You're Not Safe (Texas Rangers)

by Mary Burton

  The old man’s edict had been clear and strangely unavoidable. Jack would go to the Shady Grove treatment facility for therapy until the old man decided he should be released. They’d concocted a story so no one knew the truth . . . that Jack had murdered his sister during an attempted rape.

  Jack had refused. He declared that he wasn’t sick or broken like the poor losers dumped at Shady Grove. He had no desire to die or hurt himself. Sure he’d lost his temper and Meg had paid a price, but he was fine. It wouldn’t happen again. He promised. He swore.

  However, his father had moved with lightning speed, wrapping long smooth fingers around his neck and pinning him to the wall. In a quiet whisper the old man told him that there’d be no public accusations or trial. He would lock Jack, his only son, in the basement of the house, where he’d stay for the rest of his life. Go to Shady Grove and get help or go to hell.

  Jack choked, struggling to draw in air, staring into old eyes filled with sadistic satisfaction. Unable to draw in a breath, he’d simply nodded. He’d agreed to a stay at Shady Grove and to get better.

  The coming weeks and months had been a string of endless boring days. He met with a counselor, talked about his feelings, and learned what he needed to say to gain freedom. He’d not changed but had been biding his time.

  And then he had seen Elizabeth for the first time at camp. He’d known in that instant he’d found a kindred spirit.

  Though she was broken and damaged he learned quickly she was a healer and a caregiver. The other broken birds at the camp flocked to her and fluttered around her hoping she would say the right word to erase their pain.

  He’d kept his distance but he too hadn’t been immune to Elizabeth. He’d stayed on the fringe, but he always made a point to linger close. The others had little time for him. Wrapped up in their own sorrows, they ignored him. But not Elizabeth. She’d brought him into the circle.

  That last night at the campfire he’d known he was half in love with her. He’d taken the group picture not so he could remember the others, but so he could remember her. The next day the others began to leave. After they’d left Elizabeth had drawn back into herself. She didn’t have a smile or a kind word for him. She’d gotten lost again. And then she’d left. And he was alone and left to languish in the camp intended to make him better.

  “I rotted in that camp for a year.”

  “But you’re a clever boy. You finally won Father over.” No missing the anger rumbling under her laugh. “But your sweet Elizabeth was gone. And you never could find her.”

  He hated the sound of her voice. “My suffering gives you pleasure.”

  “Poor, poor baby boy.”

  He had had no choice but to go on with his life. He’d gotten an education, married, divorced, and lived like any other man. And then eight months ago he’d seen Greer Templeton on television. His Elizabeth.

  In that moment he’d known what it would take to make her truly happy: re-create the old group and ensure none of them ever abandoned her again.

  The others were dead.

  They’d been granted their dying wish.

  Now it was time for Greer.

  Chapter Twenty

  Monday, June 9, 9 P.M.

  The drive up Route 12 took Winchester deep into the Hill Country and it was pitch black dark when he arrived. Despite the late hour, heat rose up off the stone driveway.

  Sycamore’s home was a modest one-story ranch with a wide wraparound porch stocked with a couple of rockers. Chipped white paint on the house suggested the home had weathered too many summers without attention. Not surprising. From what he’d heard about Michael, the guy traveled a lot for business. He worked for an accounting firm in East Texas and now only retreated up here when he needed a few days off. It had been five years since Michael had been here last.

  Michael had not reported into work for seven days, but no one had expected him to return to work. The word was he had stolen client money.

  Winchester got out of the car and, jangling his keys in his hand, surveyed the property. A black Range Rover was parked by the weathered ranch house. No flowers or knickknacks to show a woman’s touch, this place was plain and simple, a suitable getaway for a man. Thirty, engaged, and by all accounts a success until he’d been caught embezzling.

  Winchester walked around the house. The grass had browned and dried up in the heat making it more like the bristles of a brush. A rusted weather vane squeaked in gentle hot wind.

