His complacency was almost more than Crawford could stand, but he forced himself to keep still and maintain a conversational tone. “What kind of deal have you got going with Smitty?”
Otterman made a derisive sound. “He’s only a messenger boy.”
“Between you and who?”
“Rednecks with more cousins than teeth. I doubt many of them can read, but they supply surprisingly good quality weapons.”
Guns? Otterman was about
guns
? Crawford’s brain kicked into high gear, but he tried to act as though this was common knowledge. “The feds are on to you, Chucky. ATF is—”
“Your bluff is no more convincing than your indifference.” Otterman flashed an evil grin as he picked up the coin that had been lying beside his plate and began rolling it over the back of his left hand while still cradling the .357 in his right.
“Nobody is on to me, Ranger Hunt. Eventually you might have picked up on my profitable sideline. No matter how well one covers his tracks, there’s always a trail, which is why I moved around so much in the early days of my career. You’ve proved yourself to be good at finding those trails, even from your computer desk. You’re almost as good at detection as you are at shoot-’em-ups.
“But you’ve been so preoccupied lately with Georgia. Pretty name. Pretty little girl. You’ve also been spending time with Holly Spencer, lady judge with a smokin’ ass, who’s gone on TV singing your praises. You don’t have to tell me what’s going on there, but I think I can guess.” He bobbed his eyebrows. “In any case, your mind hasn’t really been on your work lately, has it?”
At the mention of their names Crawford’s blood ran cold. Still, he kept his features schooled. “Enlighten me,” he said. “Smitty buys the guns for you and takes a percentage when he delivers?”
Otterman laughed. “Would you trust that lying turd with a cache of expensive and highly marketable weapons?”
“Good point.”
“Take another guess.”
“Smitty never touches the guns, he only launders the cash through his clubs.”
“I never touch the merchandise, either.”
“I see,” Crawford said, even as he was beginning to. “You’re merely the conductor. Others are playing the tune. Even while busy gun trafficking, you hold down a full-time job and still find time to make speeches to pillars of the community about economic growth.”
“See how well it works?”
“Flip sides of the coin.”
Otterman looked down at his left hand and smiled. “You’re thinking way too hard. This is merely a habit. Don’t read any symbolism into it.”
“Who do you sell the guns to?”
“Well, up until four years ago, I had a very good customer. The individual who knew you so well.”
The cogs in the wheels of Crawford’s brain clicked into place and suddenly it all made sense. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “This is about
Fuentes
?”
“He was as obsessed with you as you were with him.” He chuckled over Crawford’s evident surprise. “You didn’t know that? Guess you’re not so smart after all. Fuentes was, but he didn’t really have to be all that savvy to spot you. You don’t exactly fit the profile of a feed store clerk.
“He marked you as soon as you got to Halcon. You fascinated him. See, my
amigo
Manuel bought into the image of the Old West Texas Ranger. He loved the myth, the lore. It was a bit disappointing to him that you got around in a pickup truck instead of on horseback.
“Anyway, he knew you’d make a move. He just figured you’d have better manners than to come after him at his niece’s party. As it turns out, that was a fatal miscalculation on his part. You weren’t so mannerly after all.”
“I cut off the head of the snake.”
“Killing the whole damn thing.” His composed recitation came to an abrupt end as he banged the tabletop with his fist, rattling the tin plate. “You robbed me of a good thing.”
“This is payback.”
“This is only the start of it,” Otterman said. “First, you’ll watch him die,” he said, tipping his head toward Conrad. “Then”—he winked—“I have a few other entertainments planned. I know how much you care for the women in your life.”
Crawford’s gut clenched with revulsion and fear, but he kept his head in the game. Either he or Otterman would die soon. If he got lucky and it was Otterman, he wanted to know as much as he could about him and his criminal activities.
Redirecting the conversation, he said, “After I blew Fuentes to hell, you signed on with the outfit in Houston.”
“To keep closer tabs on you. You moved to Prentiss to be closer to your kid, and I asked the company for a transfer here. Since then, I’ve bided my time.”
“Why not just take me out right away? A drive-by. An ambush in my house like Connor. Why the masquerade?”
“You underestimate your star power. No ordinary, painless shooting for you. I wanted your death to be spectacular. When I heard about your custody hearing, I cooked up the plan with Pat Connor. Scheduled my appointment with the ADA just so I’d be there to see your bullet-riddled body zipped up in a bag.”
