Then he stood on the dirt road, barely a carved rut that connected him with the other two houses and what had been Digger’s bar. He looked up and down as the first glints of early morning pink stained the sky.
It was useless and he knew it. The guy had come and gone.
Back inside, winded as though he’d run a marathon, Bean sat heavily at his desk. The lamp was in pieces but still a menace. A simple pink lamp, turned into a dark message—a threat—from whoever it had been.
Reuter. That was his bet.
I’ve been here, the message said, and I can be here again. Anytime I want...
“Tee it up, then.” Bean ground his teeth. “I take all comers.”
He stared at the lamp. She had creeped his house, had sat at his desk, and turned the lamp on...and left it on. Nothing big and obvious, nothing that called big attention to itself. Just a small, assured act.
She was obviously dead calm and that left Bean dry-mouthed. Bad guys usually came at him like Bassi had: loud and obvious and built on emotion. Always easy to smash. But Reuter was exactly as he’d seen in court yesterday. She’d been thoughtful and serene and controlled.
Bean stood, blew hot breath. The sun was visible now, already tossing heat across the landscape and harsh, angled blasts of light into his home. He shoved Reuter from his head and focused on Chelle. Get her home, then whatever is whatever and he didn’t really give a rip.
It was that moment, as the sun eased up over the horizon and painted the air hot, as the dusty smell of south Texas began to shove its fingers up his nose, he realized Reuter hadn’t simply creeped his place. Looking for money or a way to threaten him or whatever the fuck it was she was doing.
She had found the picture.
A picture of Bean’s family. Minus him, of course, because he’d been elsewhere.
The only picture Bean had, in fact.
Of Mariana, of Angela.
34
Flash-frozen, immobilized by surprise.
After a moment, maybe a lifetime, he whispered, “What the fuck?”
Then his voice boomed throughout his house, rammed into walls, came back at him exponentially stronger and louder. “Where is it?”
The picture was gone, the glass in the frame shattered and strewn around the corner of his desk and down to the floor, the frame itself broken.
“Where is it? Damnit.”
Bean yanked the desk drawers open, pawed through everything. The picture wasn’t there. He shoved everything off his desk, went through it on the floor. No picture. All around the desk, his heart pounding against his ribs, maybe cracking them, maybe snapping them like twigs underfoot.
“Goddamnit, where is it?”
He tossed everything, piece by piece. Pens and pencils, a stapler, random pages from newspapers and magazines, a now-broken ashtray with his long-ago campaign motto on it, an empty Don Julio bottle, a couple of USB cables that went to who the fuck knew what.
But no picture.
He stormed his living room, irrationally looking under couch cushions and in the pockets of shirts he’d thrown across chairs and over the table. He knew he wouldn’t find the picture in those places, knew it was gone and that Reuter had taken it, but to stop looking would be to admit the picture was gone forever.
Because Reuter had stolen Bean’s women. She’d broken the glass, violated the only two women Bean had ever loved. Dead or not, those women were Bean’s family, the only family he’d ever truly had.
This picture was all Bean had—aside from his internal bloody demons—of those women together. In a box, stashed away in a corner of an unused room, there were some letters. From Mariana, to Mariana; love letters between them. Mariana to various people, family and friends, letters she’d written while in the hospital with the gunshot and later while waiting for labor to start. Some Bean had sent, most he hadn’t because in his grief he hadn’t given a shit about anyone else. There was a picture or two, as far as Bean could remember, that Angela had drawn in pre-school, but nothing else that had both women in it.
None of it touched since you sent Angela away.
Because reading those things, reliving those memories, were worse demons than what he already carried around with him. In their very banality, their very routine-ness, they were harsher demons that what Bean carried in his skull. They were reminders of what could have been, of what had been, for the briefest of moments.
But you kept their picture? On your desk? Where you could see it every day? And carried Mariana’s badge with you every day until you gambled it away?