  According to Greer, Michael had threatened to shoot himself with his daddy’s shotgun when he was eighteen. His mother had persuaded him to give her the weapon and when he’d complied, the parents had shipped the troubled boy to Shady Grove. There the family had learned he had been crumbling under the weight of his father’s need for perfection in his only son. By all accounts Shady Grove had helped the boy grow into a successful man.

  Winchester’s boots thudded against the porch steps as he moved toward the front door. Hand on his gun, he stood to the side of the door, poised to knock. Before he could wrap his knuckles against the door, he saw that it was ajar.

  Winchester drew his gun and stepped to the side as he pounded a fist on the doorjamb. “Michael Sycamore! Texas Rangers.” No answer. “Mr. Sycamore, are you in the house?”

  When he received no answer he pushed on the door with his boot. The rusted hinges squeaked and groaned, as it swung open.

  Winchester spotted Michael Sycamore immediately.

  He sat on the center couch. A shotgun lay on the floor at his feet. And his face had been obliterated by a shotgun blast.

  The blood staining Sycamore’s chest and splattering the wall behind him was fresh. He’d been shot within the last hour.

  Winchester backed out of the house and reached for his phone. Two rings and he heard Bragg’s curt reply. “This is Winchester. I found what’s left of Sycamore.”

  While his conversation with Winchester still replayed in his head, Bragg pulled up into the Central Austin neighborhood just before eleven. The Hyde Park area was exclusive, home to many professors and professionals who preferred the character of the older, smaller homes built in the 1920s and 30s. Moonlight glowed over shade trees drooping over sidewalks and yards with picket fences. Lights glowed in the windows.

  It had taken Bragg less than an hour to get the search warrant for the Shady Grove records. The rich liked to keep their secrets but they even turned on their own when three Texans from well-connected families had been murdered within the week.

  According to the records, the boy had been sent to Shady Grove because he’d taken an overdose after his older sister had drowned in the family pool. Jack had been devastated by the loss. More phone calls revealed that Jack’s parents were dead but his surviving younger sister lived in Hyde Park.

  Kate Trenton’s house wasn’t large but very nice. Made of brick, it had a shade tree in the yard and a planter on the front porch filled with bright yellow flowers. The house would have been inviting if all the shades had not been drawn closed.

  Bragg rang the bell and stood inches to the left of the door as he waited. Finally, footsteps sounded inside the house and he saw the flutter of curtains in the window by the door.

  Locks clicked open and the door cracked open a fraction. A tall woman in her mid-twenties stared up at him with bright blue eyes, which set off pallid skin.

  Bragg touched the brim of his Stetson. “Ms. Kate Trenton?”

  Her gaze narrowed. “That’s right.”

  “Ma’am, we are trying to find your brother, Jackson Trenton.”

  Her body tensed and she drew into herself. “I haven’t seen him in a year.”

  “When was that?”

  Her fingers curled into fists. “He came to our father’s funeral last year, but I’ve not seen him since.”

  Bragg tried to restrain his impatience. “Ma’am, may I come in? I’d like to ask you a few questions about your brother.”

  She hesitated. “Why?”

  “Ma’am, I
don’t think you want us to have this discussion outside.”

  She closed the door and he heard the scrape of the chain leaving the lock. She opened the door wide. Dressed in jeans, a red short-sleeved shirt, and tennis shoes, she hesitated and then invited him into the house.

  Bragg stepped inside to a central living room with polished wood floors. It was furnished with neat crisp European furniture and Oriental rugs. Light from a crystal chandelier glistened on a round glass coffee table.

  Bragg removed his hat. “Ma’am, I need to cut to the chase, if that’s all right.”

  Kate smoothed her hands over her jeans. “Sure.”

  “Your father sent your older brother Jack to Shady Grove Estates twelve years ago.” Not a question, but a statement.

  Her lips flattened and her skin paled all the more. “That’s right.”

  “According to your brother’s records, he tried to take an overdose.”

  She raised her chin but didn’t answer. Her gaze darted away before returning to him.

  “Your brother lived at the facility for a year.”

  Again she held back.

