Big Bob's voice boomed in Teague's ear. "Hey, boss, thought you would want to know Oberlin left for lunch early."
"Oberlin left for lunch early." Which was interesting, but Teague wanted to hear from Kate.
"Kate looks like someone he knew." Marilyn didn't take her gaze off Teague. "Someone he . . . well, we think he killed this other woman."
"Killed . . . if he kills . . ." A sob escaped the brunette. "The last time I saw her, she was just a baby and now—"
The other woman wrapped her arms around her and rocked. "It's okay, Hope. We can't give up now."
"Has he killed someone you know?" Marilyn looked from one to the other.
"Not yet." The driver spoke in a crisp Boston accent. "Not if we have anything to say about it. And we do."
The second new message: Kate's voice spoke in Teague's ear. Teague gave Marilyn a thumbs-up. He relaxed a little, until he heard, "Teague, it's Ka—"—her voice cut out, then in—". . . in Hobart."
Teague shuddered. "Hobart?" he said out loud.
Both women started. Together they exclaimed, "Hobart!"
The guy in the front whipped his head around. "What about Hobart?"
Teague emphatically waved them to silence.
"I'm doing my . . . fine . . . be back in Austin tonight. I know what you . . . Brad."
That son of a bitch, Brad. He must have squealed on Teague.
"Don't ever try to . . . I swear to . . . leave . . . never look back."
Teague didn't care about the ladies' delicate sensibility. "Goddamn it to hell!"
"Hobart? What about Hobart?" Dan demanded.
"Sh!" Teague glared.
The third new message . . . Kate's voice again: "Call me . . . right . . . me . . . okay . . worried about you."
"Well . . . good. That's good. That's really good." Teague slid over to rest his back against a bench. Except why was she worried about him? Teague made a circling motion with his hand, trying to get the voice mail system to hurry up.
Then the fourth new message: "I found . . . family. I . . . my family. Come . . . Teague . . . think he killed . . . all."
Teague's heart leaped into his throat. Kate had done her damned investigation and come up with trouble. He hung up. In curt tones he said, "I have to get to Hobart. Now."
Dan gripped his shoulder. "Why Hobart?"
"Where's Hobart?" Marilyn asked.
"Northwest of San Antonio," Teague said. "Three hours away.
Everyone in the van shouted at him: "Why Hobart?"
What was wrong with these people? He was the one with the problem. "Kate's in Hobart. She says she found her family. She says he killed them all."
Marilyn took a horrified breath.
"Kate?" The brunette, Hope, stared at him. "Are you saying Kate is my sister Caitlin?"
Teague marveled at how quickly every difficulty could be surmounted when money was no object.
The helicopter ride from Austin to Hobart took a half hour. The exchange of information between Teague and Marilyn and Hope, Zack, Pepper, Dan, and Gabriel, died with the noise of the rotor blades, but as they landed Dan handed out weapons. Hope and Pepper each took one, as did Gabriel.
Of course. They would be Oberlin's main targets.
Zack waved Dan's offer of a Beretta 9mm toward Teague, and Teague grimly accepted.
When he saw Kate, he planned to tell her that this kind of incident was exactly the reason why he hadn't wanted her to go to Hobart. Ruthlessly and without ceasing he would say, "I told you so." As the helicopter powered down and the coil of tension in his gut grew tighter, he planned some pithy replies to her defiance.
She had damned well better stay alive to listen to them.
Again he tried to call her. The call went straight to her voice mail; either her phone was off or she was out of the service area.
A luxury van met them. Zack drove, Dan rode shotgun . . . the plan was for the Prescott children to stay behind the tinted windows until they knew they were safe. Gabriel and Teague rode in the second row of seats. Hope, Pepper, and Marilyn rode in the back, and when Teague glanced behind him, he saw Marilyn wiping away tears while Hope and Pepper hugged her.
Kate had really nice sisters. She needed to meet them.
Again, he called her. This time it rang, then the signal cut out.
Wrapped in edgy silence, they drove into Hobart. Tension rose with each turn of the wheels.
