Deadly Texas Summer

by Colleen Thompson

  Today, however, there was no coffin in front of the rows of padded folding chairs, just a blown-up photo on a stand between two tasteful floral displays. The picture, taken against a backdrop of snowcapped mountains, showed a youthful red-haired man with a backpack slung over one broad shoulder and a cocky grin across his sunburned face. While the funeral itself would be held in Russell’s home state of Washington, this memorial service had been arranged for the benefit of the fellow students who’d driven down to the town of Pinto Creek from the university in Austin, two representatives of Green Horizons Energy, and a dozen or so locals who wanted to pay their respects. Along with Emma Copley in the front row, the woman he had met on what had surely been one of the worst days of her life.

  Beau looked up in time to catch the flutter of her black skirt that, despite its modest length, revealed a glimpse of shapely legs as Emma moved up the steps to the low platform. Against her simple white blouse, her face was drawn and her pale green eyes puffy, the mascara slightly smeared. But it was her obvious struggle to compose herself that captured his attention—that and the flick of her slim wrist as she flipped a lock of sun-streaked, light brown hair off her face and behind her shoulder and looked around the room.

  For a split second, her gaze touched on his; he saw a glimmer of recognition before she abruptly looked away. It didn’t surprise him, given how completely she’d closed off to him after Wallace had shut down her accusations against her ex-husband that terrible afternoon. She’d also failed to respond to the note Beau had sent to the motel where she was staying later asking if he might send a meal or assist with any of the necessary arrangements.

  He’d taken the hint. She hadn’t forgiven him for failing to swoop in and defend her theory that Russell Jorgenson had been murdered. But he reminded himself that as sorry as he felt for her sudden loss, he didn’t really know her. Told himself that with two kids, a ranch and scores of employees to worry about, he had neither the time nor the energy to get wrapped up in a stranger’s troubles. Especially when, as much at he hated Wallace, Beau had to admit his cousin had had a point about her twisting reason into knots to cast her ex-husband as a murderer.

  Beau wouldn’t have been here at all tonight if not for his aunt, a firm traditionalist who spoke passionately—and often—about the responsibilities their family owed the community. She’d reminded him this morning that the family would be expected to put in an appearance at today’s memorial service—unless you want Wallace, she’d added with a disdainful sniff, to imagine he has you worried with this lawsuit nonsense of his.

  After that, there’d been no question that his family would be here. Just as there was no way Beau could take his eyes off Emma Copley, who looked as if she’d give anything to be elsewhere.

  “Thank you all for coming...to pay your respects,” she said, her gaze lingering on the young people sitting near the front before moving on to look over the other twenty or so gathered. “Russell Jorgenson was one of the most personable, hardworking and dedicated young biologists I’ve had the—the pleasure of working with during my tenure at the university.”

  She went on for a few minutes, her voice gathering strength and warmth as she continued recounting her dead student’s virtues. As Beau took in the pain etched into her delicate features, he recalled giving the elegy for a father who’d run hot and cold with him his whole life—his struggle to find kind words about a man who had offered him so few.

  But he’d somehow gotten through it, unlike Emma, whose voice had sputtered to a stop mid-sentence. Her eyes closing, she gripped the lectern, splotches of color rising to her cheeks as those assembled exchanged concerned looks and the awkward silence stretched on.

  Beau was gripped with the impulse to get up from his seat and whisk her away to someplace private, where the raw wreckage of her emotions wouldn’t be on display. He checked himself, reminding himself that stepping in and rescuing her from one bad situation didn’t make her his responsibility for life.

  Leland looked up from his toy car. “What’s wrong with the pretty lady?” he asked, his lisping voice, thanks to a missing front tooth, too loud for the room’s breathless stillness.

  “Shh. Just give her a moment,” Beau said, hoping she would recover on her own.

  As the delay drew out, Reverend Turner went to her side and quietly offered, “Please, miss, let me help you back to your seat.”

