your cousin?” I demanded.

  Kevin cut me a snotty grin. “Which one? I got thirteen of ’em.”

  “You know who I’m talking about,” I snapped back. “Quent.”

  “Hell if I know,” he said. “When we heard the marshal talking on his loudspeaker he took off. Don’t have any idea where he might’ve ended up.”

  If Quent had kept running all this time, he could be a mile or two away by now. But we hadn’t seen him heading our way as we’d driven onto the property. Even if he’d been running from one stand of trees to another for cover, one of us would have likely seen him. To get off the back of their property, he would’ve had to cut through the high fence. I glanced around but didn’t see any open spots anywhere. Something told me that Quent was holed up here somewhere on the property, too.

  While one of the marshals kept watch on Kevin, Eddie, the other marshal, and I headed into the pasture that held the scimitar-horned oryx. A thick herd of the animals milled around, some grazing, some pooping, a couple of the young ones engaging in playful head butting, their nubby little horns unable yet to do any real damage.

  As we made our way deeper into the field, the herd dispersed. A distressed bleating sound drew my attention to a small oryx standing immobilized where the herd had just been.

  “He’s hiding behind that young one,” Eddie said.

  Sure enough, Quent’s arm was visible wrapped around the baby’s neck, holding it in place as he bent over behind it, trying to move it along next to him.

  “We see you, moron!” I called. “Release that animal and put your hands up!”

  Quent did not do as told. Instead, he picked the animal up in his arms, using the poor thing as a shield. “You’ll never take me alive!”

  “You heard the man,” Eddie said from next to me, gesturing with his gun. “Shoot him in the head and let’s call it a day.”

  As tempting as it was to kill Quent, lethal force wasn’t justified here. At least not yet. If Quent pulled his gun or knife, I’d have every right to fire my gun. But until he did, I was at risk of another excessive-force trial if I took a shot. Besides, I didn’t want to risk shooting Quent and having him drop the baby oryx and possibly hurt it.

  We were debating what to do when the problem solved itself. A large female oryx, no doubt the distressed calf’s mother, circled slowly yet purposefully forty feet behind Quent. When she’d drawn in line with him, she turned, put her head down in battering-ram position, and launched herself at her baby’s captor. There was a thunder of hooves as she rocketed toward Quent’s back. Quent just had time to turn his head and spot his pursuer when the mother oryx hurled herself into the air and the moment of impact was upon him.

  Crack!

  The sound of horns meeting skull caused us agents to express a collective gasp. As poetic as this justice might be, it was nonetheless hard to watch. I, for one, had to cover my eyes with my hands and peek out from between my fingers.

  Quent went limp, his arms releasing the calf, who slid to the ground and ran off just in time to avoid being trapped under Quent’s falling body. As he lay there, motionless, the mother oryx circled around, trampled across his back, and ran after her frightened calf.

  The three of us stood there, staring at the seemingly lifeless body. Is he dead? I sure as heck didn’t want to go up there and find out. I mean, I’d been to funerals before, but seeing a body nicely dressed and made up and lying in a comfy coffin is one thing. Seeing a man with his head smashed in, lying in pool of blood in a field, was another thing entirely.

  The marshal dialed 911. “We need an ambulance,” he told the dispatcher. “ASAP. A man just got rammed in the head by an antelope.” He listened for a moment. “She wants to know if he’s breathing.”

  “Why don’t you go see?” Eddie suggested to me.

  “Hell, no!” I said. “I got the last one. It’s your turn.”

  “You’re the primary on this case,” he said. “I’m only along for the ride.”

  The two of us looked to the marshal.

  “This is your tax case,” the marshal said, raising his palms. “One of you should have the honors.”

  I shook my head. “What a couple of wussies.”

  I marched forward, choking down the fear that I might soon be seeing what freshly spilled brains look like. As I drew close, I shut my eyes, took a deep, fortifying breath, and forced them back open.

  Quent’s head, though cut open along his right cheekbone and brow, remained intact, even if bleeding profusely. His chest rose and fell slowly, indicating he was still breathing.

  “He’s alive!” I called back.

  The marshal informed the dispatcher and Eddie stepped forward.

  He looked down at the man. “Should we apply pressure to stop the bleeding?”

  “You do it,” I said.

  “What if his skull caves in?”

  Ugh. The thought had me sinking to my knees.

  Eddie cut a look my way. “Now who’s the wussy?”

  “Me,” I admitted, raising my hand. “Totally.”

  Eddie pulled off his shirt and pressed it to the side of Quent’s face.

  When I’d conquered my wooziness, I asked, “Do you think he’ll have permanent brain damage?”

  “How would anyone be able to tell?”

  * * *

  It was nearly nightfall by the time we’d finished dealing with the Kuykendahls and arrangements had been made for someone from the Dallas Zoo to take over care of the animals at Paradise Park, at least until they could be relocated to legitimate sanctuaries. Eddie, Dad, and I piled into Dad’s truck for the drive back to Dallas. Once again, I lay belly-down to keep pressure off my lower spine.

&nb
sp; I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen asleep until the truck came to a complete stop in the driveway of Eddie’s house. I lifted my head and rubbed my eyes.

  Eddie turned around to address me over the back of the front seat. “Good work today. I bet you’re the only special agent on the IRS payroll who can say they’ve saved a lion and a bunch of bears.”

  “You get some of the credit,” I said.

  “Shoot, no. I was just a warm body along for the ride.”

  That was kind of true. But having his warm body with me had ensured my safety, reduced the risk that the Kuykendahls would gut me, field dress me like a deer, and barbecue me on their propane grill. Still, I’d reciprocated on many of Eddie’s cases. That’s what being partners was all about.

  “Bye, buddy,” I said as Eddie climbed out of the truck. “See you at the office on Monday.”

  As we drove off, I turned to my father. “Thanks again, Dad. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  “Anything for my girl,” he said.

  Little did he know that promise was about to be put to the test.

  chapter thirty-four

  Early Graves

  As we turned out of Eddie’s subdivision, the rumba ring came from my purse. It took me a moment to realize it was the secret phone Nick had given me.

  “Nick!” In my haste to unzip my purse, I inadvertently knocked it off the seat, the contents cascading to the floor of my dad’s truck. Given that it was now fully dark, there was no sunlight to help me see inside the truck. “Turn on the light, Dad! I can’t see!”

  My father turned on the inside light, but by the time I located the phone under the seat the call had gone to voice mail. Knowing I couldn’t call Nick back, I had to wait for him to leave his message. I cursed my clumsiness all the while. When the phone finally popped up with the icon indicating a voice mail had been left, I immediately punched the button to listen.

  Nick’s voice bore what was clearly a forced calm. “The shit’s hitting the fan, Tara. Five members of the cartel forced me, Christina, and Alejandro into the back of a Budget Rental truck at gunpoint.”