Secrets of the Lynx (2 page)

“That matches a residential landline for a woman named Yolanda Sharpe. The address is on Hartley’s south side—485 Conejo Road. Hang on a sec. Here’s more. Yolanda’s got a record—shoplifting, check fraud and a few misdemeanors,” Preston said. “She’s served six months jail time.”

“Interesting background, but she still doesn’t deserve to get batted around.”

“True, but I think you should back off, at least for now. Look at the facts. She didn’t give you her full name or even the first name of her boyfriend. Now she’s late. Who knows what might have gone down? What if the boyfriend shows up instead, mad as hell and looking for a fight? With that bum shoulder, if he comes at you, you’re going down hard.”

“Like hell.”

“Look, bro, something’s off. You felt that too or you wouldn’t have called,” Preston said. “Anyone who checks you out on the internet knows you like riding to the rescue. Remember that roughneck you threw out the window after he cornered the waitress at the Blue Corral? Made the cable news.”

“That was self-defense.” Paul chuckled softly. “And my shoulder didn’t hold me back. He flew a good ten feet.”

“Okay, so you’re not backing off. Give me your location and I’ll join you. You might be able to use a little backup.”

“Just don’t get in my way,” Paul growled. “I’m standing behind the pines in the park beside the Murray Building on Main. My truck’s across the street.”

“I’m in my cruiser now. My ETA’s only three minutes or less, so try to stay out of trouble till then.”

Paul hung up, his gaze still on the empty street. His brother was right. He had a sixth sense about some things, and right now his instincts were telling him trouble was close at hand.

Muscles tensing up, Paul reached for the lynx fetish he wore around his neck on a leather cord. The slivers of pyrite that comprised its eyes glittered ominously. He’d never been able to figure out why, or how, but whenever danger was near, the eyes of the lynx would take on a light of their own. Tonight, maybe it was the lightning or the cold playing tricks on his senses, but either way, he’d learned not to ignore the warning.

After checking his watch one last time, Paul decided to walk back over to his pickup. He’d just stepped out of cover when a blue truck pulled up to the curb and the driver leaned toward the passenger’s side window. As a brilliant flash of lightning lit up the night sky, he saw the pistol in the driver’s hand.

Paul dove to the ground just as two loud gunshots ripped through the air.

Paul rolled to his right, and using a tree trunk as cover, he rose to one knee, pistol in hand, but it was too late. The truck was already speeding away. Making a split-second decision, he ran after it, hoping to read the plates.

He hadn’t gone fifty yards when he heard the wail of an approaching siren. A heartbeat later Preston rounded the corner and pulled to a screeching stop beside him.

“You hit?” Preston asked, leaning over and shouting out the passenger’s side window.

“No.” Paul opened the door of his brother’s unit and jumped in. “Blue pickup, turned south down Applewood.”

“Make and model?”

“Ford 150, I think,” Paul said, reaching for the shoulder belt as Preston hit the gas. “Or maybe a Chevy. The tailgate was down and it happened in a flash.”

“Let me guess. No Yolanda?”

“I never got a look at the driver. All I saw was the pistol sticking out the passenger’s window. If that lightning flash hadn’t lit up everything at just the right time, I would have been on the ground right now, a soon-to-be chalk outline.”

“You were set up, bro.” Preston turned the corner at high speed, yanking Paul to one side. “The shooter can’t be far. Keep an eye out for taillights on the side streets.”

Paul kept a close watch on the area as his foster brother raced down the street. Traffic here was light. Hartley was barely a city. Most downtown businesses were closed before six, and the area restaurants and bars were all farther east or west.

“In your gut you knew all along that this wasn’t just another domestic abuse situation. I’m right, aren’t I?” Preston said as he took another left, then slowed down and directed his spotlight into the darkened alley they passed.

“I didn’t
know
, but I had a feeling something wasn’t right,” Paul said. “I’d just decided to call it a night when it went down.”

Preston slowed as they passed a bank parking lot, giving them time to study every inch of the well-lit area. “I think we struck out. The pickup’s gone.”

After another ten minutes, Preston picked up his radio and called off the other patrol cars in the area.

