Falcon's Run

by Aimée Thurlo

  * * *

  PRESTON CAME BACK five minutes later, alone. Abby had stopped to groom a mare in a pen about a hundred feet away.

  Daniel grinned from ear to ear and Gene patted Preston on the shoulder. “How about that—you two taking care of the animals—together.”

  “Yup, that’s the way it starts. I hope she doesn’t break your heart, bro. She’s beautiful and sexy. In other words, way out of your league,” Gene said, watching Abby place a halter on a horse, who obligingly lowered his head for her. “That’s a sweet ride.”

  “Watch your mouth, or I’ll close it for you right now,” Preston said.

  “I was talking about the horse but, hey, if you want to fight, don’t worry, I’ll take a dive. Don’t want you to get beat up in front of your lady,” Gene said.

  “She’s not my lady,” Preston said, his voice practically a snarl.

  “Enough, guys. Here she comes, and she picked up a guest along the way, and not just the horse. Play nice in front of the kid,” Daniel said, cocking his head toward Abby, who was walking toward them with Bobby and the mare on a lead rope between them.

  “This is Bobby Neskahi,” Abby said a moment later, introducing the boy, then looking at Preston. “He just told me something you need to hear, Preston,” she said, then looked at Bobby and nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “I didn’t think of it sooner or I would have said something,” Bobby said.

  “What is it, son?” Preston asked.

  “I told you that Carl didn’t have friends here except me and Abby, but I’d forgotten something. Carl had one friend he didn’t want anyone to know about—even me. The guy was only here once that I know about. It was in the evening and when Carl saw me coming up the walk to the bunkhouse he almost shoved the guy out the back door. I don’t think Carl wanted me to see the guy’s face.”

  “When was this?”

  Bobby thought about it. “Before school let out. More than a month ago, I guess.”

  “What makes you think they were friends?” Preston asked.

  “I heard Carl tell him that their days doing time were behind them and they needed to move on. Then he hugged him, like they were buds.”

  “So, Bobby, you never saw his face?” Preston asked.

  “Not then, no, but I went around the bunkhouse and pretended to be petting the llamas. The guy walked right past me like I wasn’t even there, just another kid, you know?”

  “Bobby, you’ll never be ‘just’ another anything,” he said and smiled. “What made you remember now?”

  “Abby asked me if I knew a tagger who wore a hoodie because she’d had trouble with one yesterday,” Bobby said. “The only person I could think of was Carl’s friend. He’d worn a dark blue hoodie, but it wasn’t covering his head at the time.”

  Preston glanced at Abby. “Any objections if I show Bobby some mug shots?”

  “It’s not my call,” Abby said.

  “I’ll clear it with his foster parents,” Preston said.

  Preston watched Abby walk off with the boy, and by the time he glanced back at his brothers, both were grinning.

  Irritated, Preston glanced away and dialed. Sometimes family could be a real pain in the butt.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Narrowing down a list of Carl’s cellmates didn’t take long, and showing their photos to Bobby went even faster.

  As his foster mother came inside Abby’s office to pick him up, Bobby looked at Preston. “Do you want me to go with you when you pay the guy a visit, just to make sure it’s the same person and all that?”

  “That’s not necessary,” Preston said, shaking his head.

  “Bobby, you have physical therapy today and we’re going. That’s the end of it,” Kay Yarrow said.

  “You heard her,” Abby said. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Seeing Bobby look so dejected tugged at Preston. “Can I have a quick word with him before he goes?”

  Kay Yarrow nodded.

  Preston took the boy into the next room. “I know you want to look out for Abby, so I’ve got a special job for you. Whenever you’re here at the ranch, keep your eyes open and call me if you see anything that doesn’t seem right—anything at all, okay?” He handed Bobby his card.

  “Seriously?”

  Seeing the look of hope in Bobby’s eyes reminded Preston of his own past. He knew what Bobby was going through. Until Hosteen Silver had come along, he’d lived in one foster home after another—a disposable kid—wanting desperately to belong somewhere and believing it would never happen. Bobby had made a place for himself here at the ranch and was afraid that it was about to go away, leaving him alone again.

  “You love Abby and this ranch, so I can’t think of anyone who’d do a better job of keeping an eye on things.”

  “I would have done it anyway, you know?” Bobby looked up at Preston.

  “I know,” Preston said. “But it’s official now. Get going.”

  “I hate physical therapy. It never really gets me anywhere, not with stuff that counts. No matter what I do, I’ll never be able to play—” He shook his head, then shrugged.

  “Play what?”

  “It’s dumb, I know. I just wish I could play baseball, or at least catch or hit a ball, but I suck. Everyone else just laughs.”

  “Then let’s make a deal. You keep your eyes open, and I’ll teach you to catch and hit a baseball.”

  Preston heard Kay clear her throat. “Time to go now— seriously,” he added.

  Bobby left with a smile on his face and Abby noticed it immediately. “Those physical therapy sessions are really tough on him. The exercises can be painful, and sometimes it’s hard to see progress,” she said. “What on earth did you say to cheer him up like that?”

  “Just guy talk,” he said. “I offered to teach him how to play ball.”

