During the ensuing silence, Holly held her breath. Finally, he said, “Be careful how you phrase it.”
The TV crew arrived within forty-five minutes of Mrs. Briggs’s call, and twenty minutes after that, the reporter had his exclusive. Ten minutes after the crew had gathered up their gear and left her chambers, Neal Lester barged into her inner office, looking ready to explode.
“I’m sorry, judge. He—”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Briggs.”
Her assistant backed out, but left the door open.
Neal said, “You could have given me fair warning. A news team arrived downstairs asking me for a follow-up sound bite to your interview.”
“That sounds only fair. Why are you upset?”
“Why’d you offer them an interview in the first place?”
“Because Greg Sanders has been suggesting that ‘in light of a chain of tragic events all relating to me,’ I should do the public a favor, withdraw my name from the ballot, and give him a free pass to the bench. I wanted people to know that I have no intention of doing that.”
“I don’t care about you and your election. What did you say about Chuck Otterman?”
“The reporter asked if I thought he had anything to do with the courtroom shooting death of Chet Barker. I told him that since it was an active investigation, I couldn’t comment, then referred him to you for statements regarding Monday’s tragedy as well as last night’s murder of Officer Connor.”
“Effectively linking the two incidents, and linking both to Otterman.” His shout rattled the chandelier.
She didn’t offer a comeback.
“Did the reporter ask you why your
boyfriend
skipped out before he could be questioned about Connor’s murder?”
It was a struggle, but she kept her temper under control. “He asked if Crawford Hunt was a person of interest in Connor’s murder. I said that I hadn’t heard that term applied to him. Which I haven’t.”
“Not yet. But it’s a fact that he eluded the authorities with your help. It stretches credulity that he overpowered you and stole your car.”
“That’s what happened.”
“Tell me where he is.”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“I’m beginning to doubt your intelligence, detective.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know!”
Suddenly behind him, the two familiar Texas Rangers appeared. Harry Longbow politely excused himself to Mrs. Briggs. “We need a word with the judge.”
He and Sessions edged past Neal into her inner office. Harry then shoved the detective back through the door and slammed it in his face. She knew from their grave expressions that something was terribly wrong. Weakly, she said, “Crawford?”
“What you just said, is it true? You don’t know where he is?”
“I swear I don’t.”
“You haven’t heard from him all day?”
“Not since dawn. I’m desperate to talk to him.”
“Yeah, us too.”
“You told me he gave you a new phone number.”
“We’ve been calling it for hours. Keep getting nothing. Tried to locate it using triangulation. Either he’s not close enough to a cell tower for that to work, or he’s taken the battery out, or both. Anyhow, we decided to drive on up here, thinking maybe he’s in trouble and needs our help.”
“Judge,” Sessions said, speaking for the first time. “Look, we figure y’all got a thing going, and, far as we’re concerned, that’s good. But you’re not doing Crawford any favors by keeping what you know to yourself. So, if you know where he was headed this morning, you need to tell us.”
“All I know is where he left my car.”
“Where was that?”
She told them about Smitty.
“That must be Crawford’s weasel.” Harry hitched his head toward the outer office. “Guess he’s gotta be in on this.” Sessions opened the door and signaled for Neal to join them. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Harry said, “Tell us about this Smitty character.”
Neal gave them Smitty’s basic bio. With obvious resentment, he added, “He’s been thoroughly interrogated but refuses to disclose anything. He says Crawford will kill him, if Otterman doesn’t kill him first.”
“Well, he might be right,” Harry said. “About Otterman anyway.”
Sessions said, “Let us have a crack at him.”
“That won’t do any good,” Neal said. “You won’t get anywhere.”
“Well, we gotta try,” Harry said.
His somber tone made Holly’s heart clutch.
“We discovered why Otterman’s holding a grudge against Crawford,” the Texas Ranger said. “The boy’s walking into way more than he’s bargained for.”
C
rawford had decided to wait until full dark to make his move. But the choice of when to act was taken from him when he saw headlights cutting through the swampy landscape, approaching from the direction of the fishing cabin.
