Texas Ranger

by James Patterson

  I pull into the student lot and drive in a long, slow circle, thinking of the first time Anne kissed me. It was just a peck on the cheek between classes, but that was when I realized I loved her.

  Most of my high school years were spent with Sara Beth, but I grew to love Anne from afar. As prom approached, I knew I was in the wrong relationship. So I bit the bullet and broke up with Sara Beth. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I didn’t want to lead her on, either.

  I found Anne in the parking lot after school and asked her to the dance. She said no at first. She wasn’t close to Sara Beth then, but she didn’t want to get in between us. When I insisted I was either going to prom with Anne or not going at all, she finally agreed.

  And that, as they say, was just the beginning…

  Now here I am, nearly twenty years later, sitting in my idling truck. I’m alone and Anne is dead.

  As a law enforcement officer, I know that terrible things happen to good people. But with Anne’s murder, I can’t quite figure out how to move forward, knowing that not just bad things but the worst things imaginable can happen to the best people.

  I pull out my phone.

  “Freddy,” I say, “I need you to tell me what’s going on with the investigation.”

  “I’m just the ME,” Freddy says. “I don’t know everything that’s happening.”

  “Come on,” I say. “You talk to cops every day. I know you know almost as much as they do.”

  “I could get into a lot of trouble for this. Purvis put the word out that you might be snooping around.”

  “Please, Freddy,” I say. “I have to know.”

  Because I don’t know how to move forward until I find out who killed Anne.

  Chapter 34

  FREDDY AND I sit on the porch of the casita, talking about the case and watching the sun begin its descent. I remember calling Anne on that fated night to tell her about the beautiful sunset, and the thought gives me chills. As I was looking out at the blood-red sky, Anne was dying. It was her last sunset.

  “Apparently, Purvis is pretty convinced about the trajectory of the bullets,” Freddy says. “So he’s been looking hard at suspects who aren’t tall. Between five six and five nine.”

  “I thought you told me that was inconclusive.”

  “It’s not enough to convict a person on its own,” Freddy says, “but, yeah, the examination suggests someone shorter than six foot.”

  I shake my head in contempt. It’s premature for Purvis to narrow the investigation.

  “This is all based on the bullet in the shoulder?” I ask.

  “Well, mostly. The other shots, too. After a close look at the crime scene, looking at the angles there and my measurements from the body, it doesn’t seem likely that someone over six feet tall would make the shots. It’s possible—but he’d have to be holding the gun at a weird angle.”

  Freddy stands up and makes a gun shape with his hand, sticking out his forefinger. He points to a knot in the floorboards and demonstrates how a person might have held the gun if he was shooting at the knot. He does it both with his arm out straight and with it bent at the elbow.

  “I’m five nine,” Freddy says. “Now you stand up.”

  He tells me to make a gun with my hand and point to the knot. I humor him.

  The angle of my pointed hand is different than his.

  I try to position my arm so that my angle matches Freddy’s. I cock my wrist different ways, then I try bending my knees. No matter which way I move, I find myself in an unnatural shooting stance.

  “See?” Freddy says.

  “This doesn’t prove a goddamn thing,” I say.

  I’ve shot enough deer in my life—and seen enough crime scenes—to know that sometimes bullets seem to come from weird angles. Re-creating a crime scene isn’t as easy as they make it out to be on TV.

  I’m irritated with Freddy, who might have distracted the investigating officer from looking closer at important suspects, like Cal Richards. But I hold my tongue on the subject. This is my opportunity to get information, not piss off the one source I have for the inside scoop.

  Besides, Freddy is only doing his job to the best of his abilities.

  “Did they check her phone records?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Freddy says. “It looks like she had been getting lots of calls. Maybe the prank calls she told you about. But they were from burner numbers.”

  “Different phones?”

  “Could be,” Freddy says. “But I guess there’s an app that randomly assigns a new anonymous number each time you call. The person either has a stockpile of prepaid phones or uses the app.”

