The Bequest

by kindle@netgalley. com

  “You said her lawyer was an old boyfriend. But if he was her lawyer at the time and she was sixteen—”

  “Yeah, the math is funny. The way I figure it, they probably had a fling during her case. He was about a year out of law school, and he took it personally when she decided to plead guilty, so he stopped practicing law and went back to vet school.”

  “What makes you think they had a fling?”

  “It just figures. Good-looking girl like that, he gets all broken up that she went to a prison for kids so he quits law practice. Sounds like he took it awfully hard if it was just business.”

  “Where do we find this vet?” Bozarth asked.

  “In Bandera County,” Morgan said from the back seat. “About an hour from here, give or take. He’s got a ranch there.”

  “Then gentlemen,” Bozarth said, “let’s go to Bandera County.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Teri had never felt so alone as she meandered to Chad’s ranch. She needed time to think, so she chose a long, roundabout route rather than going directly back. Just as Chad liked to ride when he needed to clear his head, that had once been her pattern, as well. Being alone in the Hill Country, astride a horse, was as close to heaven as she had ever been, but that was a long time ago. She wondered if she would ever regain that feeling of closeness to God.

  As good as it had been to see Mama again, it hurt doubly to be reminded of old wounds and to have the scabs ripped off anew. Teri knew it wasn’t fair to put her mother in the middle of things, to draw a line in the dirt about Daddy, but at some point, choices had to be made. Adam had done what he had done; he had made his choices. Teri had done what she had done; she had made her choices. Then Mama and Daddy made theirs, and Teri had left. Twenty years was a long time not to see your parents. Likewise, it was a long time not to see your daughter.

  But then there was Adam, and she understood that a lifetime was a long time not to see your son.

  She shook her head and flicked the reins, turning Gretel back up the slope to the ridgeline that led to Chad’s ranch.

  Chad.

  The only person who had always believed in her, who had always stood beside her. The only person she could trust and depend on. She had dragged him into the middle of her problems years ago, and now she had dragged him into her current spate of problems. But unlike before, her current problems could bite him if he stood too close to her. He was still her friend, and she had put him in harm’s way. If whoever was trying to kill her—and had already killed two people close to her and tried to kill another—found Chad, he, too, might be in danger.

  She checked her watch; it was nearly six. She was shocked to realize she had been riding for nearly three hours. She dug her heels into Gretel’s side and turned the horse toward the barn.

  Chad pressed the trigger on the chainsaw and started on the next row of cedars, right where he had left off this morning when Peggy arrived. Riding horses cleared his head, but so did manual labor in the Texas sun. There was just something about sweat and dirt that made a Texan feel really alive and on top of his game. He’d had a lot to think about ever since Peggy showed up. He was having a hard time putting all the pieces together, but one thing he did know: Peggy was in far worse trouble than before.

  He wondered, and worried, how things might have gone with her mom. He felt a little guilty about calling Mary behind Peggy’s back, but he knew Peggy never would have agreed if he had suggested it. At the same time, he knew that Peggy needed to see and talk to her, just as much as Mary needed to see and talk to Peggy. Sometimes you had to make decisions for other people, even if it might make them mad. This was one of those times. His biggest worry, though, was that Tom might have found out about the meeting, or simply shown up by accident. Mary had told him that Tom rarely went to Adam’s gravesite, but it would just be Peggy’s continued misfortune if Tom decided that today was the day for a visit.

  In his peripheral vision, he saw movement on the dirt road that ran along the fence line. He felt an odd sense of déjà vu. It was just like when he had seen Peggy arrive this morning, and, just as then, he wasn’t expecting company. He killed the chainsaw, removed his ear muffs and goggles, wiped sweat from his eyes, and squinted. It looked like a pick-up truck, a newer model, kicking up dust. Clearly heading his way.

