A decorative list of life lessons—ALWAYS TELL THE TRUTH, SAY YOUR PRAYERS, HAVE COURAGE, HELP OTHERS—hangs above the kitchen table, where Jessica serves prize-worthy pecan pie and sweet tea.
As we talk, I get to know Tom and Jessica a little. They’re good people. Jessica grew up in Rio Lobo and met Tom when she was studying for a pharmacy doctorate at the University of Houston. He was a rising crime reporter for the Chronicle, but after they got married, they decided to raise their kids in her small hometown.
“I’m sure Houston is no different from other big cities, but I saw the evil that people are capable of. I didn’t want my kids growing up there.”
“When we moved to Rio Lobo, he was a weekend stringer,” Jessica says. “Now he’s running the paper.”
“I am the paper,” Tom says. “I’ve been running the Rio Lobo Record—from selling ads to writing stories and headlines—for twenty years. I know this community better than anyone.”
“What about you, Jessica?” I ask. “Do you work at the pharmacy on Main Street?”
“We own it,” she says. “I started as a pharmacist, but Tom and I bought it when the previous owner decided to retire to South Padre Island.”
I ask her if Susan Snyder filled her EpiPen prescription at the pharmacy. She says yes, looking sad, as if she somehow failed Susan because the medicine she provided didn’t work.
“In about twenty or thirty percent of cases,” she says, “a second dose from an auto-injector is required. The second dose is almost always administered at a hospital. You’re supposed to call 911 as soon as you’ve injected the epinephrine. Susan knew that.”
Ariana and I trade a look about a detail we won’t share, that Susan Snyder’s phone was on the other side of the house. If nearly a third of people who use EpiPens need a second injection, and Susan Snyder simply couldn’t make it to her phone, then it’s quite plausible her death was accidental. Either that or someone with knowledge of the severity of her allergy tainted her food with peanut oil.
To Susan Snyder, an ordinary recipe could be as dangerous as any deadly poison.
Chapter 31
TOM AND JESSICA walk us out to my truck.
“Oh, wow,” Tom says when he sees the graffiti on my pickup. “We’ve been having problems with kids vandalizing town property. Looks like you’re the latest victim.”
I play it off like it was probably just kids.
“Are you staying at the motel?” Jessica asks. “You should stay with us. We’ve got a studio apartment over the garage. It used to be the kids’ playroom, but they’re both off at college now.”
I thank them for the offer and tell them I’ll think about it.
“We’ve got an alarm,” Tom says. “And there’s a video camera on the front porch. No one could vandalize your truck without being caught red-handed.”
“You’ve got that kind of security?” I say, surprised. You always hear about small-town folk not bothering to lock their doors, let alone having an alarm system.
“Most Texans’ idea of home security is to sleep with a .45 under their pillow,” Jessica says. “But I loathe guns.”
“And I used to work the crime beat,” Tom says. “I know the world’s not as safe a place as most people think it is.”
As a member of law enforcement, I can’t argue with that.
When we arrive outside the police station, I say to Ariana, “Did you say the medical examiner kept some blood samples?”
“You want him to do more tests?” she says.
“Not him,” I say, pulling out my phone and scrolling through my contacts list.
“What’s up, amigo?” says Freddy Hernandez, a high school friend who is now the medical examiner for the county that includes my hometown. “Rumor has it you’ve been banished to the middle of nowhere.”
I glance at Ariana and tell him that Rio Lobo is a lovely place to take a needed break from home.
“That’s good because all anyone in Redbud is talking about is Willow’s song. The local station plays it at least once an hour and mentions you by name every single time.”
“Just what I want to hear.”
I see the chief walk out of the station and toward the town offices, where Kirk Schuetz, the rancher on the council, is waiting for him outside the door. They glance our way when the chief reaches the door, and their body language suggests they’re making some kind of joke.
Freddy says, “I also hear that some of the Rangers keep teasing your lieutenant about what happened at the bank.”
Freddy not only is a brilliant medical examiner but also knows every detail—official and unofficial—of law enforcement in a two-hundred-mile radius of his office.
“I heard someone set up a cot in his office with a sign that said NAP ZONE.”
“If they keep that up,” I say, “I’ll never get to come home. I might as well buy a house here.”
I get to the reason I called. I ask if I can send him an autopsy report and have him take a look.
“The body’s been cremated, but we have blood samples,” I say. “Can I send them to you?”
“You think something fishy is going on with the medical examiner out there?” he asks.
“Not necessarily,” I say. “I just think he was quick to stamp NATURAL CAUSES on this thing, and I want a discerning eye to take a second look. I trust you.”
I tell him about Susan Snyder’s death.
“It’s hard to find poison in the blood,” he says, “unless you have an idea of what to test for.”
“What I want you to do is look for the absence of something,” I say.
I tell Freddy that Susan Snyder used an EpiPen, but it hadn’t saved her life. “Is it possible the EpiPen was tampered with?” I say. “Can you test the blood for epinephrine?”
Ariana gives me a look. She mouths the word Jessica?
