Will dipped the barrel of the gun, as if he were tipping his cap, but his blank expression didn’t change.
“If you want some food, we can get you something,” Dad said. “We just finished eating, but we’ve got some burgers in the cooler we could cook up for you.”
“My, you’re suddenly very welcoming. Now that’s more like it. Why don’t we all sit down around the fire and get acquainted.”
Will took a step toward the fire pit.
Chad raised a hand. “Not you, Will. I think you’d better stand off a bit and keep an eye on things. I think you’ll be happy enough with your role as the evening’s events unfold.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What role is that?”
“I was wondering if you were ever going to speak for yourself, or if you were going to allow Daddy to do all of your talking for you. You certainly didn’t have any trouble expressing yourself at the gas station.”
“Listen, you—”
“Taylor, shut up,” Dad said.
Chad ran his hand through his hair and smiled. “You’re really going to have to learn some manners, Taylor. Perhaps we can explore that theme further when we get down to business. First, let’s sit.”
The three of us sat on the logs by the fire—Dad in the middle, flanked by Chad on his left and me on his right. Will stood a couple of steps behind me.
“So you were planning on doing some fishing tomorrow?” Chad said.
“Yes, we were.”
I watched Dad’s eyes. He continued to scout our surroundings. After a few seconds he focused on the fire—a particular point at the nearest edge of the fire— but I couldn’t make out what had caught his eye.
“Large mouth?”
“Walleye. I understand this is one of the few walleye lakes in Texas.”
Chad turned to me. “And you like to fish, too, beautiful?” His voice no longer sneered. It was detached, as though he had already recategorized us from humans to mere objects and was just going through the motions of completing the conversation he’d started.
“I like to fish,” I said.
He picked up a stick and absently poked at the fire. “Plastic worms? Crank bait? What do you use here?”
“We’ve gotten some instructions from the locals.” Dad’s face brightened, perhaps hopeful that there might still be a safe resolution if he could engage Chad. “We’re supposed to bounce around on the bottom using a leader and a spinner baited with night crawlers. Never tried it before. Do you fish?”
“No, I don’t.” Chad tossed the stick into the fire and stood up. “That’s enough small talk. I think it’s time to get down to business.”
Dad looked over his shoulder at Will, then squinted up at Chad, who towered over him. “But we just started talking.”
Chad folded his massive arms in front of his chest. “I said, I’ve had enough.”
“Please don’t do this, son.” The light from the fire flickered across Dad’s face, highlighting the lines in his forehead and making him look older than I’d ever seen him. But his eyes were fixed and hard, and the line of his jaw stretched tight as he spoke.
Looking back now, I realize that at that moment he, too, had moved into another world—a world of absolute concentration. He’d been there before and knew that total concentration was the minimum requirement. It was a world he had wished to avoid for the rest of his life and hoped I would never have to see. A world of brutality and survival.
I admired him so much for his calm in that moment, and I loved him. Dear, God, how I loved my dad.
Chad clucked his tongue. “You don’t seem to understand, Mr. Pasbury. We have to do this. It’s what we do, isn’t it, Will? You see, sir, we came for your daughter. And we intend to take her.”
Will laughed. It was a high-pitched, inhuman sound, more of a squeal. I trembled but didn’t take my eyes off Dad.
“What do you mean you want to take her? Take her where?”
Chad chuckled. “More accurately, we simply want to use her for a while. Right, Will?”
Will stepped forward so he was standing to my right. He lifted the shotgun with one hand, resting the barrel on his shoulder.
Dad had been waiting for an opening. Will’s nonchalance created one. From the corner of my eye I saw Dad pull one foot beneath him, so he was almost crouching rather than sitting on the log. He looked up at Chad. “I told you Taylor sometimes talks without thinking. If it’s an apology you want, I’m sure she’s thought better of her rudeness. Haven’t you, Taylor?” He looked me in the eye.