  When she shook her head, the whispers started, and two young people, clearly college students, given the girl’s piercings and rainbow-streaked blond pixie cut and the dark-skinned young man’s expensively torn denim, got up and hurried toward her.

  “Dr. Copley?” the girl said, as she trotted up the two steps. “It’s okay. We can take it from—”

  Emma raised a palm to stop their progress. But her gaze moved toward the room’s rear, where Wallace had moved to sit in the back row.

  Was she about to blow up at him, here and now? Accuse him of somehow influencing the medical examiner’s report? Or would she once more bring up her outlandish theory about her ex-husband and hired assassins?

  Or was her ire directed this time at the two men in dark green polo shirts embroidered with the Green Horizons logo that Wallace was seated next to? Beau had been, as the landowner, copied on an email that the company sent saying that until their engineers completed a thorough review of safety procedures and equipment at the wind farm, no one—particularly Emma and her students—was permitted to climb any of the towers for any reason.

  Reading the pain in her expression, he felt a pang of guilt, remembering how, on receiving that message, he hadn’t thought first of the victim of this horrific accident. Instead, Beau had worried only that the investigation might delay this spring’s construction of the new wind turbines—and the payment he was counting on to ensure the ranch’s future.

  Still, he felt certain she’d regret making a scene at her student’s service, so Beau impulsively faked a cough—one loud enough to prompt an annoyed look from his aunt. But the ploy appeared to distract Emma and wipe away whatever dark thoughts had held her in place.

  “Sorry, everyone,” she offered, waving her hand and adding, “I’m afraid I haven’t been myself these last few days. But thank you all again for coming. Russell... Russell would’ve been so touched to see you here.”

  His eyes full of relief, Reverend Turner smiled his approval and reached to help her off the platform. Ignoring his outstretched hand, Emma deftly ducked around him and trotted down the two steps. She paused to grab a small purse she’d left on the front seat, before—without slowing her stride a bit—she rushed down the center aisle. Shoulders tight, she darted straight past the sheriff and the Green Horizons engineers and through the rear exit without a backward glance.

  * * *

  Though it was nearly eight in the evening, the late August sun was only now kissing the horizon. Red-orange streamers of the dying light cast long shadows, which pointed like fingers from the parked vehicles and back toward the one-story beige brick Josiah Kingston Community Center, which Emma had just fled. By the time she reached her Jeep, she was breathing hard, the silky material of her white blouse sticking to her back from a combination of the sticky heat and nervous perspiration. A wave of dizziness made her wonder when she’d last eaten, or snatched more than a fitful hour or two of sleep.

  No wonder her nerves were fraying. Otherwise, she’d never have fled the memorial service instead of remaining, as she should have, to greet those who’d come to honor Russell and offering comfort to those students who’d made the hours-long drive from Austin to be here for their friend.

  But when she’d looked up to see Sheriff Fleming in the back, all she could think of was how for days on end, he’d been ignoring her messages, having his receptionist cancel appointment after appointment, and even slipping out the back to avoid her the day she had followed him inside after spotting him parking his marked Tahoe. A wave of pure fr
ustration broke over her, followed by fury that he would dare show up here and act as if he’d done anything beyond rushing to close the books on Russell’s death as quickly as he could. Presumably so he could get back to his pressing work of issuing parking tickets and loose livestock citations.

  She’d thought of calling him out on it right then and there, letting his constituents know what kind of useless slacker they’d elected. But Beau Kingston had happened to cough at that moment. The sight of him sitting with his little family, along with the concern she read in his handsome face, was enough to make her lose her nerve. So instead, she’d wrapped up as best she could and fled, escaping the staring eyes and buzzing voices.

  It had probably made Fleming’s day, seeing her unnerved, defeated. Did he imagine she was about to pack her things, just as she’d been asked to gather the personal effects from Russell’s motel room to be sent back to his grieving family, and head out of town—and out of his hair forever?