With no time to spare, he knocked out the dome light of Smitty’s car, crawled over the console, and got out on the passenger side, closing the door behind him. The auto came into sight just as he plastered himself against the trunk of the tree nearest the car, making himself one with it in the darkness.
The car went past, then the brake lights came on as though the driver had just noticed Smitty’s car. Crawford took a tighter grip on Joe’s revolver, not daring to breathe, as he waited to see if the driver would continue on, or get out and investigate.
He couldn’t tell how many people were inside the idling vehicle, a late-model, foreign-made luxury sedan. The windows were darkly tinted, but even if they hadn’t been, the gloomy day had turned into a black night. He could barely see his own hand in front of his face.
Then an interior light came on as the driver’s door was pushed open. Crawford recognized the man behind the wheel as the bodyguard who’d been trimming his fingernails. Frick. He got out and stood there in the wedge of the open door, looking around, wary and watchful.
“Yo! This is private property.”
Getting no response, he left his car in the middle of the road, motor running, and walked slowly toward Smitty’s. Crawford noticed that he kept his right hand lowered, holding it close to his thigh. That’s where his weapon would be.
He approached the car from the rear on the driver’s side. As he inched forward, he gradually raised his right hand and kept it extended in front of him as he jerked open the driver’s door. When nothing happened, he ducked his head inside to take a look, and that’s what Crawford had been waiting for.
He pounced and was on the guy before he had time to react to the rustle of foliage. Crawford clamped the back of his neck, pushed his face into the driver’s seat, planted his knee between his shoulder blades, and jammed the barrel of Joe’s .38 behind his ear. “If you want to live, drop the blade.”
Just as Crawford had assumed, that’s what he was carrying. A man who uses a knife to pare his fingernails likes knives.
The man hesitated, his hand still gripping the hilt of the switchblade.
“You can try,” Crawford taunted softly, “but your brain will be mush in milliseconds. Are you that fast?” He let him think about it for about two heartbeats, then said, “Drop it into the floorboard now.”
The man did as told. He asked, “Are you Hunt?”
“Pleased to meet you.”
He gave a nasty laugh. “Otterman’s waiting. He’s gonna kill you.”
“Ya think? Too bad you won’t be there to see it.”
“What the fuckin’ hell?”
Chuck Otterman was slicing into a thick juicy steak when the sudden blare of a car horn arrested him in motion. He dropped his knife and fork onto his tin plate, grabbed his pistol, and stamped over to the screen door.
He recognized the approaching car as the one belonging to him, sent on an errand only a short time ago. It was skidding over the slick, muddy road, fishtailing crazily as the driver sped headlong toward the shack, horn still blaring.
Otterman’s second bodyguard stood poised on the top step of the porch, double-barreled shotgun in one hand, his other shading his eyes against the headlights, which, on bright, were blinding. “What the hell’s he doing?”
The car came to within thirty yards of the shack where it braked so suddenly, it slewed hard to the right, nearly going out of control and into the creek, before sliding another few yards and shuddering to a stop. The horn went abruptly silent.
Then nothing.
After several moments of ominous silence, the bodyguard looked toward Otterman for instruction.
“Well, don’t just stand there.” Impatiently he motioned the man forward.
The bodyguard clumped down the porch steps and walked purposefully toward the car, calling out the name of his confederate as he went. But as he got closer to the car, his stride slowed and became less confident.
He shaded his eyes again. “Doesn’t look like there’s anyone behind the wheel.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Otterman said. “What the hell are you talking about?”
The bodyguard went closer, then reached from a careful distance to open the driver’s door. He turned back to Otterman, saying stupidly, “Nobody’s in here.”
“It didn’t drive itself,” Otterman snarled. “Turn off those goddamn headlights.”
His man did as told, and the surrounding area was once again pitched into darkness. The only light for miles originated from the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling above the table where Otterman’s T-bone was growing cold.
He called to the bodyguard, “Got a flashlight with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Look around.”
