Texas True

by Janet Dailey

  “Lute took the wagon road.” Beau pointed to the map on the screen. “See, he’s headed for the old Winslow farm.”

  Sky nodded. “I’ve been out that way. The place has been deserted for as long as I can remember.”

  “The family left years ago after their house burned,” Beau said. “Nobody’s lived there since. But look, the trailer doesn’t appear to be moving past it. Lute must have stopped.”

  “My goodness, so that’s how it works!” Bernice peered over Beau’s shoulder. “I can see right where he is!”

  “I’ll leave this app running for Will and Jasper,” Beau said. “Let’s go. The trailer will slow Lute down. With luck we can catch him before he gets to the highway.”

  Bernice followed the two men out onto the porch and watched them climb into the pickup. “I’ll phone the sheriff!” she called as they sped away.

  Natalie drove along the quiet Sunday morning streets of Blanco Springs. A block away was the sheriff ’s brick bungalow, where he’d lived his bachelor’s existence since his wife had passed away six years ago. Nearing it, Natalie slowed the Land Cruiser and stopped close to the curb of the vacant lot next to the sheriff ’s house.

  His personal Jeep, minus any official insignia, sat in the carport. She scanned the house for some sign of life, but the shades were down. Natalie hesitated, debating whether to wait until she saw some stir of activity inside, but she didn’t have the patience for it.

  She glanced at the shotgun Beau had insisted she keep with her at all times. She climbed out of the vehicle, leaving the shotgun where it lay on the floorboard of the passenger seat, and automatically locked the doors behind her.

  As she approached the house, Natalie listened for the sound of a television or radio, anything that might indicate the sheriff was up and about, but all she could hear was the squabbling of magpies in a blue spruce near the carport.

  The side door opening to the carport was closer than the front door, and Natalie instinctively chose the shortest route. The sudden jangle of a telephone came from somewhere close by. She paused, trying to discern whether it came from within the house or someplace else.

  When it rang a second time, Natalie felt sure it came from inside. She followed the sound to the back corner of the house. The same moment that she spotted an open window, someone picked up the phone, cutting the sound off in mid-ring.

  “Hello?” The sheriff ’s voice was gruff, as if he’d just been awakened. “Yes, Bernice, what is it?”

  Natalie froze. She knew of only one Bernice. She inched around the corner.

  There was a moment of silence as Axelrod listened to the voice on the phone. “I hear you,” he said. “Thanks for letting me know, Bernice. I’ll get right out there.” The bedsprings creaked as he swung his ample weight to the floor.

  “Who was that, sugar?” The rich, husky female voice was unmistakable. Natalie swallowed a gasp. Stella! Stella in bed with the sheriff!

  “Tyler’s cook,” the sheriff replied. “Seems Lute’s turned up. He stole a trailer and a couple of horses from the Tylers, and they’ve followed a tracking signal to the old Winslow place. I have to get out there before they get their hands on him.”

  “You know what you have to do.” Stella’s voice had taken on a cold edge.

  “Yes, I know. Whatever I have to. Hand me my belt.” There were sounds of dressing, a toilet flushing. Natalie hid behind some bushes, knowing she had to get out of there but unsure of when or which way to go. She was shifting to relieve the strain on her cramped legs when she heard the door to the carport opening. Holding her breath, she moved far enough for a glimpse around the corner of the house.

  Axelrod had stepped into the carport and was unlocking the Jeep. He was dressed in a camouflage shirt and wearing his pistol belt. In one hand he carried a military assault rifle.

  Natalie’s heart dropped. It was a Barrett .50 BM, like the one Slade had owned.

  The Jeep pulled out of the driveway and headed up the street. Praying Stella wouldn’t see her, Natalie bellied her way around the back of the house and exited on the far side. Ducking around a hedge, she raced back to the white Toyota parked next door. Her purse, with her phone in it, was tucked under the front seat. She needed to call Beau, to warn him that Axelrod was carrying a sniper rifle and likely bent on murder.

  But whose murder? The answer came on the heels of the question. Killing Beau wouldn’t be in the sheriff ’s best interest. He was counting on Beau’s conviction to win him a congressional seat. But killing Lute would silence the one person who could shed light on Slade’s murder and more . . . possibly much more.