“Welcome to my hypocrisy,” he said while moving the over-sized CD boombox and looking beneath it.
The picture had lived on the far side of his desk where his eyes naturally fell when he worked. Thus wife and daughter were always within easy eyeshot. Simple psychology, Bean knew, keeping them as close to him as he could. It was the same reason he had carried Mariana’s Ranger badge with him. Something that belonged to her and that he believed drew them closer almost magically.
When she’d been a little girl, growing up on the far side of Zachary City, she’d had a neighbor who was a Ranger and every weekend, when their families got together, Mariana listened to his tales of chasing and catching bad guys, of tracking child molesters and arresting crooked politicians and recovering bank robbery money.
That shit had fired her imagination. Every moment from the time she understood what a cop was, that was all she’d wanted to be.
But not just a cop...a Ranger.
Seven years working for Zachary County Sheriff’s Office. Three as field training officer and next in line to be promoted to detective. Offered a spot as a crisis negotiator, then as an instructor at the academy, then as head of internal affairs.
All of which she’d turned down.
With a snort, Bean shook his head and fell to his hands and knees to feel under the easy chair. “Had to be a Ranger.”
Arms full of experience, of commendations and accolades, she had walked across the street from the Zachary County Sheriff’s Office and had gotten a job with the Department of Public Safety. That was the first step to being a Ranger. Five more years on the road, dusty west Texas highways rather than dusty county roads.
When it finally happened, promoted extremely fast to a Ranger, they’d celebrated at Johnny’s, feeling silly and lightheaded. Their faces had been slathered in sauce from finger-eating Johnny’s ribs, more than a few empty Corona bottles on Bean’s side of the table, none on hers. Her Ranger badge sat between them, encased in a brand new black leather wallet. It was the focal point of dinner, a mystical presence that assured them their life was on the right track.
During that entire dinner, Mariana’s fingers had continually played on that badge. She touched it to make sure it was real and that the entire thing wasn’t just a dream.
Her smile wasn’t her usual smile, which was a strong, confident thing filled with teeth that sat perfectly on her almond-brown skin, but a crooked thing. Lopsided and floating all over the lower half of her face as though it couldn’t figure out where to sit.
“What the hell is your problem?” Bean had asked. “You’d think being a Ranger was all you ever wanted or something.”
“Not the only thing, Jeremiah,” she’d said around a mouthful of cornbread.
“Well, yeah...’cause you always wanted me, too.”
“Yeah, like a brain tumor.”
“Ouch.”
She’d stared at him, her eyes wet and shiny, her hands trembling as she wiped her mouth. “I think we should name her Angela.”
She hadn’t yet been pregnant, that would be a couple years in the future, but she wanted that name.
Angel...
The picture was old and worn, perfectly smooth where his fingers had touched it so many thousands of times. It had been taken moments after Angela’s birth, when Mariana was sweaty and disheveled, when Angela was crinkled with traces of blood still on her and wrapped in a pink blanket.
Tha
t birth wasn’t supposed to happen. Not then. Tests and calendars and doctors all said it was weeks away...six or seven at least. So that night Bean had been in Zachary City, focused on his political future rather than his family’s future. It had been a meeting Mariana had arranged with some Zachary County bigwigs who were friends of her family. Two hours after the picture was taken, after a frantic phone call from a friend who’d been called by one of the delivery nurses, Bean raced from the Petroleum Club in Zachary City. He’d banged through dusty county roads, red-lining his little Ford Ranger truck at a buck ten. Two rabbits had gone under his wheels, one armadillo, and damn near a ranch dog randomly wandering the shoulders of the road.
What he didn’t know, and wouldn’t know for a while longer, was that as he drove he was already a single parent.
But the picture led a dual life. Yeah, it was memory of something he never had, but it was also accusation from both women in his life.
Why couldn’t you be with me instead of in Zach City?
Why couldn’t you be with Mama instead of sucking up campaign cash thirty miles away...