Otterman backed into the shack, returned to the table, and yanked on the dirty string to extinguish the overhead light. Now the blackness was absolute except for the occasional sweep of the flashlight beam through the trees.
He felt his way back to the chair he’d vacated and sat down. Barely able to detect the outline of the screen door, he fixed his gaze on it and waited, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. He no longer saw the flickering of the flashlight. He could hear the tick of his wristwatch, nothing else.
Then from the direction of the creek two gunshots were fired in rapid succession. Only one of them from the shotgun.
Otterman remained as he was, motionless, and only mildly curious to see who would walk through the screen door. The more time that passed, however, the surer he became that it wasn’t going to be his bodyguard, who would have been using the flashlight to find his way back.
Ten minutes elapsed before Otterman felt the shift of air signaling that someone had gotten into the cabin by a means other than the door. Probably he’d come in through a window in the partitioned-off section where the bed was. Otterman had to hand it to him—he was good, so stealthy Otterman hadn’t heard a sound.
Otterman yanked on the string above his head. When the lightbulb flashed on, it shone down on him, his uneaten steak, and the man who was seated adjacent to him at the table, bound and gagged, the barrel of Otterman’s .357 pressed against his temple.
At the sight of him, Crawford was stopped in his tracks.
Otterman said, “Well, you finally made it. Your daddy and I were getting worried about you. Weren’t we, Conrad?”
The two Texas Rangers were granted time alone with Smitty in an interrogation room. Three and a half minutes after they went in, Sessions came out, saying to Neal in passing, “He made a mess on the floor. You’re gonna need a mop.”
“Did he tell you where Crawford is?” Holly asked Harry as he emerged behind Sessions, who was already pecking out a number on his cell phone.
“He drew us a map.”
Nugent asked, “How’d you get it from him?”
“He struck up that chorus about Crawford killing him if Otterman didn’t, and I told him those were possibilities, but I was a sure thing, and poked my six-shooter in his ear.”
Neal said, “I don’t approve of your methods.”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“State troopers are rolling,” Sessions reported as he ended the brief call. “I told them the general vicinity. One of them knows where this taxidermy sign is. They’re gonna meet us there. They’ll notify the Prentiss SO and sheriffs of neighboring counties since the loose bladder in there didn’t know exactly which one this place is in. Just in case it’s in Louisiana, authorities over there are being alerted, too.”
Harry looked at Neal. “It’s outside PD jurisdiction, but if you want in on the party, follow close.”
“Tell them about the fingerprint,” Nugent said, virtually loping to keep up as the group made their way toward the side exit of the courthouse.
Neal said, “A fingerprint lifted from the back of a dining chair in Connor’s kitchen belongs to a man in Otterman’s employ. Match came up immediately. He has a list of priors. Illegal possession of firearms. Assault. Suspected but never charged in two execution-style homicides.”
Harry looked at Neal and smirked. “Too bad Crawford’s not here to say ‘told you so,’ but he wouldn’t anyway, ’cause that’s too much like something you’d say.”
Sessions was the first to reach the exit door and held it open for the others as they filed through. Last in line was Harry. He stopped and turned to face Holly, who had kept pace with them.
The Ranger took her by the shoulders. “Judge, ma’am, this is as far as you go. I’ve got your cell number. I’ll call you as soon as we know something.”
Beneath his heavy hands, her shoulders slumped with disappointment and resignation. “Please be careful. And I want to know immediately…whatever,” she finished tremulously.
“Understood. Oh, and sorry about the f-bomb. That guy gets under my skin.” He released her and hurried to catch up with Sessions. They climbed into an SUV similar to Crawford’s and sped away. Neal and Nugent peeled out after them.
Holly counted to ten, then ran to her car and followed.
Upon seeing his father, Crawford’s heart lurched.
Conrad’s feet had been tied to the front legs of the chair with what looked like fishing line. His hands were secured together behind his back. A rolled handkerchief cut like a bit through his mouth and was knotted at the back of his head.
But it was Conrad’s eyes that disturbed Crawford the most. They gazed up at him with shame, hopelessness, and remorse.
