Blood Trails (The Heir Hunter Book 1)

by Diane Capri

  Flint didn’t expect to find anything important here. He just wanted to get the feel of the place.

  He still didn’t have a sense of the girl or why she’d become a runaway, a criminal, and a fugitive. Was she simply going with the flow of her life? A girl who attracted the wrong stuff and floated from one disaster to the next? Or did she drive her own life off the cliff?

  In short, had Laura Oakwood been a bad person or simply an unlucky one? Flint knew the correct answer to that question wasn’t always the obvious one based on observable facts. His life proved as much. Scarlett’s, too.

  The old Oakwood ranch house was a rectangular box. Small. Maybe about eight hundred square feet. The wraparound porch made it seem larger from the air. If it had been painted once upon a time, that paint was a distant memory. The entire place was as weathered and cracked and dry as the ground around it.

  The Sikorsky’s relentless soundtrack overwhelmed Flint’s hearing as he moved toward the house. When Laura Oakwood lived here, the silence must have been all-consuming. The nearest neighbor was miles away. This was no place for a girl. She’d had to have been tough as nails to thrive out here.

  The front door and windows were hidden by the porch roof’s shadows. Flint didn’t see the man standing in the doorway until he shouted out, “Who are you and what do you want?”

  At least that’s what Flint thought he said.

  Even wearing sunglasses to shield his eyes, Flint couldn’t see well enough through the bright light into the darkness. The guy might have been sixteen or sixty.

  But there was no way to mistake his intentions. His feet were braced apart and his arms were raised to hold a shotgun, aimed straight toward Flint’s chest, center mass.

  As his eyes began to adjust, Flint noticed the guy’s arms trembling. Maybe from the weight of the shotgun. Or nerves. Or something even less predictable.

  “Get the hell out of here!” he shouted over the Sikorsky’s clamor.

  Flint took another four steps, eyes straight ahead, focused, watching, waiting.

  He saw exactly the movements he’d trained himself never to miss.

  Saw them as if they occurred slowly, one millimeter at a time.

  The guy’s shoulders leveled.

  His torso twisted.

  He lateraled the shotgun’s barrel to his left.

  His index finger squeezed the trigger.

  Flint could barely hear the thundering noise and the sound of the pellets hitting the ground on his right, raising more loose dust not ten feet from where he stood.

  The pellet storm lasted less than a full second.

  Flint’s instinct was not to root himself to the spot, which was probably what the guy was expecting.

  Instead, he rushed forward as the shooter attempted to adjust the barrel back to center, aim, and fire the shotgun at the now fast-approaching target.

  Flint covered the distance in three strides. In one fluid motion, he pushed his arms up and knocked the shotgun away from the man’s shoulder before he body-slammed the shooter backward.

  The shotgun flew up in the air and out of the shooter’s hands.

  He fell backward, through the open doorway, into the room and down to the floor on his back. Flint landed squarely on top of him and pinned him flat.

  The shotgun clanged onto the rough floor.

  The interior of the house was dark. Flint still wore his sunglasses. He could barely see. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them. Rapidly. Again and again.

  The Sikorsky continued to fill the air with thundering noise that slithered through the holes in the walls as if the helo had invaded the house.

  The man felt puny under Flint’s body. Wiry. He wiggled and fought to get away.

  Flint pressed down with his torso while he pulled back his fist and punched the shooter squarely in the face. His skull bounced on the wood floor. He stopped moving. He was out cold.

  Flint rolled off the shooter and stayed low to the floor. He pulled his sunglasses off and looked quickly around the room for the guy’s backup.

  Three doors led from the room’s central living area. Two on the left and one on the right.

  Flint pushed himself up to a squatting position, snagged the shotgun, and checked the other rooms.

  When he was sure the house was unoccupied, he returned to the unconscious shooter. Flint patted the assailant’s empty pockets. No wallet. No ID. No belt.