  “Ma’am, I need answers, pronto. Why are you hesitating?”

  “I’m not hesitating.”

  Bragg struggled to keep his patience in check. “Ma’am, I need for you to be honest with me. I need to find your brother.”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “We are investigating several murders.”

  For a long moment she didn’t speak, as if the burden of an old secret weighed on her. “Who was killed?”

  “Former residents of Shady Grove.”

  Her hands trembled. He’d hit a bull’s-eye.

  “Ma’am, I can tell by the look on your face something is wrong. Tell me about Jack.”

  “Like I said, I haven’t seen him since our father’s funeral.”

  Bragg didn’t speak but waited, sensing her story bubbled under the surface.

  When she didn’t speak, he said gently, “Ms. Trenton, you need to tell me. Why was Jack at Shady Grove? His file said he tried to overdose after your older sister’s accidental drowning.”

  A bitter smile twisted the edge of her mouth. “He didn’t overdose.” For a long moment she didn’t speak. “He drowned our sister.”

  “What?”

  “I was twelve. He was twenty and Meg was twenty-one. Dad and I came home and discovered Meg floating in the pool. Jack was nowhere to be found. Dad pulled the security footage of the pool area. And he saw what Jack had done.” The words rushed out as if she’d released infection from an unhealed wound.

  He ground his teeth. “Jack drowned your sister.”

  She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “There was no audio so we don’t know what had been said but we watched as Jack approached our sister and then she shook her head and shouted. He got angry and dragged her to the pool.” She closed her eyes. “He held her under the water until she stopped moving. And then he ran. Dad followed his wet footprints to his room and then to the garage. His car was gone. Jack came home several hours later. Dad had cleaned up the footprints and called the police. He told them she’d killed herself.”

  “And he moved Jack to Shady Grove.”

  “Dad thought if he kept Jack medicated he could control him. And he did. For a time. And then Jack convinced him he was desperately sorry over Meg’s death. Dad wanted to believe him. Finally the old man relented, and he let Jack go.”

  Bragg drew in a deep breath, trying to control the anger rolling through his veins like liquid fire. “Has Jack contacted you at all?”

  She swallowed. “He’s afraid of me. I have the security video from the night Meg died. If anything happens to me, it goes to the police. Dad set it up that way years ago.”

  “Do you have a recent picture of your brother?”

  “No. But when I saw him at the funeral I was shocked. He’s changed a lot. His hair is short and dark and he doesn’t wear his glasses anymore.”

  Digging up a grave in a cemetery was no easy task. It required permission of the family, viable reasons, court orders, and of course a crew of workers. But Jack had none of those. No one would give him permission to dig up a grave and day workers were a suspicious lot and fearful of cemeteries at night.

  So Jack had abandoned the idea of digging up the grave. The tall granite headstone was a powerful image and would suffice. He picked up the wilting white roses, sniffed them, and then tossed them into the shadows.

  “What time is it?” she said.

  He checked his watch. “Time to go.”

  “This is the last one. You can’t screw this up.”

  Irritated, he shut his eyes and clung to his temper. “Shut up! I’m sick of hearing you talk, Meg.”

  She laughed. “That’s too bad. Because you’re stuck with me until the day you die.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Murderer.”

  The time had come. Time to act.

  As he turned, he tipped his head to the headstone: JEFFREY ROBERT TEMPLETON.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Monday, June 9, 10: 45 P.M.

  A rustle outside her window had Greer rising from her desk. At the window she pushed back the curtains and stared into the night. A light by the barn caught her attention. Mitch had already bunked for the night, and José would be fast asleep. So who was outside?

  She tugged on her boots, laced them up, and, grabbing a flashlight, headed outside into the day’s lingering heat. Her flashlight cut through the darkness as dust and gravel crunched under her boots as she moved toward the barn.

  “Mitch?” she asked.

  The black mare brayed and snorted. Nothing unusual but the brown horse now swished his tail with worry. That wasn’t right.