“Theoretically the injection of adrenaline should raise the levels of certain compounds in the blood,” Freddy says. “There’s no way the lab would check for that unless you asked for it specifically.”
I tell him I’ll have the samples sent to him.
When I hang up, I ask Ariana how well she knows Tom and Jessica Aaron.
“I’ve known Jessica since I was a teenager going in and picking up prescriptions for my parents,” she says. “But I can’t say I know either of them well.”
“In a town this small,” I say, “everyone’s on the suspects list until we’re able to cross them off.”
As Ariana and I head into the station, my phone buzzes. I don’t recognize the number, but the area code is local.
“Hey, buddy,” Dale Peters says enthusiastically. “Want to jam again?”
I think about it. I started my day at two a.m. with a fistfight, and I’m already dragging. But I had fun last time, so it might be a nice way to unwind.
“Okay,” I tell him. “You guys want to come back to the motel?”
“I was thinking we should jam over at Lobo Lizard.”
“The bar?” I say.
“Yeah, I got us a gig. We’ll be playing to a live audience.”
Chapter 32
WHEN I SHOW up to the bar at six o’clock, Dale and Walt are setting up. I have only my guitar, but they have loads of other equipment: Walt’s various instruments, Dale’s guitar and bass, electrical cords and amps.
Dale shakes my hand and says, “I was afraid you might stand us up.”
“I thought about it,” I say. “It’s been a long time since I played in front of an audience.”
Lobo Lizard is about half the size of Pale Horse, the Redbud bar where Willow used to play, but there is a decent crowd filling the tables and barstools, though the small dance floor close to the stage is empty.
A waitress brings me a Sol that I didn’t order.
“The gig doesn’t pay,” Dale says, “but the beer is on the house.”
Dale and Walt have their setup routine worked out, so I pull out my guitar and act like I’m tuning it.
If
this isn’t a hostile audience, I don’t know what is.
The door opens and Ariana walks in. She gives me a bright, friendly smile. Her hair is down, and she’s wearing a little bit of makeup. She’s also wearing a black skirt—the first time I’ve seen her in one—and a Def Leppard T-shirt.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, feeling even more nervous now. I have to work with her tomorrow whether I make a fool of myself or not.
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this,” she says.
I nod to her shirt. “I take it you’re not much of a country music fan.”
She smirks. “I prefer rock and roll.”
Dale comes over, struggling to maintain his gregarious personality in the presence of Ariana. When she walks away to get a beer, Dale says, “How do I get her to marry me?”
I clap him on the back and laugh. “You could start by talking to her.”
We begin our sound check, and my nerves are a mess. I tell myself I’ve been involved in high-speed chases, I’ve faced men armed with shotguns and assault rifles, and my Stetson has been shot right off my head—I should not be scared to play some music in a little bar in the middle of nowhere.
But I am. I can’t deny it.
I try to picture Willow, going from playing bars to performing in huge venues. As the opening act for Dierks Bentley, she’d step out onstage to face an indifferent crowd eager to see the headliner, not someone with one single on the radio. She’d have to win over the audience with her energy and her talent. If she has the courage to step onto a stage like that, I need to match it.
“Ready?” Dale asks.
“As I’ll ever be.”
Our rendition of “I Walk the Line” earns polite applause, but no one gets up and starts dancing. When I glance at Ariana, sitting alone at the bar, she raises her beer to me and nods.
Not bad, she seems to say.
I feel better, looser, and we keep going.
A successful cover band plays songs the audience can’t resist. Songs they’ll dance to. Songs they’ll sing along to. Songs they already know by heart. Next we surprise them with “Take Me Home, Country Roads” by John Denver. I change the lyrics, switching in “West Texas” for “West Virginia,” “Guadalupe Mountains” for “Blue Ridge Mountains,” and replacing “Shenandoah River” with “Rio Lobo.” The crowd loves it, and by the time we sing the second chorus, pretty much everyone in the bar is singing along with us.
Then we hit them with Garth Brooks’s “Friends in Low Places.” The crowd sings practically the whole song with us, and the dance floor fills up.
I find myself smiling, having a great time.
I see people on the phone, telling their friends to come catch the show, and soon the place is packed, standing room only. When we’re playing the last song in our first set, I notice a group of guys walk into the bar. They’re all muscular and tough looking. All wearing pistols on their hips. This isn’t all that unusual. Open carry is legal in almost every state, but Texans seem to take advantage of it a lot more than most.
Chief Harris is with the group. He stands close to a guy who is even more muscular than he is. The guy has long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, a thick beard, tattoos covering both his arms. He’s wearing sunglasses that he doesn’t take off, and he crosses his arms and stares at me, as if appraising me.
One glance and I know who he is.
Gareth McCormack.
The alpha dog.
Chapter 33
WE TELL THE audience we’ll be back after a short break. As we’re setting down our instruments, Dale throws an arm around my shoulders and says, “Hot damn. That went better than I expected.”
“Is that your boss’s son?” I ask, nodding toward Gareth McCormack and his men, who have moved to the pool table, displacing players who had been in the midst of a game.
“Yeah, that’s Gareth,” Dale says. “He thinks his shit don’t stink, but he ain’t a bad guy to work with.”