Hope and Pepper looked around, but they didn't exclaim as people often did when returning to their hometown. Their pensive silence made Teague think that, for them, everything was familiar—and painful.
Zack turned onto Main Street and slowed. Dozens of people stood in the road, arms folded across their chests, talking, craning their necks to see through the crowd. More were running up. Teague could see flashing lights in front of the RoeAnn Diner. A police car and an ambulance. Behind them, they could hear the wail of sirens.
The blood pounded in Teague's brain.
Dan rolled down the window and hailed an onlooker, an upright older man with a white fringe of hair and a well-worn cowboy hat. "Excuse me! What's going on?"
"A woman was shot!"
Before the van came to a complete halt, Teague leaped out and pushed his way through the crowd. He heard murmurs as he went:
"Never happens here."
"What's the world coming to?"
And, in tones of disbelief, "Senator Oberlin? Are you sure it was Senator Oberlin?"
Teague got to the police line—a sparce line consisting of two officers in blue uniforms, shouting, "Stay back. Give her some air!"
"She's not dead." Dan stood at Teague's side.
But the ambulance crew was frantically working on the prone form on the sidewalk. Teague saw blood spatters on the concrete. He tried to lunge past the policeman, but the officer caught his arm.
In a flurry, Teague pulled out his Texas Capitol security identification. He flashed it. "Let me through."
At Teague's tone and the sight of the badge, the officer gave way.
"This is Teague Ramos, in charge of security at the Texas Capitol," Dan said. "We heard one of our senators did this."
"That's what they say." Worry lines marked the officer's broad forehead.
Vaguely, Teague heard Dan ask, "Do you know who the victim is?"
But Teague had already caught a glimpse of the still body.
It wasn't Kate. Through the immediate relief and the ongoing worry, he barely heard the policeman's answer.
"Her name's Melissa Cunningham. It seems Senator Oberlin drove into town. She had words with him. He shot her in the belly." Hastily, the officer added, "Or so some witnesses say."
Teague turned on him. "Where's Oberlin now? You have to send people after him." Teague supposed he had that look in his eyes, the one that had scared Kate, the one that had sent grown men fleeing, and he was glad. He wanted that information.
The officer stammered, "We haven't sent . . . we don't have the resources . . . Melissa's life is our first priority. . . ."
"More important than a crazy senator with a pistol?" Teague shouted.
"Young man! Don't shout at the officer. It isn't polite."
Teague wanted to shout at the stooped old woman with the walker, too. "I need to know where Oberlin went."
"He went to the cemetery. Take the old highway; it's five miles out of town." The black woman spoke precisely, and her brown eyes looked sharp and alive. "He's after the young lady who looks like Lana, and if someone doesn't do something, he's going to kill her, too."
"Mrs. Parker, that's speculation, and I'd appreciate it if you'd stop!" the officer said.
"John Jeremy Wringle, I taught you to show respect for your elders. I'd suggest you do so," Mrs. Parker replied.
Gently Teague took her arm. "How long ago?"
"Thirty minutes." She turned to the woman next to her, probably her daughter. "I taught George Oberlin in second grade, and I knew something was wrong with him then."
&nbs
p; Teague strode toward the van. Dan walked with him. The crowd parted before them, taking no chances with these tough, stern warriors.
Teague fixed his gaze on the flashing lights now parked behind their van at the outer limits of the crowd. "I'm taking the police car. I need a diversion."
"We can give you that." Dan smiled a very unpleasant smile.
The officer stood in the open door of his car. The motor was running. He spoke into the walkie-talkie on his shoulder. He looked hassled by the questions shouted at him by the still-gathering mob—and he made no attempt to go after the guilty party.
So this was Hobart. This was Oberlin's town, and the police didn't know whether to go after him and risk their jobs, or risk another public shooting.
Teague moved into place off to the side and behind the officer.
Dan spoke to Zack in the van.
The doors opened. Hope, Pepper, and Gabriel stepped out.
"Excuse me," Hope said in a clear voice.
Heads turned.
Teague saw second glances and stunned double-takes. He moved closer to the police car.