  “An app,” I muse. “Anne said something to me about an app. She said the voice on the threatening calls was distorted, as if the caller were using an app.”

  “Could be,” Freddy says, rocking in his chair. “Maybe you should call it in to the help line they’ve set up and leave an anonymous tip. You know it’d be out of my jurisdiction to point them in that direction.”

  And there it was again. That pesky word: jurisdiction. When is anyone going to learn that when there are lives on the line, it shouldn’t mean jack shit?

  “Are they trying to get a warrant to look at Cal’s phone?”

  “They already looked at his phone,” Freddy says. “He turned it over without making Purvis get a warrant. He doesn’t have the app that changes the incoming phone number, and I doubt he has that voice distortion app, either. I’m sure that would’ve raised a red flag.”

  I stare out at the ranch. Mom is on her hands and knees in the garden, using the last of the sunlight to get some work done. Dad is on the porch. There is a book in his lap, but it looks like he’s drifted off to sleep.

  “They also checked Corgan Guthrie’s phone,” Freddy says.

  “And?”

  “Nothing there, either.”

  I try to guess what Guthrie’s height is. I just saw him a few hours ago. He’s probably five ten, maybe an inch shorter.

  Creasy and I went ahead and arrested Guthrie earlier that afternoon for assaulting a police officer, but we knew the charges wouldn’t stick. I don’t think he murdered Anne, anyway. He might hate me more than anyone in the world, but he seems to lack the imagination for a crime like this.

  “What about guns?” I ask. “Do either of them have guns registered in their names?”

  “Nope. Cal claims to hate guns, says he doesn’t own any. Corgan’s a felon so he’s not allowed to have any.”

  “Did they get a warrant and search?”

  Freddy shakes his head. “They need more evidence before they can get a warrant. You—”

  “Know that,” I finish for him. “Yeah, yeah.”

  The sun is almost down now, casting a gloom over the ranch. I feel a sense of despair creeping over me. The sun is going down on any chance to solve this case.

  “What about fingerprints at our—I mean Anne’s—house?” I ask.

  “None that didn’t belong there.”

  “Cal’s prints?”

  “Yeah,” Freddy says. “He lived there up until recently, so obviously his would be there. Some friends. Sara Beth and Patty both had fingerprints there. A kid she was tutoring from the high school.”

  “It wasn’t the quarterback, was it?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Freddy says.

  “How many tutors does that kid need?”

  “Apparently at least two,” Freddy says. “His alibi is that he was over at Sara Beth’s getting tutored at the time of the murder.”

  I think of the kid’s height. He is short for a quarterback—especially one who wants to make it to the pros—but he is probably close to six feet.

  “DNA?” I ask.

  “Same answer as the fingerprints,” Freddy says. “Nothing that didn’t belong.”

  “So it sounds like what you’re telling me is that DeAndre Purvis doesn’t know a damn thing.”

  “I haven’t told you the best part,” Freddy says. “Or the worst, I
guess.”

  “What?”

  “Cal moved back into Anne’s house,” Freddy says.

  “I knew that,” I say.

  “But did you know about the insurance policy?”

  My mouth goes dry. “What insurance policy?”

  “Anne recently took out an insurance policy on herself,” Freddy says, “and Cal was the sole beneficiary.”

  “How much?”

  “Half a million,” Freddy says. “More than he’d make in ten years driving that truck.”

  Chapter 35

  I PULL INTO the parking lot of the Pale Horse and can hear the music pulsing through the walls. As I walk toward the door, I don’t see Cal’s rig at the truck stop next door. It’s probably parked in front of my old house, since he owns it now.

  I didn’t start the day thinking I would end up here. But after my talk with Freddy, I went to the ranch house to have dinner with my parents. My father was so weak that my mother brought his plate to the couch on a TV tray. Still, Dad asked me to help him sight in a new rifle he’d bought for the upcoming deer season.