  At the thought, she swallowed hard, remembering how many times she’d done exactly that. Backed off instead of standing her ground, let things drop she never should have. Pretended to see Jeremy’s side of things in an effort to cheer him up—or at least to avoid giving his resentment and jealousy of her professional success more ammunition.

  Too long. Her hand reached down to cup the empty hollow where a new life had once taken root. A possibility she’d never planned for, hadn’t even, with the state of her marriage, dreamed she’d wanted. Yet she still mourned its loss keenly ten months later.

  And now, seeing Russell, too, cut down so cruelly, imagining him another victim to Jeremy’s cruelty and her weakness...

  You have a backbone still. So use it.

  Abruptly, Emma cranked the steering wheel and pulled her Jeep behind the building, in the shadows of a large metal trash receptacle. Steeling her resolve, she climbed out and peered around the building’s corner, praying that Sheriff Fleming might hang around a while as the gathering broke up, maybe to shake the hands of some of his constituents before heading for his Tahoe.

  Only Emma would be waiting for him, breaking from cover to cut off his return. And once she had him there, in this semipublic space, she would finally make him listen. And tell him that, though she’d accepted it was possible she’d been wrong about Jeremy’s involvement, she was more convinced than ever that her instincts about Russell’s so-called “accident” had been right on one count.

  He hadn’t been a careless young man. Not in any aspect of his work, nor in the documentation he’d been secretly gathering, proof she’d found hidden in his motel room, that created a multimillion-dollar motive for someone to want him dead.

  As she watched the first attendees begin leaving the community center, Emma heard something clatter against side of the metal trash bin, followed by the thump of footsteps just behind her.

  Someone hiding back there. Jumping out and rushing toward me.

  Raw terror propelled her toward the open, where someone leaving the service would be sure to see her. Would hear her screaming—except a pair of hands grabbed her neck from behind, clamped down on her windpipe.

  Unable to make a sound, she fought like a snared bobcat, kicking backward with her heel, flinging an elbow, and then clawing at the iron grip cutting off her airway. Her blood roared in her ears. She felt a nail rip. Felt a sandal come off as inky blackness swarmed her vision...

  A darkness filled with terror and her own impending death.

  Chapter 4

  After shaking a few hands and telling the university students how sorry he’d been to hear of the loss of their friend, Beau noticed his freckled eight-year-old shifting restlessly from foot to foot and darting glances toward the door. Checking on the smaller Leland, Beau found the boy staring, transfixed, at the raised platform, with its photos and flowers—and especially the lectern and microphone in front.

  “We’d best get moving,” he whispered to his aunt, “before one of these hooligans makes a break for freedom—or life on the stage.” Though Cort would rather vanish into one of his books than call attention to himself, it would be just like Beau’s younger son to spontaneously decide to try his hand at singing—or perhaps stand-up comedy—at a stranger’s memorial service. Especially considering his recent fascination with one of those TV talent competitions that had featured a couple of performing kids.

  “Honestly, those two.” Aunt Alicia emitted a sigh of exasperation, though one corner of her perfectly lipsticked mouth curved upward. She was leaning more heavily than usual on her violet cane—color-coordinated, as always, with one of her many pantsuits. It was just one more sign that a long day of “herding the wild and woolly,” as she called the childcare duties she wouldn’t hear of allowing Beau to ease by hiring a nanny, was getting to be a bit much for her these days.

  “I’ll take them from here,” he said, feeling guilty about having to rely on her so much lately. “You go on home and put your feet up. Relax for a change.” Since he’d had to meet with his attorney about Wallace’s ridiculous lawsuit earlier, she’d driven the boys here in her vintage Cadillac.

  Her penciled eyebrows shot upward. “And miss out on my ice cream sundae? Perish the thought.”

  The two shared a smile and ushered both boys toward the exit. As Beau held open the door for them, Wallace approached, maneuvering his way past Beau and his sons to the family’s unofficial matriarch. “You’re looking well, Aunt Alicia.”