Breathing hard, with nowhere else to look, Bean sat back on the floor, his back against the couch. Tears streaked his face, choked his breath. The picture was gone.
Jeremiah, I’ve never said that to you. And our Angel never did, either.
“It’s stuck in my head, Mariana, true or false, I can’t stop hearing it.”
It’s your own guilt, baby.
“No shit there,” Bean said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you or your picture. I’m sorry she found our picture.”
I’m just glad she didn’t find you, baby. She could have killed you. ’Course, that would have been good for me, huh?
In spite of his anger and exhaustion, Bean chuckled. “Death comes for me, so be it. I’m not scared.”
She laughed and though it was at him, it was still such a sweet sound. Baby, you’ve spent most of your life scared. Terrified you weren’t going to be a good father because your father wasn’t and his father wasn’t. The only thing you ever wanted was to have a family.
“Thought of a family scared me to death.”
Shouldn’t have. You were a great father.
“Yeah...so great. Gave my daughter away. Twice.”
Yes.
“She’s dead now because of me.”
Didn’t have anything to do with you, Jeremiah. Had to do with a shitty system and neglectful adoptive parents. She went silent for a minute, then, Does your arm hurt?
He was rubbing his right arm. At the elbow. “Damnit. I’m sorry, Mariana.”
It was the first place he’d ever shot up a hot blast of heroin. Eventually, he’d shot up all over his body, but that first time, when his hands trembled and his breath hitched and he damn near pissed himself, the needle had torn the skin at his right elbow.
That tiny little prick had been the beginning of the nightmare. Up and down his body; elbow, thighs, between his toes, in his balls, under his eyelids. Any place he could find a good vein hidden from public view and he’d rock that big H into his blood and fuck everything else.
When he’d finally stopped, phantom pains had begun almost instantly. Always in his elbow. A throb and ache that sometimes were dull and thudding like a hammer against his bones but other times were sharp and hot and made him think of a superheated piano wire jabbed into his brain.
He realized his arm hurt now, sitting on the floor, someone else the new owner of his family. The pain never truly went way, but it had been on the ebb for a few months. Now it thundered back.
His phone rang. Startled the shit outta him. He jumped, growled, and snatched it up. “What?”
The explosion of anger and gibberish was a white-hot icepick sunk deeply into his brain. He rocked away from the cell but still heard that voice clearly.
“The fuck is this?”
The voice, medium deep but oddly genderless, never slowed. Nor did it make any friggin’ sense. It was the sound of an animal in pain.
Like what I always imagined Daddy’s madness would sound like when it got around to filling my head.
“Reuter? Where’s my fucking picture?”
Total gibberish, like the head cases and skin poppers who came before his bench while unmedicated or still swacked on the narcotic of their choice. Somehow Bean managed to pluck a few words from the torrent of syllables. “Bullets,” and “Kennedys” and “direct descendent of Christ.” Then more nonsense, more babbling.
Holy balls...she’s total crackers. Not as calm and serene as I thought. Fuck, did I ever misread her.
“...God does anything I ask, I only have to pray at pre-determined times...”
Bean laughed. “God does shit, you imbecile. It’s the great cosmic joke.”
“Budda is one thousand and sixty-three years old than Christ and that means everything changes.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Christ and I are coming. We’re coming. For you. Gonna drink your blood.”
“Bring some ribs...we’ll use it as a sauce.”
The line went dead and Bean stood, squeezing the phone until his knuckles howled.
35
Ten minutes later, Bean found Digger at what was left of the bar. Digger had five men, two with shovels, one with a pitchfork, tossing pile after pile into a construction dumpster.
“Clint and his boys,” Digger said. “Figured they wouldn’t mind working off some of their debt.” Digger chuckled. “They couldn’t get here fast enough. Drove straight through from San Antonio.”
“Lemme get this straight: you crash your car into your bar and hire men whose gambling markers I hold...in other words, I’m paying to clean up your mess?”