  Axelrod was going to kill Lute—as he’d likely killed Slade, perhaps as he’d even killed Jess Warner. And if there was a way to blame Lute’s murder on Beau as well, he would find it.

  Snatching up her purse, she found her cell phone and tried to dial Beau’s number. But the phone was dead in her hand. In her excitement at finding the deposit receipt last night, she’d forgotten to recharge the battery.

  By the back roads, the old Winslow place was a little less distance from town than from the ranch. But Lute was already there and the Tylers—whoever that included—had a head start. There was no telling who would get there first.

  Starting the engine, she swung the vehicle around, floored the gas pedal, and headed out of town after the sheriff ’s Jeep.

  Lute had arrived at the farm to find a deserted ruin. The house was nothing but a roofless, burned-out shell littered with cigarette butts and empty beer cans. The weathered barn was barely standing and, as he learned when he looked inside, the concrete silo was infested with bats.

  But the real problem was that the truck was almost out of gas.

  He drove the truck and trailer into the barn, knowing that to go on would mean stalling in the open a mile or two down the road, under the hot sun. At least there was shelter here. But there was no water, no food, and no gas. Screaming every filthy word he knew, Lute kicked at the tires.

  His theft of the horses and trailer had been as smooth as hot fudge over ice cream. But now he’d fallen victim to his own stupidity. A shed with plenty of gas, and all he had thought of was setting the damned place on fire.

  The horses stirred in the trailer, the mare snorting anxiously. He’d brought no water for them, figuring he’d take care of that later. How long could they last in this heat? How long could he last? Somehow he had to find a way out of this mess.

  There was some gas in the Vespa, but he didn’t have a hose to siphon it into the truck. Still, he could ride it down the road. This infernal cow path had to end up somewhere civilized.

  Feeling better now that he had a sensible plan, Lute climbed up to unload the Vespa from the back of the pickup. He considered turning the horses loose, but the barn’s rickety walls wouldn’t hold them for long. They could push their way out and wander off while he was gone. Better to leave them locked in the trailer. If they died there because he couldn’t return . . . well, they were just horses. And if he couldn’t sell them, they weren’t any good to him anyway.

  The Vespa wasn’t all that heavy, but with the trailer hitched to the back of the truck, getting it down was awkward. Lute was just lowering the scooter off the side of the truck bed when his ears caught a sound that chilled his blood. It was the unmistakable rumble of a big vehicle, maybe a half mile away but coming rapidly closer over the bumpy road.

  Lute’s hands froze, letting go of the Vespa. It crashed to the ground, landing on its side. Unless the approaching vehicle belonged to a stranger, it would be someone after him—the Tylers most likely.

  The Vespa didn’t appear damaged, but it wasn’t fast. Lute decided that his best chance was to stay out of sight, keep quiet, and if anybody got too close, use his pistol to scare them off.

  The pistol was in the truck, under the seat. As the engine noise grew closer, he checked the clip, cocked the gun, and crouched on the floor of the cab to wait.

  Sky pulled the truck to a stop fif
ty yards up the slope from the old barn. Letting the motor idle, he raised the high-powered binoculars to his eyes and peered into the sunlight.

  “Think he’s in there?” Beau asked.

  “He’s in there all right,” Sky said. “I can see fresh tire tracks in the dust. They lead right into the barn. I can even see his boot prints where he opened and closed the barn door. Want to look?”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Beau said. “I just hope we can corral the little bastard and get the horses back without anybody getting hurt.”

  Sky lowered the binoculars. “Let me go down there. Maybe I can talk some sense into him.

  Beau nodded. “I’ll wait here. But take the pistol and be careful. If Lute has a gun, I wouldn’t put it past him to take a shot at you.”

  “Understood. But the pistol stays here. I don’t want Lute to see me as any kind of threat. If you need to step in, I’ll let you know.”