“So, you gonna report this to the marshals service?” he finally asked Paul.

“Yeah. I have to because Miller is still at large.” Paul understood his brother’s lack of enthusiasm. Local departments hated dealing with the feds. But locating Chris Miller, the man who’d killed his partner and wounded him, was a priority. “It’s been ten months since the shooting, so this is probably unrelated, but no matter. I still have to report an incident like this.”

Silence stretched out between them.

“What’s eating you?” Preston finally asked.

“What happened tonight matches the prediction
Hosteen
Silver left for me,” Paul said. A traditionalist medicine man,
Hosteen
Silver had respected his culture by avoiding the use of proper names. Instead, he’d gone by a nickname that fit him perfectly.
Hosteen
meant mister and Silver alluded to the color of his long, shoulder-length hair.

“You’re talking about the letters we all got after his death?”

“Yeah.”

Preston nodded thoughtfully. “The old man...he knew things. At first I thought it was just tricks, him picking up on subtle clues, like some savvy street hustler. But it was more than that. He had a real gift.”

“Yeah, he did, and whatever he foretold was usually right on target,” Paul said.

“So what did he say would lay ahead for you?”

Paul recited it from memory. “‘When Dark Thunder speaks in the silence, enemies will become friends, and friends, enemies. Lynx will bring more questions, but it’s Grit who’ll show you the way if you become his friend. Life and death will call, but in the end, you’ll choose your own path.’”

“You saw the pistol because of the lightning, that’s what you said, right?” Preston said, then seeing him nod, added, “And the business district was pretty quiet.”

“Yeah, but this time, our old man’s prediction is going to be somewhat off the mark. Face it, the day Grit greets me as a friend will be the day after never.”
Hosteen
Silver’s horse hated him.

“Yeah. Whenever he hears your name his ears go flat and his eyes bug out.”

Silence stretched out again.

“I’ll call the marshals service as soon as I get home,” Paul said. “A landline will get me a better connection, particularly on a night like this.”

“Better not wait or go home either, if it’s really Chris Miller. You should stay at a secure location with backup nearby. Let me get hold of Daniel and Gene and have them meet us in Copper Canyon. For us, that’s the most secure place on earth.”

Paul nodded. All five of his brothers knew that formation like the back of their hands and, there, in a narrow, dead-end canyon, the tactical advantage was theirs.

Paul thought back to the phone call from Yolanda that had led up to this. He had no regrets. He’d been growing restless these past few months, eager to do something more than watch surveillance monitors, the bulk of his business these days.

Now, maybe, fate was finally giving him a chance to get back to the work he loved and pay his debt to the past. Throughout those long months of rehab, he’d kept going by telling himself that someday he’d find Miller, that it was inevitable their paths would cross again.

The possibility that Chris Miller had actually come after him now seemed almost too good to be true.

“Don’t expect me to hide out,” Paul said, then after a second added, “If it’s Miller again, our face-off is long overdue. This is personal. Come morning I’m heading back to town.”

* * *

U
.
S
.
D
EPUTY
M
ARSHAL
Kendra Armstrong was nearly exhausted after another eighteen hour day. It was two o’clock in the morning, pitch-black outside, and she was alone in a remote corner of New Mexico’s badlands. The headlights of her tiny rental car were the only illumination within miles.

She should have been back in Denver, in on the takedown of the fugitive she’d been after for the past six months. With effort, she pushed back her anger.

According to reports, it was possible that Chris Miller, a high-threat outlaw, had finally surfaced here. Her record for tracking down and capturing runaways fugitives was second to none, so she’d been immediately ordered to New Mexico. Still, the sudden reassignment had taken her by surprise. She hated surprises.

As she eased the tiny rental sedan along a dried-up stream bed, the car’s tires began to lose traction. Feeling the sedan bogging down, she decided to leave the soft, sandy track.

She’d traveled less than one hundred yards when the undercarriage scraped loudly, the screech so loud it hurt her teeth. The car suddenly stopped, her tires spinning from lack of grip. The wobbly tilt of her vehicle told her she’d high centered on bedrock.