  “He’s been wanting that for a long time. I tried, but I can’t pitch or throw, let alone hit a ball. I wasn’t much help.”

  “Then I’ll teach both of you,” he said. Then he showed her the mug shot of the man Bobby had identified. “Do you know this man?”

  Abby studied the photo. “What’s his name? He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him.”

  “Edwin Bain,” he said.

  Abby’s forehead furrowed. “It’s that scar above his left eyebrow...” After a moment she looked back up at Preston. “I’ve seen him, but his name isn’t Edwin, or even Ed. If I’m right, that’s Greg...no wait, Gary something. His hair is lighter and longer, and his face is fuller, too.”

  “How sure are you that it’s the same guy?”

  “He looks older now than in that picture, but I’m pretty sure it’s him. He calls that his lucky scar,” she said, pointing, “because a half inch lower and he might have lost his eye. I must have embarrassed him when I asked about it because the next time I saw him he’d let his hair grow out even more, covering it up.”

  “And you met him where?”

  “Last time I saw him, he was working at Barton’s Feed Store.”

  “Looks like that’s where I’m going next.”

  “Maybe I should go to help point him out. That’s an old photo, and the scar’s hidden.”

  He thought about it a few seconds. “Okay, stay behind me. Once you confirm he’s the guy you have in mind, I’ll take it from there.”

  Soon they were on their way in Preston’s SUV. Abby glanced around. “This fits you.”

  “What? The SUV?”

  “Yeah,” she said, and with a tiny grin, added, “It’s powerful, stealthy and unmarked.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’m not unmarked.”

  “Tattoo?”

  He smiled.

  “Aw come on—how about a hint, like what and where?”<
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  He remained silent.

  “Not even a tiny clue?”

  “Nope.”

  He stared at the road and tried to stay focused, but the light fragrance she wore was making him crazy. It was a gentle scent, like lavender in the spring, and difficult to ignore, just like she was.

  “What do you plan to say to Carl’s cellmate—if that’s him?”

  “I need to find out everything he knows about Carl. The murder may be linked to an enemy Carl made back in prison.”

  “You think someone followed him to the ranch after all these years? Carl served four years and had been out six months before I hired him. That was two years ago.”

  “Some people have long memories,” he said, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Hang on.” He made a sharp turn onto a side street without signaling.

  “What the—”

  “Just checking to see if my hunch was right. A white car was following us. It was staying well back, but it was there.”

  She turned around in her seat. “Are you sure it’s gone?”

  “Yeah. It kept going straight.”

  Preston made several more turns, took an alternate route, then finally pulled up next to Barton’s Feed Store and parked. The lot held only three cars at the moment, but the small, locally owned feed store made a slow, steady business.

  Because the main building was small, Barton’s stored stock tanks and feeders outside behind chain-link fences. Two men were working there, trying to rearrange the pallets to maximize space. The tarps that would be placed over them to protect the merchandise lay nearby on the ground.

  “Gary works in the back at the loading dock. He usually helps me load the bales into my truck.”

  “Let’s go there first, then,” Preston said.

  Knowing ex-cons could spot a cop miles away, Preston forced himself to walk at a leisurely pace. He didn’t want Gary, aka Ed, to make a run for it if he was involved.

  Once they came around the corner of the building, Abby spotted the man. “There, on top of that stack of hay bales,” she said, pointing.

  The man stood about eight feet above them.

  “Hey, Miss Langdon,” he said, seeing her. “How many bales do you need today?”

  “Can you give me a few minutes of your time first?” she asked. As he started to come down, Abby added, “My friend would like to ask you some questions.”

  He was halfway down the stack when he saw Preston standing there, looking up.

  “I’m Detective Bowman. Relax. I just have a few questions for you.”

  Gary kicked at a bale of hay, knocking it off the stack and down toward Preston, then tried to slide off the back of the pile.

  Preston, who’d managed to jump aside just in time, ducked around and grabbed Gary’s leg before he reached the ground.

  Gary tried to twist free but fell on his back from three bales up. Preston pinned the man in place with his knee, twisting his arm behind his back to keep him there.

  “You’ve got no right—” Gary said.

  “Buddy, you just assaulted a police officer.”

  “I stepped wrong on a bale of hay while climbing down, lost my balance and the bale fell next to you. It was an accident.”

  “Tell that to your parole officer.”

  “Look, I freaked out when you said ‘detective.’ Cut me some slack, will you? It took me four months to find this job.”

  Preston jerked the guy to his feet.

  “What’s going on?” a man’s voice suddenly boomed behind them.

  “Mr. Barton, it’s okay,” Gary said. “One of the bales slipped off the stack, that’s all. I was apologizing for the accident.”

  Tim Barton glanced at Preston, noting the badge on his belt. “Is that what happened, Officer?”

  “There’s no problem here,” Preston said. “I only need to ask your employee some questions about a friend of his. It won’t take long.”

  Barton looked at Abby. “Word’s out about what happened at the ranch. Now I hear parents are afraid to let their kids volunteer there until the killer’s caught. I think you’re getting a raw deal, so the next fifty bales are on me.”