  He hadn’t hit him that hard. He’d be coming around soon.

  Flint went into the bathroom and found two threadbare bath towels. He secured the guy’s wrists and ankles as well as possible and left him on the floor.

  Flint moved from room to room, conducting a quick search of the place.

  The house had seemed abandoned, but at close range he saw that it was furnished and lived in. There must have been a generator somewhere. There were no overhead electrical lines outside, but the light switches worked. He flipped them on. He found moldy cheese and sour milk and six longneck bottles of beer in the refrigerator, stains in the toilet, and dirty sheets on the bed. Whoever this guy was, his housekeeping skills needed improvement.

  Flint used a nasty toothbrush he’d found in the bathroom to swab around inside his attacker’s mouth. He wrapped the toothbrush in a plastic grocery bag he’d found in the kitchen. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best DNA collection he could do quickly. There was probably a first aid kit in the Sikorsky. If he had time, he’d grab a syringe and get a blood sample and fingerprints, too.

  Flint grabbed the shotgun again and went through the back door to make a quick tour of the outbuildings. Distance from the Sikorsky helped restore his hearing a bit, but he heard no competing sounds except his own boot steps.

  All three outbuildings might have been part of a working ranch once, but they had been abandoned long ago. He found an extension cord and slipped it over his shoulder. The cord would make better handcuffs than the threadbare towels.

  He found no vehicles of any kind. No animals either.

  How did that shooter get his supplies from town if he didn’t have a truck?

  Most likely there was another resident here. One who had taken the truck today. One who might be coming back soon.

  Flint hustled back inside the house. The guy was still bound on the floor, but his eyes were open. He’d rolled onto his stomach and inched himself across the floor toward the kitchen. Flint pulled a straight-backed chair from the kitchen table, flipped him onto his back with a booted foot, placed the chair astride the shooter’s thin calves to prevent him from kicking, and sat.

  The Sikorsky’s overwhelming whine continued unabated.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Who are you and what do you want?” the guy shouted. Flint could hear him but not well enough for a lengthy conversation.

  Flint yelled back, “Who are you?”

  “Get the hell out!” The man’s eyes were furious. He thrashed from his waist, trying to get free of the chair-leg prison. His face reddened with the effort and the frustration of failure. “Get out! Get out!”

  Conversation was impossible and Flint was ready for some answers. But did this guy have any? Or was he merely wasting time until his housemate returned?

  Flint went out to the Sikorsky, opened the door, and retrieved the first aid kit. The pilot looked up from his charting. Flint flashed his open palm, five fingers splayed, twice. “Ten minutes!”

  Phillips gave him another thumbs-up.

  Flint hurried back inside. He opened the first aid kit and found wide tape. He tore off a six-inch swath with his teeth, shoved the guy’s chin with the palm of his hand to close his gaping mouth, and slapped the tape over his lips. Not as good as duct tape, but it would do the job for now.

  He rummaged through the kit’s supplies until he located a syringe, alcohol, and a cotton ball. He held the shooter still with one knee on his shoulder and the other on his forearm, swiped his elbow, and drew blood. When he capped the syringe, he pulled out his phone, ripped the tap
e off the man’s mouth, snapped a few pictures of his face, and slapped the tape into place again.

  The first aid kit didn’t contain anything good enough to lift fingerprints. He found a glass in the kitchen and wiped it off with a sterile wipe from the first aid kit. Then he pressed the man’s fingertips onto the glass. He had an app on his phone for collecting fingerprints, but it required precise placement of each finger. This was easier for now.

  The shooter had slowed his struggling. Whether from exhaustion or resignation, or something else entirely, was impossible to guess.

  When Flint finished gathering the bio data, he looked up toward the clock over the mantle. He’d been here longer than he’d planned already.

  Should he leave him here? He’d gathered more than enough evidence to identify him. He couldn’t do a lot of harm bound and gagged on the floor. But after that? When his partner came back? What harm could they both do then?

