I tell Tom he has a very nice home, and I appreciate him letting me stay.
“It’s the least I can do,” he says. “I love this little town. If Susan Snyder was murdered, I want you to make it safe again.”
“I will,” I say, but the truth is, some cases are never solved, and right now, this one looks like there’s no light at the end of the tunnel.
Chapter 39
COYOTES OUT IN the hills sing me to sleep, and I get my first decent night’s rest since I caught the guys vandalizing my truck. Shortly after eight o’clock the next morning, Ariana and I are heading out of town to McCormack’s place in the hills. We pull off the pavement and take a gravel road parallel to a riparian corridor full of mesquite trees, yucca plants, and cholla cacti. Jackrabbits and roadrunners take turns zipping across the road in front of us.
After a few miles, the land levels out and we start passing fields of pump jacks, networks of pipelines, and the valve stations—what the roughnecks call Christmas trees—that regulate the oil flow.
My parents own a big cattle ranch, but its size pales in comparison to this spread.
“You haven’t seen half of it yet,” Ariana says.
The road drops into a valley, and we spot an eighty-foot-tall oil derrick standing next to a ribbon of lush vegetation. The metal structure is purely decorative, stamped with the McCormack Oil logo, with creeping vines entwining its metal framework.
The road winds to the ranch entrance, surrounded by hurricane fencing topped with razor wire, the kind of fence you’d see along the perimeter of a prison, not a Texas ranch. The main house is huge, probably ten thousand square feet, and surrounded by big oak trees and smaller Texas mountain laurels. Nearby is a man-made pond, a tennis court, and a guest house bigger than the home my parents live in. Horses and longhorn cattle graze in separate pastures and shelter in separate barns.
We approach a wooden archway stenciled SADDLEBACK MESA. It’s a security gate manned by two guards armed with TEC-9s. We roll to a stop, and they approach the driver-side door.
One of the men has a metal splint secured to his nose with white medical tape. The skin around his eyes is the yellow of bruising that’s begun to heal—the consequence of a broken nose.
“Can I help you?” the other guy says.
I ignore him and stare at the one with the bandaged nose.
“Hello again,” I say.
“Have we met?” he says, his voice nasal.
“You should recognize me,” I say. “I wasn’t the one wearing a mask.”
“Mister,” he says, trying to sound tough, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t call me mister,” I say. “It’s Ranger to you.”
With that, I turn to the other guy, the one closest to me, and tell him that we’re here to see Carson McCormack.
“Do you have an appointment?”
Instead of answering, I nod toward the walkie-talkie on his belt and say, “Just call him and tell him we’re here.”
“And what’s your name?” he asks as he reaches for the radio.
“Don’t act like you don’t know,” I say and face forward to wait.
The man with the walkie-talkie turns and walks away, but we can still hear him.
“The Texas Ranger is here,” he says. “He’s got that other cop with him. You know, the girl.”
A few seconds later, the guy tells us to follow him. As the gate opens, he climbs onto an ATV and zooms off.
Before I pull away, I wave the broken-nosed guard over to my door.
“Just listen to me for a second,” I say. “You don’t have to say anything that will incriminate you. Just listen.”
He takes my advice.
“You need to think about what you’re doing here,” I say. “What happened the other night, if that had gone a different way, one of us could have gotten killed.”
“I did two tours in Iraq, Ranger. I ain’t afraid of you.”
“Then maybe you should be afraid of what you’re doing here—whatever you’re doing.” I sweep my hand toward McCormack’s spread. “Serving our country in Iraq is something you ought to be proud of. But sneaking around, vandalizing cars, taking a swing at a Texas Ranger with a tire iron, I don’t see how you could take much pride in any of that.”
He smirks.
“Be all you can be,” I say and point to my driver-side door, which still has the Go home law dog message on the side. “Is this all you can be?”
His smirk disappears, but he still doesn’t say anything.
“I’m not trying to threaten you,” I say. “I can see you’re not scared of me. I’m saying you could still do the right thing.”
“What was all that about?” Ariana says as I’m driving away. “You really think you can get that guy to flip on McCormack and tell us if he had anything to do with Susan Snyder?”
“Probably not,” I say. “But I figured it was worth a try.”
Chapter 40
THE ATV IS idling on the shoulder. When the guard sees us coming, he roars forward again, leaving us to follow in a cloud of dust.
I take my time—I want to look around.
The road winds over a small hill, and we enter a work area the size of a football field full of metal buildings, valve stations, heavy equipment—a backhoe, bulldozer, dump truck, plow, tow truck—and a fleet of oil tanker trucks. I spot Dale working on one of the tankers with Skip Barnes, both of them standing on the bumper and leaning inside the open hood. I give my horn a soft beep, and when Dale looks up, I wave. Dale waves back, but Skip Barnes looks away, as if the sight of me hurts his eyes.
I decide that I need to apply some pressure to Dale. If I can get any of McCormack’s men to flip, as Ariana said, it’s going to be Dale.
As we drive away from the work area, we hear the crack of a rifle. I get a feeling we’re approaching Gareth McCormack’s shooting range.
And I feel certain that’s him taking target practice.
