by Brenda Novak
If only Charlie hadn’t gotten drunk at the Firelight and said some things that led Stuart to believe he might be trying to avenge that other rancher’s death. That had started everything. Stuart had admitted as much, right before James shot him. But the problem hadn’t ended with his death.
Taking a knife from under the seat, he walked over to what he believed to be the Dunlaps’ truck and slashed all four tires. Whoever it was wouldn’t be leaving Charlie’s anytime soon. It wouldn’t be until tomorrow. Maybe later. And then it would be in a body bag.
Rod waited in a storage closet in the hall. He wasn’t sure the driver of the white truck was hostile. Whoever it was had parked in such a way that Rod couldn’t see him when he got out. He couldn’t even guess who it was. But neither could he imagine too many reasons someone would need to borrow Charlie’s truck in the middle of the night while Charlie was out of town, unless that person wanted to be sure he wasn’t spotted in his own vehicle.
That led Rod to believe this guy wasn’t out doing good things.
Maybe he was about to confront the UDA killer….
Hearing the creak of footsteps in the kitchen, he opened the closet door just a little. He’d chosen this particular hiding place because he knew that whoever it was would pass him as he—or she or they—headed to the bedrooms. Then Rod could come up from behind and disarm him. He didn’t want to shoot anyone, especially when he wasn’t sure he was really in danger. There could be some other explanation for the coming and going of that white truck—not that Rod could think of one.
The heat made it hard to breathe. Squinting to keep the sweat out of his eyes, he tried to discern the slightest glimmer of light. But it was impossible. He’d turned off the lights as soon as that truck had pulled up. With the blinds down, he couldn’t even see his own hand in front of his face. He’d expected whoever it was to turn the lights back on. But, so far, that hadn’t happened. This person seemed perfectly comfortable in the dark.
Was it Leonard? If so, had he already gotten to Sophia? Was that where he’d been? Out in the desert, disposing of her body?
Muscles clenched, Rod fought to rid his mind of those thoughts. Assuming the worst would make him too eager for a confrontation. And too eager was always foolhardy. Calm down.
So who was it? Someone who knew Charlie well enough to be aware of his plans and his schedule. Leonard hung out with him at the Firelight. Leonard knew how to gain access to his house. And Leonard would love nothing more than to hurt Sophia—
Stop it! She was okay. She had to be okay. It didn’t have to be Leonard who’d taken the truck. It could be whoever was looking after the place in Charlie’s absence. Or someone else. Rod guessed Charlie kept his spare key hidden on his back porch, which was why the screen had been cut. Retrieving the keys to the truck would be as easy as walking through the house and taking them from where Charlie kept them, which explained the state of the back door. Why would the perpetrator bother to make sure it was tightly shut if he was locking the screen behind him and planned to come back in just a few hours to return the truck keys?
The creaking stopped at the mouth of the hall.
Come on. Come this way. You haven’t found me yet. That means you need to check out the bedrooms.
Fortunately, the person started walking again. He moved cautiously but it wasn’t as if Rod could hear hands swiping the walls to keep him from running into something. Somehow, the bastard could see. How?
The answer occurred to him almost as soon as the question did. Night-vision goggles. Of course. The border patrol had them. The ranchers probably did, too. Anyone who hunted in the dark would consider them standard equipment.
Four or five more steps and the intruder would be right where Rod wanted him. He wiped the sweat off his right hand so he could get a firm grip on the butt of his gun. He was ready.
Three more steps…
Two…
Wait for it…not yet….
Suddenly, his cell phone went off. With a violent curse, the man in the hall grabbed the door and tried to yank it open. Rod held it shut, but whoever it was fired, anyway.
As soon as Sophia pulled into the parking lot at the Boot and Spur, the manager walked out to meet her. He asked if she was Sophia St. Claire, then said that Rod had been trying to reach her. Surprised to hear he wasn’t in the cabin, she tried to call him again. But he didn’t answer.
