EIGHT
Marty was still thinking about Clay and his daredevil
daughter when Jo Nell’s voice crackled over the radio. “Hogan, you out there?”
She hit the Talk button. “What you got?”
“I just took a 911 from some guy down in the canyon. Says there’s a pickup truck on the ranch road. Driver’s drunk and almost hit him.”
“You got a description of the vehicle?” Glancing in her rearview mirror, she made a U-turn on Cactus and headed out of town.
“Ford F-150. Red. Short bed. Didn’t get a plate.”
“I think that narrows it down enough.”
“Don’t get fresh with me, young lady.”
Marty grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
In the last week she and Jo Nell had struck up an odd camaraderie. They weren’t exactly friends, but they made each other laugh and that was enough to break down the barriers between them. Secretly, Marty thought it was the smoke they’d shared one morning before the other officers or Clay had arrived. They’d smoked and made small talk and then Marty had helped Jo Nell dispose of the evidence. They were now partners in crime, a relationship that suited both to a tee.
Racking the mike, she flipped on her emergency lights and hit the gas, pushing the speedometer a little past the limit. On the south side of town, she left the main drag and turned onto a farm-to-market road that took her to the northwest entrance of the canyon.
The road that ran through the canyon was not well traveled, but for many of the area ranchers and farmers, it was the only way to get into town without having to drive around the north or south side. The road was a narrow swath of unlined asphalt that curved down the three-hundred-foot slope to the valley floor. The base of the canyon was only a mile or so wide. On the opposite side, the road became unpaved and a series of switchbacks took motorists back up to the top.
Marty stopped the cruiser on the northwest rim of the canyon and got out. Using the binoculars all officers kept in their vehicles, she scoured the main road, the valley floor and the lesser-traveled dirt roads for a red pickup truck. Nothing moved within the desolate stretch of juniper, mesquite and copper-colored rock.
The locals called Palo Duro Canyon Texas’s best-kept secret. Staring out over the rust-colored mesas that flared like Spanish skirts, Marty thought it was probably one of the best-kept secrets in the entire United States. It was the first truly beautiful place she’d seen since traveling to Texas. Not many people knew it was the country’s second-largest canyon. She wondered if, perhaps, that was by design.
She found herself thinking about Clay again. Not a good sign. She wanted to believe her attraction to him was a result of stress, a state that had wreaked havoc on her life since
The Incident
six months ago. Or maybe it was the grief she felt in response to Rosetti’s murder. Whatever the case, her emotions were evidently playing tricks on her. She was sad and a little lonely. That’s all it was. Plain and simple.
But Marty knew there was nothing plain or simple about her feelings for her boss. She was not prone to petty attractions or infatuations. So then why the hell was she thinking about him now? Why did her heart stumble around in her chest every time she got within shouting distance of him? Why couldn’t she wait until the next time she saw him?
“Because you’re a freaking idiot,” she muttered.
Disgusted with herself, Marty climbed back into the cruiser and picked up the mike. “Jo Nell, this is 353.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m out at the canyon and don’t see a soul.”
“Roger that.”
“I’m going to cruise down to the bridge. See what I can find.” The bridge was an old wooden structure that arched over a small tributary that ultimately fed into the Canadian River. It was dry nine months out of the year, but floodwaters during the rainy season had cut a deep ravine into the earth.
“When you get back, we’ll have us a smoke.”
Marty grinned. “I could arrest you for that.”
The older woman hung up on her.
Marty laughed outright as she racked the mike and started into the canyon. The sun disappeared behind the high rock walls as she descended the steep, narrow road, casting her in shadow. At the base of the canyon, the asphalt fell away. Her tires crunched over dirt and gravel, leaving a dusty wake that was slow to dissipate. Her windows were down, and the evening air was cool and pleasant against her face. She was tapping her fingers to a quirky Red Hot Chili Peppers tune when the cruiser jolted. The steering wheel jerked to the right, and Marty knew she’d blown a tire.
“Crap,” she muttered as she pulled onto the dusty shoulder.