“Didn’t happen.”
“No. The dumb fuck missed. Got scared. Ran.” The harsh, angry features smoothed out. “But,” he said in a lighter tone, “actually it turned out better. It’s been fun watching you squirm this past week, seeing you scared.”
Crawford didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how effectively his revised scheme had worked. “What would you have done if Connor had been caught?”
“Well, ideally, he wouldn’t have made it out of the courthouse alive. In a building crawling with cops, I figured somebody would cap him, perhaps even the bailiff he killed. But I wasn’t worried about him being captured. If he’d fingered me, who would have believed that I was involved? You’ve had some experience with that yourself, right? People disbelieving allegations about me?”
Crawford didn’t reply to that. “Why Connor?”
“You pick a guy who everyone sees, but no one is looking at. He’s coasting through life. You offer him a little excitement in his otherwise dull routine.”
“I appreciate the lesson on how to corrupt, but how’d you get him to agree to the assassination attempt?”
“He’d made some contacts for me with those coon-asses selling guns. Worked okay for a while, and then Pat helped himself to a piece of my pie. Like I wouldn’t notice. Stupid mistake. But I didn’t kill him, because it’s always helpful to have a plant in the local police department. It’s even better if the plant owes you a favor for sparing his life.” He shrugged. “His usefulness ran out.”
“None of this comes as a major revelation,” Crawford said. “Except that you did all this to avenge Fuentes.”
“What did you think?”
“I thought…” But he stopped there, never wanting to speak aloud what he had feared most: that Beth had somehow been at the heart of Otterman’s revenge.
Refocusing on him, Crawford said, “I thought your vengeance had a measure of honor behind it. Twisted valor, maybe, but at least
some
sense of valor. I thought this was revenge for one of the party guests who got killed in Halcon, or maybe one of the officers who died.”
“Why would I give a rat’s ass about any of them?”
Crawford looked deeply into the other man’s eyes. Or tried. They were impenetrable. Dead. There was nothing behind them. He understood now that’s why he’d had such an instantaneous aversion to him. His eyes were soulless. The loss of a beloved woman, or friend, or relative wasn’t behind his vendetta. Merely greed for money. And power. That’s what really got Otterman off—playing with people’s lives. “My mistake,” Crawford said. “You wouldn’t give a rat’s ass. I gave you credit for being human, when all you are is a criminal, getting back at me for blowing away your business partner.”
“It took me years to win that cocky little bastard’s confidence. Years more to establish a monopoly with him. Then you came along, and ended it in a five-minute gunfight.”
“Actually it was seven minutes.”
Otterman caught the coin in his fist and banged it against the table again. “Seven minutes that cost me millions of dollars.”
“Gee, that must’ve cut deep.”
On the last word, Crawford gave the rung of Otterman’s chair a hard shove with his foot and sent it over backward. Taken off guard, Otterman’s index finger contracted around the trigger of the .357. The shot sounded like a cannon and blasted a hole through the roof.
As Crawford lunged across the table, he grabbed the fork from the tin plate and, following Otterman down, plunged it into the side of his neck. He’d aimed for the carotid, wasn’t sure he’d hit it, so he pulled the fork out and stabbed him again, and a third time. When arterial blood spurted, he pushed off him and wrestled the pistol from his right hand.
Otterman’s eyes weren’t so soulless after all. They were now wild with panic as he dropped the infernal coin and, with both hands, futilely began trying to stop the geyser of blood from his neck. The dropped coin rolled across the floor on its edge, then got lodged in a crack between the uneven planks.
Crawford aimed the pistol down at him. “Just so you don’t go anywhere while you’re dying…” He shot him in the kneecap. “Courtesy of Deputy Sheriff Chet Barker.”
Crawford was deaf to Otterman’s gurgled screams as he went over and got the switchblade off the floor. He used it to cut through the knot holding the gag around Conrad’s head.
“Good work, son,” he panted as he spat out the handkerchief.
“You all right?”
“Roughed up a bit, but basically okay. I think my wrists are bleeding.”
The fishing line had dug deep into the flesh, breaking the skin. As gently as possible, Crawford cut through the binding, then freed Conrad’s feet from the legs of the chair, and helped him to stand up.
As he shook feeling back into his hands, Conrad said, “My dog and pony show last night did you some good, huh?”
“It did me a lot of good.”