Kendra switched off the ignition and climbed out. The light in the distance teased her—the ranch house where former Deputy U.S. Marshal Paul Grayhorse awaited her arrival, no doubt. She was reaching inside the car for the bottle of water on the seat when she heard something moving in the brush behind her. Kendra instinctively reached for her weapon and turned in a crouch, gun in hand.

Three armed figures were standing several feet away from her, but it was too dark to make out their faces. The tallest of the three quickly blinded her by aiming his flashlight at her face.

“U.S. Marshal. Lower your weapons,” she snapped, shifting her aim to the person holding the flashlight. If she went down, she’d take him with her.

“We were expecting you to stick to the road,” the man with the flashlight said, instantly lowering the beam and putting away his gun. He stepped forward. “I’m former Marshal Paul Grayhorse. These are my brothers, Detective Preston Bowman and Daniel Hawk.”

“Kendra Armstrong, Deputy U.S. Marshal,” she said, remembering not to offer to shake hands. Navajos preferred no physical contact with strangers.

Kendra opened her car door, allowing the glow of the dome light to illuminate the area. Even in the muted light she could see the gleam of cold steel in Preston’s eyes, the world-savvy gaze of a seasoned cop. Daniel Hawk had an easy smile, but he stood erect with his shoulders rigid, like someone who’d served in the military. Having grown up with a full bird colonel for a dad, she knew the stance well.

Yet it was Paul Grayhorse, the man with the flashlight, who’d captured and held her attention. Now,
there
was a man who seemed to be far more than the sum of his spectacular parts. He stood tall, with strong, broad shoulders, and had an amazingly steady gaze. Through sheer confidence, he commanded the situation.

“I was afraid I’d bog down in the sand, so I decided to veer off the path,” she said, holstering her weapon.

Paul gave her a heart-stopping smile. “You’re not the first visitor to get hung up on the sandstone out here.”

“I’m glad we’re all on the same side at least. I would have hated having to take on all three of you,” she said, her gaze studying the men.

Paul smiled. “Preston’s the smallest and he can’t fight his way out of a paper bag. I bet you were planning on taking him on first.”

Daniel laughed. Preston scowled but said nothing.

“What strategy would you have used? Attacking the good-looking brothers, or the one with the flashlight?” Daniel pressed, cocking his head toward Paul.

“None of the above,” she said with a tiny smile. “I’m going to need all of you to help me get off that rock.”

Paul laughed. “We’ll get it back on solid ground for you. Just give us a minute.”

His reassuring, confident tone was soothing. Without thinking, her gaze drifted over Paul’s shoulders. She’d seen him favor his right shoulder slightly when he’d put away his weapon, so she knew it was still causing him some pain. According to what she’d read in his file, that gunshot wound had shredded muscle and forced him to take an early retirement.

“No need for heavy lifting. If we can get a shovel we can scoop up dirt, add some brush, and form a gripping surface beneath the drive tires,” she said.

Paul, who’d already moved around to the back of the sedan with his brothers, looked up quickly. “So you’ve heard about my injury. Don’t let it fool you. I can do whatever has to be done.”

She heard the dark undertone in his voice and realized she’d struck a nerve. Paul was fighting the consequences of his gunshot wound by not allowing himself to accept limitations. Although she didn’t know Paul very well, she liked him already.

She closed the car door, placing them all in the dark again. “I was more concerned about you standing out here in the open when there’s a gunman on your tail, Paul,” she said.

Paul shook his head. “No one’s around.”

“And you know that...how? There’s no telling what could be out there in the dark,” she said.

“Trust me, if anyone was here, we’d know,” Paul said.

“An elephant herd could be out there, and we’d never see them,” she said.

Paul chuckled. “This was—is—our home. Once you’re in tune with the land, you can see beyond the deepest shadows.” He handed Preston his flashlight.

She stared at him for a moment, wondering if he truly believed that metaphysical nonsense. No matter how you felt about the land, no one could see into the night, not without special gear anyway.

“You’re not convinced,” Paul said, not making it a question.

As his brothers crouched by the car, using the flashlight to check out the extent of the problem, Paul gestured back up the dirt track. “Nature itself lets you know if there’s trouble. Look down the road. See that coyote crossing from north to south?”