She continued, "I understand George Oberlin committed this crime. This is not the first time he's done violence. Do you all remember the Prescott family? Do you remember what happened to us?"
"Hope!" A woman cried out. "I remember you. I remember . . . Pepper and . . . Gabriel?"
"They said Caitlin was back, but I didn't believe it." A middle-aged cowboy shook his head in wonder. "That I should live to see this day!"
Teague was in position.
"Believe." Hope turned to the officer. "I remember you, Bill Browning. You helped take my family away."
Browning gobbled like a turkey.
"Are you going to let George Oberlin kill my sister, too?" Pepper asked fiercely. Browning started to slam the police car door and make for Hope. Teague caught the door before it closed and slipped inside.
The officer turned.
Teague rammed the shift into reverse. He put his foot all the way to the floor. With a squeal of tires, he backed up the street. He saw Officer Browning reach for his gun. He saw Dan tackle him.
Then Teague flipped on the siren, turned the car around, and sped toward the cemetery.
Toward Kate. Toward the woman he loved.
TWENTY-THREE
The peace of Hobart's cemetery should have been soothing.
The cool breeze touched Kate's face. Birds chirped in the ancient, bent branches of the live oak trees. The grass had been cut but not trimmed, and long tufts clung to the corners of the headstones.
Yet she stared in turmoil at the simple iron markers:
Bennett Prescott.
Lana Prescott.
Her parents.
Her birth parents.
She had been lucky. All the time she was growing up, she'd had a father and mother who loved her, who supported her. But the knowledge had haunted her; she'd been left on a church step. Daddy and Mom had put a good spin on it; Kate's birth mother hadn't been able to keep her, so she'd placed Kate someplace where she'd known she'd be safe. As Kate grew, she realized that adoption was the right way to get rid of an inconvenient child. It seemed likely her mother was a desperate teenager—or an unlucky prostitute.
But Melissa Cunningham had told her that her mother hadn't tossed her onto a church step and walked away. Her parents had been married, a minister and his wife. They'd been killed in a car wreck. They'd been accused of embezzlement, but no one had investigated the facts. The police in Hobart had taken the word of the church treasurer who just happened to be . . . George Oberlin.
Now Kate's parents were buried in the part of the cemetery close to the parking lot, where the poor people lay. In the next row beneath the trees, heavy, raised headstones were decorated with angel statues and engraved poems. But for her parents, the stones were simple and said only:
Bennett Prescott.
Lana Prescott.
Nothing more.
Yet someone had placed flowers on their graves. Bits of the blossoms remained there, their golds and reds faded by the sun.
Melissa had made it clear that she doubted the Prescotts' wrongdoing, and that her mother had blamed herself for the family's disintegration and had blamed George Oberlin for their deaths.
Mrs. Parker had made it clear that Lana Prescott had been a beloved friend of hers.
Lana had been Kate's mother.
Bennett had been her father.
Somewhere out there, Kate had a family: two sisters and a foster brother, lost because somebody had made sure they were separated. And that somebody was . . . George Oberlin.
The reporter in her realized that this was a huge story, one that could establish her national career. The human being in her wailed like a baby to know that one corrupt man had ruined so many lives.
Her damned cell phone didn't work.
Melissa had taken the phone numbers Kate gave her—for Teague, for Kate's mom, for the FBI, for KTTV. Melissa had promised to go home and call each one, one after the other, to get them out here. Kate was done thinking she could handle this matter on her own. By God, she was calling in the cavalry.
Turning away from the graves, she watched a black Lincoln Town Car drive up the road and turn into the lot. It parked beside her car, the only other car at the cemetery.
George Oberlin stepped out.
Of course.
How could Kate have been so foolish as to think she could slip into Hobart undetected? Like a giant squid, he had tentacles that reached everywhere.
He started toward her. At the sight of his upright figure, his blond hair, his stately stride, her heartbeat lurched in revulsion. This jerk had killed her parents. Because of some sick obsession, he had killed her mother and her father and had taken Kate and given her away as if she were garbage.
George Oberlin was a murderer. A serial killer. A ruthless man with no morals.