  He crossed the meadow to his truck, grabbed a cup from the front seat, a rifle from the back, and retreated to the truck bed. He laid the rifle inside—the same rifle he had given Teri before their ride, who had apparently just tossed it into the hay behind his back as they rode from the barn. He poured himself a cup of water from a large jug on the edge of the tailgate and waited.

  The pickup turned into the opening in the fence and pulled to a stop about twenty feet away. Brand new, oversized Dodge, midnight blue in color, covered in dust. Three doors opened, three men stepped out. One looked local—faded jeans and worn boots; one looked like a drugstore cowboy—new duds sharply creased and alligator boots; and one looked like he was on his way to a formal dinner. He had loosened his tie, but even the pre-planned casual look couldn’t disguise the cut of the cloth of his suit or the aura of entitlement that engulfed him.

  One more thing stood out about him: absolutely dead eyes. “Can I help you fellows?” Chad asked.

  “I think we’re lost,” the well-dressed one said.

  “That goes without saying. You’re on private property, and you had

  to drive through two gates just to get here.”

  The three men spread out, creating a triangle around Chad’s truck.

  The well-dressed man faced him across the bed of the truck; the drugstore

  cowboy flanked to the rear, the local to the front. Chad longed for a wall

  at his back.

  “Where you headed?” Chad asked.

  “See, that’s just it,” the well-dressed one said. “We’re not real sure

  where we’re headed. We’re looking for someone.”

  “And who might that be?” But Chad thought he already knew. “We’re looking for a lawyer turned veterinarian named...” He turned

  to the local. “What was his name again?”

  “Chad Palmer,” the local said.

  “Yeah, Chad Palmer. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is,

  would you?”

  Chad reached over and put his right hand on the stock of the rifle,

  hopefully hidden behind the water jug. “Don’t know where Mr. Palmer

  is.”

  “This is his ranch, isn’t it?”

  “I’m his foreman.”

  “Strange,” the well-dressed one said. He reached inside his coat

  pocket and extracted a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and held it up: a photocopy of a newspaper article, with a photo under the headline. Chad knew who was in the photo. After all, he had been there at the time. It was the one photo that made it into the local paper before he had been

  able to kill the story.

  “You look an awful lot like the man in this picture,” the well-dressed

  man said. “A picture from Peggy Tucker’s manslaughter trial.” Chad picked up the rifle from the truck bed and held it across his

  folded arms. “Like I said, this is private property. You’re trespassing.” “Not if you invite us to stay.”

  “I’m not feeling very neighborly. I need to ask you to leave.” “I’ve always heard that Texans were supposed to be friendly.” The

  well-dressed man smiled, but it stopped short of his cold eyes. “Have you also heard, ‘Don’t mess with Texas’?” Chad pulled his lips

  back and bared his teeth in an attempt to mirror the well-dressed man’s

  mirthless smile.

  “So we seem to have reached a stalemate,” the well-dressed man said. In his peripheral vision, Chad saw the other two men slowly moving

  wider, an obvious flanking maneuver. He raised the rifle, still holding it

  across his folded arm, barrel now pointed directly at the
drugstore

  cowboy.

  “Not another step,” he said. The two men stopped then looked to the

  well-dressed man, as if awaiting instructions. He was clearly the alpha

  dog.

  “You’re good where you are,” the well-dressed man said. Chad saw that both of them stood in exactly the same position, with

  their feet shoulder-width apart, hands at their side. He’d seen enough TV

  westerns and cowboy movies to recognize the quick draw stance. But they

  had no gun belts hanging low at their hips or guns visible by their hands.

  That could only mean that the guns were tucked into the backs of their

  jeans. He did a quick calculation. If he shot first, it would likely take at

  least two seconds for the other to swing a hand around back, grab the

  weapon, and bring it around front. Lee Harvey Oswald got off three shots

  in about eight seconds with a bolt action rifle from the schoolbook

  depository in Dallas. Surely Chad could get off two, including chambering

  a second round as he swung the barrel of his rifle from one gunman to the

  other, in two to three seconds, especially since he’d have the element of

  surprise with the first shot.