  “You won’t have to let me know. I’ll be right here covering you.” Beau switched off the ignition and stepped out of the truck. Chambering a shell in the rifle, he watched Sky stride downhill toward the barn, unarmed and exposed. A memory from Iraq flashed through his mind—an army buddy, walking toward a hut with his weapon lowered. A gentle young man, he’d glimpsed women and children inside and he hadn’t wanted to scare them. A dozen yards from the door, he’d reeled backward and fallen in the dust, his body riddled with a burst of bullets. Beau had risked his life to drag him to safety, but it was too late. His friend was already dead.

  Now, watching Sky, he bit back a cry of warning. This wasn’t Iraq. Sky was Lute’s cousin, and, hopefully, he knew what he was doing. For now Beau would let him call the shots.

  Sky was within shouting range of the barn. “Lute!” he called. “It’s Sky! I’m unarmed and I’m coming in to talk.”

  A single bullet kicked up a puff of dirt six feet from Sky’s boots. “Don’t come any closer, Sky!” Lute bawled. “I won’t shoot you, but if you take another step, I’ll shoot one of the horses.”

  Beau figured that would stop Sky, and it did. Sky stayed put, talking to Lute from where he stood. “We don’t want to hurt you, Lute. All we want is to get the horses back and find out what happened with Slade. The rest we can work out.”

  There was no answer. In the silence, Beau felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.

  “I mean it,” Sky shouted. “Nothing’s happened that can’t be fixed. Erin’s going to be all right. Everything you burned was insured. Walk on out now and come home with us. If you come clean, we’ll protect you from whatever else is out there to hurt you.”

  Again there was no answer. But Beau glimpsed something moving through the gaps in the dilapidated boards of the barn. He was about to work his way around to approach the barn from the back side when he heard a faint metallic snick coming from the low hill behind him. It was a sound Beau knew too well. Instinctively he dropped to a crouch and swept his gaze over the brushy slope behind the truck, seeing nothing.

  At that instant, all hell broke loose.

  With a chattering roar and a crackle of rotten wood, a blue Vespa, with Lute hunched on the seat, exploded through the side of the barn and swung toward the road. The report of a high-powered rifle rang out from the hilltop. The Vespa bucked and went into a crazed spin that ended with the scooter lying on its side, its wheels still spinning. Lute lay sprawled beneath it, blood pooling beneath his lifeless head.

  Sky was in motion, racing toward his fallen cousin, when a second shot rang out. Sky reeled and crumpled to the ground, clutching his side.

  The firing stopped. Sky was crawling across the farmyard toward the silo, leaving a trail of blood in the dust. Too much blood.

  For Beau, the shots had triggered an avalanche of nightmare memories. He forced them from his mind. Right now he had to get to Sky even though that was exactly what the mystery shooter probably wanted. Get them together in the open and finish them off. Was that why he hadn’t killed Sky outright?

  Sky saw Beau start toward him. “Don’t come out here . . .” he shouted, his teeth clenching between words. “I’ll be . . . fine. Go up that hill. Get the bastard!”

  But Beau knew he couldn’t do that. If he went after the shooter, Sky would likely bleed to death. He climbed back in the truck and started the engine. The cab wouldn’t be much protection against a high-powered military rifle. But it was better than nothing. His plan was to race into the open, haul Sky onto the seat, and make a run for the far side of the concrete silo. From there, the shooter would have to change his position to get a bead on them—and maybe expose himself.

  Who the hell was up there with the rifle, anyway? Who would have known they’d be out in the middle of nowhere?

  I’ll phone the sheriff.

  Bernice’s parting words, which hadn’t really registered at the time, burst into his memory. Suddenly he knew.

  Axelrod. Lord, it had been Axelrod all along.

  Ducking low, Beau stomped the gas pedal, shot out into the open farmyard, and screeched to a halt with the truck between Sky and the shooter. A bullet shattered both side windows, missing him by inches as he bellied across the front seat, opened the passenger door, and dropped to the ground next to Sky, who looked as if he was going into shock.

  “Sorry, this’ll hurt, buddy.” He seized the wounded man under the arms and hauled him upward onto the rear seat. Sky grunted with pain but didn’t speak as Beau vaulted back behind the wheel and gunned the truck the last few yards behind the tall concrete barrier of the silo.