The ATV stops in a pullout next to a dense copse of trees along the creek. One of McCormack’s trucks is already parked there. We climb out of the truck and follow the guard through a narrow, overgrown path onto McCormack’s gun range. It’s a country club for gun enthusiasts, nothing like the flat stretch of land with an earthen backstop my dad built on our property. Here, a long concrete pad marks the firing point, covered by a shade roof. Tables beside each shooting station serve as rifle rests.
All of the shooting bays are empty except for one on the far right, where Gareth is seated, looking through a riflescope, and Carson McCormack, seated also, is looking through binoculars.
The silhouette target is so far away I can’t see it.
Both men wear ear protection, and the ATV driver calls out to them to let them know we’re here.
Carson McCormack pulls the protective earmuffs off his silver head and rises out of his seat, a big smile on his face. In his sixties, he looks a lot like his son; if not as muscular, still in good shape.
He’s dressed informally, jeans and a T-shirt, but for his bright silver python-skin cowboy boots and politician’s smile.
“Here he is,” McCormack says. “Ranger Rory Yates. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
He shakes my hand vigorously.
“I’ve been hearing so much about you,” he says. “And Gareth showed me the video of you in the bank. Very impressive. Texas is lucky to have you as a Ranger.”
He seems completely full of shit, but I act polite and appreciative of his praise.
He turns to Ariana and says, “Ms. Delgado.”
“You can call me Detective Delgado,” she says.
“Of course,” he says dismissively.
Gareth, now standing, approaches and gives my hand a shake like we’re old buddies. Like before, he has chew in his lip and a pistol on his hip.
“Sorry about giving you a hard time at the bar the other night,” he says, almost sincerely. “I get competitive when I know there’s a badass around.”
I tell him it’s no problem, but then I see Carson McCormack has a strange twinkle in his eye.
“Speaking of competitive,” he says. “When we heard you were coming to see us, we had an idea.”
“Who told you we were coming?” Ariana asks.
“Oh, the chief might have mentioned it.”
“What did you have in mind?” I say, trying to hide how pissed I am that John Grady Harris tipped off McCormack.
McCormack smiles devilishly.
“How about a little shooting contest?”
Chapter 41
I TELL McCORMACK there’s no way I’m going to compete in a shooting contest with his son.
“That’s too bad,” he says. “There’s no way we’re going to talk to you without a lawyer present. Unfortunately, my lawyer is in Houston, so it might take a week or so to get him out here.”
The message is clear. If I play along, they’ll answer our questions today. If I don’t, they’ll use all their legal power—and McCormack probably has a lot of it—to stonewall us for as long as they can.
“Don’t do it, Rory,” Ariana says. “This is stupid.”
I know I’m playing right into their hands, but I want answers today, not next week.
“Sure,” I say. “What the heck?”
I can feel Ariana’s disapproval in her stare. Carson tells the ATV driver that he’s excused, and a minute later, we hear his ATV fire up and whine away.
The father and son lead Ariana and me over to the shooting tables. McCormack opens a cooler and offers me a bottle of TexaCola, which I decline. There are a few empties standing on the table with the cooler and an ammunition box. A bumblebee buzzes around the mouths of the bottles.
Gareth takes a bottle, drinks, and says, “Let me show you my baby.”
On the table sits an M24 rifle, the military version of the Remington 700. It has a telescopic sight and is mounted on a bipod to keep the barrel steady. The stock is covered by a sleeve with narrow sheathings to hold the cartridges.
Gareth slides back the bolt and opens the breech. He takes out one of the cartridges, which is almost three inches long, and slides it into the chamber.
“You ever shot an M24?” he says.
“No.”
“Well,” he says, sounding disappointed, “this won’t be much of a competition, then.”
Carson hands me the binoculars so I can see what we’re shooting at. Way out in the range, they’ve set up a folding table with a line of milk jugs. A couple have already exploded from Gareth’s earlier practice, but two remain untouched.
“That’s a thousand yards,” Carson says.
Ten football fields.
A bullet travels faster than the speed of sound but not faster than the speed of light. That means, at this distance, if you were on the other end of the range, you’d see the muzzle flash first. Then at least a second later, maybe a fraction more, you’d feel the bullet hit you. Only a full second after that would you actually hear the gun go off.
That’s how far away the milk jugs are.
Gareth goes first. He sits in his chair, pulls the rifle against his shoulder, and snugs his eye close to the sight. His body goes as still as a statue.
When the rifle goes off, the report is muffled by the ear protection we’re all wearing. In a moment like this—waiting for a bullet to fly one thousand yards—you understand just how long one second can be.
Then one of the jugs explodes, sending white liquid splattering all over the table. Dust bursts from the berm behind the target.
Carson applauds.
“Nice shot,” I say.
That’s an understatement. I’ve seen videos of men doing milk jug challenges. Someone who’s a good shot, a great shot, might need ten tries to hit a milk jug at this range, and that’s with spotters advising him where each shot goes—high, low, left, right—and how to make adjustments.
Even though Gareth was practicing this morning, the fact that he hit a bull’s-eye the first time he squeezed the trigger is nothing short of incredible.