“It’s true, I’ve got a big mouth. Always been a problem. I didn’t mean anything, though. I just joke around too much. If I offended you, I’m sorry.” I turned my head to meet Chad’s eyes.
“No offense taken, truly. Nevertheless, you could use some work on your manners. Perhaps I can teach you a few things, and Will can reinforce your learning a bit when I’m done.”
Dad pointed over his shoulder. “I’ve got money in the truck. More than a thousand dollars. Just let me go get my wallet, and I’ll give you all the cash we have. We’ll forget this and you can move on.”
The idea gave me hope. If Dad could get to the truck, he might be able to grab the pistol he kept in the cab.
Next to me, Will chuckled.
“Why, Mr. Pasbury,” Chad said. “We didn’t come all the way out here for your money. Although I appreciate that you pointed out where we can find it. We want your daughter. What we intend to do is show her a good time. We’re not going to hurt her. In fact, by the time we’re finished, she might just find that she’s had the time of her life.”
Dad looked him in the eye. “And you think I’ll just sit by and watch?” He lowered his hand to his side, closing it around something on the ground, but I couldn’t make out what it was.
“You certainly can watch if you’d like. That’s an interesting thought. Not what I’d have expected of you. In any event, when we’re done we will move on. We have no intention of hurting anyone as long as you behave yourself.”
“You need to think about this.” Dad held Chad’s gaze. “Let’s say you did this thing. And let’s say you killed us both. You’d get caught eventually. The owner of the gas station saw you with us. It won’t take the police long to figure it out. You can’t wipe out all of your tracks, yours and your car’s. You’ll be throwing away your whole lives for one night.”
“Mr. Pasbury, you assume way too much. First of all, we don’t need to kill anyone. We’re not from around here and no one knows us, certainly not your little woman at the gas station. Second, the car is stolen. We’ll be driving something else a few hours from now. Third, you seem to jump to the erroneous conclusion that this is our first time. Actually, I like to think of us as professionals.”
Dad turned his hand slightly and I saw what he had picked up. The plastic lighter-fluid bottle he used to start the fire. I wondered what Will would do if I turned and threw up on his shoes?
“Taylor, run!” Dad reached into the fire and grabbed a log. As the flames seared the skin from his hand, he screamed an animal scream—a sound I still hear in the night—and lunged at Chad. He squirted the lighter fluid onto Chad’s face and slammed the burning log into the side of his head.
Chad howled. His cheek exploded in flames. He fell onto his side, thrashing at his head and hair as the flames melted his ear like candle wax. One arm lay twisted beneath him, snapped in the fall. He howled again.
Dad dropped the log and wheeled toward Will. “Run, Taylor!” He lowered his head and charged directly toward Will, who stood transfixed at my side. Then Will’s eyes brightened. He dropped the shotgun from his shoulder to his hip and leveled it at Dad, who was too far away to reach him in time.
I have relived the next moment a thousand times over the years. I see myself diving at Will’s legs, knocking him off balance. I see the shotgun’s barrel lurch upward and hear its report slam the air above our heads. I see Dad lunge at Will and tackle him, and I know Will is no match for Dad in
close quarters.
That’s how I see it in my mind.
But I did not dive at Will’s legs. I turned and ran toward the truck. I heard the shotgun blast, and I heard Dad moan. When I reached the truck, I dove into the front seat, where I finally took a breath.
I reached under the dash for the metal holster that hung there, and fumbled to find the release. Finally, my fingers hit the latch. Dad’s 9MM, semi-automatic dropped into my hand. I opened the door and rolled out onto the ground behind the truck. The shotgun blasted again, and I hoped that Dad had somehow wrestled it from Will.
I rose and peered over the bed of the truck. Dad writhed in the dirt at Will’s feet, his pant leg and shirt dark with blood. Will was facing my direction, but his attention was on the ground, not me. He grinned down at Dad as he reached into his pocket, found two shells, and loaded them. He lowered the barrel toward Dad’s head. I braced my hands on the truck’s fender and leveled the pistol at Will’s chest. The shot was neither long nor difficult. An odd sense of calm drifted over me in the moment before I fired, so that everything seemed to move in slow motion. The middle of Will’s chest seemed as big as a barn, and I squeezed my trigger before he squeezed his.