  “Thanks!” Abby went up to Barton. “Let’s go back inside. I need to place an order.”

  “Can you use a few bags of grain, too?”

  “Yes, that would be terrific!” she said and walked off with the owner.

  Preston bit back a smile. There was just something about Abby and her dream that brought out the best in people.

  He looked back at Gary—Ed Bain—his expression turning hard. Good, for some reason, also attracted evil. “If you know something, you might as well spill it now. Your job may be hanging in the balance.”

  “I went to visit Carl after I got paroled. I was hoping he would talk to the ranch’s owner and help me land a job, but he wouldn’t even hear me out. He had a good thing going and didn’t want to screw it up, I guess.”

  “Tell me about Carl. What was he into? Drugs, something else?”

  “Carl? You’ve got to be kidding. The only thing he was really into was art, and these days he was perfectly happy doing his own charcoal sketches. He was good, too. When I first heard that he got offed, I figured he’d gotten himself involved with some art dealer who wanted him to forge some drawings for him.”

  “Did you have a solid reason to believe that?” Preston asked.

  “Just what I knew about him. He was always sketching, doing stuff that was usually better than what you’d see in art galleries. I once asked him why he didn’t put some of his work up on the internet and make a few extra bucks, but he said he wasn’t interested. Maybe he was trying to avoid the attention. I always had the feeling that he was hiding from someone or something, and that’s why he was living under the radar—no phone, no car, no nothing,” he said. “That’s all I know.”

  “If you think of anything else, call me,” Preston said and handed him his card. “And don’t leave town.”

  Preston walked across the yard and saw a face he recognized: Marsha Robertson, the TV reporter. She was sitting inside her white sedan and looking directly at him.

  Preston walked over and leaned in the driver’s side. “What brings you here?”

  “Probably the same thing as you. Looking for leads into Carl Sinclair’s death and trying to find out how it all ties in to the ranch.”

  “There is no tie to the ranch other than the crime happened there.” He stood up straight. “You were following me before. Don’t do it again. If you do, I’ll arrest you for interfering with an ongoing police investigation. Clear?”

  “You win this round, Detective Bowman.”

  Preston stood back as Marsha drove off. Moments later, Abby came up. “Was that the reporter?”

  “Yeah, she was the one who was tailing us. I tried to warn her off,” he said, then shrugged. “It won’t do any good though. She’s after a story, so nothing I say is really going to make her back away.”

  “I’ll deal with whatever trouble she creates as it happens. Right now I really should get back to the ranch.”

  “Has something happened?”

  “I want to talk to Bobby. The Yarrows are planning to take all the boys up to their cabin in the mountains this coming weekend, but Bobby hates it there. He wants permission to stay at the ranch until they return,” she said. “Bobby has a tough time because he can’t go hiking without slowing everyone down, and that creates problems with the other boys. They give him a hard time. Bobby always ends up being left behind.”

  “You’re going to let him stay?”

  She nodded. “I told Kay I’d put him up, and do everything I can to make sure he’s safe. He’ll help with the animals and there’s always room—and a need for an extra pair of hands willing to work.”


  “And you like having him around.”

  She nodded and smiled. “Yeah, I do. I love Bobby. He’s a great kid.”

  “He’d do just about anything for you.”

  “That’s exactly the same way I feel about him.”

  “Have you ever considered fostering him?” Preston asked. In his day, strangers would often invite foster kids to their homes for special events, like holiday parties. Things had changed a lot in the past twenty years, but people still drew the line when it came to getting involved full-time. They had lives of their own.

  “There are a lot of rules when it comes to fostering, and they’re there for good reasons,” she said. “The truth is, Bobby needs more than I can give him. Unlike the dad he barely knew, Bobby needs a male role model who’ll see him as differently abled, as opposed to disabled.”

  “I hear you,” he said with a thoughtful nod. “I’ve never been physically challenged, but I know how tough things can be for disposable kids.”

  “Disposable kids?” she asked, looking at him in surprise as they got into the SUV.

  “That’s what we called ourselves back then.” He saw the look of sympathy in her eyes and turned away. He’d hated it back then and it was no different now. “It was a way of reminding ourselves that we had to learn to deal.”

  “How did you end up in foster care, Preston?” she asked softly. “Do you mind if I ask?”

  Silence stretched between them as Preston drove toward the ranch. His situation wasn’t exactly a secret. He’d give her the facts and let it go at that. “My mom had an issue with drugs. One day she didn’t come home. I had a cleaning job at the hardware store, so I had enough cash to get by for a while. After a month, social workers showed up on my doorstep and I was placed in a foster home,” he said, his tone letting her know that he didn’t need, nor want, sympathy.

  She got the message and offered neither.

  “I think what bothers Bobby most is that, although it’s a tribe-approved home, he’s the only Navajo there right now. Child Services is trying to find him a Navajo family, but only a limited number of foster homes are licensed by the tribe. Since Bobby needs specialized care that’s more readily available here in Hartley, they’ve kept him with the Yarrows. It’s a good compromise, but he’s had problems getting along with the other kids.”