She killed the engine, and got out and walked around to the front of the car. Sure enough, the right front tire was as flat as a Texas wheat field. She kicked the tire, then made her way to the trunk to start the process of changing it.
Around her the canyon sang a thousand songs. Finches and titmice tittered from the branches of the low-growing mesquite and juniper. The occasional meadowlark warbled from the tall grasses. From the distant peaks of the mesas, she could hear the coyotes yipping. A hundred yards away, frogs and toads had gathered on the banks of the creek in preparation for the night. All of it was punctuated by a chorus of crickets and grasshoppers and cicadas.
For a moment, the compelling beauty rendered her to stillness. Marty could do nothing but stand there and take it all in, marveling at its unique and hostile magnificence.
Realizing the shadows were deepening, she made her way to the car and picked up her mike. “Jo Nell, this is 353, you there?”
“What now?” Jo Nell’s voice crackled over the airwaves.
“I’m in the canyon. No sign of the red truck or driver.”
“Probably home and sleeping it off by now.”
“I’ve got a flat tire. I’ve got to put on the spare.”
“You know how to do that?”
Marty rolled her eyes. “For God’s sake, Jo Nell, I’m a cop.”
“Just checking. I doubt Smitty knows how to and
he’s
a cop.”
Marty chuckled, glad she had Jo Nell to help her keep things in perspective. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“I’ll have that smoke waitin’.”
“Roger that.” She racked the mike and walked around to the rear of the car to open the trunk. It had been a while since she’d had to change a tire, but she remembered how. She just didn’t like it.
Bending, she removed the trunk panel, unlocked the spare tire and jack and carried both to the front of the car. She broke a sweat as she set the jack in place and began to pump. The wind had picked up and whispered like unruly schoolchildren through the mesquite and high grass. The coyotes were closer now, yipping and howling like hyenas. Marty knew they weren’t dangerous, but the sound was enough to make the hairs on her nape stand up. Around her, the birds had gone silent, announcing nightfall’s approach.
“Come on, Hogan, get a move on.”
Of course, she wasn’t afraid of the dark. But the rugged and desolate canyon was no place to be at night. She’d just finished jacking the car to the proper height when a dull thud in the dirt a foot or so from her right knee snagged her attention. She glanced over, noticed the remaining small puff of dust. An instant later, the unmistakable sound of a rifle’s retort sent her to her feet.
“What the hell?”
Her words were punctuated by a second thud, a rise of dust and a long-distance report. Disbelief and an uneasy sense of fear shot through her. Ducking low, Marty rushed to the driver’s side of the vehicle, swung open the door and grabbed the mike. “This is 353. I got a 10-33.”
“What the hell’s a 10-33?”
Another gunshot sounded. Closer this time. Not the distant firing of a rifle. More like a handgun. Marty couldn’t believe it. “Shots fired in the canyon!”
“Someone’s shootin’ at ya?”
A bullet slammed into the ground, less than a foot from where she knelt. “I’m under fire!” she shouted. “Get someone out here, damn it!”
“Where are you?”
“Northwest corner on the ranch road. A hundred yards from the bridge. I’m taking goddamn fire!”
“I’ll call the chief.”
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Only then did Marty acknowledge there were two shooters, firing from opposite directions. One from a distance to the southwest, the other from behind her, from where there was a clear shot. She was pretty sure the second shooter had a rifle.
She spun, vulnerable with no cover. A flash of color from the rocks seventy yards away grabbed her attention. Drawing her revolver, she dropped into a shooter’s stance and fired three times in quick succession. She caught another glimpse of movement. Someone moving up the rocky face of the cliff, just off the road Marty had come down.
Tossing the mike onto the seat, Marty slid behind the wheel and slammed the door. Never taking her eyes from the place where she’d seen movement, she twisted the key, cut the wheel hard and hit the gas. The cruiser shot forward, the right front tire dropping as it came off the jack. Driving over rough terrain with a flat tire would undoubtedly ruin the wheel, but she figured it was a small price to pay to catch some drunken son of a bitch taking potshots at a cop.