Crawford saw the flash of pride in Conrad’s eyes even as he snorted with self-derision. “Got me kidnapped, although I put up more of a fight than he let on. I guess it’s true what he said. I could’ve made some sounds to warn you of what you were walking into, but—”
“He would have killed you without blinking.”
Conrad laughed. “I’d be no great loss. I kept quiet because I had to see for myself that one of those assholes outside hadn’t killed you. I wanted to make sure you were okay. For a few minutes there…” Then he shocked Crawford by pulling him into a hug. It was clumsy, awkward for both of them, but it counted. They thumped each other on the back.
As they broke apart, Conrad smiled up at him, and Crawford saw tears standing in his father’s eyes.
Then Conrad’s gaze suddenly snapped to Crawford’s right. Realizing in an instant what it must signify, Crawford reacted, bringing the pistol up as he spun around. There was an eruption of gunfire.
Otterman never felt the bullet that finished him.
Nor did he hear Crawford’s anguished cry. “Dad!”
H
olly followed the caravan of official vehicles as far as they would allow. By the time she reached the turnoff, designated by the now well-known sign, the road had been barricaded and only personnel with official business were being allowed beyond it.
Even some law enforcement officers with no specific reason for being there were prevented from going farther, and they began unsnarling the traffic jam caused by converging vehicles. The congestion had made it difficult for ambulances to get through. No one Holly asked knew the number or nature of the casualties for which the ambulances had been called.
She and spectators drawn to the emergency had parked along both shoulders of the backwoods state road. There she paced, clutching her cell phone, willing it to ring. She had called Harry, Sessions, and Neal in turn, leaving voice mails for them.
Of course, it was Crawford’s voice she wanted most to hear, but she didn’t have the number of the burner phone he’d been using to communicate with Harry…until he had stopped communicating.
When her phone finally did ring, Neal Lester’s name appeared in the LED. Breathlessly, she answered.
He said, “I’m calling on Crawford’s behalf.”
“He’s all right?”
“He’s fine, just occupied.”
Her sob of relief was so forceful, it hurt her breastbone. “You swear? He’s all right?”
“Yes. He’s been talking everybody through what went down. It’s a madhouse.”
“I know. I’m here.”
“Where?”
“Here. Parked on the shoulder just west of the turnoff.”
He paused briefly, then said, “I’ll meet you at the barricade. Five minutes.”
Even on foot, she made it there before he did. He pulled up in his sedan on the other side of the barricade, got out, spoke to one of the officers keeping people out, and ducked under the barrier to reach her.
“What are you doing out here?”
“I couldn’t just go home and sit. Tell me what’s happened. Has Otterman been arrested?”
“He’s dead. Bullet to the head. Knee shot out. I’ll spare you the more gruesome details.”
“Crawford…?”
“Yes.”
She clung to every word as Neal described the situation. When he stopped to take a breath, she said, “The Rangers had discovered Otterman’s connection to Manuel Fuentes. That’s why they were so anxious to reach Crawford.”
He nodded. “Otterman admitted to Crawford his illegal gun trade. The bodyguard Crawford stuffed in the trunk of Smitty’s car was mad as hell for being wrapped up in duct tape, but he fared better than his coworker, whose body was found half in, half out of the water. Dead. After hearing about his buddy, and the carnage inside the shack, he was more than willing to open up about the gun running.”
The word “carnage” caused her to shudder. “But Crawford’s all right?” She couldn’t have confirmed it enough times.
He averted his gaze. “He is. But, well, his father didn’t make it.”
She fell back a step. “
What
?
Conrad was here?”
“You know him?”
“Tell me!”
He told her about the abduction. “The guy locked in the trunk said they had picked up Mr. Hunt early today, brought him here. He had deep ligature marks on his wrists and ankles. Otterman finished him off. Crawford is…” He looked aside and shook his head.
She covered her mouth with her hand. “Can you take me to him?”
“No. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. You don’t want to see him now. Trust me. He went a little crazy when he heard you were in the vicinity. He’s—” Whatever Neal was about to say, he changed his mind. “You should go home, Judge Spencer. He’s going to be tied up for a long while yet. Wait for him to contact you.”
Since Crawford hadn’t called her himself, she had little room to argue. Neal was about to turn away, when she stopped him. “Thank you for coming to tell me all this in person. I wouldn’t have wanted to hear it over the telephone.”
“I felt I owed Crawford a courtesy,” he said, looking uneasy. “Owed one to both of you.” He gave her a brusque nod and ducked beneath the barricade.