  I couldn’t believe my father thought he was going to be deer hunting this fall. And apparently, my mom couldn’t, either. She started ragging on him about his “flu” and was pushing him to go see the family doctor to get some antibiotics.

  I glared at my father, trying to bore the message into him: Tell the truth.

  Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. With the day I’d had—shooting my gun at the club, tussling with Corgan Guthrie, getting reprimanded by Creasy, talking to Freddy about the glacial progress of the murder investigation—I needed a break.

  I didn’t know where I was going when I climbed into my truck, but I found myself at the bar, as if I was called there by Willow’s voice.

  Inside, Willow is onstage in a black dress that falls down to her knees, showing off just a few inches of skin between where the hem ends and her tall boots begin. She is singing Dolly Parton’s “Why’d You Come in Here Lookin’ Like That,” and she makes eye contact with me and gives me a smile, as if to say the song is just for me.

  I hear someone calling my name, and I spot my brother Jake waving me over. Sara Beth and Patty are sitting at a table with him.

  I laugh and gesture with both arms to the three of them. “What, do y’all live here or something?”

  “There ain’t nowhere else to go in this town,” Jake says.

  There is somewhere else Jake could go: home. He has a wife and a new baby, and he doesn’t need to be spending his nights sharing beers with other women—even if his intention is to go no further than drinks and conversation. Jake could be helping Holly change diapers, bathe the baby. He could be rubbing his wife’s feet after their daughter drifts off to sleep.

  I wish I was doing that with Anne instead of spending so many long hours with the Rangers.

  “How’s it feel to be back at work?” Patty asks, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her eyes are glassy, and it looks like tonight is Sara Beth’s turn to be the designated driver.

  “Oh, for the most part, they’ve got me doing desk work right now,” I say, trying to avoid talking about my face-off today with Corgan Guthrie.

  The four of us talk as Willow sings. I want to listen to the music, but I keep getting pulled into the conversation. We have to shout to hear each other.

  At one point, Sara Beth and Patty go to the ladies’ room, and Jake says, “Did you hook up with Sara Beth the other day?”

  “Who told you that?”

  Jake whistles. “You lucky bastard. Man, Sara Beth is a fine woman.”

  “I’m sure your wife wouldn’t like to hear you say that.”

  Jake dismisses the comment with a shrug. “You’ve always been lucky with the ladies, bro,” he says. His voice is beginning to be slurred. “Patty’s a damn pretty woman. And…”

  He trails off, but we both know what he was going to say: Anne was beautiful, too.

  “You’re the lucky one,” I tell him. “As far as I can tell, your wife has only one flaw: she married you.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Jake says, but he seems to be lost in thought, and I have the unsettling feeling that he’s thinking about one of my past girlfriends.

  When the girls come back, Sara Beth is swishing her hips to the music. She grabs me around the shoulders and says, “Come on, let’s dance.”

  “Maybe later,” I say, practically shouting to be heard over the music.

  “I’ll dance with you,” Jake declares, and the two of them march onto the crowded dance floor.

  Within seconds, the foot-stomping song Willow is performing comes to an end, and the band starts a romantic ballad. Jake pulls Sara Beth into his arms and they begin slow dancing. Jake seems drunk and Sara Beth gives me an embarrassed smile over his shoulder, as if to say, What’s up with your brother tonight?

  Chapter 36

  AS SARA BETH and Jake slow dance to Alan Jackson’s “Remember When”—a song about growing old with the love of your life—I watch Willow with a conflicted heart. I think of Anne and the future we could have had, and I think of Willow, wondering if there could be any future there.

  When I turn my attention back to Patty, sitting quietly beside me, I see her eyes filling up with sadness. I ask her what’s wrong and she says, “I’m feeling sorry for myself. That’s all.”

  “That’s understandable,” I say. “You just had a long relationship come to an end.”

  “Rory,” she says, looking at me solemnly, “why doesn’t anyone love me?”

  “Oh, Patty,” I say, putting an arm around her shoulder.