  Normally, she would she would say something minimally polite in response, ever reluctant to publicly air the clan’s dirty laundry. But this time, when she glared up at Wallace, Beau thought for a moment she might raise her violet cane and crack it down over her nephew’s head.

  Drawing herself up to her full height of five feet, she hissed, “We have nothing to say to each other, Wally.”

  Wallace—who’d long bristled at any mention of the childhood nickname—reddened and let her go, only to glare at Beau with blue eyes burning with resentment. Blue eyes that matched those of Beau’s aunt and his late father—every member of the family except Beau and his sons.

  For a moment, the two men stood face-to-face, Beau looking down at a man who had never seemed smaller. But Beau himself would be smaller still if he were to start something with the grasping, jealous tool now, so instead, he gave a snort of disgust before breezing past—or starting to.

  He stopped short along with his boys, all of their heads turning toward the sound of a sharp cry from outside. Even Aunt Alicia, who didn’t hear as well, turned to stare toward the rear to the building, where an even louder shriek rose. A sound Beau instantly recognized as a woman’s mortal terror.

  “Get them back inside, now!” he told his aunt as his training from his military years came rushing back, and he was instantly off in a crouching run, keeping to the building’s perimeter and heading for the trouble.

  “Right behind you,” Wallace called.

  A glance back confirmed it, just as the all-business look on his cousin’s face assured Beau that he had heard the scream, too. Wallace’s gun was drawn and for one chilling moment, Beau realized how easily, how permanently, their rivalry might be settled in the early evening gloom by an “accidental” discharge.

  But the sounds from behind the brick building—a thud, a clang, a grunt and the words, “Get off!”—left him no room for indecision. For strained as the voice was, it sent a shock of recognition through Beau.

  “Emma! Emma Copley!” he yelled as he closed on the rear corner of the building, caring more about breaking off an attack in progress than he did about surprising the assailant.

  “Sheriff’s department,” Wallace boomed in his deepest cop voice, though he had fallen about a dozen yards behind Beau’s longer strides. “Hands where we can see ’em! Freeze!”

  Beau might have held up for a few steps, allowing his armed cousin to bypass and precede him. But it wasn’t only his mari
ne corps training but the memory of Emma’s struggle for composure and the hint of tears in her green eyes before she’d left the podium inside that had him blasting around the corner, his heart pounding out the message: help her, help her now, before it’s too late.

  He spotted her alone, standing in the deepest shadow, bracing herself between the wall and the dumpster. Blood poured down her forehead and the right side of her face, and the silky white blouse she had been wearing was torn and hanging off one shoulder. Ignoring the impulse to go to her aid, he swept the rear of the building with his gaze and checked behind and inside the receptacle for further threats.

  As Wallace joined them, Emma gestured wildly toward the opposite corner of the building. Teeth chattering, she fought to tell them, “He—he ran off. W-went that—that—”

  Beau moved in to keep her from falling as her knees gave out. “It’s all right,” he told her, hoping it was only from the aftermath of the massive adrenaline rush and not a serious injury, maybe a head wound judging from the gash high on her forehead. “Let’s just get you off your feet.”

  When he tried to pick her up, she abruptly straightened, hobbling away on a single sandal. “I can stand. Don’t touch me!”

  She made it a few steps before pitching sideways, and this time, he did scoop her up, saying, “Let me, please. We’re here to help you,” and lifting her above the oily residue and broken glass littering the concrete.

  He felt the tension in her muscles and her body’s violent shaking, but his words must have registered, because she said, “Okay.”

  Taking it as permission, he carried her toward the grassy edge of the open land behind the center. He paused, however, looking out over the twilit expanse of an overgrown pasture choked with tall scrub trees and drought-scorched grasses. The perfect hiding place for Emma’s attacker if he’d only jumped a string or two of barbed wire, rather than running around the building’s edge where she had indicated.