“Well, I did save your life...again.”
Bean ground his teeth until shooting pains filled his head. “Had a visitor last night.”
Both of them watching the clean-up crew, Bean filled Digger in on Reuter going through his house, stealing the picture, then phoning him. Dust hung in the air, floating around the men as they talked. Occasionally one of the working men glanced at them, but went back to work immediately when Bean glared at him.
Digger nodded. “She’s got an itch, obviously. So what do we do?”
Burn her down, Bean wanted to say. No questions, no answers, no words at all. Find her and burn her down and move on.
“I don’t know yet, but I damn sure know she’s coming back here. So first and foremost, stay outta the way of her fucking bullets.”
“Wanna talk to Pope?”
It was a standing joke. Sheriff Pope’s deputies were good at cleaning out unacceptable riff raff. The acceptable kind—those who paid early and often—were left alone. If a new player came sniffing around, Pope would sit back and watch, quietly offering his services to both parties, collecting money for those services but not actually letting his men step in.
If Bean came out with his hide intact, then business would return to normal. If he didn’t...well, all good things come to an end, don’t they?
Ending now?
Maybe not ending, but sure as shit circling around to something. Everything felt as though it was headed toward a particular moment in time. It hadn’t started with Bassi or the badge or even Jim Dell gunning everyone down on some sort of revenge tour. It had been coming for months, maybe longer. Fewer criminals coming to see him, smaller scores than in the past. His clientele was suddenly low-rent to a degree he’d never seen before.
So many things, each adding up to something clawing at his brain.
Bean watched Digger as Digger watched his clean-up crew. Was Digger making a play? The man had been loyal for years, but doesn’t everyone get itchy for something better and bigger eventually? Was Bassi a set up? It was Digger who convinced Bean to use him again. If so, to what end? All that had done was fuck up the deal with Little Lenny. The only percentage Bean saw there for Digger was to make a delivery himself to Little Lenny. Maybe that was it, but Bean had always believed that if Dig
ger were going to step up, he’d go the other way. Rangers, FBI, BATF. As far as Bean knew, they had not a single clue he was out here working the sticks, but if they were told, they’d love to get a finger inside. As much iron and money as ran through here? Shit, it’d tingle all their balls.
Step carefully, Bean. Watch where you put those feet and step damned carefully.
“How’s Chelle?”
“Sleeping,” Digger said. “She was a little freaked out by the gunfight. I put her in my second bedroom. Told her she could lock the door if she wanted. Asleep like that.” Digger snapped his fingers. “Soon as she wakes up I’ll get started on her. Damn, I wish you’d caught that bitch in your house.” He made a finger gun and fired it. “Blam and finish her off. Can’t do shit until we know what she’s doing.”
“Maybe,” Bean said, staring at the rubble.
“Maybe? Maybe what?”
Bean shook his head. “Maybe that’s not who creeped it.”
“Who, then?”
The clean-up men Digger hired worked fast. Shovelfuls of crap into the demo dumpster, the front end loader gingerly moving through the pile. Digger caught his gaze and followed it.
“Are you fucking kidding me? He’s dead.”
Bean licked his lips. “Find his body.”
“Judge, Jim Dell did not survive that bullshit.”
“Bring me his body.”
“So you can see he’s dead? Judge, I’m telling you he is.”
“So I can burn it. Then we’ll both know for sure.”
With a sigh, Digger nodded. “Anything you say.” His eyes fell behind Bean. “The fuck is this?”
It was the woman who’d been in the bar during the shootout. But where her face had been covered in blood and dirt, now it was washed clean, bright and shiny in the morning sun.
Except for the mustache.
Just like Mariana had had in his dreams.
Is this who I’ve been waiting for? I thought it was a man. I thought it was whoever was killing everyone—
Jeremiah, baby...this is her; the one I dreamed of.
Death is Not Forever (Barefield Book Book 3) Page 21