Hatred burned hot in her. Was she afraid? Yes, of course. But she wanted, needed to know why and how he had obliterated her family.
Facing him as he neared, she stood at her parents' graves. He had to realize she knew the truth about herself, yet still he postured—chin up, an earnest smile on his lips—still tried to make himself look good in her eyes. Stopping before her, he allowed his gaze to drift over the grave markers. "What did that woman tell you?"
"Do you mean Melissa Cunningham?" Kate challenged him with her hostility. "She told me you killed my parents."
"Speculation. Unfounded speculation," he promptly said.
"Which you didn't deny." She slipped into her role as a reporter. "Don't you think if someone is accused of a murder that he didn't do, he would be shocked and immediately renounce the charges?"
"My dear," he said, sounding every inch a man wounded by vicious slander and her mistrust. "I thought that of course you would realize such a tale was preposterous."
"I am not your—" She took a breath. She shouldn't be out here with him. But she wanted the truth, and if she was going to obtain it, she needed to be cool. Interested. "But you killed your wife. You killed Mrs. Blackthorn. So it's safe to assume you killed my parents."
"I did what had to be done. What people forced me to do. I came up from poverty. Poverty!" Oberlin slipped into his senatorial mode. He straightened his shoulders. His voice took on the smooth tones of an orator. "My father was a truck driver. He swore. He drank. He spit. He stank. And my mother—she was so good, so sweet. He made her afraid. Every day, she was afraid he would hit her again. Or hit me again."
"Your father sounds like a monster." Inevitably, she compared Oberlin's youth to Teague's. What turned one man into a monster and the other into a guardian? "But I don't understand. What is it that gave you the excuse to kill my parents? That you had a bad father or a good mother?"
The facade of the senator slipped. A dark, dull red crept from Oberlin's collar up to cover his neck, his face, his ears. "If you will just listen"—he took a breath, the color inched down—"I can exp
lain it all."
"Please do." She gestured at the gravemarkers.
"When I was five, my father killed my mother." Oberlin's tone remained even, but he was breathing hard. "Have you ever seen someone beaten to death? It's horrible."
"I can imagine." Unfortunately, she could imagine the scene. The photos of her father gave her all-toovivid a reference, and left her without pity for a man who had turned his childhood tragedy into a reason to kill without conscience. "Is that how you killed my parents?"
His face contorted with temper. He swung toward her.
She hustled behind a standing headstone. He was broad-shouldered, with big bones. And taller than her by at least six inches.
Not as tall as Teague, but Teague's height had protected her.
Oberlin's height menaced her.
"You're not listening to me. You have a closed mind about this." Oberlin's voice rose. "I thought as a reporter you would listen to me."
His appearance was deceptive. Beneath the mask, he seethed with frustration barely held in check. She would do well to remember that. "You're right. I'm not being fair. Make me understand." Because she needed to hear how he would justify the unspeakable to the woman he had so grossly wronged. And because . . . Kate was alone out here. He could rape her. He could kill her.
"What happened to your father?" she asked.
"Nothing. The deputy who investigated used his fists on his family, too, so my mama's death was ruled accidental. My father kept driving truck, drinking, doing drugs, bringing home women to beat . . . when I was seventeen, he died. He fell and cracked his head open."
Fell down the stairs? Kate clamped her lips tightly to prevent the question from escaping.
"When Father died, I already knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to catch deputies like the one who'd laughed with my father over my mother's bloody body and make them pay. So I married Evelyn because her family had money. I didn't love her. I swear to you, I never loved her."
Kate could scarcely contain her aversion. Did he think that made the story more palatable—her knowing he had never loved the woman he'd lived with for twenty-five years?
"But her father didn't like me. He didn't believe in me, in my vision. He was a stupid, dirty rancher who wouldn't finance me. So I had to resort to taking a little money from the church." Her incredulous disdain must have shown in her face, for Oberlin added hastily, "I was going to put it back! As soon as I was elected to the Texas State Senate, I was going to sneak the money from the treasury back. Ultimately, it would have been good for the church. I could have greatly added to their coffers."
Close to You Page 25