“Are all those guys your coworkers?”
“The chief ain’t—obviously. But the rest of ’em is.”
“No offense, Dale,” I say, “but you don’t quite look like you fit in.”
While Dale doesn’t look completely out of shape, he has a beer gut, and his biceps probably haven’t felt the weight of a dumbbell in a long time. In contrast, the men in Gareth’s entourage look like out-of-uniform soldiers.
Dale explains that when Gareth was discharged from the military, he and his old man slowly began hiring his army buddies. People like Dale and Skip Barnes are the old guard, the longtime roughnecks who’ve been working the fields for a decade or more.
“It’s not like they’re running us out,” Dale says, “but whenever someone leaves town, like our singer, they replace him with somebody who looks like an extra from a Mission: Impossible movie.”
I scan the faces of the men, looking for anyone with a broken nose, but none of them look like they’ve been punched recently.
“Do they know anything about working in the oil business?”
“Eh.” Dale shrugs dismissively. “I’m going to get a beer. Want one?”
I tell him I’ll pass. I notice Ariana on her way over with a second beer in her hand.
“I’m impressed,” she says, handing me one of the two bottles. “If the Texas Rangers ever fire you, you’ve got a good backup career.”
“Very funny,” I say.
“Seriously,” she says. “You were good up there.”
I thank her and then, speaking low, ask her if she noticed who walked in.
“I saw,” she says, glancing over toward the table. “You figured out who that was, I take it.”
“I think I’ll go introduce myself,” I say.
She takes my arm. “I don’t think now’s the time, Rory. He’s over there with all his army buddies, carrying sidearms like they’re cowboys in a goddamn John Wayne movie. Wait till you’ve got your badge on. It will give you the upper hand.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
I push through the crowd, nearly everyone I’ve met in town, and I get several compliments about my playing. Alex Hartley, the football coach we interviewed, gives me a nod. I don’t see Tom and Jessica Aaron or Skip Barnes, but I spot two of the town council members and Norma, the woman who runs the motel where I’m staying.
Gareth McCormack is bent over the pool table, sliding the cue back and forth over his hand. The balls are racked, and when he breaks, the sound is like a rifle shot. The balls slam around the table, two sinking into pockets.
“Gareth,” the chief says, “let me introduce you to Rory Yates.”
Gareth comes around the table and inflicts a bone-breaking handshake.
“I seen that video of you in the bank,” Gareth says, a wad of tobacco in his cheek. “That was badass.”
Badass is not a word I would ever use to describe people dying—but I let it go. My handgun is locked away in my truck right now, but he has a gun on his hip, a SIG Sauer like mine.
“Thank you for serving our country,” I say.
“And thank you for your service to Texas.”
I try to be sincere in my gratitude, but I don’t like his implication that serving Texas isn’t as big a responsibility as serving the country.
“We’re both Rangers,” he says. “Texas Rangers and Army Rangers. No offense, but I’d take my Rangers over yours any day.”
Gareth McCormack is my height, but he has at least thirty pounds on me—all muscle. He’s taken his sunglasses off, locking his gray eyes on mine. He doesn’t look away. His intimidation tactic, I hate to admit, is working on me.
“John Grady says you’re looking into the death of Susan Snyder,” he says. “You really think she was murdered?”
“Sorry,” I say, “I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation.”
I give the chief a look that says, And neither should you.
“Did you know Susan?” I ask Gareth.
He laughs and looks
away from me for the first time.
“I’d met her,” he says, “but I didn’t know her well. She’s one of the few pieces of ass in these parts that I haven’t tapped.”
He turns his gray eyes back on me, gauging whether his crude comment has shocked me.
I’m struck speechless.
“Come to think of it,” he adds, nodding across the bar, “I never fucked your partner, either. She’s a sexy little thing. Have you hit that yet?”
The chief stands idly by, and I ask myself, Will I let Gareth get away with this?
“Where I come from,” I say, “we don’t talk about women like that.”
Gareth’s eyes harden. All of his friends are grinning as they watch their alpha dog show the new pup who’s the boss.
“Is that right?” Gareth says, standing up straighter and stepping forward, so we’re chest to chest, eye to eye. “How do you talk about women?”
“Same way we talk to women,” I say. “With respect.”
Chapter 34
GARETH MAKES A pfft sound with his lips. He looks over at the chief and laughs.
“If you’re so respectful of women,” he says to me, “how come your girlfriend doesn’t want to date a Texas Ranger?” He spits a stream of tobacco juice on the bar floor. “Maybe she’d like to date an Army Ranger.”
I’m burning inside, ready to erupt like a volcano, but I give him another hard stare, then I reach up and tip my hat to the chief and then to Gareth. “You gentlemen have a good night,” I say.
“Nice to meet you, Rory,” Gareth says sarcastically. “Give Ariana my best.”
I turn back. “By the way,” I say, “when does your daddy get back into town, Gareth? I might have some questions for the two of you.”
He clearly doesn’t like the sound of that but keeps up his tough-guy act.
Texas Outlaw Page 8