  Assuming, of course, his opponents didn’t shoot first. If that

  happened, he could still get off his first shot, provided he could see the

  exact moment of hand movement. Even a fraction of a second delay could

  make the difference. But whether he could hit both targets under those

  circumstances was another question altogether.

  The real wild card, of course, was the well-dressed man. Was he

  armed? Chad couldn’t tell. He wasn’t in the gunfighter stance, and there

  was no detectable bulge under his coat. But he was “the guy.” No question

  about that. Chad needed to keep that man occupied, but he didn’t need to

  focus on him so much as to miss movement by his cronies.

  “What do you want?” Chad asked.

  “I need to talk to Teri Squire,” the well-dressed man said. “The actress?”

  “None other than.” The well-dressed man held up the photocopy of

  the article again. “I think she used to go by Peggy Tucker.”

  “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but this is Texas. I think you’ve

  wandered about thirteen hundred miles too far east. There are no movie

  stars here.”

  “If she’s not here, she will be soon enough.”

  “Then leave me your card, and I’ll have my people call your people

  when she shows up. We’ll do lunch.”

  There was that smile again from the well-dressed man. “I think

  maybe we’ll wait.”

  Teri held the reins loosely, giving Gretel her head. The horse knew exactly where to go, hoping a bag of oats awaited her in the barn. Teri hoped a sandwich and cold lemonade awaited her, as well.

  She dismounted and led Gretel into the barn, where Hansel stared at her while he munched on oats. Gretel whinnied, almost as if to say, “Where’s mine?”

  Teri glanced toward the haystack where she had tossed the rifle earlier, but it wasn’t there. She looked at the gun cabinet; not there, either. Chad must have it. She had just reached beneath Gretel’s belly to loosen the cinch on the saddle when she heard the first gunshot. The man to Chad’s right, the local, seemed to be moving, continuing the flanking motion. Chad swung the rifle around to point it at him.

  “Tell your boy to stop.” It was just a brief moment of inattention, but the flanking movement diverted Chad. The rhinestone cowboy took that lapse as an opportunity to pull his gun from the back of his belt and fire.

  “No!” the well-dressed man shouted. Chad felt a searing pain as the bullet tore into his left shoulder. He spun, staggered to regain his footing, and pulled the trigger on the rifle. The local dove to his right, hit the ground, and rolled. The bullet whizzed harmlessly by. Chad swung the rifle around, jacked in another round, and squeezed off another shot.

  The drugstore cowboy hadn’t moved, as if proud of himself for his first shot, and feeling bulletproof as a result of his prowess. Chad’s second shot caught him in the throat. His head snapped back and he threw his arms out to the side, the gun flying from his hand as he staggered backward two steps and then crumpled to the ground.

  The three survivors moved at once, as if in a synchronized choreography team. The well-dressed man lunged for the gun the drugstore cowboy tossed his way. The local scrambled for cover behind the Dodge, and Chad dove into the driver’s side of his own truck. His left arm was useless, blood spilling from his shoulder and streaming down his side. The keys were still in the ignition. He cranked the engine, ducked beneath the dash as he shifted into reverse, and floored the accelerator. The truck jumped backward as a hail of gunfire erupted from the front.

  The trunk lurched down a slight slope toward the trees where Chad had been felling cedars just before the arrival of the gunmen. He could hear, and even feel, the bullets slamming into the grill of his truck. The windshield shattered and glass rained on his head. He stayed low, hoping the engine block would provide enough of a shield to last until he could reach the trees.

  Suddenly the truck slammed to a stop, its bed crunched against a large oak tree. End of the line. Chad grabbed the rifle and a nearly-empty box of bullets, slid across the seat to the passenger side, then opened the door and rolled out. He got to his feet and ran into the trees. Teri whipped the reins, her heels clutching Gretel’s side, and rode full force up the dirt road to the meadow, then suddenly pulled up short at the sight. Chad’s truck was butted up against a tree at the edge of the woods. A second pickup, a newer model, pulled up next to Chad’s and two men got out. She didn’t recognize the man who emerged from the driver’s side, but even at this distance she recognized the passenger: Doug Bozarth.