Waiting in cabin thirteen, she stared out the window at the empty parking lot, as if she expected Bruce to drop him off at any moment, and wondered what to do next. She’d been feeling so relieved when she left Douglas. The doctors had managed to stabilize Starkey, a miracle in itself. She’d even spoken to him and laughed when the first thing he told her was that his acquaintance who dealt in silencers claimed he hadn’t sold any to a guy from Bordertown. She couldn’t believe that was on his mind at a time like this. It hadn’t been for long. His thoughts soon shifted to Rafe, who wasn’t pleased to be in his grandmother’s care, but had chosen to stay with her at the motel beside the hospital so he’d be close to his dad. Sophia had thought the drama was over for the night, that she’d be able to go to the Boot and Spur and curl up with Rod to get some much-needed rest.
Now she was worried all over again; only this time she was worried about Rod.
Where was he? It was nearly three-thirty in the morning. Was he still with Bruce? If so, she thought maybe she shouldn’t keep trying to get through to him. Maybe they were having the heart-to-heart they should’ve had long ago.
But it was also possible that something else had come up.
Steeling her nerve, she called Bruce’s house.
Edna answered. “Hello?”
Bruce’s wife sounded sick, fragile. And it was no wonder. She’d lost Stuart today. Sophia felt like the most callous person in the world for disturbing her in her grief, and at such a late hour, but she had to find Rod.
Tightening her grip on the phone, she overcame her reluctance to identify herself. “Edna, this is Sophia St. Claire. I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but…could I speak to Bruce?”
“Do you know what time it is?” she snapped.
“I do. I apologize profusely. But this is important.”
“Not more important than letting my poor husband get some sleep. Call back in the morning if you want to talk to him.”
A dial tone hummed in her ear. But Sophia couldn’t leave it at that. She called right back. Although Edna had good reason to be angry, Sophia guessed the chill she’d encountered was at least partly attributable to the rumors around town. Rod was Edna’s biggest enemy, and Sophia was Rod’s biggest ally. It didn’t help that Sophia had rebuffed Stuart so many times over the past two years—and then gotten involved with his half brother.
The phone rang and rang. Finally Edna answered again. “What are you doing calling here? Why won’t you leave us alone?”
Sophia fortified herself against Edna’s anger. “I need to talk to Bruce. I’ll drive out there if I have to. This is police business.” To a degree, it was. After what they’d discovered at the feed store, Rod possessed information that put his life in danger. But Sophia was terrified about his safety for personal reasons, too; there was no escaping or denying that.
“Meaning you’ve arrested the person who killed my son?” she challenged.
“Meaning I’m doing my best to track down your son’s killer and to keep everyone else safe at the same time.”
“You mean everyone like Rod.”
“He deserves the same consideration as anyone else.”
“He doesn’t deserve anything. He—”
Someone in the background interrupted Edna as her voice crescendoed. Then the phone changed hands and Bruce came on the line. “Who is this?”
Sophia sighed in relief. “It’s Chief St. Claire. I can’t find Rod, and I’m worried. Do you know where he is?”
“No. He left here at least an hour ago.”
“How? I’ve got his Hummer.”
“I l
ent him a pickup, said I’d send someone for it in the morning.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“I assumed he was going to the Boot and Spur. That’s where he’s staying, isn’t it?”
“I’m at the cabin now. The manager tells me he hasn’t been here all night.”
“Then I don’t know what to think, except…”
“Except what?”
“He might’ve gone out to Charlie Sumpter’s.”
“Thanks. I’ll check.” She grabbed Rod’s car keys as she ran out the door. But as soon as she glanced up, she realized she couldn’t go anywhere. There was another car in the lot. Her stepfather’s pearl-colored Escalade was blocking her in.
“Oh, God…” Hoping to return to the cabin, where she could lock the door, she turned—and ran right into him.
“There you are. How ’bout giving Daddy a kiss?” he murmured and licked her cheek as he covered her mouth with one hand and dragged her between the cabins, out of sight of the office and the parking lot.