She walked back toward her car, resentful of the chaos going on around her—the endless number of official vehicles with their obnoxious flashing lights reminded her of a garish midway. The clustered bystanders were swapping rumors about the body count, speculating on who had died and who had lived to tell about it. She wanted to scream at all of them to shut up.
When she reached her car, she got in and laid her forehead on the steering wheel.
“Drive, judge.”
Nearly jumping out of her skin, she whipped her head around, gasping his name when she saw the amount of blood soaking his clothes.
The massive red stain was fresh enough to show up shiny in the kaleidoscope of flashing red, white, and blue lights around them. His eyes glinted at her from shadowed sockets. His forehead was beaded with sweat, strands of hair plastered to it.
He remained perfectly still, sprawled in the corner of the backseat, left leg stretched out along it, the toe of his blood-spattered cowboy boot pointing toward the ceiling of the car. His right leg was bent at the knee. His right hand was resting on it, holding a wicked-looking pistol.
He said, “It’s not my blood.”
“I heard.”
Looking down over his long torso, he gave a gravelly, bitter laugh. “He was dead before he hit the ground, but I wanted to make sure. Dumb move. Ruined this shirt, and it was one of my favorites.”
Up ahead, officers had begun moving along the line of spectator vehicles, motioning the motorists to clear the area. She had to either do as he asked or be caught with him inside her car.
“Sergeant Lester told me that you’d—”
“Shot the son of a bitch? That’s true. He’s dead. Now, drive.”
God bless her, she didn’t argue. Without further discussion, she started the car, then pulled it onto the road.
“You should be more careful about leaving your car door unlocked,” he said. “But I’m glad you did.”
“Where do you want me to take you?”
“Head toward Prentiss. I’ll direct you from there.”
Now that they were clear of the congestion, he sat up and placed the pistol on the floorboard. “I wonder if Joe’s missed it yet.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened?”
“Otterman killed Conrad. I killed Otterman. I thought he was done for, but… He knew I had extra weapons. Why didn’t I check him for another?” He planted the heels of his hands against his eyes that stung with unshed tears. “I shouldn’t have kept him from seeing Georgia.”
“Conrad, you mean.”
“That was hateful. Spiteful. I was angry at him for so many years. I—” He stopped, unable to go on.
Holly, speaking quietly, said, “He understood, Crawford.”
He lowered his hands from his eyes and met hers in the rearview mirror. “He understood and agreed with your decision. Sometime I’ll tell you what he said about it, but now’s not the time. Shouldn’t you go back?”
“They got what they needed from me tonight. We’re picking back up in the morning. I wasn’t doing Conrad any good. One of the EMTs told me that media was already camped out at the hospital, waiting for the ambulances to arrive. I just couldn’t face all that right now.”
“They’ll be looking for you. At least call Neal.” When he didn’t respond, she offered to call for him.
Reluctantly, he nodded. “I guess you should. I hate to think of all that personnel wasting time searching for me.”
She punched in the call and put it on speaker so Crawford could hear. As soon as Neal answered, he said, “Crawford’s vanished. Nobody saw him go. He didn’t tell anybody—”
“He’s with me.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he muttered. “Where are you?”
“He said you were resuming in the morning.”
“Seven thirty.”
“He’ll be there.” She clicked off. “I think he’s worried about you.”
Crawford scoffed. “He’s only worried he’ll catch heat for being wrong. Anyway, thanks for doing that.”
“Don’t thank me.”
Taking him completely by surprise, she steered sharply off the highway onto the shoulder, got out, and opened the back door. Practically crawling over him, she placed her hands on either side of his head and drew his face to hers.
“Holly, I’m a mess.”
“I don’t care. I can’t wait any longer to touch you.”
They kissed openmouthed and deep. When they finally broke apart, she continued to run her fingertips over his face as though to assure herself that he was really there. With emotional raspiness, she said, “I thought you might die.”
“Honestly, I thought I might, too.”
He palmed the back of her head, tilted it, and they kissed again; he broke it off before he wanted to. “The reason I split? This investigation will tie me up for hours, days, weeks, and I’ve
got
to see Georgia. If you don’t want to take me, I’ll find some other way to get there. But I am going to see her.”
“You want to drive to Austin tonight?”
“They’re not in Austin. Grace doesn’t even have a sister.”