  With Bragg’s warnings to be careful, fear rose up Greer’s back as she approached the corral toward the horses. Both were agitated.

  It wasn’t like her to get spooked. She’d been running this place for years and was accustomed to chasing off wild animals, even vagrants.

  She paused as the rush of footsteps barreled toward her. As she turned, a sharp sting bit against her neck. Electricity shot through her limbs, and she crumbled to her knees. Strong hands grabbed her arms and kept her from falling face-first into the ground.

  Mitch had heard the car when it had arrived on the property. Since he’d served in the Middle East, it didn’t take more than a shift in the wind or the rustle of branches to wake him. He still slept in basketball shorts, T-shirt and boots by his bed. Mortar fire in Central Texas wasn’t likely. Logic told him that. But a gut trained to be ready for IEDs, sniper shots, and explosions didn’t care about logic. So he was always ready for trouble. Just in case.

  When he heard the car door close he sat up alert and wide awake. Jasper perked up his ears as Mitch slipped his feet into his boots, pulled the laces tight, yanked on his shirt, and grabbed his cell phone, wishing it were his service revolver.

  Shoving a hand through short hair, he left the dog in his room and headed outside in time to see Greer drop to her knees and a man haul her up. His arm banded around her waist, and if he’d not been supporting her she’d have fallen.

  Fuck. His heart pounded as he gripped the phone, wishing he could chamber a round. “Hey, what the hell?”

  The hooded man turned and in the dusky moonlight glared at Mitch. “Fuck. What are you doing here?”

  He didn’t answer. No hint of worry or fear, just a grim determination that reminded Mitch of an insurgent who’d blown himself up. Determined fanaticism.

  In the next seconds, Mitch barely shook off his shock as the other’s hands twitched and reached for the .45 tucked in his waist. Training had Mitch diving to the ground as the man fired.

  But Mitch wasn’t fast enough. As he hit the ground the bullet cut through his side. Pain burned through his body.

  Greer’s muffled anguished cry nearly broke his heart but also told him she was alive.

  Anger and frustration blocked all the fear. Ig
noring the pain, he rose up on his knees as the man dumped Greer in the truck’s front cab. Still gripping his cell, Mitch staggered to his feet.

  “We can’t leave him.” Greer’s voice slurred the words.

  The truck started, turned, and headed toward him. He stood his ground, one hand pressed to his side and the other gripping his cell. Mitch waited, knowing he’d have just one shot. The truck picked up speed. Seconds before it hit him, he tossed his cell into the trunk bed as he jumped to the right. The cell clunked against the bed as he hit the ground. Pain burned through his gut. He’d accomplished the task but had he failed Greer?

  He tried to push up and get back to his feet but the pain burned at each twitch of a muscle. He rolled on his side and pulled his hand from the wound. Blood turned black by the moonlight glistened on his hand. Tears stung his eyes.

  Mitch wouldn’t survive losing someone else he cared about.

  As soon as Bragg left Kate Trenton’s house he’d called Greer and when she didn’t answer, he’d called Mitch. Two no-answers had added up to trouble. He’d not hesitated to call the Rangers and the local sheriff. He wanted every officer within fifty miles of Bonneville.

  As he barreled down the dark highway, he called Winchester and gave him a brief description of the situation. Winchester was an hour away, still at the Sycamore crime scene.

  When he arrived he saw the flash of lights from a dozen police cars and two paramedic trucks. His heart sank and for an instant he imagined the ground shifted under his feet as his world crumbled.

  He rushed toward the stretcher as the paramedics were loading it on the truck. Mitch’s colorless face stared back.

  “Mitch.”

  The boy’s eyes snapped open and he grabbed his uncle by the forearm with surprising strength. “Bragg, I tried to save her but I couldn’t.”

  “Greer?”

  Mitch winced as he tried to sit up. “There was a man. He took her. Shot me.”

  Bragg’s heart twisted for the boy before him and for Greer who’d been taken. He wanted to stay with Mitch but had to trust him to the paramedics. His gaze nailed the paramedic. “How is he?”