Determined to get free, Sophia threw her head back, smashing it into his face. His hold loosened, but the blow had hurt more than she’d expected, stunning her, too. By the time she tried to reach for her gun, she’d lost most of her advantage, especially because her Glock was strapped to her calf, which didn’t make it as accessible as she needed it to be. She’d barely lifted her pant leg when he seized her by the hair.
Sophia screamed for help, but there was no response from the office.
“There’s no one to hear you.” He hit her in the mouth, shocking her with the pain. Then the fight became a wrestling match on the rocky ground—a wrestling match that ended with him grabbing her firearm and tossing it out of reach.
Finally in control, Gary yanked her back to her feet. One hand was still entangled in her hair as he held his gun to the back of her head. “We’re going to the truck. Do you understand?”
Covered in dust and sweat, they were both breathing hard. Sophia didn’t think she’d ever been so exhausted in her life. This day just wouldn’t end. But she couldn’t give up, couldn’t follow his commands. She knew what he was hoping to achieve. He wanted to drive her out into the desert to shoot her. Then he wouldn’t have to transport a bleeding body and could leave her to the elements and the scavengers, like the UDA murderer did with his victims—and drive off. Maybe he was the UDA killer.
Briefly, she imagined Detective Lindstrom coming out to take a look at the crime scene and smiling the moment she identified the body. That gave Sophia a fresh dose of determination and strength. She wouldn’t be the next victim in Bordertown, wouldn’t let herself be killed—especially by her stepfather.
Going limp, she sagged against him, which allowed her to rest, since he was forced to bear most of her weight.
“Walk, damn it.” When he let go of her hair to grab her by the arm, she whirled and kneed him in the groin. The gun went off, probably by reflex, but she wasn’t hit.
Groaning, he stumbled, trying to recover, which gave her just enough time to slip out of his grasp.
She wanted to run for the office. She’d spoken to the manager fifteen minutes earlier and knew he lived on the premises. But if the sound of that gunshot hadn’t brought him out, he wasn’t capable of helping.
There’s no one to hear you. Did that mean there was no one alive?
Just in case, she ran for the barn instead, where she felt she might have the space, darkness and freedom to evade capture.
On her way, she pressed the speed-dial button on her phone for Sheriff Cooper. If he responded quickly enough, she might survive….
Rod had been hit in the thigh, which hurt like hell, but he doubted it was a serious injury. Thanks to the solid wood door, the other two bullets hadn’t even penetrated the wood. Ignoring the pain, he continued to hold the panel closed. And when whoever had just shot him tried to open it again, he provided enough resistance to tempt his attacker to pull harder—then let go.
The sudden release knocked his opponent into the opposite wall. Knowing he’d achieved one goal, he threw his gun aside. He couldn’t shoot blind because he couldn’t risk missing. Standing back long enough to fire could enable whoever it was to escape, and there was no way in hell Rod would take that chance. This was going to end here.
Launching himself in the intruder’s direction, he flung his arms wide, hoping to catch the guy regardless of whether he ran right or left. He managed to grab hold of the man’s shirt and drag him to the floor. His injured leg screamed at the jolt when he went down, but he had enough adrenaline flowing through him to keep fighting.
The shooter fired his gun again, but it wasn’t pointed at Rod. Rod had grasped the man’s wrist and pushed the muzzle up and away from both of them so the bullet went into a wall. A second later, he wrenched the gun away completely. Then he used his forearm to choke his attacker while putting the gun to his head.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
As soon as the barrel touched his temple, the man stopped squirming.
“I can shoot you and then turn on the light, if you prefer,” Rod said when he didn’t answer. “It’s your choice.”
“I… You… I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he rasped.
“What kind of misunderstanding?”
“I’m James Simpson. I’m a—a neighbor of Charlie’s…supposed to be taking care of the place. I thought you were a burglar…or—or the UDA killer, for God’s sake. Everyone’s been so…nervous…so afraid of what might happen next. I don’t want to see anyone else get hurt. I guess…I thought I’d be able to put a stop to it.”