Otterman said, “I don’t have to tell you, do I?”
Crawford dropped Joe’s revolver to the floor. “Cut him loose.”
“You wouldn’t come in here with just one handgun.”
Crawford reached toward the small of his back.
“Easy,” Otterman warned.
Crawford removed Smitty’s nine-millimeter from the holster. It joined the other on the floor.
“Kick them away.”
He did.
“Thank you.”
“He doesn’t need to be gagged anymore. Take it off him.”
“Not until you and I have discussed some things.” Otterman used his foot beneath the table to push out a chair for Crawford. “Sit and place your hands down flat on the table.”
Crawford did as told. “You can point the damn pistol at me now.”
Otterman grinned, but kept the gun against Conrad’s temple. “Your father’s a coward.”
“Like that’s news?”
“I had him picked up this morning, and I’m told his efforts to defend himself were pathetic. His house was described as a rat hole.”
“Worse than that.”
“Oh, you’re going for indifference.” He barked a laugh. “Won’t work. You care for him or you wouldn’t have rushed to his rescue last night.”
Still feigning detachment, Crawford said, “I did it for me, not him. I don’t want everybody knowing what a worthless drunk my old man is.”
“But everybody already does.”
“My cross to bear.”
Otterman regarded Conrad with scorn. “Just now, he could’ve warned you by making some kind of sound, even with the gag. But he knew if he did, I’d blow his brains out. So he sat there as mute as a stump and let his son walk right into his own killing.”
“I’m not dead yet.”
Crawford’s words carried a sinister implication, but Otterman remained unfazed. He tipped his head in the direction of the creek. “My man?”
“Resisted arrest.”
“Dead?”
“He didn’t take me seriously.”
“And the other one?”
“Sent his regrets.”
Otterman cracked a smile, or what passed for one. “I was told you’re a smart-ass.”
“Who told you that?”
“Friend of mine.” This time the smile that spread slowly across his face was intolerably smug. “A very
close
friend who knew you well.”
His gloating caused a leaden sorrow to seep out of Crawford’s heart and spread through the rest of him, but he kept his expression as blank as possible, unwilling to give Otterman any advantage over him.
If he let emotion dictate his reaction to anything—
anything
—Otterman said, he and Conrad were as good as dead. Their survival depended on cold calculation, not emotional reflex. He had to play this out smarter than Otterman did.
“You’re also remarkably predictable,” Otterman continued.
“How’s that?”
“My man’s shotgun would have been too bulky for you to sneak in through the window, but you would have kept the other’s switchblade. You probably thought I’d forgotten that, but I hadn’t. I’ve been watching for it. You will regret later that you didn’t use it sooner. And, I believe, despite your best effort to appear unconcerned for Conrad here, the only reason you haven’t is because I’ve still got this pistol at his head.
“Now, remove the knife from wherever you hid it—I’m assuming your boot—and, with the blade end pointed toward you, set it on the table, then return your hands to it, palms down.”
In his mind, Crawford was chanting swear words, but he remained calm as he reached into his boot, slid the knife from it, and followed Otterman’s instructions. Otterman picked up the switchblade and tossed it out of reach, along with the steak knife he’d been using.
Crawford turned his head and spotted where they’d landed against the far wall, leaving him no hope of reaching them. As he came back around to Otterman, he made brief eye contact with Conrad. “Bringing him here was a wasted effort,” he said to Otterman. “He’s got nothing to do with anything.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Was it a coincidence that he and I were in the same nightclub yesterday?”
“He’s a drunk. He’ll drink wherever he happens to land.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter if that was coincidence or not. He’s helped to pass the time while I was waiting for you. See, here’s where your predictability comes in. I knew I wouldn’t have to bother coming after you, not after you’d seen Pat Connor’s video of your kid. Bet you shit when you got that text.”
Crawford kept his features stony.
“And,” Otterman continued, “I knew the pimp would crumble under pressure and point the way here. All I had to do was sit back and wait, knowing you’d show up and bring the fight to me. And here you are.”