She took the car up the road, closest to the place she’d seen the shooter. With dusk rapidly falling away to darkness, it was difficult to see. She squinted into the shadows, caught a glimpse of blue twenty yards up the road. She floored the gas. The car’s rear tires spun as it shot forward. Her target disappeared, then reemerged ten yards from the road.
Marty took the car off-road. It bounced violently over deadfall and rocks the size of basketballs. Just when she thought she might catch him, the car bottomed out and hung up.
“Damn it.” Snarling, she hit the emergency lights, threw open the door and hit the ground running.
Keeping low, ever watchful for movement, she sprinted toward the place where she’d last seen her quarry. Midway there, the unmistakable sound of a bullet ricocheting off rock stopped her cold. Ducking into a small ravine where runoff had eroded the soil, Marty squinted into the thickening darkness, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.
“Police!” she shouted. “Put your hands up and step out now!”
The only answer was the screech of a hoot owl and the mocking whisper of the wind.
She gripped the revolver with sweat-slicked hands and peered around a low-growing juniper. Visibility had dwindled, but she heard rocks sliding a few yards away, as if someone were scrambling up the steep incline. Holding her weapon steady, she muscled her way out of the ravine.
“Halt! Police! Drop your weapon! Do it now!”
Whoever it was didn’t stop. She could hear him scrambling up the sheer face of the cliff. Anger and nerves pulled her in different directions as she pursued. She could hear her labored breathing over the hard thrum of her heart. A few yards ahead, she heard the shooter breaking through brush and followed the sound, guessing him to be no more than ten or fifteen yards ahead.
“Stop or I’ll fire!” she shouted.
Marty raised the revolver, her finger on the trigger. There was no way she could fire blindly; as far as she knew the person running from her could be a twelve-year-old kid stupid enough to shoot at a cop.
She entered a thicket of mesquite. Branches clawed at her uniform, scratching her face, spindly fingers snagging her hair. She was making too much noise, but she could hear him in front of her, running. She was gaining ground.
Breaking from the thicket, she caught a glimpse of movement. Too late she saw the gun. Blue steel. The muzzle flash blinding her. Explosion deafening her ears. The hot whiz of a bullet inches from her left ear.
A scream tore from her throat as she spun. She lost her footing and went to her knees. The ground beneath her crumbled. The next thing she knew she was rolling down a steep embankment, branches and rocks punching her like rude fists.
Dust and grit filled her mouth and eyes. Jagged rock tore at her clothes and bruised skin. The gun flew from her hand as she tumbled ever downward. All Marty could think was that if he came for her now, she was a dead woman.
Clay finished unhooking the horse trailer from the pickup
truck while Erica put George in his stall for the night. Around him, the meadowlarks sang their final songs of the day. To the west, a final ray of sunshine spread yellow light on the wheat field beyond his pasture. The evening was as pleasant as evenings ever were here in the Panhandle.
Leaning against the paddock gate, he looked out over his small spread at the loafing sheds, the horses grazing nearby, and the arena where he and Erica had worked so many hours in preparation for the barrel-racing season. It had taken him years, but he’d built a secure and comfortable home for his daughter.
He should have been satisfied; many a man went his entire lifetime without the gifts that had been bestowed upon him. Yes, he’d worked his ass off to get where he was. He’d made his share of sacrifices to give his daughter the kind of opportunities he’d never had. Still, sometimes there was a weight in his chest that told him something was missing.
But Clay had always been full of dreams. Foolish dreams, according to his father. Growing up in a rural area where he could hope for little more than to farm the land upon which his father and his grandfather had farmed before him, Clay had been cursed with a perpetual case of discontent. A hunger for more than had been allotted him.
Clay had sworn he would get out of Caprock Canyon. He’d sworn he would be the first Settlemeyer to graduate from college. Go to the city. Make something of himself. He’d sworn he would never settle.
Had he?
He told himself that was crazy. He had it all. A job he loved. A comfortable home. Good friends. And Erica was the love of his life. Some days he loved her so much he ached inside with the need to keep her safe and happy and secure. God knew he tried. But sometimes he wondered if he could have done a better job. He wondered if she missed having a mother.