  Both men appeared to be carrying guns. They ran into the trees. They hadn’t seen her, their attention riveted on the woods beyond Chad’s truck. Chad had obviously escaped, at least momentarily, and ducked into the woods. She hoped it was he who had retrieved her rifle from the hay and that he had it with him. She debated whether to return to the house for another weapon, but she didn’t know if he had any other guns there. With his love of animals, he never hunted so, as far as she knew, he had no reason to own any weapons. After all, the lone occupant of his gun cabinet in the barn had been her rifle, and he hadn’t even kept that in the house.

  She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and pushed 9-1-1. She held it to her ear and listened, but heard nothing. Not surprising, given the relative isolation of the ranch. She knew there was a signal at the house; after all, Detective Swafford had called her there. Again, she debated whether to head back to the house to call for help and to search for a gun, but she didn’t know how much time she had. She had no idea how much of a lead Chad had on his pursuers, but he knew his property intimately, including a few creek beds, bluffs, and even a dry cave. He could probably evade his pursuers, one of whom was a city slicker, without too much trouble. That meant she probably had time to go call for help.

  It seemed like minutes, but in actuality she knew all these thoughts had coursed through her mind in a matter of seconds. But still, time was of the essence. She started to turn Gretel to return to the house when, up ahead, she saw a lump on the ground near the spot where Chad’s truck had been parked that morning when she arrived. She figured he had likely done so again, so whatever had happened, it had started there. She headed that way.

  Blood pounded in her ears as she drew nearer. The lump took on a distinct shape. It was a man lying on his back, arms outstretched. Up close, she could clearly see that he was dead, blood streaming from his throat. So Chad was definitely armed.

  She looked downhill toward the spot where Chad’s truck had been parked. The chainsaw lay on its sid
e, silent. Next to it, tire tracks, and a dark splotch on the grass and dirt nearby. She dismounted and ran to the spot. Her heart seemed to stop as she looked down. Blood.

  She rushed back to Gretel and jumped on her back. She held Gretel in a sprint across the meadow to the two trucks at the edge of the woods.

  She jumped off and landed on her feet in a dead run. She rushed to Chad’s truck, its engine quiet. Blood pooled on the floorboard on the driver’s side and was smeared along the inside of the door. It stained the seat in a swiping motion toward the passenger door, which was open. Looked like a lot of blood to her, but at least Chad was on the move. The question was how fast and how far he could move in the condition he was in. And how far ahead of his pursuers was he?

  She checked the interior of the other truck, not knowing what she might find. A gun, maybe. The dead man wasn’t armed, but the two who had entered the woods were. If they had each been armed initially, then one gun was unaccounted for. Or maybe Bozarth now had the dead guy’s gun.

  She checked the glove compartment, under the seat, in the rear seat. The only thing of interest was the keys in the ignition. She pocketed those. If nothing else, it might hinder their escape.

  She went back to Chad’s truck and checked it again. Nothing but tools in the back. Spare chains for the chainsaw, a socket set, screwdrivers, a pair of work gloves—but there was one item that might be of some help, a pruning saw with a retractable blade about six inches long. Ideal for trimming small limbs or branches.

  Or fingers or arms. God forbid that matters should end up in close quarters fighting, but by now Teri had learned to always think worst-casescenario. The bar had been set pretty high for her in that regard, yet these past days had already cleared it by a wide margin.

  She gripped the saw tightly with her right hand and tried the retractable blade. It fit snugly into a slot in the handle, but opened easily, the blade clean and unrusted. She folded the blade back and held the saw at her side.

  Last chance to decide: into the woods or back to the house to call for help.