“Nice try,” he said.
“It’s true!”
“So why have you been driving Charlie’s truck?”
“He said I could. He lets me use it whenever I want.”
Keeping the gun to his head, Rod yanked him to his feet. But then he had to catch his breath and cope with the pain radiating from the bullet in his leg.
For a moment, he couldn’t seem to find his equilibrium. He swayed as if he might pass out but, gritting his teeth, he steadied himself before inching down the hall, where he finally encountered a light switch. Using his elbow to turn on the light, he released James and stepped back. The threat of death by bullet would subdue him now that Rod could see well enough to hit his target.
James’s night-vision goggles lay on the floor. He no longer needed them, anyway. His gaze went from the muzzle of the gun Rod held, which was trained on him, to Rod’s pant leg. “You—you’d better get some help for that injury. I’m really sorry, man. I didn’t mean to shoot you. I swear I thought you were the UDA killer. God, I’m so sorry. Let me call someone, okay?” He lifted his hands. “I’m not trying to spook you. I just want to call an ambulance.”
Blood soaked Rod’s jeans, making them heavy and uncomfortable. He needed medical attention, all right. But in case the lab couldn’t cull any DNA from that cigarette butt he’d picked up at the Sanchez murder scene, or that butt hadn’t actually belonged to the killer, he first needed James to reveal whether or not he was the man they’d been hoping to find. If he was, there’d never be a better chance to get answers. The way he’d been sneaking around, using Charlie’s truck, certainly implied that he was guilty. Even if he denied it later, Rod would know how to focus the investigation. The Simpsons had plenty of their own vehicles. James didn’t need to “borrow” one.
But Rod had been involved in enough criminal investigations to know the D.A. would never be able to make murder-one charges stick without an eyewitness or some hard evidence. Taking Charlie’s truck without permission was a far cry from homicide.
Grimacing, Rod began to make a bigger deal of the pain in his leg than necessary. He wanted to appear hobbled, weak and vulnerable. “Hurts like hell,” he muttered, and allowed the barrel of the gun to dip, as though he believed James enough to be distracted by his own wound.
“I have a cell phone in my pocket,” he said. “If you’ll let me get it
out, I’ll make that call.”
He was putting on a good show, but Rod wasn’t convinced. He blinked several times as if he was having trouble clearing his vision—which he was, thanks to the sweat rolling from his hair. “Do it slowly,” he said.
“I will.” While James stuck his hand into the front pocket of his jeans, Rod could sense that his attention was elsewhere. He’d spotted the gun Rod had tossed away as he left the closet. It was lying on the floor within reach….
James pushed three buttons on his phone and held it to his ear. “Hello? Yes. This is James Simpson. I’m at 1184 White Rock Road and would like to report a shooting incident. Someone’s been injured and needs medical help right away. Please send an ambulance.”
Pretending to struggle with a fresh surge of dizziness, Rod closed his eyes and sagged against the wall. And that was when James made his move. Throwing his phone at Rod, he dove for the gun. But Rod deflected the phone and shot James in the butt.
“Ow! You shot me!” he screamed. “You son of a bitch! You tricked me and then you shot me!”
Unaffected, Rod watched him writhe. “Don’t worry. You called an ambulance, right?” Bending carefully so that his leg wouldn’t hurt or bleed any more than it already was, he retrieved his gun, which was still too close to James for comfort. Then he picked up James’s phone and checked its call history. “Er, scratch that. Looks like you’ll have to wait a while—4-5-6 doesn’t go to any emergency services that I know.”
“You’d better get me some help, you son of a bitch! I’m dying! Do you hear me? I’m going to die if you don’t get me a doctor!”
“I’ll get us both a doctor. When I’m ready.” Sliding down the wall to ease the terrible ache in his thigh, Rod switched to the other gun—James’s had to be getting low on bullets—and dug his cell phone out of his pocket. The call that’d come in at such an inopportune time was from Sophia, just as he’d hoped.