“Your turn,” Gareth says, ejecting a round and reloading.
I sit down and bring the rifle to my shoulder. I’m being set up to fail. We all know it. The rifle hasn’t been sighted for me. If they gave me ten shots, instead of just one, I might have a chance. Even then, someone who is a practiced sniper would probably need more than that to adjust the gun to his own eyes and body—and then he might need ten more to actually hit the target. I’ve never taken a shot at longer than half this distance.
Still, I’m going to give it my best shot—literally.
The cheek rest and length of the stock are adjustable, and I ask Gareth if I can move them. I take my time, making adjustments so the rifle feels right in my arms. They wanted the theater of a shooting competition, so I’m giving it to them.
When I’m finally ready, I settle in and try to slow my breathing and my heart rate. The scope magnifies the sight by ten, but the jug still looks tiny. The crosshairs float all over and around the target. At a thousand yards, the slightest movement on my end could throw the bullet five feet off course.
I’m able to still my body and line up the crosshairs. I steady my breathing so it won’t move the sight. I’m locked on the target.
I squeeze the trigger.
Chapter 42
THE RIFLE KICKS against my shoulder. As the bullet soars through the air, I have time to reorient myself in the scope to see where it hits. A puff of dust bursts from the dirt mound about a foot high and to the left of the target.
“Not bad,” Gareth says. “Not bad at all.”
He shakes my hand. Now that he’s proven he’s better than me, he doesn’t seem to feel the need to be such a jerk. It’s as if he genuinely respects me for my attempt.
“In all fairness,” Carson McCormack says diplomatically, “a sniper rifle isn’t really your specialty, is it, Ranger?”
He points to Gareth and me with both hands, aiming his fingers specifically at the pistols on our hips.
“How about one more contest?”
Ariana gives me a look that says, Don’t do it, but Carson starts in again about how he won’t talk without his lawyer. I tell them I’ll do it, and Carson clasps his hands together with enthusiasm.
At this point I’m not participating to get Carson and Gareth to talk. I have a feeling what they tell us won’t be all that useful anyway.
But I’m anxious to shoot my gun after having it knocked out of my hand the other night. I’ve taken it apart, cleaned it, and reassembled it. But I won’t really feel that it’s undamaged until I get a chance to fire it again. And if I’m honest with myself, there’s another reason I’m participating.
I’m curious to see how good Gareth McCormack is with a pistol.
Gareth and I move the long folding table that held the cooler and the bottles about twenty feet out into the range. Carson puts two empty bottles on the table, about five feet apart. The bumblebee that had been circling the bottles earlier reorients, then finds its way to the bottles and begins buzzing again.
Gareth and I stand facing the table, with Ariana and Carson behind us, off to the side so they can see the bottles. Carson says he’ll drop an empty shell casing on the concrete flooring. When we hear it ding against the concrete, that’s our signal to draw.
I ready myself, my hand at my side, inches from my SIG Sauer. Carson was right. Shooting a sniper rifle isn’t my specialty.
But this is my specialty.
I was raised by my dad to think of a gun as an extension of my hand. I should be able to hit any target as easily as reaching out and knocking it down with my fist, he told me. And on top of that, I went on to train in law enforcement, even studied under quick-draw experts and became just as fast as them. My brother Jake says I am with a pistol what LeBron James is with a basketball. Or Serena Williams with a tennis racket.
Or Michelangelo with a hammer and chisel.
It’s hard to describe how I feel as I get read
y to draw against Gareth. There’s a song by Charlie Daniels called “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” in which Satan challenges a young fiddle player named Johnny to a competition. After Johnny has won, he calls the devil a son of a bitch and declares, “I’m the best there’s ever been.”
That’s how I feel.
That confident.
“Ready?” Carson asks.
Neither of us says anything—which tells him his answer. Everyone is silent. Time stands still for a moment. Then I hear the ding of the shell casing as it hits the concrete.
My hand flies to my pistol.
Draws.
Fires.
Gareth’s gun goes off, the shots so close together that it’s impossible to tell who fired first.
Gareth’s bottle detonates in an explosion of glass.
My bottle stands upright, not even wobbling.
Chapter 43
“HOT DAMN,” GARETH says, thrusting his fist in the air like a pitcher who just struck out a batter in the ninth inning of the World Series.
“Good shot,” I say, trying to be as genuine in my sportsmanship as I can.
I glance at Ariana. She replaces the disappointment on her face with a mask of indifference, pretending that she doesn’t care who won and doesn’t support this whole charade anyway.
Carson and Gareth are in good spirits after the contest, and they seem friendly and forthcoming as we sit in the shade and talk. Carson admits that he convinced the town council to buy the land and designate it as open space simply because he didn’t want to buy it himself.
“I didn’t need to drill on it,” he says. “But I didn’t want any competitors to drill on it, either.”
There is an old access road that runs from his property to the highway, bisecting the open space, and he admits that his drivers had been using it for a few months when someone—he doesn’t know who—spotted them and complained to the town.
“So I put in a request to use the road, make it official. Hardly anyone goes out there.”
Texas Outlaw Page 10