He fell across Dad’s legs.
By the time I reached Dad, Will’s eyes were glassy. The entry hole near his shirt pocket told me that he would be dead in minutes. I kicked him off of Dad’s legs and knelt to the ground. Dad’s skin was gray and his breath came in gasps. His eyes were closed.
I held his face in my hands and pressed my cheek against his. “Why did you do it?” I sat on the ground and pulled his head onto my lap. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”
He opened his eyes and looked up at me. “I’m proud of you, sweetie. You did it just right.” He moaned and blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
“I should have hit him. I could have saved you, but I ran.”
“We’d both be lying here if you had.” He lifted his leg, exposing a dark puddle in the dirt beneath him where the blood splashed in pulses. I slid his head from my lap, tore off my shirt and wrapped it around his leg. I pulled it tight, but the blood was everywhere and I couldn’t see where or how to stop it.
I was scared he was going to die. And when I’m scared, I talk. So I talked while I worked on his leg the best that I could. “I wasn’t afraid of them. It happened so fast, I just couldn’t think. I made the wrong choice.”
“You made the right choice. Leave the leg alone. It’s too late.” He touched his side, which was soaked in blood. “There’s no patching me out here. Come closer.”
I looked at his leg. The blood still spurted, and I knew he was right. I couldn’t stop it. His lips were tinting blue. I moved over and pulled his head close to my chest. “Why did you do it, Dad? You could have lived. You can’t leave me. I don’t have anyone else.”
“There are things more important than living. You’re one of them.” He gasped and pulled one arm to his side. I wanted so badly to stop the pain, but I didn’t know how.
“You’re strong—stronger than you think. I’ve always known that.” He coughed and blood came from his mouth again. His voice faded to a whisper. “You’ve made me happy. I’m happy now. You’re alive, and that’s what matters. I love you.” He tilted his head up, and I pressed my cheek against his.
His head sagged. When I looked in his eyes, they were fixed at the stars.
I don’t know how long I sat with my father’s cheek pressed against mine, my tears smudging the dirt on his face. I do know that I moved only when I heard a groan behind me. I looked over my shoulder. Chad was dragging himself slowly away from me with his one good arm, trying to reach the brush at the edge of the campsite. I started to jump up, but I could see there was no rush.
I unrolled one of the sleeping bags, folded the end of it over, and placed it beneath Dad’s head. Then I stood, picked up the pistol, and walked over to Chad. He was so weak I could have stopped his progress by placing my foot in front of him. But I didn’t even have to do that. He curled himself into a ball and covered his head with his arm.
“We weren’t going to kill you!” His voice was so high-pitched that it nearly squeaked. His legs worked back and forth in the dirt, and I had the strange thought of a child making a snow angel. “For the love of God, have mercy! Please don’t kill me!”
I watched him for a moment, then looked out across the lake. For the first time that evening I noticed crickets chirping. In the distance a red light blinked on and off—a radio or television tower, I supposed. The night had swallowed the mesas that jutted so insistently into the horizon at sunset. Now it seemed everything twinkled, everything was a star or was brightened by starlight. I sucked in a long breath and let it out, and noticed that the air had turned crisp.
It seemed forever since I had felt cool.
When I turned back to Chad, he had quieted down, but one leg continued to work back and forth in the dirt. Although his arm still covered his head, there was an open spot near the crook of his elbow where I could see his hair just above his good ear. I leaned over and pointed the pistol just there.
Then I squeezed the trigger.
CHAPTER
FIVE
ELEVEN YEARS AFTER DAD was murdered, Simon Mason hired me. At first blush, it would be difficult to imagine an employer and employee less suited to one another. In little more than a decade, the plain-spoken son of a Dallas electrician had risen to become the world’s most recognized Christian evangelist.