  Flint moved the chair, tied the guy’s wrists and ankles with the electrical cord, and removed the towels. He reached down and grabbed his arm.

  Flint lifted him off the floor, set him on his feet, and tossed him across his shoulder. He stooped to collect the shotgun on the way out the back door.

  The third outbuilding was far enough from the Sikorsky to ask questions and hear the answers. Flint plopped the shooter down on its dirt floor and yanked the tape off his mouth again. The shooter glared.

  Flint aimed the shotgun at his knee. “What’s your name?”

  The guy narrowed his eyes. Flint touched his knee with the barrel of the gun. His eyes went wide and the thrashing began again. “Don’t shoot me, man! Don’t shoot me!”

  He touched the gun to the guy’s knee again. “What’s your name?”

  “Jeremy Reed.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here, man. Been living here a long time. Dude died. Place was empty. Nobody cares. What’s your problem?”

  “Who lives here with you?”

  “Just me, man.”

  Flint nudged his knee with the gun barrel again.

  Reed’s eyes went wild. He thrashed his head back and forth. “And my girlfriend. She’s at work.”

  “Why’d you shoot at me?”

  Reed’s belligerent tone turned whiny. “Because those other two beat the crap outta me. This time, I was ready.”

  “What other two?”

  “I don’t know, man. Two ugly dudes. Came here a few weeks back. Asking a bunch of questions about the guy who used to own this place and his kid.”

  Flint pulled out his phone and found the picture he’d taken of Trevor and Paxton after he’d hit them with the Taser shots back in his alley. He showed the picture.

  Reed’s eyes widened and bulged out. He nodded his head vigorously. “Yeah. That’s them. They wailed on me but good.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Nothin’. I don’t know nothin’. We own this place now. It’s ours. Guy died a long time ago. Nobody came around.” He shrugged. “We needed a roof, so we moved in. Stayed on. Not like people are lining up to live in this dump. Nobody cared until those two showed up.”

  Flint narrowed his gaze. He was no lawyer, but he knew a bit about adverse possession, the law that says squatters can get title to real property if they claim title to it long enough. There are a few requirements, but it can be done in a thousand ways. If the real owner doesn’t find out and object before the statute of limitations runs out, then Reed would own the place. Maybe he already owned it, like he said.

  And if he owned the land, that didn’t necessarily mean he owned the mineral rights, too. If he owned those, Shaw and Crane would already know. They wouldn’t be looking for Oakwood.

  This guy was smarter than he looked. Or maybe his girlfriend was the smart one. Or maybe Shaw and Crane were behind this. Hedging their bets. If they didn’t find the rightful heir in time, one of them would simply steal her land and everything under it. Couple of princes.

  Flint bent down and slapped the tape back on Reed’s mouth. All the fight had gone out of him, though. He didn’t struggle when Flint picked him up in a fireman’s carry and hustled over to the helo.

  Flint plopped him in the back of the Sikorsky, settled into the passenger seat, and gave the pilot two thumbs-up. Phillips revved up the helo without further conversation.

  As the Sikorsky lifted off the ground, Flint retrieved his headset and turned on his microphone.

  “Who’s our passenger?” Phillips asked. It was the first question he’d asked since Flint came aboard.

  “No idea.”

  “Where are we taking him?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  “I’m going to need to refuel soon. Where are we going?”

  “Wolf Bend High School parking lot.” He’d chosen the school because its parking lot was the only one he’d seen during the flyover that was large enough to land the Sikorsky.

  “Can I drop you off and come back? Maybe an hour?”

  “Sure.”

  “What about him?” Phillips tilted his head toward the guy in the back.

  Good question. He was already regretting his decision to bring Reed along. The guy was probably exactly what he claimed to be. Most likely the bio data wouldn’t turn up anything either. But the alternative was to leave him to make trouble for Flint with Shaw or Crane or someone worse.