  Protected for the moment, Beau jumped to the ground and flung open the back door of the truck. Sky lay on the seat, his face ashen, blood soaking his shirt. Beau had seen similar wounds in combat. With luck the large-caliber bullet hadn’t hit any vital organs, but it had blasted an ugly hole in Sky’s body. Sky was bleeding out fast. Without medical attention, he might not last long.

  Stripping off his soot-streaked shirt and wadding it inside out, he pressed it hard against Sky’s wound. With his free hand, he dialed 911 on his cell phone, requested Life Flight, and gave directions. It was the best, perhaps the only, chance of saving Sky. The helicopter would take fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to get here. Meanwhile he had to keep Sky alive and deal with the sheriff.

  Sky opened his eyes. His mouth worked as he struggled to speak. “Axelrod,” he muttered.

  “So you figured it out, too.”

  Sky’s bloodless lips spread in a grimace. “Get the bastard,” he rasped, and closed his eyes.

  Whipping off his leather belt, Beau wrapped it around his friend’s middle and buckled it tight to hold the makeshift pressure bandage in place, then retrieved his phone and the Winchester.

  The air had gone quiet, even the birds and buzzing insects frozen in silence. From the hillside there was no sound, no sign of motion. Was Axelrod holding his ground, waiting for someone to step into the open, or was he circling around to get a killing shot at his prey? Forcing himself to stay calm, Beau weighed the odds. Should he hunker down with Sky and try to outwait the sheriff until the helicopter came, or take the offensive and try to lure the man out, maybe get a chance to end this once and for all?

  Sky’s breathing was ragged, his pulse thready, his eyes closed. It was hard to tell whether he was still conscious, but he’d made it clear what he wanted Beau to do.

  Get the bastard! he’d said.

  Natalie’s plan to intercept the sheriff had fallen dismally short. She’d pushed the Toyota to its limits, but it had been too slow to catch up with the late-model Jeep flying at breakneck speed along the twisting dirt road.

  With each mile she fell farther behind, until only a faint dust plume told her the way he was headed.

  Spotting a shortcut, she had taken it. Now, half a mile from the Winslow place, she had gotten stuck crossing a sand wash.

  In the distance she could see the Winslow place—the dilapidated barn, the burned-out house, the silo, and the low hill behind the property.


  As she climbed out of the vehicle, she heard the echoing blast of a high-powered rifle. Seconds later, the first shot was followed by another, so loud that, even at a distance, it made her ears ring. That would be Axelrod’s weapon.

  Grabbing the loaded shotgun from the floorboard, Natalie took off through the brush at a dead run. Now she heard a third shot and the shattering of glass. There was no return fire. Axelrod was shooting at someone—someone who wasn’t shooting back.

  Natalie stumbled over a rock, caught herself, and plunged ahead, toward the deserted farm.

  Beau crouched behind the open driver’s side door of the truck. “I know it’s you, Axelrod!” he shouted. “You killed Lute and Slade and probably the girl, too. And then you faked the evidence to frame me. But it’s over, hear?”

  He waited for an answer. None came, which probably meant Axelrod was moving closer and didn’t want to give away his position.

  “When did you turn dirty, old man?” Beau taunted him. “Was it after your wife died, or had you been that way all along? When did you decide to start killing people who knew too much? Whatever your reasons, you’re finished!”

  There was a beat of silence. Then a voice spoke from behind Beau, a voice that chilled his blood. “Don’t be so sure of that, Beau. Drop that rifle and turn around . . . very slowly.”

  Still holding the Winchester, Beau turned far enough to look over his shoulder. Hoyt Axelrod was standing next to the truck’s open passenger door, a 9 mm Taurus pistol aimed at Sky’s head. He must have slipped around the silo and come on the truck from behind.

  “Ironic isn’t it? After all that time in Iraq, you come back to Texas to die,” the sheriff taunted. “Now throw that rifle down or I’ll blow the half-breed’s brains out.” His voice darkened. “Do it. And don’t try anything.”

  Faced with the hard reality that anything he tried would never be quick enough to save Sky, Beau had only one option left—to make sure Axelrod didn’t get away with this. And his weapon would have to be the cell phone in his other hand.