Even though we both lived in Dallas and he had an incredibly high profile, I hardly gave a thought to the man until the moment he called me on the telephone. What slight thought I had given him tended toward a caricature of television evangelists.
In other words, I assumed he was a greasy-suited charlatan.
That view had been reinforced only weeks before I met him when The Times ran a Sunday feature labeling him “The Best-Known Christian on the Planet.” In response to that bit of hyperbole, Simon placed a well-publicized call to the Vatican, where his call was promptly accepted. He reportedly assured the Pope that those words had been the paper’s, not his. He reportedly handled the situation with such sincerity that the Holy Father issued a press release to the effect that they both played on the same team—though presumably Simon dressed in the Protestant locker room—and His Holiness appreciated Simon’s work in advancing the ball for Christ.
While Simon was molding himself into a first-round pick in the worldwide evangelical draft, I had done less to recommend myself to the squad. At first, things went well enough. I blew the doors off my entrance exams and attended Texas A&M on a full-ride scholarship. I graduated in three years with a major in sociology and a minor in business administration. My interest had always been criminal justice, though, and immediately after graduation I trained as a security specialist with the Dallas police SWAT unit.
After a year, on an impulse, I applied to the Secret Service. To my surprise I got hired, primarily, I’m sure, because of the well-publicized story of how I had dispatched two serial rapists at a Texas Panhandle campsite. Newspapers throughout the country had treated me as a tragic heroine, while the local authorities felt so sorry for me that they displayed a pointed lack of curiosity about the close-range shot to Chad’s head. The Secret Service apparently determined that a female with that sort of calm under fire was just what they were looking for in a political climate that prized diversity.
I served four years in Washington and received two decorations for my work. One, in particular, recognized the “extraordinary commitment” that I demonstrated to a certain Arab dignitary from a tiny Middle Eastern emirate that was a particularly helpful ally to the United States. While working on the president’s advance security team for an international conference on democracy, I foiled an assassination attempt on the sheik with what I will politely call my backside. The region’s top surgeons labored for the better part of thirty minutes to remove three pieces of shrapnel from my left buttock.
The next morning most of the major American papers ran front-page photos of the dignitary standing next to my hospital bed, smiling broadly while handing me a medal signifying his nation’s second-highest honor. The headlines can be summed up by the Tribune’s: “Secret Service Hero Works Tail Off for Democracy.”
That’s where my government career peaked.
To say that I was drummed out of the Service would be an exaggeration, but I definitely didn’t receive a farewell dinner and wristwatch. During the conversation in which my supervisor nudged me toward retirement, he said that I had developed quite a reputation, which was true. The combination of the Panhandle killings and the Dubai incident had made me into probably the best-known Secret Service agent since Kennedy’s assassination.
Unfortunately, my Service account had some debits as well as credits. I was widely viewed as an agent inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. While I had never hurt anyone, I had shot out two tires and a security camera—all intentionally. (I won the Service’s marksmanship contest three years straight.) In a service that doesn’t do much shooting, that placed me in rarefied air.
More to the point, though, my supervisor noted that rumors about after-hours drinking and carousing had not enhanced my career standing. After all, propriety was one of the minimum requirements of the Service. He suggested that perhaps I should get some professional help, which angered me so much that I stalked out and headed for the nearest bar. There, as I vaguely recall, I picked up another in a long series of nameless, faceless, and generally shiftless guys in my continuing quest for the answer to the question: Are there any good men left out there?
With the promise of referrals from a Service eager to see its most publicized female agent leave quietly, I resigned and moved back to Dallas. Within weeks I opened Pasbury Security, whose strategic plan included the slogan, “Dallas businesses’ choice for tough security assignments.” The phrase didn’t exactly roll trippingly off the tongue, but it must have worked. By the time Simon hired me, my company was already the best-known private security firm in the Southwest. And I was in a considerably stronger financial position than most twenty-nine-year-olds.
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