  The simple matter of absorbing Laura Oakwood’s past through direct exposure to her habitats had become way more complicated than Flint had expected. “Take him with you.”

  “Will do.”

  The big Sikorsky rose higher and turned south toward the town.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Wolf Bend, Texas, wasn’t the most godforsaken place Flint had ever seen, but it was far from the most desirable. It contained nothing resembling the standard indicators of twenty-first-century life in America. No big-box stores. No multiplexes. Not even a single fast-food joint.

  Did they even have internet access? Back in the day, residents probably ordered what they needed from a catalogue and things were delivered by US mail. Maybe they still did.

  Across the street from the high school, he saw four buildings. A gas station and car repair shop. A small grocery store. A diner. And something like a dollar store for everything else, he guessed. The sign out front said, “If we don’t have it, you don’t need it.”

  He grinned. All problems solved.

  Most of the next block was occupied by a church and an open space that might have been a city park. On either end and behind the buildings of the main town were a few two-story homes on half a dozen residential streets.

  The Sikorsky set down in the school parking lot long enough for Flint to get out and then left to find fuel. No doubt the Sikorsky’s coming and going drew attention, but it was Sunday afternoon and the streets were almost deserted.

  The few pedestrians who were milling about glanced at the helo and went on about their business. Which might have meant they were somewhat used to such arrivals and departures. Seemed unlikely that even the smallest thing would go unnoticed in a place like this.

  The two school buildings, one slightly larger than the other, sat on the north edge of what only a prankster would call the city. Both U-shaped buildings were cement block with flat roofs and big windows facing Main Street.

  Flint was surprised the town had enough kids to justify two schools. The larger one was the high school. Next door was the school for kindergarten through eighth grade. Behind the buildings were the parking lot and the athletic field.

  Fortunately, the entire school complex was closed on Sunday. The high school’s back door faced the parking lot. The school principal was waiting for him outside. Flint was late. He’d have to check out the town after their meeting instead of before, as he’d planned.

  “Thanks for giving me the tour on a Sunday, Mr. Mason,” Flint said, hand extended, a polite smile on his face. “I won’t take up too much of your time.”

  Dan
Mason looked like the online photo Flint had found before he made this appointment. Sixtyish. Balding. His skin was weathered and his handshake bony. “No trouble at all. Come on inside. My office is up front.”

  He looked exactly how Flint had imagined a high school science teacher and principal in Wolf Bend would look. He’d had the principal’s job for eighteen years. He’d been the science teacher and football coach before that. In a school this size, Flint suspected, everybody wore more than one hat.

  As they walked shoulder to shoulder through the empty halls, Flint absorbed more of Laura Oakwood’s world. Beige tile walls, beige tile floor, lockers lining the entire trip from the back door to the front. What would high school have been like for her? Nothing but contact with the same people, day in and day out, for all the years she lived here. Except for the lack of bars on the windows and barbed wire around the perimeter, it could have been a prison. Oakwood probably felt like a prisoner. No one tries to escape from a happy place.

  Mason’s office was just inside the double front doors, along with the other two administrative offices, one for the nurse and one for everything else.

  Flint stopped a moment to look at the wall dotted with group graduation photos dating back to 1960 when the school was built.

  Each of the photos included faculty and staff, which hadn’t changed much for the past dozen years. Two or three pretty teachers showed up in the earlier photos now and then but disappeared from the later ones. A few years’ photos were missing, probably because they’d had no graduates those years.

  Laura Oakwood’s class was 1988. Rosalio Prieto’s was 1987. There were no role models for Laura or Rosalio. No pretty women teachers or men younger than fifty.

  Flint pulled out his phone. “Would you mind if I took pictures of these?”

  “Not at all,” Mason said.

  While Flint snapped photos, Mason looked at the framed gallery as if he hadn’t seen them in a long time. “One class of graduates looks pretty much the same as the next when they’re dressed in those caps and gowns, doesn’t it?”