  She cries into my chest. I spot Sara Beth eyeing me, and when I glance up at the stage, Willow is looking my way as well.

  “You’re wonderful,” I say to Patty, no longer forced to shout because the song is slower and softer. “Beautiful. Kind. Amazing. The only reason it didn’t work out with us is because I was still hung up on Anne. And as for your fiancé?”

  She looks up at me, waiting for the answer.

  “He’s a huge idiot,” I say.

  Patty laughs, sniffles, sits upright.

  “Thanks, Rory.”

  When the song ends, Jake and Sara Beth come back. I take Sara Beth by the arm and ask if I can talk to her for a minute.

  “I wanted to ask you about that kid you’re tutoring,” I say. “The quarterback.”

  “Jim?” she says.

  “What time were you tutoring him on the night that Anne died?”

  Sara Beth gives me a suspicious stare.

  “Did Anne tutor him, too?”

  Sara Beth rolls her eyes. “Rory, Jim Howard did not murder Anne. He’s a kid.”

  I feel a swelling frustration at Sara Beth’s naïveté. Despite his young age, Jim Howard’s fingerprints and DNA were at the crime scene, which means that however slim, there is a chance that he killed Anne. And if he did do it, then Sara Beth could be in danger, too.

  “Look,” I say, “I’m just trying to put together a time line of what happened. And doesn’t it ever occur to you that it’s weird that this kid gets tutored by the two prettiest teachers in school? I bet Miss Peters doesn’t tutor him.” I add this last part in reference to a sixtysomething math teacher who wasn’t particularly attractive when we took classes from her nearly twenty years ago.

  “He’s a good kid,” Sara Beth says, but the defensiveness is gone. She seems to understand my concerns. “I’m just trying to help him. Anne was, too.”

  “I understand, but help me. Do you remember what time you worked with him? Did he come over to your house or did you meet him somewhere else?”

  “He came over,” she says. “I don’t remember what time.”

  “Had the sun gone down? Do you remember that?”

  She thinks about it. “It was still light out. It was dark when I got the call about Anne, but when he came, I’m pretty sure it was still light.”

  I ask her to be careful when she’s with the boy—or any of the students sh
e’s tutoring. I recommend that she tutor at the school from now on, instead of at home. And I tell her to let me know if she notices anything suspicious.

  “Rory,” she says, the defensiveness creeping back into her voice. “Jim Howard did not—”

  “Just be careful.”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  When we return to the table with Patty and Jake, Willow’s band finishes its song, and she announces they’re going to take a break.

  Willow climbs off the stage and heads to the bar. I rise and excuse myself.

  “There he goes,” Jake quips. “Don Juan Ranger.”

  I frown at my brother and glance at Sara Beth and Patty. Neither of them are able to hide their hurt that I’m leaving their table to talk to another woman.

  But that doesn’t stop me.

  Chapter 37

  I SIDLE UP to Willow at the bar, where Darren is handing her a beer.

  “Hey!” Darren says. “My two favorite people.”

  He gives me a beer, too.

  “Well, hello, stranger,” Willow says to me.

  “Am I a stranger?” I say.

  “Hell no,” she says, giving me her signature ornery grin. “I know who you are. You’re the fastest gun in the West.”

  I frown at her.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Not funny, huh?”

  “It’s all right,” I say, sitting down next to her and putting my elbows on the bar. “I’ve just had a shit day. That’s all.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  We’re quiet for a moment, and even though I’m usually comfortable talking to women, I suddenly feel tongue-tied.

  Willow breaks the silence.

  “I saw you over there with your table of exes,” she says.

  “How did you know they were my exes?”

  “It’s a small town,” Willow says. “I haven’t been here that long, but I know who’s who.”

  “It’s too damn small sometimes,” I say.

  “You sure do have a type, don’t you?” Willow says, gesturing with her bottle over toward the table where Jake is talking to Sara Beth and Patty.