The attractive log house belonged to friends who attended the Gilroys’ church. It was used as a weekend getaway. The pine-studded lot was situated on a lake about twenty miles south of Prentiss. Joe had suggested it as their hiding place, and Crawford had thought it sounded ideal.
He’d lied about where they were going because of its proximity to Prentiss. And to Otterman. He had kept it from Holly in case she was ever pressured into telling someone what she believed to be the truth.
Together they walked up to the front door. He knocked softly. A few moments later, the light above the door came on. Grace gave a startled scream when she opened it and saw Crawford.
“It’s not my blood.” Grace looked anything but reassured as he and Holly stepped inside and she saw his mud-crusted boots and jeans, the pistol he was holding at his side. “I want to see Georgia. But I need to wash up first.”
“Back here.”
She led them down a hallway and into a sizable den, comfortably furnished, with a wall of windows overlooking the lake. Joe was reclined in a leather chair, wearing a headset, watching TV.
Grace spoke his name loudly enough to override the TV audio. He turned his head in her direction, then did a double take when he saw Crawford. He bounded out of the chair as he ripped off the headset. “Holy hell!”
For the third time, Crawford said, “It’s not my blood. It’s my dad’s, actually. He’s dead.” While his in-laws were trying to absorb that, he said, “But so’s the bastard who killed him.”
“Otterman?”
Crawford nodded. “But I killed him with his own pistol, not yours. I took this the other night. It was never fired.” He set the pistol on an end table. “Can I borrow a shirt?”
Grace, still looking stunned, left and returned shortly with a plain white undershirt, the kind Joe wore year-round. She showed Crawford into a powder room. After closing the door, he looked at himself in the mirror above the sink, and the image was shocking, frightening.
But he didn’t dwell on how ravaged he looked. He removed the bloodstained shirt and washed his chest and hands. Tap water mingled with his father’s blood, forming a red whirlpool that eventually faded to pink. As he watched it drain, tears dripped from his eyes. He splashed his face with cold water and raked back his sweat-soaked hair.
When he came out of the bathroom wearing the white t-shirt, he said to Grace, “If I could bother you for one more thing. A paper bag. I need to save this shirt in case it’s needed as evidence.” When that had been seen to, he asked, “Where’s Georgia sleeping?”
Joe thrust his chest out, taking an all too familiar combative stance. “That restraining order is still in place.”
Grace shot him a quelling look. “Joe, for godsake.”
She led Crawford from the main room and back down the hall, stopping outside a closed door. “I’m truly sorry about your father.”
“Thanks.”
He let himself into the bedroom and closed the door. There was a nightlight, by which he could see Georgia sleeping on her side, Mr. Bunny hugged against her. He didn’t want to wake her up and get her excited to see him, only to have to leave her again, and, in any case, the filth on him would ruin the bed.
But he knelt beside it and couldn’t resist hooking one of her curls with his little finger and raising it to his lips. To keep her safe, he would have killed Otterman or anyone else a thousand times over.
He watched her sleep, smiling as he listened to her soft snores, which he would have recognized anywhere in the world. Her sweetness and innocence were like a balm to his punctured heart. After about ten minutes, he whispered that he loved her, kissed the lock of hair again, then tiptoed out and pulled the door closed behind him.
The other three were waiting for him in a strained silence. Holly looked particularly anxious about his state of mind. Grace sat as rigid as a two-by-four, her features frozen with tension.
Joe unleashed the anger he’d kept bridled up till now. “How dare you come here, looking like you climbed out of a charnel house.”
“It’s just not in me to fight with you tonight, Joe.” He nodded Holly toward the door.
“Congratulations on getting the bad guy,” Joe said.
“Thanks. ’Night, Grace.”
“How many rules did you break in order to get him?”
Crawford stopped, turned, and, feeling incredibly weary, faced his father-in-law. “A few. I bent others. But I’ll be damned before I apologize for it, especially to you. Otterman spent four years plotting this, and he wasn’t going to stop until he killed me. Or people around me.”
“I gave you a second pass on the restraining order because of the threat he posed to Georgia.”
“I’ve thanked you for that, and my gratitude is sincere. So why are we having this conversation? Let’s go, Holly.” He took her arm.
Joe, however, wasn’t willing to call it a night. “You’ll be a hero again tomorrow.”
“I know how that galls you. I don’t like it, either.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“The only thing I expect from you, Joe, is to be a horse’s ass, even on a really, really bad night.”